Red Seas Under Red Skies

1

Jaffrim Rodanov waded in the shallows by the hull of an overturned fishing boat, listening to the waves break against its shattered planks as they washed over his ankles. The sand and water of Prodigal Bay were pristine this far from the city. No layers of night soil slimed the water, no rusting metal scraps or pottery shards littered the bottom. No corpses floated as grim rafts for squawking birds.

Twilight, on the seventh day of Aurim. Drakasha gone for a week now. A thousand miles away, Jaffrim thought, a mistake was being made.

Ydrena whistled. She was leaning against the hull of the abandoned fishing boat, neither too close nor too far from him, merely emphasizing by her presence that Rodanov was not alone, and that his attendance at this meeting was known to his crew. Jacquelaine Colvard had arrived.

She left her first mate beside Ydrena, shrugged out of her own boots and waded into the water without hiking up her breeches. Old and unbent Colvard, who'd been sacking ships in these waters when he'd been a boy with his nose buried in musty scrolls. Before he'd even seen a ship that wasn't inked onto a sheet of parchment. "Jaffrim," she said. "Thank you for humouring me."

"There's only one thing you could want to talk about at the moment," said Rodanov. "Yes. And it's on your mind too, isn't it?" "It was a mistake to give Drakasha our oaths." "Was it?"

Rodanov hooked his thumbs into his sword-belt and looked down at the darkening water, the ripples where his pale ankles vanished into it. "I was generous when I should have been cynical."

"So you fancy yourself the only one who had the power to forbid this?" "I could have withheld my oath."

"But then it would have been four against one, with you as the one," said Colvard, "and Drakasha would have gone north looking over her shoulder all the way." Rodanov felt a cold excitement in his gut.

"I" ve noticed curious things, these past few days," she continued. "Your crew has been spending less time in the city. You" ve been taking on water. And I" ve seen you on your quarterdeck, testing your instruments. Checking your backstaffs."

His excitement rose. Out here alone, had she come to confront him or abet him? Could she be mad enough to put herself in his reach, if it was the former? "You know, then," he said at last. "Yes." "Do you intend to talk me out of it?" "I intend to see that it's done right." "Ah." "You have someone aboard the Poison Orchid, don't you?"

Though taken aback, Rodanov found himself in no mood to dissemble. "If you'll tell me how you know," he said, "I won't insult you by denying it."

"It was an educated guess. After all, you tried to place someone aboard my ship once."

"Ah," he said, sucking air through his teeth. "So Riela didn't die in a boat accident after all." "Yes and no," said Colvard. "It happened in a boat, at least." "Do you—"

"Blame you? No. You're a cautious man, Jaffrim, as I am a fundamentally cautious woman. It's our shared caution that brings us here this evening." "Do you want to come with me?"

"No," said Colvard. "And my reasons are practical. First, that the Sovereign is ready for sea while the Draconic is not. Second, that two of us putting out together would cause… an inconvenient degree of speculation, when Drakasha fails to return."

"There'll be speculation regardless. And there'll be confirmation. My crew won't bite their tongues for ever." "But anything could have happened, to bring one and one together on the high seas," said Colvard. "If we put out in a squadron, collusion will be the only reasonable explanation."

"And I suppose it's just coincidence," said Jaffrim, "that even several days since you first spotted my preparations, the Draconic still isn't ready for sea?" "Well—"

"Spare me, Jacquelaine. I was ready to do this alone before we came here tonight. Just don't imagine that you" ve somehow finessed me into going in your place."

"Jaffrim. Peace. So long as this arrow hits the target, it doesn't matter who pulls back the string." She unbound her grey hair and let it fly free about her shoulders in the muggy breeze. "What are your intentions?"

"Obvious, I should think. Find her. Before she does enough damage to give Stragos what he wants."

"And should you run her down, what then? Polite messages, broadside to broadside?" "A warning. A last chance."

"An ultimatum for Drakasha}" Her frown turned every line on her face near-vertical. "Jaffrim, you know too well how she'll react to any threat: like a netted shark. If you try to get close to a creature in that state, you'll lose a hand." "A fight, then. I suppose we both know it'll come to that." "And the outcome of that fight?"

"My ship is the stronger and I have eighty more souls to spare. It won't be pretty, but I intend to make it mathematical." "Zamira slain, then." "That's what tends to happen—" "Assuming you allow her the courtesy of death in battle." "Allow?"

"Consider," said Colvard, "that while Zamira's course of action is too dangerous to tolerate, her logic was impeccable in one respect." "And that is?"

"Merely killing her, plus this Ravelle and Valora, would only serve to bandage a wound that already festers. The rot will deepen. We need to sate Maxilan Stragos's ambition, not just foil it temporarily."

"Agreed. But I'm losing my taste for subtlety as fast as I'm depleting my supply, Colvard. I'm going to be blunt with Drakasha. Grant me the same courtesy." "Stragos needs a victory not for the sake of his own vanity, but to rouse the people of his city. If that victory is lurking in the waters near Tal Verrar, and if that victory is colourful enough, what need would he have to trouble us down here?"

"We put a sacrifice on the altar," Rodanov whispered. "We put Zamira on the altar."

"After Zamira does some damage. After she raises just enough hell to panic the city. If the notorious pirate, the infamous rogue Zamira Drakasha, with a five-thousand-solari bounty on her head, were to be paraded through Tal Verrar in chains… brought to justice so quickly after foolishly challenging the city once again—"

"Stragos victorious. Tal Verrar united in admiration." Rodanov sighed. "Zamira hung over the Midden Deep in a cage."

"Satisfaction in every quarter," said Colvard. " "I may not be able to take her alive, though."

"Whatever you hand over to the Archon would be of equal value. Corpse or quick, alive or dead, he'll have his trophy, and the Verrari would swarm the streets to see it. It would be best, I suspect, to let him have what's left of the Poison Orchid as well." "I do the dirty work. Then hand him the victor's laurels." "And the Ghostwinds will be spared."

Rodanov stared out across the waters of the bay for some time before speaking again: "So we presume. But we have no better notions." "When will you leave?" "The morning tide."

"I don't envy you the task of navigating the Sovereign through the Trader's Gate—" "I don't envy myself. I'll take the Parlour Passage." "Even by day, Jaffrim?"

"Hours count. I refuse to see any more wasted." He turned for shore, to retrieve his boots and be on his way. "Can't buy in for the last hand if you don't get there in time to take a chair."

2

Feeling the hot sting of sudden tears in his eyes, Locke slipped his finger away from the trigger of the alley-piece and slowly put it up in the air. "Will you at least tell me why?" he said.

"Later." Jean didn't lower his own weapon. "Give me the crossbow. Slowly. Slowly"!"

Locke's arm was shaking; the nervous reaction had lent an unwanted jerkiness to his movements. Concentrating, trying to keep his emotions under control, Locke passed the bow over to Jean. "Good," said Jean. "Keep you hands up. You two brought rope, right?" "Yeah."

"I" ve got him under my bolt. Tie him up. Get his hands and his feet, and make the knots tight."

One of their ambushers pointed his own crossbow into the air and fumbled for rope in a jacket pocket. The other lowered his bow and produced a knife. His eyes had just moved from Locke to his associate when Jean made his next move.

With his own bow in one hand and Locke's in the other, he calmly pivoted and put a bolt into the head of each of their attackers.

Locke heard the sharp twak-twak of the double release, but it took several seconds for full comprehension of its meaning to travel from his eyes to the back of his skull. He stood there shaking, jaw hanging open, while the two strangers spurted blood, twitched and died. One of them reflexively curled a finger around the trigger of his weapon. With a final twak that made Locke jump, a bolt whizzed into the darkness. "Jean, you—" "How difficult was it to give me the damn weapon}" "But you… you said—"

"I said…" Jean dropped the alley-pieces, grabbed him by his lapels and shook him. "What do you mean, "I said," Locke? Why were you paying attention to what I was saying?" "You didn't—"

"Gods, you're shaking. You believed me? How could you believe me?" Jean released him and stared at him, aghast. "I thought you were just playing along too intently!"

"You didn't give me a hand signal, Jean! What the hell was I supposed to think?"

"Didn't give you a hand signal? I flashed you the "lying" sign, plain as that bloody burning ship! When I raised my palm to those idiots!" "You did not—"

"I did! As if I could forget! I can't believe this! How could you ever think… where did you think I'd found the time to broker a deal with anyone else? We've been on the same damn ship for two months!" "Jean, without the signal—"

"I did give it to you, you twit! I gave it when I did the whole cold, reluctant betrayer bit! "Actually, I know who sent them." Remember?" "Yeah—"

"And then the hand signal! The "Oh, look, Jean Tannen is lying about betraying his best friend in the whole fucking world to a couple of Verrari cut-throats" signal! Shall we practise that one more often? Do we really need to?" "I didn't see a signal, Jean. Honest to all the gods." "You missed it."

"Missed it? I— Yeah, look, fine. I missed it. It was dark, crossbows everywhere, I should" ve known. I should" ve known we didn't even need it. I'm sorry."

He sighed and looked over at the two bodies, feathered shafts sticking grotesquely out of their motionless heads.

"We really, really needed to interrogate one of those bastards, didn't we?" "Yes," said Jean. "It was… bloody good shooting, regardless." "Yes." "Jean?" "Mm?" "We should really be running like hell right now." "Oh. Yes. Let's."

3

"Ahoy the ship," cried Locke as the boat nudged up against the Poison Orchid's side. He released his grip on the oars with relief; Caldris would have been proud of the pace thed'r set scudding out of Tal Verrar, through a flotilla of priestly delegations and drunkards, past the flaming galleon and the blackened hulks of the previous sacrifices, through air still choked with grey haze.

"Gods," said Delmastro as she helped them up through the entry port, "what happened? Are you hurt?"

"Got my feelings dented," said Jean, "but all this blood has been borrowed for the occasion." Locke glanced down at his own finery, smeared with the life of at least two of their attackers. He and Jean looked like drunken amateur butchers. "Did you get what you needed?" asked Delmastro.

"What we needed? Yes. What we might have wanted? No. And from the goddamn mystery attackers that won't give us a moment's peace in the city? Far too much." "Who" s this, then?"

"We have no idea," said Locke. "How do the bastards know where we are, or who we are? It's been nearly two months! Where were we indiscreet?" "The Sinspire," said Jean, a bit sheepishly.

"How were they waiting for us at the docks, then? Pretty bloody efficient!" "Were you followed back to the ship?" asked Delmastro. "Not that we could tell," said Jean, "but I think we" d be fools to linger."

Delmastro nodded, produced her whistle and blew the familiar three sharp notes. "At the waist! Ship capstan bars! Stand by to weigh anchor! Boatswain's party, ready to hoist the boat!"

"You two look upset," she said to Locke and Jean as the ship became a whirlwind of activity around them.

"Why shouldn't we be?" Locke rubbed his stomach, still feeling a dull ache where the Sinspire bouncer had struck him. "We got away, sure, but someone pinned a hell of a lot of trouble on us in return."

"You know what I like to do when I'm in a foul mood?" said Ezri sweetly. "I like to sack ships." She raised her finger and pointed slowly across the deck, past the hustling crewfolk, out to sea, where another vessel could just be seen, lit by its stern lanterns against the southern darkness. "Oh, look — there's one right now!" They were knocking on Drakasha's cabin door just moments later.

"You wouldn't be standing on two legs if that blood was yours," she said as she invited them in. "Is it too much to hope that it belongs to Stragos?" "It is," said Locke. "Pity. Well, at least you came back. That's reassuring."

Paolo and Cosetta were tangled together on their little bed, snoring peacefully. Drakasha seemed to see no need to whisper in their presence. Locke grinned, remembering that he'd learned to sleep through some pretty awful distractions at their age, too. "Did you make any real progress?" asked Drakasha.

"We bought time," said Locke. "And we got out of the city. The issue was in doubt."

"Captain," said Delmastro, "we were sort of wondering if we could get started on the next part of this whole scheme a bit early. Like right now." "You want to do some boarding and socializing?"

"There's a likely suitor waiting to dance about two miles south by west. Away from the city, outside the reefs—"

"And the city's a bit absorbed in the Festa at the moment," added Locke.

"It" d just be a quick visit, like we've been discussing," said Ezri. "Rouse them up, make "em piss their breeches, loot the purse and the portable goods, throw things overboard, cut some chains and cripple the rigging—"

"I suppose we have to start somewhere," said Drakasha. "Del, send Utgar down to borrow some of my silks and cushions. I want a makeshift bed rigged for the children in the rope locker. If I'm going to wake them up to hide them, it's only fair." "Right," said Delmastro. "What's the wind?" "Out of the north-east."

"Put us around due south, bring it onto the larboard quarter. Reefed topsails, slow and steady. Tell Oscarl to hoist out the boats, behind our hull so our friend can't see them in the water."

"Aye, Captain." Delmastro shrugged out of her overcoat, left it on Drakasha's table and ran from the cabin. A few seconds later Locke could hear commotion on deck: Oscarl shouting about how thed'r only just been told to raise the boat, and Delmastro yelling something about soft-handed, slack-witted idlers.

"You two look ghastly," said Zamira. "I'll have to get a new sea-chest to separate the blood-drenched finery from the clean. Confine yourselves to wearing reds and browns next time."

"You know, Captain," said Locke, staring down at the blood-soaked sleeves of his jacket, "that sort of gives me an idea. A really, really amusing idea…"

4

Just past the second hour of the morning, with Tal Verrar finally shuddering into a drunken somnambulance and the Festa fires extin— guished, the Poison Orchid in her costume as the Chimera crept past the Happy Pilchard. She passed the battered, sleepy little ketch at a distance of about two hundred yards, flying a minimal number of navigation lanterns and offering no hail. That wasn't entirely unusual in waters where not one act of piracy had been reported for more than seven years.

In darkness, it was impossible to see that the Orchid's deck carried no boats.

Those boats slowly emerged from the ship's larboard shadow, and at a silent signal their rowers exploded into action. With the haste of their passage they turned the dark sea white. Three faint, frothy lines reached out from Orchid to Pilchard, and by the time the lone watchman on at the ketch's stern noticed anything, it was far too late.

"Ravelle," cried Jean, who was the first up the ketch's side. "Ravelle!" Still dressed in his blood-spattered finery, he'd wrapped a scrap of red linen around his head and borrowed an iron-shod quarterstaff from one of the Orchid's arms lockers. Orchids scrambled up behind him — Jabril and Malakasti, Streva and Rask. They carried clubs and saps, leaving their blades sheathed at their belts.

Three boats" worth of pirates boarded from three separate directions; the ketch's meagre crew was swept into the waist by shouting, club-waving lunatics, all hollering a name that was meaningless to them, until at last they were subdued and the chief of their tormentors came aboard to exalt in his victory. "The name's Ravelle!"

Locke paced the deck before the thirteen cringing crewfolk and their strange blue-robed passenger. Locke, like Jean, had kept his bloody clothing and topped it off with a red sash at his waist, a red bandanna over his hair and a scattering of Zamira's jewellery for effect. "Orrin Ravelle! And I" ve come back to pay my respects to Tal Verrar!"

"Don't kill us, sir," pleaded the captain of the little vessel, a skinny man of about thirty with the tan of a lifelong mariner. "We ain't even from Tal Verrar, just calling so our charter can—"

"You are interrupting critical hydrographic experiments," shouted the blue-robed man, attempting to rise to his feet. He was shoved back down by a squad of leering Orchids. "This information is vital to the interest of all mariners! You cut your own throat if you—" "What the hell's a critical hydrographic experiment, old man?" "By examining sea-floor composition—" "Sea-floor composition? Can I eat that? Can I spend it? Can I take it back to my cabin and fuck it sideways?" "No and no and most certainly no!" "Right," said Locke. "Toss this fucker over the side." "You ignorant bastards! You hypocritical apes! Let go— Let go of me!" Locke was pleased to see Jean stepping in to perform the duty of heaving the robed scholar off the deck; not only would the man be scared witless, but Jean would control the situation precisely to keep him from actually getting hurt.

"Oh, please, sir, don't do that," said the Pilchard's captain. "Master Donatti's harmless, sir, please—"

"Look," said Locke, "is everyone on this tub an idiot besides me? Why would I sully the soles of my boots with a visit to this embarrassment unless you had something I wanted?" "The, um, hydrographic experiments?" asked the captain. "MONEY!" Locke seized him by the front of his tunic and heaved him to his feet. "I want every valuable, every drinkable, every consumable this overgrown dinghy has to offer, or you can watch the old bastard drown! How's that for a hydrographic experiment}"

5

They didn't clear such a bad haul for such a little ship; obviously, Donatti had paid well to be carried around for his experiments and been unwilling to sail without many of the comforts of home. A boat laden with liquors, fine tobacco, silk pillows, books, artificers" instruments, alchemical drugs and bags of silver coins was soon sent back to the Orchid, while "Ravelle's" pirates finished sabotaging the little ship.

"Rudder lines disabled, sir," said Jean about half an hour after thed'r boarded.

"Halliards cut, braces cut," shouted Delmastro, plainly enjoying her role as an ordinary buccaneer for this attack. She strolled along the larboard rail with a hatchet, chopping things seemingly at whim. "Whatever the hell that was, cut!"

"Sir, please," begged the captain, "that'll take ages to fix, you got all the valuables already—"

"I don't want you to die out here," said Locke, yawning in feigned boredom at the captain's pleas. "I just want to have a few quiet hours before this news gets back to Tal Verrar."

"Oh, sir, we'll do what you ask. Whatever you want; we won't tell no one—"

"Please," said Locke. "Cling to some dignity, Master Pilchard. I want you to talk about this. All over the place. Use it to leverage sympathy from whores. Maybe get a few free drinks in taverns. Most importantly, repeat my name. Orrin Ravelle." "O-orrin Ravelle, sir."

"Captain Orrin Ravelle," said Locke, drawing a dagger and placing it against the captain's throat. "Of the good ship Tal Verrar is Fuckedl You stop in and let them know I'm in the neighbourhood!" "I, uh, I will, sir."

"Good." Locke dropped the man back to the deck and stowed his dagger. "Then let's call it quits. You can have your amusing little toy ship back now."

Locke and Jean met briefly at the stern before boarding the last boat back to the Orchid. "Gods," said Jean, "the Archon is going to love this."

"Well, we didn't He to him, did we? We promised pirate attacks at every compass point. We just didn't say thed'r all feature Zamira as the major attraction." Locke blew a kiss to the city, spread across the northern horizon. "Happy Festa, Protector."

6

"If there's one thing I never particularly need to do again in my life," said Locke, "it's dangle here all day painting this bloody ship's arse."

At the third hour of the afternoon the next day, Locke and Jean were hanging from crude rope swings secured to the Poison Orchid's taffrail. Now that last night's hasty coat of dark paint had forever blotted out the Chimera, they were laboriously christening the ship with a new moniker, Delight. Their hands and tunics were spattered with thick silver gobs.

They had progressed as far as "Delig", and Paolo and Cosetta were making faces at them through the stern windows of Zamira's cabin.

"I think piracy's a bit like drinking," said Jean. "You want to stay out all night doing it, you pay the price the next day."

The Orchid had turned north that morning a comfortable forty or fifty miles west of the city; Drakasha had cleared the area of their Pilchard raid with haste and decided to spend the day at a remove, brushing up her old wooden girl's new disguise. Or, more accurately, turning that duty over to Locke and Jean.

They finally managed to put the "light" into Delight around the fourth hour of the afternoon. Thirsty and sun-baked, they were hauled up to the quarterdeck by Delmastro, Drakasha and Nasreen. After thed'r gulped down proffered mugs of lukewarm pinkwater, Drakasha beckoned for them to follow her down to her cabin.

"Last night was well done," she said. "Well done and nicely confusing. I don't doubt the Archon will be rather vexed."

"I'd pay something to be a fly on a tavern wall in Tal Verrar these next few days," said Locke. "But it's also given me a thought, on our general strategy." "Which is?"

"You told me that the captain and crew of the ketch weren't Verrari — that will curb some of the impact of their story. There'll be questions about their reliability. Ignorant rumours and mutterings." "Right…"

"So what we've just done will fester," said Zamira. "It will cause comment, speculation and a great deal of aggravation to Stragos, but it won't cause a panic, or have the Verrari rioting in the streets for his intercession. In a way, as our first bit of piracy on his behalf, it's a bit of a botch job." "You wound our professional pride," said Jean.

"And my own! But consider this… perhaps what we need is a string of similarly botched jobs."

"This sounds like it's going to have a very entertaining explanation," said Locke.

"Del told me this afternoon that you two are pinning your hopes for a solution on Stragos's personal alchemist; that you can somehow secure his assistance by making him a private offer."

"That's true enough," said Locke. "It's one of the aspects of last night's visit to the Mon Magisteria that didn't go very well."

"So obviously what we need to do," said Drakasha, "is give you another chance to make this alchemist's acquaintance. Another plausible reason to visit the Mon Magisteria, soon. Good little servants, eager to hear their master's opinion on how their work is progressing."

"Ahhh," said Locke. "And if he's looking to shout at us, we can be sure he'll at least let us in for a chat." "Exactly. So. What we need to do… is something colourful. Some— thing striking, something that is undeniably a sincere example of our best efforts on Stragos's behalf. But… it can't threaten Tal Verrar directly. Not to the point that Stragos would feel it a useful step in his intended direction."

"Hmmm," said Jean. "Striking. Colourful. Non-threatening. I'm not entirely sure these concepts blend well with the piratical life."

"Kosta," said Drakasha, "you're staring at me very strangely. Do you have an idea, or did I leave you out in the sun for too long today?"

"Striking, colourful and not threatening Tal Verrar directly* Locke whispered. "Gods! Captain Drakasha, you would so honour me if you would consent to one humble suggestion …"

7

Mount Azar was quiet this morning, the twenty-fifth of Aurim, and the sky above Salon Corbeau was blue as a river's depths, unmarked by the old volcano's grey smoke. It was another mild winter on the northern Brass Coast, in a climate more reliable than Verrari clockwork.

"New swells coming in," said Zoran, chief dock attendant of the morning watch.

"I don't see any more waves than what we already got." Giatti, his more junior counterpart, stared earnestly across the harbour.

"Not swells, you idiot, swells. Gentlefolk. The landed and larded class." Zoran adjusted his olive-green tabard and brushed it clean, wishing that he didn't have to wear Lady Saljesca's damned felt hat. It made him look taller, but it generated sweat without keeping it out of his eyes.

Beyond the natural rock walls of Salon Corbeau's harbour, a stately brig, a two-master with a dark witchwood hull, had just joined the two Lashani feluccas at anchor in the gentle sea. A longboat was coming in from the new arrival: four or five of the quality rowed by a dozen oarsmen.

As the longboat pulled up alongside the dock, Giatti bent down and began uncoiling a rope from one of the dock pilings. When the bow of the boat was secure, Zoran stepped to its side, bowed and extended his hand to the first young woman to rise from her seat.

"Welcome to Salon Corbeau," he said. "How are you styled, and how must you be announced?" The short young woman, unusually muscular for someone of her station, smiled prettily as she took Zoran's hand. She wore a forest-green jacket over a matching set of frilled skirts; the colour set her curly chestnut hair off rather well. She appeared to be wearing rather less make-up and jewellery than might be expected, however. A poorer relative of whoever owned the ship?

"Forgive me, madam, but I must know whom I'm announcing." She stepped safely onto the dock, and he released his grip on her hand. To his surprise, she didn't release hers, and in one smooth motion she was up against him with the menacing weight of a blackened-steel dagger touching the crook of his thigh. He gasped.

"Heavily armed pirates, party of ninety-eight," the woman said. "Scream or fight back and you're going to be one surprised eunuch."

8

"Stay calm," said Delmastro as Locke led Jean, Streva, Jabril and Big Konar up onto the dock. "We're all friends here. Just a wealthy family coming up for a visit to your lovely little village. City. Thing." She kept her knife between herself and the older dock attendant so that there was no chance of anyone seeing it from more than a few feet away. Konar took the younger dock attendant, placing one arm around his shoulder as though they knew each other, and muttered something into his ear that made the colour drain from the poor fellow's face.

Slowly, carefully, the Orchids all made their way onto the dock. At the heart of the group, those wearing layers of fine clothing tried not to make too much noise, laden down as they were with an arsenal of clattering weapons beneath their cloaks and skirts. It had been too much to suppose that the dock attendants wouldn't notice sabres and hatchets in the belts of the rowers. "Here we are, then," said Locke. "Looks like a nice place," said Jean.

"Looks are most assuredly deceiving. Now we just wait for the captain to get things started."

9

"Excuse me? Excuse me, sir?"

Zamira Drakasha, alone in the Orchid's smallest boat, stared up at the bored-looking guard behind the ornamented gunwale of the yacht closest to her ship. That yacht, about fifteen yards long, had a single mast and banks of four oars per side. Those oars were locked upward now, poised like the wings of a stuffed and mounted bird. Just abaft the mast was a tent-like pavilion with faintly fluttering silk walls. This tent was between the guard and the mainland.

The guard peered down at her, squinting. Zamira was wearing a thick, shapeless yellow dress that was almost a robe. She'd left her hat in her cabin and pulled the bangles from her wrists and the ribbons from her hair. "What do you want?"

"My mistress has left me to tend to chores on her ship, while she takes her pleasure ashore," said Zamira. "I have several heavy things to move, and I was wondering if I could beg for your help." "You want me to come over there and be a mule for you?" "It would be so kind of you." "And, ah, what are you prepared to do in exchange?"

"Why, offer my heartfelt thanks to the gods for your goodness," said Zamira, "or perhaps I could brew you some tea?" "You have a cabin over there?" "Yes, by the kindness of my mistress—"

"A few minutes alone with you and that mouth of yours, and I'd be happy to move your shit for you." "How… how inappropriate1. My mistress will—" "Who" s your mistress, then?" "The Lady-in-Becoming Ezriane de la Mastron, of Nicora—"

"Nicora? Ha! As if anyone would give a shit. Get lost." The guard turned away, chuckling to himself. "Ah," said Zamira. "So be it. I know when I'm not wanted."

She reached forward and moved the dun-coloured tarpaulin on the bottom of the boat, just ahead of her feet. Beneath it was the heaviest crossbow in the Poison Orchid's arsenal, carrying a barbed steel bolt the length of her upper arm. "And I simply do not care.""

The guard was no doubt flustered by the sudden emergence, two seconds later, of a crossbow quarrel's point from his sternum. Zamira wondered if he had time to speculate on the location of the rest of the bolt before he collapsed, the upper and lower halves of his spine no longer on speaking terms. Zamira pulled the yellow dress up and over her head, then tossed it into the stern of the boat. Beneath it she wore her Elderglass vest, light tunic and breeches, boots and a pair of slender leather bracers. Her sword-belt was at her waist, empty; she reached beneath her rowing bench, pulled out her sabres and slid them into their scabbards. She rowed her little boat up against the yacht's side and waved to Nasreen, who stood at the Orchid's bow. Two crewfolk climbed over the brig's side and dived into the water.

The swimmers were alongside a minute later. Zamira helped them out of the water and sent them forward to man one of the sets of oars. She then pulled the pins to release the yacht's anchor chains; no sense in wasting time hoisting it up. With her two sailors rowing and Zamira manning the rudder, it took just a few minutes to shift the yacht behind the Poison Orchid.

Her crew began to come quietly down onto the yacht, armed and armoured, looking completely incongruous as they squeezed themselves onto the fragile, scrollwork-covered vessel. Zamira counted forty-two before she felt the boat could take no more; crewfolk were crouched on deck, stuffed into the cabin and manning all the oars. This would do: nearly two-thirds of her crew on shore to handle the main attack, and the other third on the Orchid to hit the vessels in the harbour.

She waved at Utgar, who would be in charge of that last duty. He grinned and left the entry port to begin his final preparations.

Zamira's rowers brought the yacht out and around the Orchid; they turned to larboard just past her stern and pointed themselves straight toward the beach. Beyond that the buildings and tiered gardens of the rich little valley could be seen, laid out neat as food before a banquet. "Who brought the finishing touch?" Zamira asked.

One of her crewmen unfolded a red silk banner and began securing it to the ensign-halyard dangling from the yacht's mast.

"Right, then." Zamira knelt at the bow of the yacht and gave her sword-belt a habitual adjustment. "Oars, with a will! Put us on that beach!"

As the yacht surged forward across the temporarily calm waters of the bay, Zamira noticed a few small figures atop the nearby cliffs finally taking alarm. One or two of them ran toward the city; it looked as though thed'r arrive about the same time Zamira expected to feel the sand of the beach beneath her boots. "That's it," she shouted, "send up the red and let's have some music!"

As the scarlet banner shot up the halyard and caught the wind, every Orchid on the yacht let loose with a wild, wordless howl. Their yells echoed throughout the harbour, the disguised Orchids at the dock began seizing weapons, every visible person on the cliffs was now fleeing for the city and Zamira's sabres flashed in the sunlight as she drew them for action. It was the very definition of a beautiful morning.

10

"Was it absolutely necessary to sack Salon Corbeau so thoroughly?" said Stragos.

Locke and Jean were seated in the Archon's office, surrounded by the faint, shadowy flutterings of his thousand mechanical insects. It might just have been a trick of the low-lit room, but it looked to Locke as if the lines on Stragos's face had deepened in the days since he'd last seen him.

"It was loads of fun. You have some particular attachment to the place?"

"Not for my own sake, Lamora — it's just that I had the clear impression that you were going to focus your activities on shipping in the vicinity of Tal Verrar." "Salon Corbeau is generally considered to be in the vicinity of—" "Is it a ship, Lamora?" "There were ships in the harbour—"

"I have the gods-damned numbers here, from my agents," said Stragos. He stabbed at a piece of parchment with two fingers. "Two feluccas sunk. Forty-six yachts, pleasure-barges and smaller craft burned or sunk. One hundred and eighteen slaves stolen. Nineteen of Countess Saljesca's private guard slain, sixteen wounded. The vast majority of Salon Corbeau's residences and guest villas burned, the gardens all but destroyed. Her replica stadium gutted. Miscellaneous damages and losses exceeding ninety-five thousand solari at a first estimate. About the only things you missed were a few shops and Lady Saljesca's residence itself!"

Locke smirked. That had been by design; after Saljesca's most important guests had fled to her fortress-like manor and barricaded themselves inside with her remaining soldiers, attacking the manor would have been fruitless; the Orchids would have been slaughtered beneath the walls. But with their only opposition bottled up atop the valley, Drakasha's crew had been free to run amok for more than an hour, looting and burning the valley at leisure. Thed'r lost only four crewfolk in the attack.

As for the shops, well — Locke had specifically requested that the area surrounding the Baumondain family business be left alone.

"We didn't have time to hit everything," he said. "And now that Salon Corbeau's more or less ruined, some of those artisans might see fit to settle in Tal Verrar. Safer down here, with you and your military around, right?"

"How can you spend your time executing a raid like that so efficiently," said Stragos, "when your efforts toward my primary design are so perfunctory?" "I object—"

"One attack by Orrin Ravelle — thank you for that, by the way — the night of the Festa, against an Iridani ketch hired by a mad eccentric. Two more reported attacks, both in the vicinity of Salon Corbeau, one by Ravelle and one by the unknown "Captain de la Mastron". Does Drakasha fear to take credit for her own work?"

"We're trying to create the impression of multiple pirates at work—"

"What you are trying is my patience. You have stolen no major cargoes, burned no ships at sea, nor even murdered any crewfolk. You content yourselves with money and portable valuables, you humiliate and frighten your prisoners, you do little more than vandalize their vessels and then you vanish."

"We can't weigh ourselves down with heavier cargo; we've got a lot of roaming to do."

"It seems to me that you have a fair bit of killing to do," said Stragos. "The city is more bemused now than concerned; I continue to suffer in the public eye for the Ravelle affair, but few fear that this spree of… hooliganism truly bodes ill for Verrari trade.

"Even the sack of Salon Corbeau has failed to arouse anxiety. Your recent attacks give the impression that you now fear to approach the city again; that these waters remain safe." Stragos glared before continuing. "Were I purchasing goods from a tradesman, at the moment I would not be well pleased with their quality." "The difference, of course," said Locke, "is that when I get fitted for, say, new jackets, I don't poison my tailor until he has the length of the sleeves right—"

"My life and fortunes are at stake," said Stragos, rising from his chair. "And so are yours, dependent upon your success. I require butchers, not jesters. Take ships within sight of my city's walls. Put their crews to the sword. Take their cargo or burn it — the time has come to be serious. That and that alone will stir this city to its foundations.

"Do not return," he said, emphasizing every word, "until you have spilled blood in these waters. Until you have become a scourge." "So be it," said Locke. "Another sip of our antidote—" "No." "If you wish us to work with absolute confidence—"

"You will keep," said Stragos, "like pickled eggs in a jar. it has been less than two weeks since your last dose. You are in no danger for six more."

"But— Wait, Archon." Jean interrupted him as he was turning to leave. "One thing more. When we came to this city on the night of the Festa, we were attacked again." Stragos's eyes narrowed. "The same assassins as before?"

"If you mean the same mystery, yes, we think so," said Jean. "Some lurked in wait for us at the docks after we visited Requin. If they received a tip-off concerning our presence in the city, they moved damned fast."

"And the only place we went," added Locke, "before visiting the Golden Steps was here."

"My people had nothing to do with it," said Stragos. "Indeed, this is the first I have heard of the matter." "We left four dead behind us," said Jean.

"Unremarkable. The constables found nearly thirty bodies throughout the city after the Festa; there are always arguments and robberies to supply them." Stragos sighed. "Obviously, this is nothing of my doing, and I have nothing more to tell you on the matter. I presume you'll be returning straight to your ship when you leave." "At speed," said Locke. "Staying as far from the islands as we can."

"The complications of some previous malfeasance have come back to ensnare you," said Stragos. "Now leave. No more antidote and no more consultation. You extend your lease on fair health again only once you send panicked merchants to my gates, begging for help because death lurks beyond these harbours. Go now and do your job." He whirled and left without a further word. A moment later a squad of Eyes marched in through the main door and waited expectantly. "Well, damn," muttered Jean.

11

"We'll get the bastard," said Ezri as they lay together in her cabin that night. The Poison Orchid, now calling itself the Mercurial, was treading heavy seas about twenty miles south-west of Tal Verrar, and the two of them clung to one another as they rocked back and forth in the hammock.

"With difficulty," said Jean. "He won't see us now until we do some serious work on his behalf… and if we do that, we might push things to the point where he no longer needs us. We'll get a knife rather than an antidote. Or… if it comes to that, he'll get the knife—" "Jean, I don't want to hear that," she said. "Don't talk about it." "It's got to be faced, love—"

"I don't believe it," she said. "I don't. There's always a way to attack or a way to escape. That's the way it is out here." She rolled over on top of him and kissed him. "I told you not to give up, Jean Tannen, and the thing about me is I get my way." "Gods," whispered Jean, "how did I ever live before I met you?"

"Sadly, poorly, miserably," she said. "I make everything so much better. It's why the gods put me here. Now stop moping and tell me something pleasant!" "Something pleasant?"

"Yeah, slackwit, I" ve heard that other lovers sometimes tell one another pleasant things when they're alone—" "Yes, but with you it's sort of on pain of death, isn't it?" "It could be. Let me find a sabre—"

"Ezri," he said with sudden seriousness. "Look — when this is over, Stragos and all, Leocanto and I might be… very rich men. If our other business in Tal Verrar goes well." "Not if," she said. "When."

"All right," he said. "When it does… you really could come with us. Leo and I spoke about it a bit. You don't have to choose one life or another, Ezri. You can just sort of… go on leave for a bit. We all could." "What do you mean?" "We could get a yacht," said Jean, "in Vel Virazzo, there's this place — the private marina, where all the swells keep their boats and barges. They usually have a few for sale, if you" ve got a few hundred solari on hand, which we intend to. We have to go to Vel Virazzo anyway, to sort of… finish our business. We could have a boat fitted out in a couple of days and then just… poke around a bit! Drift. Enjoy ourselves. Pretend to be useless gentlefolk for a while." "And come back to all this later, you mean?"

"Whenever you want," said Jean. "Have it as you like. You always get your way, don't you?

"Live on a yacht for a while with you and Leocanto," she said. "No offence, Jean, you're passable for a landsman, but by his own admission he couldn't con a shoe across a puddle of piss—" "What do you think we" d be bringing you along for, hmmm?"

"Well, I would have imagined that this had something to do with it," she said, moving her hands strategically to a more interesting location.

"Ah," he said, "and so it does, but you could sort of be honorary captain, too—" "Can I name the boat?" "As if you" d let anyone else do it!"

"All right," she whispered. "If that's the plan, that's the plan. We'll do it." "You really mean—"

"Hell," she said, "with just the swag we pulled from Salon Corbeau, everyone on this crew can stay drunk for months when we get back to the Ghostwinds. Zamira won't miss me for a while." They kissed. "Half a year." They kissed again. "Year or two, maybe."

"Always a way to attack," Jean mused between kisses, "always a way to escape."

"Of course," she whispered. "Hold fast, and sooner or later you'll always find what you're after."

12

Jaffrim Rodanov paced the quarterdeck of the Dread Sovereign in the silvery-orange light of earliest morning. They were bound north by west with the wind on the starboard quarter, about forty miles southwest of Tal Verrar. The seas were running at five or six feet.

Tal Verrar. Haifa day's sailing to the city thed'r avoided like a colony of slipskinners these past seven years; to the home of a navy that could crush even his powerful Sovereign if roused to anger. The was no genuine freedom in these waters, only a vague illusion. Fat merchant ships he could never touch; a rich city he could never sack. Yet he could live with that. It was grand, provided only that the freedom and the plunder of the southern seas could remain available.

"Captain," said Ydrena, appearing on deck with a chipped clay mug of her usual brandy-laced morning tea in one hand, "I don't mean to ruin a fine new morning—"

"You wouldn't be my first if I needed my arse kissed more than I needed my ship sailed."

"We made great time coming up, but now we've been a week out here without a lead, Captain."

"We've seen two dozen sail of merchants, luggers and pleasure-galleys just these past two days," said Rodanov, "and we have yet to see a naval ensign. There's still time to find her." "No quarrel with that logic, Captain. It's the finding her that's—" "A royal pain in the arse. I know."

"It's not as though she'll be roaming around announcing herself as Zamira Drakasha of the Poison Orchid," said Ydrena, taking a sip of her tea. " "Well met, we're infamous shipwreckers from the Ghostwinds, mind if we pull alongside for a visit?""

"She can claim whatever name she likes," said Rodanov, "paint whatever she wants on her stern, mess with her sail plan until she looks like a constipated xebec, but she's only got one hull. A dark witchwood hull. And we've been seeing it for years." "All hulls are dark until you get awful close, Captain."

"Ydrena, if I had a better notion, believe me, we" d be pursuing it." He yawned and stretched, feeling the heavy muscles in his arms flex pleasantly. "Only word we've got is a few ships getting hit, and now Salon Corbeau. She's circling out here somewhere, keeping west. It's what I'd do — more sea room." "Aye," said Ydrena. "Such a very great deal of sea room."

"Ydrena," he said softly, "I" ve come a long way to break an oath and kill a friend. I'll go as far as it takes, and I'll haunt her wake as long as necessary. We'll quarter this sea until one of us finds the other." "Or the crew decides they" ve had—"

"It's a good long haul till we cross that line. In the meantime, double all our top-eyes by night. Triple them by day. We'll put half the fucking crew up the masts if we have to."

"New sail ahoy," called a voice from atop the foremast. The cry was passed back along the deck and Rodanov ran forward, unable to restrain himself. Thed'r heard the cry fifty times that week if thed'r heard it once, but each time might be the time. "Where away?" "Three points off the starboard bow!"

"Ydrena," Rodanov shouted, "set more canvas! Straight for the sighting! Helm, bring us about north-north-east on the starboard tack!"

Whatever the sighting was, the Dread Sovereign was at home in wind and waters like this; her size and weight allowed her to crash through waves that would steal speed from lighter vessels. They would close with the sighting very soon.

Still, the minutes passed interminably. They came about to their new course, seizing the power of the wind now blowing from just abaft their starboard beam. Rodanov prowled the forecastle, waiting— "Captain Rodanov! She's a two-master, sir! Say again, two masts!" "Very good," he shouted. "Ydrena! First mate to the forecastle!"

She was there in a minute, pale-blonde hair fluttering in the breeze. She tossed back the last of her morning tea as she arrived.

"Take my best glass to the foretop," he said. "Tell me… as soon as you know anything." "Aye," she said. "At least it's something to do."

The morning progressed with torturous slowness, but at least the sky was cloudless. Good conditions for spotting. The sun rose higher and grew brighter, until-

"Captain," hollered Ydrena, "witchwood hull! That's a two-masted brig with a witchwood hull!"

He couldn't stand waiting passively any more. "I'm coming up myself," he shouted.

Laboriously, he crawled up the foremast shrouds to the observation platform at the maintop, a place he'd left to smaller, younger sailors for many years. Ydrena was perched there, along with a crewman who shuffled aside to make room for him on the platform. Rodanov took the glass and peered at the ship on the horizon, stared at it until not even the most cautious part of himself would let him deny it.

"It's her," he said. "She's done something fancy to her sails, but that's the Orchid." "What now?"

"Set every scrap of canvas we can bear," he said. "Steal as much of this ocean from her as we can before she recognizes us."

"Do you want to try to bring her up with signals? Offer parley, then jump her?"

" "Let us speak behind our hands, lest our lips be read as the book of our designs," " he said. "More of your poetry?"

"Verse, not poetry. And no. She'll recognize us, sooner or later, and when she does she'll know exactly what our business is."

He passed the glass back to Ydrena and prepared to climb back down the shrouds.

"Straight on for her, cloaks off and weapons free. We can give her that much, for the last fight she'll ever have."

…J-

1

"Does Jerome know that you're asking me to do this?" "No."

Locke stood beside Drakasha at the taffrail, huddled close to her so they could converse privately. It was the seventh hour of the morning, more or less, and the sun was ascending into a cloudless bowl of blue sky. The wind was from the east, a touch abaft their starboard beam, and the waves were getting rowdy. "And you feel that—"

"Yes, I do feel that I can speak for both of us," said Locke. "There's no other choice. We won't see Stragos again unless you do as he asks. And to be frank, if you do as he asks, I think our usefulness ends. We'll have one more chance at physical access to him. It's time to show this fucker how we used to do things in Camorr." "I thought you specialized in dishonest finesse."

"I also do a brisk trade in putting knives to peoples" throats and shouting at them," said Locke.

"But if you request another meeting after we sink a few ships for him, don't you think he'll be prepared for treachery? Especially in a palace crowded with soldiers?"

"All I have to do is get close to him," said Locke. "I'm not going to pretend I could fight my way through a wall of guards, but from six inches with a good stiletto, I'm the hand of Aza Guilla Herself." "Hold him hostage, then?"

"Simple. Direct. Hopefully effective. If I can't trick an antidote out of him, or cut a deal with his alchemist, maybe I can frighten him half to death." "And you honestly believe you" ve thought this through?"

"Captain Drakasha, I could barely sleep these past few days for pondering it. Why do you think I wandered back here to find you?" "Well—"

"Captain!" The mainmast watch was hailing the deck. "Got action behind us!" "What do you mean?"

"Sail maybe three points off the larboard quarter, at the horizon. Just came around real sudden. Went from sort of westerly to pointed right at us." "Good eyes," said Drakasha. "Keep me informed. Utgar!" "Aye, Captain?"

"Double the watch on each mast. On deck there! Make ready for a course change! Stand by tacks and braces! Wait for my word!" "Real trouble, Captain?"

"Probably not," said Drakasha. "Even if Stragos has changed his mind since yesterday and decided to hunt us down now, a Verrari warship wouldn't be coming from that direction." "Hopefully."

"Aye. So what we do is we change our own heading, nice and slow. If their course change was innocent, they'll sail merrily past." She cleared her throat. "Helm, come around north-west by north, smartly! Utgar! Get the yards braced for a wind on the starboard quarter!" "Aye, Captain!"

The Poison Orchid slowly heeled even further to larboard, until she was headed almost due north-west. The stiff breeze now blew across the quarterdeck, nearly into Locke's face. To the south he fancied that he could see tiny sails; from the deck the vessel was still hull-down.

A few minutes later came the shout: "Captain! She's come five or six points to her larboard! She's for us again!"

"We're off her starboard bow," said Drakasha. "She's trying to close with us. But that doesn't make sense." She snapped her fingers. "Wait. Might be a bounty-privateer." "How could they know it's us?"

"Probably got a description of the Orchid horn the crew of that ketch you visited. Look, we could only hope to disguise my girl for so long. These lovely witchwood planks of hers are too distinctive." "So… how much of a problem is this?"

"Depends on who's got the speed. If she's a bounty-privateer, that's a profitless fight. She'll be carrying dangerous folk and no swag. So if we're the faster, I mean to show her our arse and wave farewell." "And if not?" "A profitless fight." "Captain," hollered one of the top-eyes, "she's a three-master!" "This just gets better and better," said Drakasha. "Go wake up Ezri and Jerome for me."

2

"Bad luck," said Delmastro. "Bad damned luck." "Only for them, if I have my way," said Zamira.

The captain and her lieutenant stood at the taffrail, staring at the faint square of white that marked their pursuer's position on the horizon. Locke waited with Jean a few steps away, at the starboard rail. Drakasha had nudged the ship a few points south, so that they were travelling west-north-west with the wind fine on the starboard quarter, what she claimed was the Orchid's best point of sail. Locke knew this was something of a risk: if their opponent was the faster, they could lay an intercepting course that would bring them up much sooner than a stern chase. The trouble was that such a chase to the north could not last; unlimited sea room existed only to their west.

"I'm not sure we're gaining any ground, Captain," said Delmastro after a few minutes of silence.

"Nor I. Damn this jumpy sea. If she's a three-master she may have the weight to carve a better speed out of it."

"Captain!" The cry from up the mainmast was even more urgent than usual. "Captain, she's not falling away, and… Captain, beggin" pardon, but you might want to come and see this for yourself." "See what?"

"If I ain't mad I" ve seen that ship before," shouted the watchwoman. "I'd swear it. I'd appreciate another set of eyes."

"I'll take a look," said Delmastro. "Mind if I fetch up your favourite glass?" "Drop it and I'll give your cabin over to Paolo and Cosetta."

Locke watched as Delmastro went up the mainmast a few minutes later armed with Zamira's pride and joy, a masterpiece of Verrari optics bound in alchemically treated leather. It was a few minutes more before her shout fell to the deck: "Captain, that's the Dread Sovereign]" "What? Del, are you absolutely sure?" "Seen her often enough, haven't I?" "I'm coming up myself!"

Locke exchanged a stare with Jean as Zamira leapt into the mainmast shrouds. A buzz of muttering and swearing had arisen among the crewfolk on deck. About a dozen abandoned their chores and headed aft, craning their necks for a glimpse of the sail in the south. They cleared away in alarm when Drakasha and Delmastro returned to the quarterdeck, looking grim. "So it's him?" said Locke.

"It is," said Drakasha. "And if he's been looking for us for any length of time, it means he sailed not all that long after we did." "So… he could be carrying a message or something, right?"

"No." Drakasha removed her hat and ran her other hand through her braids, almost nervously. "He opposed this plan more than anyone else on the council of captains. He didn't sail as long and as far as we did, to risk his ship within spitting distance of Tal Verrar, to deliver any message.

"I'm afraid we'll need to postpone our previous conversation, Ravelle. The point is moot until we're sure this ship will still be floating at the end of the day."

3

Locke stared out across the whitecaps at the Dread Sovereign, now well over the horizon, fixed on them like a needle drawn toward a lodestone. It was the tenth hour of the morning, and Rodanov's progress at their expense was obvious.

Zamira slammed her glass shut and whirled away from the taffrail, where she'd been studying the same phenomenon.

"Captain," said Delmastro, "there must be something… if we can just keep him off until nightfall—"

"Then we" d have options, aye. But only a straight stern chase could buy us that much time, and if we fly north we'll find the coast long before dusk. Not to mention the fact that she's fresh-careened and we're past due. The plain truth is, we've already lost this race."

Drakasha and Delmastro said nothing to one another for several moments, until Delmastro cleared her throat. "I'll, urn, start getting things ready, shall I?"

"You" d better. Let the Red Watch keep sleeping as long as you can, if any of them are still asleep."

Delmastro nodded, grabbed Jean by the tunic sleeve and pulled him with her toward the main-deck cargo hatch. "You mean to fight," said Locke.

"I have no choice but to fight. And neither do you, if you want to live to see dinner. Rodanov has nearly twice our numbers. You understand what a mess we're looking at." "And it's all for my sake, more or less. I'm sorry, Captain—"

"Avast bullshit, Ravelle. I won't second-guess my decision to help you, so no one else gets to, either. This is Stragos's doing, not yours. One way or another his plans would have put us in a tight spot."

"Thank you for that, Captain Drakasha. Now… I know we've had our talk concerning the real extent of my skills in battle, but most of the crew probably still thinks I'm some sort of man-killer. I… I suppose I'm saying—" "You want a spot in the thick of it?" "Yes."

"Thought you might ask. I already have a place for you," she said. "Don't think you'll have it easy." She stepped away for a moment and shouted forward: "Utgar!" "Aye, Captain?" "Fetch the deep-sea lead and give me a cast!"

Locke raised his eyebrows by way of a question, and she said, "Need to know how much water we have beneath our feet. Then I'll know how long it'll take the anchor to drop." "Why would you want to drop an anchor?"

"On that matter, you'll just have to wait to be amazed. Along with Rodanov, hopefully… but that would be asking a great deal."

"Captain," Utgar yelled several minutes later, "got about ninety fathoms under us!"

"Right," she said. "Ravelle, I know you're off-watch right now, but you were witless enough to wander back here and call attention to yourself. Grab a couple of Blues and bring up some ale casks from down below. Try to stay quiet for the sake of any Reds still sleeping. I'll call all hands in about an hour, and it's never wise to send people into a tussle like this with their throats too dry."

"I'll be happy to do that, Captain. About an hour, then? When do you think we'll be—"

"I mean to bring the fight before noon. Only one way to win when you're being chased by someone bigger and tougher than you are. Turn straight around, punch their teeth out and hope the gods are fond of you."

4

"All hands," shouted Ezri one last time, "all hands at the waist! Idlers and lazy motherfuckers on deck! If you have watchmates still below, haul "em up yourselves!"

Jean stood at the front of the crowd amidships, waiting for Drakasha to say her piece. She stood at the rail with Ezri, Nasreen, Utgar, Mumchance, Gwillem and Treganne behind her. The scholar looked deeply annoyed that something as trivial as a murderous ship-to-ship fight could justify disrupting her usual habits.

"Listen well," shouted Drakasha. "The ship bearing down on us is the Dread Sovereign. Captain Rodanov has taken exception to our business in these waters, and he's come a long way to give us a fight." "We can't fight that many people," shouted someone in the crowd.

"It's not as though we have a choice. They" re closing to board now whether we like it or not," said Drakasha.

"But what if it's just you he's after?" A crewman Jean didn't recognize spoke up; to give him credit, he too was standing at the front of the crowd, right where Drakasha and all of her officers could see him. "We give you to him, we save ourselves a hell of a fight. This ain't a navy, and I got the right to be as fond of my life as—"

Jabril pushed through the crowd behind the man and punched him in the small of the back. The man fell writhing to the deck.

"We don't know that it's just Drakasha he wants,"Jabril shouted. "Me, I ain't waitin" at the rail with my breeches down for someone to kiss my cock! Most of you know as well as I — if captain fights captain it ain't convenient to let two sides" a the story get back to Port Prodigal!"

"Hold, Jabril," said Zamira. She hurried down the quarterdeck stairs, stepped over to the would-be pragmatist and helped him sit up. She then stood before her assembled crew, within reach of the first row. "Basryn here is right about one thing. This isn't a navy, so you do have the right to be fond of your own lives. I'm not your gods-damned empress. Anyone wants to try handing me over to Rodanov, I'm right here. This is your chance. Anyone?"

When nobody stepped forward from the crowd, Drakasha heaved Basryn to his feet and looked him straight in the eyes. "Now, you can have the smallest boat," she said, "you and anyone else who wants to help you take it. Or you can stay."

"Ah, hell," he said, groaning. "I'm sorry, Captain. I… I figure I'd rather live as a coward than die a fool."

"Oscarl," said Drakasha, "when we're done here, get a party together and hoist out the small boat, on the quick. Anyone else wants off with Basryn, that's what I'm giving you. If Rodanov wins, take your chances. If I win… understand that we're at least fifty miles from land and you're not coming back aboard."

The man nodded, and that was that. Drakasha released him and he stumbled into the crowd, holding his back and ignoring the glares of those around him.

"Heed this, now," shouted Drakasha. "The sea isn't our friend today; that son of a bitch has more bite in the water than we do. A chase in any direction can't buy us more than a few hours. If we're going to settle this at kissing distance, I intend to set the terms of the courtship.

"We need to kill two for one just to have any of us left standing, so obviously we need to do better even than that. If we lock up with him so that one of our sides is against his bow, we can crowd in all around his boarding point and outnumber him at the only place it matters. That big fat crew of his won't mean a damn thing if he has to feed it piece by piece right through our teeth.

"So, at the waist, I'll put you in ranks, like the old Therin Throne legions. Swords and shields up front, spears and halberds behind. Don't take your sweet time. If you can't kill someone, knock them into the water. Just get them out of the damn fight!

"Del will choose our ten best archers and send you aloft to do the obvious. Five per mast. I wish I could send more but we're going to need every blade on deck we can get.

"Ravelle, Valora, I'm going to give you a few crewfolk to form our flying company. Your job is the Sovereign's boats. They'll try to board us from all points of the compass once we're engaged at the waist, so you go wherever they go. One person on deck can keep five in a boat, provided you act with haste.

"Nasreen, you'll choose a party of three and stand by at the starboard anchor for my command. Once it's given, you'll guard the bow against boats and free Ravelle's party to fight elsewhere.

"Utgar, you're with me to load crossbows. Now, there's ale at the forecastle and I want to see the cask dry before we do this. Drink up, find your armour. If you" ve got mail or leathers you" ve been saving, pile it on. I don't care how much you sweat; you'll never need it again like you'll need it today."

Drakasha dismissed the crew by turning away from them and striding back up the quarterdeck stairs. Pandemonium erupted amidships; suddenly crewfolk were shoving past one another in all directions, some going for their armour and weapons, others headed for what might be their last drink on earth.

Ezri vaulted the quarterdeck railing and shouted as she strode forward into the chaos: "Fire watches set double sand buckets! Rig the larboard razor-net and hoist it high! Jerome, get your lazy arse up on the quarterdeck! Form up the flying company there!"

Jean waved and followed Drakasha up to the stern of the ship, where Utgar waited, looking nervous. Treganne was just descending the companionway stairs, muttering something about "bulk rates".

Suddenly, a low, dark shape shot up the companionway and ran for Drakasha. She looked down in response to a sudden tug on her breeches and found Paolo clutching at her, unselfconsciously. "Mummy, the noise!"

Zamira smiled and swept him up off the deck, cradling him against the lapels of her jacket. She turned into the wind and let it push her hair out of her face. Jean could see that Paolo's eyes were on the Dread Sovereign as it heaved and swayed beneath the cloudless sky, implacably clawing across the distance between them.

"Paolo, love, Mummy needs you to help her hide you and your sister in the rope locker on the orlop deck, all right?"

The little boy nodded and Zamira kissed him on the forehead, burying her nose in his tangle of short, dark curls with her eyes closed.

"Oh, good," she said a moment later. "Because after that, Mummy needs to fetch her armour and her sabres. And then she needs to go and board that lying motherfucker's ship and sink it like a stone."

5

Jaffrim Rodanov was at the bow of his ship, the Poison Orchid steady in the centre of his glass, when she suddenly whirled to larboard and pointed herself at him like an arrow. Her mainsails shivered and began to vanish as Drakasha's crew hauled them up for battle.

"Ah," he said. "There we go, Zamira. Doing the only sensible thing at last."

Rodanov had dressed for a fight, as usual, in a leather coat reinforced with mail inset at the back and the lapels. The nicks and creases in the battered old thing were always a comfort to him; a reminder that people had been trying and failing to kill him for years.

On his hands he wore his favoured weapons, segmented blackened-steel gauntlets. In the confusion of a close melee, they could catch blades and crack skulls with equal aplomb. For the less personal work of actually forcing his way aboard the Orchid, he leaned on a waist-high iron-studded club. He folded his glass carefully and slipped it into a pocket, resolving to return it to the binnacle before the fight began. Not like the last time. "Orders, Captain?"

Ydrena waited on the forecastle stairs, her own curved sword sheathed on her back, with the majority of his crew ready behind her.

"She's for us," boomed Rodanov. "I know this doesn't come easy, but Drakasha's raiding in Verrari waters. She'll call down hell on the life we all enjoy — unless we stop her now.

"Form up to starboard, as we planned. Shields up front. Crossbows behind. Remember, one volley, then throw "em down and pull steel. Boat crews, over the starboard side once we're locked with the Orchid. Grapples ready at the waist and bow. Helm! You have your orders — make it perfect or pray you die in the fight.

"This day will be red! Drakasha is a foe to be reckoned with. But what are we, over all the winds and waters of the Sea of Brass?" "SOVEREIGN!" the crew shouted as one. "Who are we, never boarded and never beaten?" "SOVEREIGN!"

"What do our enemies scream when they speak the name of their doom at the judgment of the gods?" "SOVEREIGN!"

"We are!" He waved his club above his head. "And we have some surprises for Zamira Drakasha! Bring the cages forward!"

Three teams of six sailors apiece brought canvas-covered cages to the forecastle deck. These cages had wooden carrying handles set well beyond their steel-mesh sides. They were about six feet long, and half as wide and high. "Nothing to eat since yesterday, right?" "No," said Ydrena.

"Good." Rodanov double-checked the sections of the starboard rail his carpenter had weakened so that one good shove would knock them over for about a ten-foot length. A blemish on his beloved Sovereign, but one that could be fixed easily enough later. "Set them down over here. And kick the cages. Let's get them riled up."

6

The two ships crashed through the waves toward one another, and for a second time Locke Lamora found himself about to get involved rather intimately in a battle at sea.

"Steady, Mum," called Drakasha, who stood peering out over the larboard quarterdeck rail. Locke and Jean waited nearby, armed with hatchets and sabres. Jean also had a pair of leather bracers liberated from the property of Basryn, who was nowhere to be seen since he alone had gone over the side with the small boat. My boat, Locke thought, somewhat bitterly.

For their "flying company", Locke and Jean had Malakasti, Jabril and Streva, as well as Gwillem. All save the latter had shields and spears; the timid-looking quartermaster wore a leather apron stuffed with heavy lead bullets for the sling he carried in his left hand.

Most of the crew waited amidships, ranked as Drakasha had ordered: those with large shields and stabbing swords up front, those with polearms behind them. The mainsails were drawn up, fire buckets were set out, the larboard entry port was protected by what Delmastro had called a "skinner net" and the Poison Orchid was rushing into the Dread Sovereign's embrace like a long-separated lover.

Delmastro appeared out of the mess at the waist. She looked much as she had the first time Locke had ever seen her, with her leather armour and her hair pulled back for action. Paying no heed to the weapons they were carrying at their belts, she leapt onto Jean, wrapping her arms and legs around him. He put his arms behind her back and they kissed until Locke chuckled out loud. Not the sort of thing one saw just before most battles, he imagined. "This day is ours," she said when they parted at last.

"Try not to kill everyone over there before I even get involved, right?" Jean grinned down at her, and she handed him something in a small silk bag. "What's this?"

"Lock of my hair," she said. "Meant to give it to you days ago, but we got busy with all the raiding. You know. Piracy. Hectic life." "Thank you, love," he said.

"Now, if you find yourself in trouble wherever you go, you can hold up that little bag to whoever's bothering you, and you can say, "You have no idea who you're fucking with. I'm under the protection of the lady who gave me this object of her favour." " "And that's supposed to make them stop?"

"Shit no, that's just to confuse them. Then you kill them while they're standing there looking at you funny." They hugged again, and Drakasha cleared her throat.

"Del, if it's not too much trouble, we're planning to attack that ship just ahead of us, so could you—"

"Oh, yeah, the fight for our lives. I suppose I could help you out for a few minutes, Captain." "Luck, Del." "Luck, Zamira." "Captain," said Mumchance, "now—"

"Nasreen!" Drakasha bellowed at the top of her considerable voice. "Starboard anchor away!""

"Sound collision," called Delmastro a moment later, "all hands brace yourselves! Up aloft! Grab a mast, grab a line!"

Someone began to ring the foremast bell frantically. The two ships were closing with astonishing speed. Locke and Jean crouched on the larboard quarterdeck stairs, clinging tight to the inner rail. Locke glanced over at Drakasha and saw that she was counting something, mouthing each number intently to herself. Curious, he tried to puzzle them out and concluded she wasn't counting in Therin.

"Captain," said Mumchance, calm as someone ordering coffee, "other ship—"

"Helm hard-a-larboard," Drakasha shouted. Mumchance and his mate began manhandling the ship's wheel to the left. Suddenly there was a creak and a snapping noise from the bow; the ship shuddered end to end and was jerked to starboard as though caught in the teeth of a gale. Locke felt his stomach protesting and clung to the rail with all of his strength. "Anchor party," yelled Drakasha, "cut the cable!" Locke had an excellent view of the Dread Sovereign rushing down on them, scarcely a hundred yards away. He gasped to think of that heavy ship's bowsprit plunging like a spear into the Orchid or her massed crewfolk, but even as he watched, the three-master heeled over to larboard, making a turn of her own.

Rodanov avoided a head-on collision, and Locke had to guess that was intentional; while it might have done serious damage to the Orchid, it would have locked his ship precisely where Zamira could best resist his boarders, and possibly sunk both ships sooner or later.

What happened was spectacular enough: the sea creamed white between the two vessels and Locke heard the protesting waves hissing like steam baking furiously from hot coals. There was no way for the Sovereign or the Orchid to shed all their forward momentum, but they slid into one another along their sides with a rolling cushion of water between them. The whole world seemed to shake as they met; timbers creaked, masts shuddered and high overhead an Orchid was pitched from her position. She struck the Sovereign's deck, becoming the first casualty of the battle.

"Spanker! Spanker!" Zamira cried, and everyone on the quarterdeck looked up in unison as the Orchid's spanker sail was unfurled in the most unseamanlike fashion possible by the small crew detailed to it. Fluttering down to full extension, it was braced in place with desperate speed. Ordinarily, the fore-and-aft sail would never have been placed side-on to a wind, but in this case the stiff breeze from the east pushed against it by intention, heaving the Orchid's stern away from contact with the Dread Sovereign. Mumchance hauled his wheel to starboard now, trying to help the process along.

There was a series of screams and snapping noises from forward; the Dread Sovereign's bowsprit was destroying or fouling much of the forward rigging, but Drakasha's plan appeared to be working. That bowsprit hadn't punched a hole in the hull, and now Rodanov's starboard bow was the only part of his ship in contact with Drakasha's larboard side. From high above, Locke thought, the gods might have seen the two ships as drunken fencers, their bowsprits crossed but doing relatively little harm as they waved about.

Unseen things clawed the air with a snakelike hiss, and Locke realized that arrows were raining around him. The fight had well and truly begun.

7

"Clever Syresti bitch," muttered Rodanov and he crawled back to his feet after the collision. Drakasha was using her spanker for leverage to prevent full broadside-to-broadside contact. So be it; he had his own advantages ready to play. "Let "em loose!" he shouted.

A crewman standing well back from the rear of the three cages (with shield-bearers flanking him) pulled the rope that released their doors. These were set just inches back from the collapsible section of the rail, which had been conveniently knocked clean away when the ships met.

A trio of adult valcona — starving, shaken up and pissed off beyond all measure — exploded from their confinement shrieking like the vengeful undead. The first thing they laid eyes on was the group of Orchids lining up across the way. Though heavily armed and armoured, Zami-ra's people had no doubt expected to repel human boarders first.

The three attack birds launched themselves through the air and landed amidst shields and polearms, laying about with their beaks and their dagger-sized claws. Orchids screamed, shoved against one another and caused utter chaos in their desperate struggle either to swing at or flee from the ferocious beasts.

Rodanov grinned fiercely. Thed'r been worth it — even though thed'r cost too much in Prodigal, even though thed'r stunk up the hold, even though thed'r be dead soon enough. Every Orchid they mutilated was one less for his people to face, and it was always impossible to put a price on making your enemy shit their breeches. "Away boats," he yelled. "Sovereigns! On me!"

8

The screams from forward were more than human; Locke scrambled up the quarterdeck stairs on his hands and knees, straining to see what was going on. Brown shapes were flailing about within the packed masses of Zamira's "legions" along the larboard side. What the hell was that? Drakasha herself dashed past, twin sabres out, running for the point of greatest chaos.

Several sailors aboard Rodanov's ship hurled grappling hooks across the gap between the vessels. A team of Drakasha's crewfolk, waiting for this, hurried to the larboard rail to sever the grappling lines with hatchets. One of them toppled with an arrow in his throat; the rest made short work of every line Locke could see.

A sharp, flat thwack told of an arrow landing nearby; Jean grabbed him by his tunic collar and hauled him all the way onto the quarterdeck. His "flying company" was crouched behind their small shields; Malakasti was using hers to cover Mumchance as well, who manned the wheel from a crouch. Someone screamed and fell from the rigging aboard the Sovereign; a second later Jabril cried, "Gah!" as an arrow struck splinters from the taffrail beside his head.

To Locke's surprise, Gwillem suddenly stood up in the midst of all this and, with a placid look on his face, began to whirl a bullet overhand in the cradle of his sling. As his arm went up he released one of the sling's cords, and a second later a bowman on the Sovereign's quarterdeck fell backward. Jean pulled Gwillem back to the deck when the Vadran began to reach for another projectile. "Boats," hollered Streva, "boats coming around her!"

Two boats, each carrying about twenty sailors, were pulling fast from behind the Dread Sovereign, curving around to approach the Orchid's stern. Locke wished mightily for a few arrows to season their passage, but the archers above had orders to ignore the boats. They were strictly the business of that legendary hero of the plunging beer-cask, Orrin Ravelle.

He did, however, have one major advantage, and as usual its name was Jean Tannen. Sitting incongruously on the polished witchwood planks of the deck were several large, round stones, plucked laboriously from the ship's ballast. "Do the brute thing, Jerome," Locke shouted.

As the first boat of Sovereigns approached the taffrail, a pair of sailors armed with crossbows stood up to clear the way for a woman readying a grappling hook. Gwillem wound up and flung one of his stones downward, opening a bowman's head and toppling his body backward into the mess of would-be boarders. A moment later Jean stepped to the taffrail, hoisting a ninety-pound rock the size of an ordinary man's chest over his head. He hollered wordlessly and flung it down into the boat, where it shattered not just the legs of two rowers but the deck of the little craft itself. As water began to gush up through the hole, panic ensued.

Then crossbow bolts came from the second boat. Streva, caught up watching the travails of the first, took one in the ribs and fell backward onto Locke. He pushed the unfortunate young man away, knowing it was beyond his power to help. The deck was already bright red with blood. A moment later Malakasti gasped as an arrow from the Sovereign's upper yards punched through her back; she fell against the taffrail and her shield went over the side.

Jabril pushed her spear away and yanked her down to the deck. Locke could see that the arrow had punctured one of her lungs, and the wet-sounding breaths she was fighting for now would be her last. Jabril, anguish on his face, tried to cover her with his body until Locke shouted at him: "More coming! Don't lose your fucking head!" Gods-damned hypocrite, he thought to himself, heart hammering.

On the sinking boat below, another sailor wound up to toss a grappling hook. Gwillem struck again, shattering the man's arm. Yet another rock followed from Jean. That was it for the remaining Sovereigns; with the boat going down and corpses crowding the seats, the survivors were spilling over the side. They might be trouble again in a few minutes, but for now they were out of the fight.

So was a third of Locke's "company". The second enemy boat came on, wary enough of the stones to keep well back. It circled around the stern and darted for the starboard side, a shark with wounded prey.

9

Zamira pulled her sabre from the body of the last valcona and hollered at her people along the larboard side: "Re-form! Re-form! Plug the fucking gap, there!"

Valcona! Damn Rodanov for a clever bastard; at least five of her people lay dead because of the bloody things, and gods knew how many more had been injured or shaken. He" d been expecting her to try to go broadside-to-bow; the beasts had been waiting like a spring-loaded trap.

And there he was — impossible to miss, nearly the size of two men, wearing a dark coat and those damned gauntlets of his. In his hands, a club that must have weighed twenty pounds. His people flooded around him, cheering, and they poured against her first rank through the gap Rodanov had somehow contrived in his starboard rail. The point of decision was exactly the mess she'd expected: stabbing spears, flailing shields, corpses and living fighters alike too pressed by the crowd on either side to move, except downward. Some slipped through the ever-changing gap between ships, to be drowned or ground to a pulp as the two vessels scraped together again. "Crossbows," she yelled, "crossbows!"

Behind her spear-carriers, nearly every crossbow on the ship had been set out and loaded. The rear rank of waiting Orchids seized these and fired a ragged volley between the forward ranks; eight or nine of Rodanov's people toppled, but he himself seemed untouched. A moment later there was a return volley from the deck of the Sovereign; Rodanov had had the same idea. Screaming men and women fell out of Zamira's lines with feathered shafts in their heads and chests, not one of them a person she could spare.

Sovereigns were attempting to hurdle the wider gap to the right of the main fight; some of them made it and clung tenaciously to her rail, struggling to pull themselves up. She solved that problem herself, slashing faces and cracking skulls with the butts of her sabres. Three, four — more of them were coming. She was already gasping for breath. Not quite the tireless fighter she'd once been, she reflected ruefully. Arrows bit the air around her, more of Rodanov's people leapt and it looked as though every single gods-damned pirate on the Sea of Brass was on the deck of the Dread Sovereign, lined up and waiting to storm her ship.

10

Locke's "flying company" was now engaged at the starboard rail of the quarterdeck; while Mumchance and one of his mates wielded spears to fend off swimmers from any other angle, Locke, Jean, Jabril and Gwillem tried to fight off the second boat.

This one was far sturdier than its predecessor; Jean's two hurled rocks had killed or injured at least five people, but failed to knock holes in the wood. Rodanov's crewfolk stabbed at them with boathooks; it was an awkward duel between these and the spears of the Orchids. Jabril cried out as a hook gouged one of his legs, and he retaliated by stabbing a Sovereign in the neck.

Gwillem stood up and hurled a bullet down into the boat; he was rewarded for his effort by a loud scream. As he reached into his pouch for another, an arrow appeared in his back as though by magic. He sagged forward against the starboard rail and sling bullets rolled onto the deck, clattering. "Shit," Locke yelled. "Are we out of big rocks?" "Used them all," said Jean.

A woman with a dagger in her teeth vaulted acrobatically up to the rail and would have made it over had Jean not bashed her in the face with a shield. She toppled into the water. "Gods damn it, I miss my Wicked Sisters," shouted Jean.

Jabril frantically swept with his spear as four or five Sovereigns at once got their hands up above the rail; two let go, but in a moment two more were rolling onto the deck, sabres in hand. Jabril fell onto his back and speared one in the stomach; Jean got his hands on Gwil-lem's sling and threw it around the throat of the other, garrotting the man, just like old times in Camorr. Another sailor poked his head up and shoved a crossbow through the rails, aiming for Jean. Locke felt every inch the legendary hero of the plunging beer-cask as he kicked the man in the face.

Rising screams from the water told of some new development; warily, Locke glanced over the edge. A roiling, gelatinous mass floated beside the boat like a translucent blanket, pulsing with a faint internal luminescence that was visible even by day. As Locke watched, a swimming man was drawn, screaming, into this mass. In seconds, the gooey substance around his legs clouded red and he began to spasm. The thing was drawing the blood out of his pores as a man might suck the juice from a pulpy fruit.

A death-lantern, drawn as ever to the scent of blood in the water. A gods-awful way to go, even for people Locke was actively trying to kill — but it and the others sure to come would take care of the swimmers. No more Sovereigns were climbing up the sides; the few left in the boat below were frantically trying to escape the thing in the water beside them. Locke dropped his spear and took a few much-needed deep breaths. A second later an arrow hit the rail two feet above his head; another hissed past it completely; a third struck the wheel.

"Cover," he hollered, looking around frantically for a shield. A moment later Jean grabbed him and dragged him to the right, where he was holding Gwillem's body up before him. Jabril crawled behind the binnacle, while Mumchance and his mate mimicked Jean's ploy with Streva's body. Locke felt the impact as at least one arrow sank into the quartermaster's corpse.

"Might feel bad later about using the dead like this," hollered Jean, "but hell, there's certainly enough of them around."

11

Ydrena Koros came over the rail and nearly killed Zamira with the first slash of her scimitar. The blade rebounded off Elderglass — still, Zamira burned at the thought that her guard had slipped. She struck back with both sabres but Ydrena, small and lithe, had all the room she needed to parry one and avoid the other. So fast, so effortlessly fast — Zamira gritted her teeth. Two blades on one, and Koros still filled the air between them with a deadly silver blur; Zamira lost her hat and very nearly her neck, parrying only at the last second. Another slash hissed against her vest, a second sliced one of her bracers. Shit — she backed into one of her own sailors. There was nowhere else to go on the deck.

Koros conjured a curving, broad-bladed dagger in her left hand, feinted with it and swept her scimitar at Zamira's knees. Zamira released her sabres and stepped into Koros's guard, putting them chest to chest. She grabbed Ydrena's arms with her own, forcing them out and down with all her strength. In that, at last, she had the advantage — that and one thing more: fighting dirty usually prevailed over fighting prettily.

Zamira brought her left knee up into Ydrena's stomach. Ydrena sank; Zamira grabbed her hair and slammed her in the chin. The smaller woman's teeth made a sound like clattering billiard balls. Zamira heaved her to her feet and threw her backward, onto the sword of the Sovereign directly behind her. A brief look of surprise flared on the woman's blood-smeared face, then died with her. Zamira felt more relief than triumph.

She fetched her sabres from the deck where thed'r fallen; as the sailor now in front of her pulled his sword from Ydrena and let her body drop, he suddenly found one of Zamira's blades in his chest. The battle ground on, and her actions became mechanical — her sabres rose and fell against the screaming tide of Rodanov's people, and the deaths ran together into one red cacophony. Arrows flew, blood slicked the deck beneath her feet and the ships rolled and yawed atop the sea, lending a nightmarish shifting quality to everything.

It might have been minutes or ages before she found Ezri at her arm, pulling her away from the rail. Rodanov's people were falling back to regroup; the deck was thick with dead and wounded; her own survivors were all but standing on them as they stumbled into one another and fell back themselves. "Del," gasped Zamira, "you hurt?"

"No." Ezri was covered in blood; her leathers had been slashed and her hair was partially askew, but otherwise she appeared to be intact. "The flying company?" "No idea, Captain." "Nasreen? Utgar?" "Nasreen's dead. Haven't seen Utgar since the fight started."

"Drakasha," came a voice above the moans and mutterings of the confusion on both sides. Rodanov's voice. "Drakasha! Cease fighting! Everyone, cease fighting! Drakasha, listen to me!"

12

Rodanov glanced at the arrow sunk into his right upper arm. Painful, but not the deep, grinding agony that told of a touch to the bone. He grimaced, used his left hand to steady the arrowhead and then reached up with his right to snap the shaft just above it. He gasped, but that would do until he could deal with it properly. He hefted his club again, shaking blood onto the deck of the Sovereign.

Ydrena dead; gods-damn it, his first mate for five years, on the bloody deck. He" d laid about with his club to get to her side, splintering shields and beating aside spears. At least half a dozen Orchids to him, and he'd been their match — Dantierre he'd knocked clean over the side. But the fighting space was too narrow, the rolling of the ships unpredictable, his crewfolk too thin around him. Zamira" d suffered miserably, but at this confined point of contact he was stymied. A lack of brawling at the Orchid's stern meant that the boats had probably fared the same. Shit. Half his crew was gone, at least. It was time to spring his second surprise. His calling a halt to the battle was the signal to bring it on. All in, now — last game, last hand, last turn of the cards. "Zamira, don't make me destroy your ship!" "Go to hell, you oath-breaking son of a bitch! You come and try again, if you think you still have any crewfolk willing to die in a hurry!"

Locke had left Jabril, Mumchance and Mumchance's mate — along with the death-lanterns, he supposed — to guard the stern. He and Jean hurried forward, through the strangeness of air suddenly free from arrows, past the mounds of dead and wounded. Scholar Treganne stumped past, her false leg loud against the desk, single-handedly dragging Rask behind her. At the waist, Utgar stood, using a hook to pull up the main-deck cargo-hatch grating. A leather satchel was at his feet; Locke presumed he was on some business for the captain and ignored him.

They found Drakasha and Delmastro at the bow, with about twenty surviving Orchids staring at twice their number of Sovereigns across the way. Ezri hugged Jean fiercely; she looked as though she'd been through a great deal of blood but not yet lost any of her own. Up here the Orchid seemed to have no deck; only a surface layer of dead and nearly dead. Blood drained off the sides in streams. "Not me," shouted Rodanov. "Here," yelled Utgar at the Orchid's waist. "Here, Drakasha!"

Locke turned to see Utgar holding a grey sphere, perhaps eight inches in diameter, with a curiously greasy surface. He cradled it in his left hand, holding it over the open cargo hatch, and his right hand clutched something sticking out of the top of the sphere. "Utgar," said Drakasha, "what the hell do you think you're—"

"Don't make a fucking move, right? Or you know what I'll do with this thing." "Gods above," whispered Ezri, "I don't believe this." "What the hell is that?" Locke asked. "Bad news," she said. "Fucking awful news. That's a shipbane sphere." Jean listened as she explained quickly.

"Alchemy, black alchemy, expensive as hell. You have to be fucking crazy to bring one to sea, same reason most captains shy away from fire-oil. But worse. Whole thing goes white-hot. You can't touch it; can't get close. Leave it on deck and it burns right through, down into the innards, and it sets anything on fire. Hell, it can probably set water on fire. Sure doesn't go out when you douse it." "Utgar," said Drakasha, "you motherfucker, you traitor, how could—"

"Traitor? No. I'm Rodanov's man; am and have been since before I joined. His idea, hey? If I" ve done you good service, Drakasha, I" ve just been doing my job." "Have him shot," said Jean. "That thing he's holding is the twist-match fuse," said Ezri. "He moves his right hand, or we kill him and make that thing drop, it comes right out and ignites. This is what those damned things are for, get it? One man can hold a hundred prisoner if he just stands in the right spot." "Utgar," Drakasha said, "Utgar, we're winning this fight." "You might" ve been. Why do you think I stepped in?"

"Utgar, please. This ship is heaped with wounded. My children are down there!"

"Yeah. I know. So you" d best lay down your arms, hey? Back up against the starboard rail. Archers down from the masts. Everybody calm — and I'm sure for everyone but you, Drakasha, there's a happy arrangement waiting."

"Throats cut and over the side," shouted Treganne, who appeared at the top of the companionway with a crossbow in her hands. "That's the happy arrangement, isn't it, Utgar?" She stumped to the quarterdeck rail and put the crossbow to her shoulder. "This ship is heaped with wounded, and they're my responsibility, you bastard!" "Treganne, noV Drakasha screamed.

But the scholar's deed was already done; Utgar jumped and shuddered as the bolt sank into the small of his back. The grey sphere tipped forward and fell from his left hand; his right hand pulled away, trailing a thin, white cord. He toppled to the deck, and his device vanished from sight into the hold below. "Oh, hell," said Jean. "No, no, no," Ezri whispered. "Children,"Jean found himself saying, "I can get them—"

Ezri stared at the cargo hatch, aghast. She looked at him, then back to the hatch. "Not just them," she said. "Whole ship." "I'll go," said Jean.

She grabbed him, wrapped her arms around him so tightly he could barely breathe and whispered in his ear, "Gods damn you, Jean Tannen. You make this… you make it so hard."

And then she hit him in the stomach, harder than even he had thought possible. He fell backward, doubled in agony, realizing her intentions as she released him. He screamed in wordless rage and denial, reaching for her. But she was already running across the deck toward the hatch.

15

Locke knows what Ezri means to do the instant he sees her make a fist, but Jean, his reflexes dulled by love or fatigue or both, plainly doesn't. And before Locke can do anything, she's hit Jean, and given him a shove backward so that Locke tumbles over him. Locke looks up just in time to see Ezri jump into the cargo hold, where an unnatural orange glare rises from the darkness a second later.

"Oh, Crooked Warden, damn it all to hell," he whispers, and he sees everything as time slows like cooling syrup-

Treganne at the quarterdeck rail, dumbfounded; clearly ignorant of what her erstwhile good deed has done.

Drakasha stumbling forward, sabres still in her hands, moving too slowly to stop Ezri or join her.

Jean crawling, barely able to move but willing himself after her with any muscle that will lend him force, one hand reaching uselessly after a woman already gone.

The crew of both ships staring, leaning on their weapons and on one another, the fight for a moment forgotten.

Utgar reaching for the bolt in his back, flailing feebly. It has been five seconds since Ezri leapt down into the cargo hold. Five seconds is when the screaming, the new screaming, starts.

16

She emerged from the main-deck stairs, holding it in her hands. No, more than that, Locke realized with horror — she must have known her hands wouldn't last. She must have cradled it close for that very reason.

The sphere was incandescent, a miniature sun, burning with the vivid colours of molten silver and gold. Locke felt the heat against his skin from thirty feet away, recoiled from the light, smelled the strange tang of scorched metal instantly. She ran, as best she could run; as she made her way toward the rail it became a jog, and then a desperate hop. She was on fire all the way, screaming all the way, unstoppable all the way.

She made it to the larboard rail and with one last convulsive effort, as much back and legs as what was left of her arms, she heaved the shipbane sphere across the gap to the Dread Sovereign. It grew in.1 brightness even as it flew, a molten-metal comet, and Rodanov's crew-folk recoiled from it as it landed on their deck.

You couldn't touch such a thing, she'd said — well, clearly you could. But Locke knew you couldn't touch it and live. The arrow that took her in the stomach an eyeblink later was too late to beat her throw, and too late to do any real work. She fell to the deck, trailing smoke, and then all hell broke loose for the last time that day. "Rodanov," yelled Drakasha, "Rodanov!"

There was an eruption of light and fire at the waist of the Dread Sovereign; the incandescent globe, rolling to and fro, had at last burst. White-hot alchemy rained down hatches, caught sails, engulfed crew-folk and nearly bisected the ship in seconds.

"If they would burn the Sovereign" shouted Rodanov, "all hands take the OrchidV

"Fend off," cried Drakasha, "fend off and repel boarders! Helm hard a-larboard, Mum! Hard a-larboard!"

Locke could feel a growing new heat against his right cheek; the Sovereign was already doomed, and if the Orchid didn't disentangle from her shrouds and bowsprit and assorted debris, the fire would take both ships for a meal. Jean crawled slowly toward Ezri's body. Locke heard the sounds of new fighting breaking out behind them, and thought briefly of paying attention to it, but then realized that if he left Jean now he would never forgive himself. Or deserve forgiveness. "Dear gods," he whispered when he saw her, "please, no. Oh, gods."

Jean moaned, sobbing, his hands held out above her. Locke didn't know where he would have touched her, either. There was so little her left — skin and clothing and hair burned into one awful texture. And still she moved, trying feebly to rise. Still she fought for something resembling breath.

"Valora," said Scholar Treganne, hobbling toward them, "Valora don't, don't touch—"

Jean pounded the deck and screamed. Treganne knelt beside what was left of Ezri, pulling a dagger from her belt sheath. Locke was startled to see tears trailing down her cheeks.

"Valora," she said, "take this. She's dead already. She needs you, for the gods" sakes." "No," sobbed Jean. "No, no, no—"

"Valora, look at her, gods damn it. She is beyond all help. Every second is an hour to her and she is praying for this knife."

Jean snatched the knife from Treganne's hand, wiped a tunic sleeve across his eyes and shuddered. Gasping deep breaths despite the terrible smell of burning that lingered in the air, he moved the knife toward her, jerking in time with his sobs like a man with palsy. Treganne placed her hands over his to steady them, and Locke closed his eyes. Then it was over.

"I'm sorry," said Treganne. "Forgive me, Valora, I didn't know — I didn't know what that thing was, what Utgar had. Forgive me."

Jean said nothing. Locke opened his eyes again and saw Jean rising as though in a trance, his sobs all but stifled, the dagger still held loosely in his hand. He moved, as though he saw nothing of the battle still raging behind him, across the deck toward Utgar. Ten more Orchids fell at the bow saving them, following Zamira's orders, shoving with all their might against the Sovereign with spears and boathooks and halberds. Shoving to get her bowsprit and rigging clear of the Orchid, while Rodanov's survivors at the bow fought like demons to escape. But they did it, with Mumchance's help, and the two battered ships tore apart at last.

"All hands," shouted Zamira, dazed by the effort it suddenly required, "All hands! Tacks and braces! Put us west before the wind! Fire party to main hold! Get the wounded aft to Treganne!" Assuming Treganne was alive, assuming… much. Sorrow later. More hardship now.

Rodanov hadn't joined the final fight to board the Orchid; Zamira had last seen him running aft, fighting his way through the blaze and headed for the wheel. Whether in a last hopeless effort to save his ship or destroy hers, he'd failed.

18

"Help," Utgar whispered, "help, get it out, I can't reach it."

His movements were faint, and his eyes were going glassy. Jean knelt beside him, stared at him and then brought the dagger down overhand into his back. Utgar took a shocked breath; Jean brought the knife down again and again while Locke watched; until Utgar was most certainly dead, until his back was covered in wounds, until Locke finally reached over and grabbed him by the wrist. "Jean—"

"It doesn't help," said Jean, in a disbelieving voice. "Gods, it doesn't help." "I know," said Locke. "I know."

"Why didn't you stop her?" Jean launched himself at Locke, pinning him to the deck, one hand around his throat. Locke gagged and fought back, and it did him about as much good as he expected. "Why didn't you stop her?"

"I tried," said Locke. "She pushed you into me. She knew what we" d do, Jean. She knew. Please—"

Jean released him and sat back as quickly as he had attacked. He looked down at his hands and shook his head. "Oh, gods, forgive me. Forgive me, Locke."

"Always," said Locke. "Jean, I am so, so sorry -1 wouldn't, I wouldn't have had it happen for the world. For the world, do you hear me?"

"I do," he said quietly. He buried his face in his hands and said nothing more.

To the south-east, the fire aboard the Dread Sovereign turned the sea red; it roared up the masts and sails, rained charred canvas like volcanic ash upon the waves, devoured the hull and at last subsided into a billowing mountain of smoke and steam as the ship's blackened hulk slipped beneath the waters.

"Ravelle," said Drakasha, placing a hand on Locke's shoulder and interrupting his reverie, "if you can help, I—"

"I'm fine," said Locke, stumbling to his feet. "I can help. Just maybe… leave Jerome—" "Yes," she said. "Ravelle, we need—"

"Zamira, enough. Enough Ravelle this, Kosta that. Around the crew, sure. But my friends call me Locke." "Locke," she said.

"Locke Lamora. Don't, ah— Ahhh, who the hell would you tell anyway?" He reached up to set a hand on hers, and in a moment they had drawn one another into a hug. "I'm sorry," he whispered, "Ezri, Nasreen, Malakasri, Gwillem—" "Gwillem?" "Yeah, he— One of Rodanov's archers, I'm sorry."

"Gods," she said. "Gwillem was with the Orchid when I stole her. Last of the original crew. Ra— Locke, Mum has the wheel and we're safe for the moment. I need… I need to go down and see my children. And I need… I need you to look after Ezri. They can't see her like that."

"I'll take care of it," he said. "Look, go down. I'll take care of things on deck. We'll get the rest of the wounded back to Treganne. We'll get all the bodies covered up."

"Very good," said Zamira quietly. "You have the deck, Master Lamora. I'll return shortly."

/ have the deck, thought Locke, staring around at the shambles left by the battle: swaying rigging, damaged shrouds, splintered railings, arrows embedded damn near everywhere. Bodies crowded every corner of the waist and forecastle; survivors moved through them like ghosts, many of them hobbling on spears and bows for makeshift canes.

Gods. So this is what a command is. Staring consequences in the eye and pretending not to flinch.

"Jean," he whispered, crouching over the bigger man where he sat on the deck, "Jean, stay here. Stay as long as you like. I'll be close. I just need to take care of things, all right?" Jean nodded, faintly.

"Right," said Locke, glancing around again, this time looking for the least injured. "Konar," he yelled, "Big Konar! Get a pump rigged, the first one you can find that works. Run a hose to this cargo hatch and give the main-deck hold a good soak. We can't have anything smouldering down there. Oscarl! Come here! Get me sail canvas and knives. We've got to do something about all these… all these people."

All the crewfolk dead upon the deck. We've got to do something about them here, Locke thought. And then I'm going to do something about them in Tal Verrar. Once and for all.

1

"Crooked Warden, Silent Thirteenth, your servant calls. Place your eyes upon the passing of this woman, Ezri Delmastro, Iono's servant and yours. Beloved of a man who is beloved by you." Locke's voice broke, and he struggled for self-control. "Beloved of a man who is my brother. We… we grudge you this one, Lord, and I don't mind saying so."

Thirty-eight left standing; fifty thed'r put over the side, and the rest had been lost during the battle. Locke and Zarnira shared the funeral duties. Locke's recitations had grown more numb with each one, but now, at this last ritual of the night, he found himself cursing the day he'd been chosen as a priest of the Crooked Warden. His presumed thirteenth birthday, under the Orphan's Moon. What power and what magic it had seemed back then. The power and the magic to give funeral orations. He scowled, buried his cynical thoughts for Ezri's sake and continued:

"This is the woman who saved us all. This is the woman who beat Jaffrim Rodanov. We deliver her, body and spirit, to the realm of your brother Iono, mighty Lord of the Sea. Lend her aid. Carry her soul to She who weighs us all. This we pray with hopeful hearts."

Jean knelt over the canvas shroud, and on it he placed a lock of dark-brown hair. "My flesh," he whispered. He pricked his finger with a dagger and let a red drop fall. "My blood." He leaned down to the unmoving head beneath the canvas and left a lingering kiss. "My breath, and my love." "These things bind your promise," said Locke.

"My promise," said Jean, rising to his feet. "A death-offering, Ezri. Gods help me to make it worthy. I don't know if I can, but gods help me."

Zamira, standing nearby, stepped up to take one side of the wooden plank holding Ezri's canvas-wrapped body. Locke took the other; Jean, as he'd warned Locke before the ceremony, was unable to help. He wrung his hands and looked away. In a moment it was over — Locke and Zamira tipped the plank and the sailcloth shroud slid out through the entry port, into the dark waves below. It was an hour past sunset, and at long last they were truly done.

The wordless circle of tired, mostly wounded crewfolk began to disperse, back to Treganne's fussing or their bare-bones watches. Rask had replaced Ezri, Nasreen and Utgar alike for the time being; with his head swaddled in a thick linen bandage, he began grabbing the more able-bodied survivors and pointing out chores for their attention. "And now?" asked Locke

"Now we limp, with the wind mostly against us, back to Tal Verrar." Zamira's voice was tired but her gaze was level. "We had an understanding, before this. I" ve lost more than I bargained for, friends and crew both. We lack the strength to take so much as a fishing vessel now, so I'm afraid what remains is up to you."

"As we promised," said Locke. "Stragos. Yeah. Get us there, and I'll… think of something."

"You won't have to," said Jean. "Just put in and send me off." He looked down at his feet. "Then leave." "No," said Locke, "I won't just stay here while—" "Only takes one for what I" ve got in mind." "You just promised a death-offering—" "She gets it. Even if it's me, she gets it." "You think Stragos won't be suspicious to see just one of us?"

"I'll tell him you're dead. Tell him we had a fight at sea; that part's honest enough. He'll see me then." "I won't let you go alone."

"And I won't let you come with me. What do you think you can do, fight me?"

"Shut up, the pair of you," said Zamira. "Gods. Just this morning, Jerome, your friend here tried to convince me to let him do exactly what you're planning right now."

"What?" Jean glared at Locke and ground his teeth together. "You miserable little sneak, how could you—"

"What? How dare I contemplate doing what you're now planning to do to me? You self-righteous strutting cock, I'll—" "What?" shouted Jean. "-I'll throw myself at you, and you'll beat the shit out of me," said Locke. "And then you'll feel awful! How about that, huh?"

"I already feel awful," said Jean. "Gods, why can't you just let me do this? Why can't you give me this much? At least you'll be alive; you can try to find another alchemist, another poisoner. It's a better chance than I'll have."

"Like hell," said Locke. "That's not how we work, and if you wanted it otherwise, you should have left me bleeding to death in Camorr. I seem to recall being pretty set on it at the time." "Yeah, but—" "It's different when it's you, isn't it?" "I—"

"Gentlemen," said Zamira, "or whatever you are. All other considerations aside, I gave my little boat to Basryn this afternoon so the bastard could die on the waves instead of on my ship. You'll have a hell of a time getting one of the other boats into Tal Verrar by yourself, Jerome. Unless you propose to fly, for I'm not taking the Orchid more than a bowshot past the breakwater reefs." "I'll swim if I bloody well have to—"

"Don't be stupid in your anger, Jerome." Drakasha grabbed him by the shoulders. "Be cold. Cold's the only thing that's going to work, if you're going to give me anything back for what's been done to my crew. For my first mate." "Shit,"Jean muttered.

"Together," said Locke. "You didn't leave me in Camorr, or Vel Virazzo. The hell if I'll leave you here."

Jean scowled, grabbed the rail and stared down at the water. "It's a damn shame," he said at last. "All that money at the Sinspire. Pity we'll never get it out. Or the other things."

Locke grinned, recognizing the abrupt change of subject as Jean's way of salving his pride as he gave in. "Sinspire?" said Zamira.

"We've left a few parts of our story untold, Zamira. Forgive us. Sometimes these schemes get a bit heavy to haul around. We, ah, have a few thousand solari on the books at the Sinspire. Hell, I'd let you have my share if there was any way to get it, but the point is moot."

"If only we" d found someone in the city to hold some of it for us," said Jean.

"No use wailing over spilled beer," said Locke. "I doubt we cultivated a single friend in Tal Verrar that we weren't hiring or tipping. Sure could use a fucking friend now." He joined Jean at the rail and pretended to be as absorbed in the sea as the bigger man did, but all he could think of were shrouded bodies splashing into the water.

Bodies falling, just as he and Jean had planned to use ropes, to fall safely out of-

"Wait a gods-damned minute," said Locke, "A friend. A friend. That's what we fucking need. We've spun Stragos and Requin like plates. Who haven't we even bothered to deal with in the past two years? Who have we been ignoring?" "The temples?" "Good guess, but no — who's got a direct stake in this bloody mess?" "The Priorir

"The Priori" said Locke. "Those fat, secretive, conniving bastards." Locke drummed his fingers against the rail, trying to push his sorrow out of his thoughts and will a dozen loose, improbable plans into one coherent scheme. "Think. Who" d we game with? Who" d we see at the Sinspire? "Ulena Pascalis." "No. She just barely got her seat at the table." "De Morella—"

"No. Gods, nobody takes him seriously. Who could move the Priori to do something absolutely rash? Who's been around long enough either to command respect or pull strings to enforce it? Inner Seven is what we need. The hell with everyone else."

Conjuring on the political realities of the Priori was akin to divination by chicken entrails, thought Locke. There were three tiers of seven in the merchant councils; the purpose of every seat on the lower two was public knowledge. Only the names of the Inner Seven were known — what hierarchy they held, what duties they performed was a mystery to outsiders. "Cordo," said Jean. "Old Cordo, or Lyonis?"

"Both. Either. Marius is Inner Seven, Lyonis's on his way up. And Marius is older than Perelandro's balls. If anyone could move the Priori, presumably as part of some insane thing you're dreaming up—" "It's only half-insane."

"I know that fucking look on your face! I'm sure either Cordo's the one you want; pity we've never met the bastards." Jean stared at Locke with a wary expression. "You do have that look on your face. What do you mean to do?"

"I mean… what if I mean to have it all? Why are we plotting suicide as a first option? Why don't we at least try first? Get to Requin. Pull the job. Get to Stragos. Squeeze an answer or an antidote out of him. Then give it to him, one way or another." Locke mimed shoving a dagger into an invisible Archon of Tal Verrar. It was so satisfying he mimed it again. "How the hell do we do this?"

"That's a grand question," said Locke. "The best question you" ve ever asked. I know we need some things. First, the way it's been lately, every person in Tal Verrar is likely to be waiting for us at the docks with crossbows and torches. We need better disguises. Shoddiest priesthood of the Twelve?" "Callo Androno," said Jean. "Begging His forgiveness, you" ve got it," said Locke.

Callo Androno, Eyes-on-the-Crossroads, god of travel, languages and lore. His itinerant priests as well as his settled scholars disdained finery, taking pride in the roughness of their garments.

"Zamira," said Locke, "if there's anyone on board who can still push a needle and thread, we need two robes. Make them from sailcloth, spare clothes, anything. I hate to say it, but there's got to be a lot of spare clothing lying around now."

"The survivors will dice for the goods and I'll share out the coin among them," she said. "But I can claim a few things first."

"And we need something blue," said Locke. "The blue Androni headbands. As long as we wear those, we're holy men, not just ill-dressed vagrants."

"Ezri's blue tunic," said Jean. "It's… it" d be in her cabin, where she left it. It's a bit faded, but—"

"Perfect,7 said Locke. "Now, Zamira, when we came back from our first visit to Tal Verrar with this ship, I gave you a letter for safekeeping. It has Requin's seal on it. Jerome, I need you to finesse that thing off like Chains showed us. You're better at it than me, and it has to be good."

"I suppose I can try. I'm not sure… how good I can be at anything right now." "I need your best. I need you to do it. For me. For her." "Where do you want the seal moved?"

"Clean parchment. Paper. Anything. Do you have one sheet, Zamira?"

"A full sheet? I don't think Paolo and Cosetta have left us any. But several of them are only partially scribbled on; I may be able to cut one in half."

"Do it. Jerome, you'll find some of the tools you need in my old sea-chest, in Zamira's cabin. Can he use it, and some lanterns, Captain?"

"Paolo and Cosetta refuse to come out of the rope locker," said Zamira. "They" re too upset. I" ve brought bed things and alchemical lights down for them. The cabin is at your disposal." "You'll need your cards, too," said Jean. "Or so I presume."

"Hell yes, I mean to use the cards. I'll need them, plus the best set of gear we can scrape together. Daggers. Short lengths of cord, preferably demi-silk. Coin, Zamira — tight little purses of fifty or sixty solari in case we have to buy our way past a problem. And some coshes. If you don't have any, there's sand and sail-canvas—" "And a pair of hatchets," said Jean. "There's two in my cabin. I took them out of your chest, actually."

"What?" A flicker of excitement actually crossed Jean's face. "You have them?"

"I needed a pair. I didn't know they were special, otherwise I'd have given them back when you came off the scrub watch—" "Special? They" re more like family than weapons," said Locke.

"Yes, thank the gods. So how does this all fall together, then?" said Jean. "As I said, excellent question, one I intend to ponder at length—"

"We won't see Tal Verrar again until tomorrow night if this weather holds," said Zamira. "I guarantee you'll have a good long time to ponder. And you'll be doing most of it up the foremast as top-eyes. I still need you to make yourself useful."

"Of course," said Locke. "Of course. Captain, when we come in to Tal Verrar, bring us from the north, if you would. Whatever else we do, our first stop needs to be the Merchants" Quarter." "Cordo?" asked Jean.

"Cordo," said Locke. "Older or Younger, I don't care. They'll see us if we have to crawl in through their gods-damned windows."

2

"What the—" said a portly, well-dressed servant who had the misfortune to walk around the corner, past the alcove containing the fourth-floor window Locke and Jean had just crawled in through.

"Hey," said Locke. "Congratulations! We're reverse burglars, here to give you fifty gold solari!" He tossed his coin-purse at the servant, who caught it in one hand and gaped at its weight. In the next second and a half he spent not raising an alarm, Jean coshed him.

Thed'r come in through the north-west corner of the top storey of the Cordo family manor; battlements and iron spikes had made a climb to the roof unattractive. It was just shy of the tenth hour of the evening, a perfect late-Aurim night on the Sea of Brass, and Locke and Jean had already squirmed through a thorny hedgerow, dodged three parties of guards and gardeners and spent twenty minutes scaling the damp, smooth stone of Cordo Manor just to get this far.

Their makeshift priestly robes of Callo Androno, along with most of their other needs, were tucked into backpacks sewn with haste by Jabril. Possibly thanks to those robes, no one had loosed a crossbow bolt at them since thed'r set foot on solid Verrari ground, but the night was young, thought Locke — so very, very young.

Jean dragged the unconscious servant into the window alcove and glanced around for other complications while Locke quietly slipped the double frosted-glass windows shut and rehitched their latch. Only a slender, carefully bent piece of metal had allowed him to open that latch; the Right People of Camorr called the tool a "breadwinner", because if you could get in and out of a household rich enough to own latching glass windows, your dinner was assured.

As it happened, Locke and Jean had stolen into just enough great houses much like this one — if none quite so vast — to know vaguely where to look for their quarry. Master bedchambers were often located adjacent to comforts like smoking rooms, studies, sitting parlours and-

"Library," muttered Jean as he and Locke padded quietly down the right-hand corridor. Alchemical lights in tastefully curtained alcoves gave the place a pleasantly dim orange-gold glow. Through a pair of open doors in the middle of the hall, on their left, Locke could just glimpse shelves of books and scrolls. No other servants were in sight.

The library was a thing of minor wonder; there must have been a thousand volumes, as well as hundreds of scrolls in orderly racks and cases. Charts of the constellations, painted on alchemically bleached leather, decorated the few empty spots on the walls. Two closed doors led to other inner rooms, one to their left and one in front of them.

Locke flattened himself against the left-hand door, listening. He heard a faint murmur and turned to Jean, only to find that Jean had halted in his tracks next to one of the bookshelves. He reached out, plucked a slim octavo volume — perhaps six inches in height — from the stacks and hurriedly stuffed it into his backpack. Locke grinned.

At that moment, the left-hand door opened directly into him, giving him a harmless but painful knock on the back of the head. He whirled to find himself face to face with a young woman carrying an empty silver tray. She opened her mouth to scream and there was nothing else for it: Locke's left hand shot out to cover her mouth while his right went for a dagger. He pushed her back into the room from which she'd come, and past the door Locke felt his feet sinking into plush carpet an inch deep.

Jean came through right behind him and slammed the door. The servant's tray fell to the carpet and Locke pushed her aside. She fell into Jean's arms with an "Oooomph!" of surprise, and Locke found himself at the foot of a bed that was roughly ten feet on a side, draped in enough silk to sail a rather substantial yacht.

Seated on pillows at the far end of that bed, looking vaguely comical with his thin body surrounded by so much empty, opulent space, was a wizened old man. His long hair, the colour of sea-foam, fell free to his shoulders above a green silk gown. He was sorting through a pile of papers by alchemical light as Locke, Jean and the unwilling servant woman all barged into his quarters.

"Marius Cordo, I presume," said Locke. "For the future, might I suggest an investment in some artificer gearwork for your window latches?"

The old man's eyes went wide and the papers scattered from his hands. "Oh, gods," he cried, "oh, gods protect me! It's you!"

3

"Of course it's me," said Locke. "You just don't know who the hell I am yet."

"Master Kosta, we can discuss this. You must know that I am a reasonable and extremely wealthy man—"

"All right, you do know who the hell I am," said Locke, disquieted. "And I don't give a shit about your money. I'm here to—"

"In my place, you would have done the same," said Cordo. "It was business is all, just business. Spare me, and let that too be a business decision, based on gain of gold, jewels, fine alchemicals—"

"Master Cordo," said Locke, "look, I—" He scowled, turned to the servant. "Is this man, ah, senile?" "He's absolutely competent," she answered coldly.

"I assure you I am," roared Cordo. Anger changed his countenance utterly. "And I will not be put off from business by assassins in my own bedroom! Now, you will either kill me immediately or negotiate the price of my release!"

"Master Cordo," said Locke, "tell me two things, and be perfectly bloody clear about them both. First, how do you know who I am? Second, why do you think I'm here to kill you?" "I was shown your faces," said Cordo, "in a pool of water." "In a pool of—" Locke felt his stomach lurch. "Oh, damn, by a—"

"By a Karthani Bondsmage, representing his guild on a personal matter. Surely you now realize—"

"You," said Locke. "I'd have done the same in your place, is what you said. You" ve been sending those gods-damned assassins after us! Those fuckers at the docks, that barkeeper with the poison, those teams of men on Festa night—"

"Obviously," said Cordo. "And you" ve been elusive, unfortunately. With a bit of help from Maxilan Stragos, I believe."

"Unfortunately? Unfortunately? Cordo, you have no idea what a lucky son of a bitch you are that they didn't succeed! What did the Bondsmagi tell you?" "Come now. Surely your own plans—" "Tell me in their words or I will kill you!"

"That you are a threat to the Priori, and that in light of sums paid for their services previously, they thought it in their best interests to tender a warning of your presence." "To the Inner Seven, you mean." "Yes."

"You stupid bastards," said Locke. "The Bondsmagi used you, Cordo. Think on that next time you consider giving them money. We — Master de Ferra and myself — are on their fuck-with list, and they tossed us between you and Stragos for a laugh. That's all! We didn't come here to do anything to the Priori.7 "So you say—" "Why aren't I murdering you right now, then?"

"A simultaneously pleasing and vexing point," said Cordo, biting his lip.

"The fact is," said Locke, "that for reasons which are forever going to remain way the hell beyond your understanding, I" ve broken into your manor to do one thing — give you the head of Maxilan Stragos on a platter." "What?"

"Not literally. I have plans for that head, actually. But I know how gods-damned happy you" d be to have the Archonate kicked over like an ant hill, so I'm only going to say this once: I mean to remove Maxilan Stragos from power permanently, and I mean to do it tonight. I must have your help." "But… you are some sort of agent of the Archon—"

"Jerome and I are unwilling agents," said Locke. "Stragos" s personal alchemist gave us a latent poison. So long as Stragos controls the antidote, we can serve him or die pretty awfully. But the fucker just had to keep pushing us, and now he's pushed too far." "You could be… you could be provocateurs, sent by Stragos to—"

"What, test your loyalty? In what court, under what oath, before what law? Same question as before, this time in relation to the idiotic conjecture that I actually do Stragos's bidding — why aren't I murdering you, then?" "As to that… a fair point."

"Here," said Locke, moving around the bed to sit beside Cordo. "Have a dagger." He tossed his blade into the old man's lap. At that moment, there was a pounding on the door.

"Father! Father, one of the servants is injured! Are you well? Father, I'm coming in!"

"My son has a key," said the elder Cordo as the click of it sounded in the door mechanism.

"Ah," said Locke, "I'll be needing this back, then." He snatched up his dagger again, stood beside Cordo and pointed it at the old man in a vaguely threatening fashion. "Hold still. This won't take but a minute."

A well-built man in his mid-thirties burst into the room, an ornate rapier in his hands. Lyonis Cordo, second-tier Priori, his father's only heir and a widower for several years. Perhaps the most eligible bachelor in all of Tal Verrar, all the more notable in that he rarely visited the Sinspire.

"Father! Alacyn!" Lyonis took a step into the room, brandishing his weapon with a flourish and spreading his arms to block the door. "Release them, you bastards! The household guards are roused, and you'll never make it down to the—"

"Oh, for Perelandro's sake, I'm not even going to pretend," said Locke. He passed the dagger back to the elder Cordo, who held it between two fingers like some sort of captured insect. "Look. There. What sort of whimsical assassin am I, then? Sheathe your sword, shut the door and open your ears. We have a lot of business to discuss." "I… but—"

"Lyonis," said the elder Cordo, "this man may be out of his mind, but as he says, neither he nor his partner are assassins. Put up your weapon and tell the guards to…" He turned to Locke suspiciously. "Did you badly injure any of my people breaking in, Kosta?"

"One slight bump on the head," said Locke. "Do it all the time. He'll be fine, whoever he is."

"Very well." Marius sighed and passed the dagger fussily back to Locke, who tucked it back into his belt. "Lyonis, tell the guards to stand down. Then lock the door again and be seated."

"May I go, if nobody's going to be doing any assassinating in these chambers?" asked Alacyn.

"No. Sorry. You" ve already heard too much. Take a seat and get comfortable while you listen to the rest." Locke turned to the elder Cordo. "Look, for obvious reasons, she cannot leave this house until our business is done tonight, right?" "Of all the—"

"No, Alacyn, he's right." The elder Cordo waved his hands pla-catingly. "Too much rides on this, and if you're loyal to me you know it. If, forgive me, you're not, you know it all the more. I'll have you confined to the study, where you'll be comfortable. And I'll compensate you very, very handsomely for this, I promise."

Released by Jean, she sat down in a corner and folded her arms grumpily. Lyonis, looking as though he doubted his own sanity, briskly dismissed the squad of tough-looking brutes that pounded into the library a moment later, sheathed his rapier and pulled the bedchamber door closed. He leaned back against it, his scowl matching Alacyn's.

"Now," said Locke, "as I was saying, by the end of this night, come hell or Eldren-fire, my partner and I will be in close physical proximity to Maxilan Stragos. One way or another, we are removing him from power. Possibly from life itself, if we have no choice. But in order to get there our way, we're going to need to demand some things of you. And you must understand, going in, that this is it. This is for real. Whatever your plans are to take the city from Stragos, have them ready to spring. Whatever your measures are to keep his army and navy tied down until you can remind them who pays their salaries, activate them."

"Remove Stragos?" Lyonis looked simultaneously awed and alarmed. "Father, these men are mad—"

"Quiet, Lyo." The elder Cordo raised his hand. "These men claim to be in a unique position to effect our desired change. And they have… declined to harm me for certain actions already taken against them. We will hear them out."

"Good," said Locke. "Here's what you need to understand. In a couple of hours, Master de Ferra and I are going to be arrested by the Eyes of the Archon as we leave the Sinspire—" "Arrested?" said Lyonis. "How can you know—"

"Because I'm going to set an appointment," said Locke. "And I'm going to ask Stragos to have us arrested."

4

"The Protector will not see you, nor will the waiting lady. Those are our orders."

Locke was sure he could feel the Eye officer's disdainful glare even through his mask.

"He will now," said Locke, as he and Jean pulled alongside the Archon's landing in the smaller, more nimble boat they had talked out of the elder Cordo. "Tell him that we've done as he requested when we last met, and we really need to speak about it."

The officer took a few seconds to consider, then went for the signal-chain. While they waited for a decision, Locke and Jean removed all of their weapons and gear, stashed it in their bags and left those in the bottom of the boat. Eventually, Merrain appeared at the top of the landing stairs and beckoned; they were patted down with the usual thoroughness and escorted up to the Archon's study. Jean trembled at the sight of Stragos, who was standing behind his desk. Locke noticed Jean clenching and unclenching his fists, so he squeezed his arm hard. "Is this happy news?" asked the Archon.

"Has anyone come in to report a fire at sea yesterday, around noon, anywhere west of the city?" asked Locke.

"Two merchant ships reported a large pillar of smoke on the western horizon," said Stragos. "No further news that I'm aware of, and no syndicate claiming any loss."

"They will soon enough," said Locke. "One ship, burned and sunk. Not a survivor aboard. It was headed for the city and it was wallowing with cargo, so I'm sure it will be missed eventually."

"Eventually," said Stragos. "So what do you want now, a kiss on the cheek and a plate of sweetmeats? I told you not to trifle with me again until—"

"Think of our first sinking as earnest money," said Locke. "We've decided that we want to show our wine and drink it, too." "Meaning what, exactly?"

"We want the fruit of our efforts at the Sinspire," said Locke. "We want what we spent two years working for. And we want it tonight, before we do anything else."

"Well, you can't necessarily have it tonight. What, did you imagine I could give you some sort of writ, a polite request to Requin to allow you to carry out whatever your game is?"

"No," said Locke, "but we're going over there right now to pull it on him, and until we're safely away with our swag, not another ship gets sunk in your waters at the hands of the Poison Orchid? "You do not dictate the terms of your employment to me—"

T do, actually. Even if we are trusting you to give us our lives back when our enslavement to you is complete, we're no longer confident that the conditions in this city will allow us to pull our Sinspire scheme after you get your way. Think, Stragos. We certainly have been. If you mean to put the Priori squarely under your thumb, there could be chaos. Bloodshed and arrests. Requin's in bed with the Priori; his fortune needs to be intact if we're going to relieve him of any of it. So we want what's ours safely in our hands first, before we finish this affair for you." "You arrogant—"

"Yes," Locke shouted. "Me. Arrogant. We still need our fucking antidote, Stragos. We still need it from your hands. And we demand another extension, if nothing else. Tonight. I want to see your alchemist standing beside you when we return here in a couple of hours." "Of all the bloody— What do you mean, "when you return here"?"

"There's only one way for us to walk away safely from the Sinspire, once Requin knows we've taken him for a ride," said Locke. "We need to leave the place and walk directly into the hands of your Eyes, who'll be waiting to arrest us." "Why, before all the gods, would I have them do that?"

"Because once we're safely back here," said Locke, "we will slip out quietly and return to the Poison Orchid, and later this very night we'll hit the Silver Marina itself. Drakasha has one hundred and fifty crew-folk, and we spent the afternoon taking two fishing boats to use as fire-craft. You wanted the crimson flag in sight of your city? By the gods, we'll put it in the harbour. Smash and burn as much as we can, and hit whatever's in reach on our way out. The Priori will be at your gates with bags of money, pleading for a saviour. The people will riot if they don't get one. Is that immediate enough for you? We can do what you want. We can do it tonight. And a punitive raid on the Ghostwind Isles — well, how quickly can you pack your sea-chest, Protector?"

"What are you taking from Requin?" asked Stragos, after a long, silent rumination. "Nothing that can't be transported by one man in a serious hurry." "Requin's vault is impenetrable." "We know," said Locke. "What we're after isn't in it."

"How can I be sure you won't get yourselves uselessly killed while doing this?"

"I can assure you we will," said Locke, "unless we find immediate safety in the public, legal custody of your Eyes. And then we vanish, whisked away for crimes against the Verrari state, on a matter of the Archonate's privilege. A privilege which you will soon be at leisure to flaunt. Come on, admit that it's bloody beautiful."

"You will leave the object of your desire with me," said the Archon. "Steal it. Fine. Transport it here. But since you'll need your poison neutralized anyway, I will keep it for you until we part." "That's—"

"A necessary comfort to myself," said Stragos, his voice laden with threat. "Two men who knew themselves to be facing certain death could easily flee, and then drink, binge and whore themselves in comfort for several weeks before the end, if they suddenly found a large sum of money in their hands, couldn't they?"

"I suppose you're right," said Locke, feigning irritation. "Every single thing we leave with you—"

"Will be given scrupulous good care. Your investment of two years will be waiting for you at our parting of the ways." "I suppose we have no choice, then. Agreed."

"Then I will have a writ made out immediately for the arrest of Leocanto Kosta and Jerome de Ferra," said Stragos. "And I will grant this request — and then, by the gods, you and that Syresti bitch had better deliver."

"We will," said Locke. "To the utmost of our ability. An oath has been sworn." "My soldiers—"

"Eyes," said Locke. "Send Eyes. There have to be agents of the Priori among your regulars; I'm staking my life on the fact that you keep more of an eye on your Eyes, as it were. Plus they scare the shit out of people. This is a shock operation." "Hmmm," said Stragos. "The suggestion is reasonable." "Then please listen carefully," said Locke.

5

It felt good to be stripping down to nothing.

Emerging from a long spell of false-facing could be like coming up for air after nearly drowning, Locke thought. Now all the baggage of their multi-tiered lies and identities was peeling away, sloughing off behind them as they pounded up the stairs to the Golden Steps one last time. Now that they knew the source of their mystery assassins, they had no need to sham as priests and skulk about; they could run like simple thieves with the powers of the city close on their heels. Which was exactly what they were.

He and Jean should have been loving it, laughing about it together, revelling in their usual breathless joy at crime well executed. Richer and cleverer than everyone else. But tonight Locke was doing all the talking; tonight Jean struggled to keep his composure until the moment he could lash out, and gods help whoever got in his way when he did.

Calo, Galdo and Bug, Locke thought. Ezri. All he and Jean had ever wanted to do was steal as much as they could carry and laugh all the way to a safe distance. Why had it cost them so many loved ones? Why did some stupid motherfucker always have to imagine that you could cross a Camorri with impunity?

Because you can't, Locke thought, sucking air through gritted teeth as the Sinspire loomed overhead, throwing blue and red light into the dark sky. You can't. We proved it once and we'll prove it again tonight, before all the gods.

6

"Stay clear of the service entrance, you— Oh, gods, it's you! Help!"

The bouncer who'd received Jean's painful ministrations to his ribs at their previous meeting recoiled as Locke and Jean ran across the service courtyard toward him. Locke saw that he was wearing some sort of stiff brace beneath the thin fabric of his tunic.

"Not here to hurt you," panted Locke. "Fetch… Selendri. Fetch her now." "You're not dressed to speak with—"

"Fetch her now and earn a coin," said Locke, wiping sweat from his brow, "or stand there for two more seconds and get your fucking ribs re-broken."

Haifa dozen Sinspire attendants gathered around in case of trouble, but they made no hostile moves. A few minutes after the injured bouncer had disappeared within the tower, Selendri came back out in his place. "You two are supposed to be at sea—"

"No time to explain, Selendri. The Archon has ordered us to be arrested. There's a squad of Eyes coming up to get us as we speak. They'll be here in minutes." "What?

"He figured it out somehow," said Locke. "He knows we've been plotting with you against him, and—" "Don't speak of this here," Selendri hissed. "Hide us. Hide us, please!"

Locke could see panic, frustration and calculation warring on the unscarred side of her face. Leave them here to their fate, and let them spill everything they knew to the Archon's torturers? Kill them in the courtyard, before witnesses, without the plausible explanation of an "accidental" fall? No. She had to take them in. For the moment. "Come," she said. "Hurry. You and you, search them."

Sinspire attendants patted Locke and Jean down, coming up with their daggers and coin-purses. Selendri took them.

"This one has a deck of cards," said an attendant after fishing in Locke's tunic pockets.

"He would," said Selendri. "I don't give a damn. We're going to the ninth floor."

Into the grandeur of Requin's shrine to avarice for one last time; through the crowds and the layers of smoke hanging like unquiet spirits in the air, up the wide, spiralling stairs through the floors of increasing quality and risk.

Locke glanced about as they went up; was it his imagination or were there no Priori preening in here tonight? Up to the fourth floor, up to the fifth — and there, naturally, he nearly walked into Maracosa Durenna, who gaped with a drink in her hand as Selendri and her guards dragged Locke and Jean past her. On Durenna's face, Locke could see more than bafflement or irritation — oh, gods. She was pissed off Locke could only imagine how he and Jean looked to her — hairier, leaner and burned brown by the sun. Not to mention underdressed, sweaty and clearly in a great deal of trouble with the house. He grinned and waved at Durenna as they ascended the stairs, and she passed out of view.

Up through the last floors, through the most rarefied layers of the house. Still no Priori — coincidence, or encouraging sign?

Up into Requin's office, where the Master of the "Spire was standing before a mirror, pulling on a long-tailed black evening coat trimmed with cloth-of-silver. He bared his teeth at the sight of Locke and Jean, the malice in his eyes easily a match for the fiery alchemical glare of his optics.

"Eyes of the Archon," said Selendri. "On their way to arrest Kosta and de Ferra."

Requin growled, lunged forward like a fencer and backhanded Locke with astonishing force. He slid across the floor on his backside and slammed into Requin's desk. Knick-knacks rattled alarmingly above him and a metal plate clattered to the tiles.

Jean moved forward, but the two burly Sinspire attendants grabbed him by the arms, and with a well-oiled click Selendri had her concealed blades out to dissuade him.

"What did you do, Kosta?" roared Requin. He kicked Locke in the stomach, knocking him back against the desk once again. A wineglass fell from the desktop and shattered against the floor.

"Nothing," gasped Locke, "nothing, he just knew, Requin, he knew we were conspiring against him; we had to run. Eyes on our heels."

"Eyes coming to my "Spire," Requin growled. "Eyes that may be about to violate a rather important tradition of the Golden Steps. You" ve put me in a very tenuous situation, Kosta. You" ve fucked everything up, haven't you?"

"I'm sorry," said Locke, crawling to his hands and knees, "I'm sorry, there was nowhere else to run. If he… if he got his hands on us—"

"Quite," said Requin. "I'm going down to deal with your pursuers. You two will remain here. We'll discuss this the moment I get back."

When you come back, thought Locke, you'll have more of your attendants with you. And Jean and I will "slip" out of the window. It was time to do it.

Requin's boot-heels echoed first against tile, then against the iron of his little staircase as he descended to the level below. The two attendants holding Jean released him but kept their eyes on him, while Selendri leaned back atop Requin's desk with her blades out. She stared coldly at Locke as he got back to his feet, wincing. "No more sweet nothings to mutter in my ear, Kosta?" "Selendri, I—"

"Did you know he was planning to kill you, Master de Ferra? That his dealings with us these past few months hinged on our allowing that to happen?" "Selendri, listen, please—"

"I knew you were a poor investment," she said. "I just never realized the situation would turn so quickly."

"Yes, you were right. I was a bad investment, and I don't doubt that Requin will listen more closely to you in the future. Because I never wanted to kill Jerome de Ferra. Jerome de Ferra isn't a real person. Neither is Calo Callas.

"In fact," he said, grinning broadly, "you have just delivered us exactly where we need to be, for the pay-off to two long years of hard work, so we can rob the fucking hell out of you and your boss."

The next sound in the room was that of a Sinspire attendant hitting the wall, with the impression of one of Jean's fists reddening an entire side of his face.

Selendri acted with remarkable speed, but Locke was ready for her; not to fight, but simply to duck and weave, and to stay away from that bladed hand of hers. He vaulted over the desk, scattering papers, and laughed as the two of them feinted from side to side, dancing to see who would stumble past its protective bulk first. "You die, then, Kosta," she said.

"Oh, and you were planning to spare us. Please. By the way — Leo-canto Kosta's not real, either. So many little things you just do not know, eh?"

Behind them, Jean grappled with the second attendant. Jean slammed his forehead into the man's face, breaking his nose, and the man fell to his knees, burbling. Jean stepped behind him and drove his elbow down on the back of the man's neck with all of his upper body behind it. Involved as he was in avoiding Selendri, Locke winced at the noise the attendant's skull made as it struck the floor.

A moment later, Jean loomed behind Selendri, blood from the attendant's broken nose streaming down his face. She slashed with her blades, but Jean's anger had him in a rare, vicious form. He caught her brass forearm, folded her in half with a punch to the stomach, whirled her around and held her by the arms. She writhed and fought for breath.

"This is a nice office," said Jean quietly, as though he'd just shaken hands with Selendri and her attendants rather than beaten the hell out of them. Locke frowned, but went on with the scheme — time was of the essence.

"Watch closely, Selendri, because I can only do this trick once," he said, producing his deck of fraudulent playing cards and shuffling them theatrically. "Is there any liquor in the house? A very strong liquor, the sort that brings tears to a man's eyes and fire to his throat?" He feigned surprise at the presence of a brandy bottle on the shelf behind Requin's desk, next to a silver bowl filled with flowers.

Locke seized the bowl, tossed the flowers on the floor and set the empty container atop the desk. He then opened the brandy bottle and poured the brown liquor into the bowl, to a depth of about three fingers.

"Now, as you can see, I hold nothing in my hands save this perfectly normal, perfectly ordinary deck of perfectly unremarkable playing cards. Or do I?" He gave the deck one last shuffle and then dropped it into the bowl. The alchemical cards softened, distended and began to bubble and foam. Their pictures and symbols dissolved, first into a colour-streaked white mess, then into an oily grey goo. Locke found a rounded butter knife on a small plate at a corner of the desk and used it to vigorously stir the grey goo until all traces of the playing cards had vanished. "What the hell are you doing?" Selendri asked

"Making alchemical cement," said Locke. "Little wafers of resin, painted to look like cards, formulated to react with strong liquor. Sweet gods above, you do not want to know what this cost me. Hell, I had no choice but to come and rob you after I had it made." "What do you intend—"

"As I know from vivid personal experience," said Locke, "this shit dries harder than steel." He ran over to the spot on the wall where the climbing closet would emerge and began to slather the grey goo all over the faint cracks that marked its door. "So once I paint it all over this lovely concealed entrance, and then pour it into the lock of the main door, why — in about a minute, Requin's going to need a battering ram if he wants to see his office again this evening."

Selendri tried to scream for help, but the old damage to her throat was too much; it was a loud and eerie sound, but it didn't carry downstairs with the force she needed. Locke scampered down the iron stairs, closed the main doors to Requin's office and hurriedly sealed the locking mechanism within a glob of already-firming cement.

"And now," he said when he returned to the centre of the office, "the next curiosity of the evening, concerning this lovely suite of chairs with which I furnished our esteemed host. It turns out that I do know what the Talathri Baroque is after all, and that there is a reason why someone in his right mind would build such a nice thing out of a wood as fundamentally weak as shear-crescent."

Locke seized one of the chairs. He tore the seat cushion and its underlying panel off with his bare hands, exposing a shallow chamber within the seat packed tight with tools and equipment — knives, a leather climbing belt, clips and descenders, and assorted other implements. He shook these out onto the ground with a clatter and then hoisted the chair above his head, grinning. "It makes "em so much easier to smash."

And that he did, bringing the chair down hard on Requin's floor. It shattered at all the joints, but didn't fly apart because its splintered chunks were held together by something threaded through the hollow cavities within its legs and back. Locke fumbled with the wreckage for a few moments before successfully extracting several long lengths of demi-silk line.

Locke took one of these, and with Jean's help soon had Selendri tied into the chair behind Requin's desk. She kicked and spat and even tried to bite them, but it was no use.

Once she was secured, Locke picked a knife out of the pile of tools on the ground while Jean got to work smashing the other three chairs and extracting their hidden contents. As Locke approached Selendri with the blade in his hand, she gave him a contemptuous stare.

"I can't tell you anything meaningful," she said. "The vault is at the base of the tower and you" ve just sealed yourselves up here. So frighten me all you like, Kosta, but I have no idea what you think you're doing."

"Oh, you think this is for you?" Locke smiled. "Selendri. I thought we knew each other better than that. As for the vault, who the hell said anything about it?" "Your work to find a way in—"

"I lied, Selendri. I" ve been known to do that. You think I was really experimenting on clockwork locks and keeping notes for Maxilan Stragos? Like hell. I was sipping brandies on your first and second floors, trying to pull myself back together after I nearly got cut to pieces. Your vault's fucking impenetrable, sweetheart. I never wanted to go anywhere near it."

Locke glanced around, pretending to notice the room for the very first time.

"Requin does keep a lot of really expensive paintings on his walls, though, doesn't he?"

With a grin that felt even larger than it was, Locke stepped up to the closest one and began, ever so carefully, to cut it out of its surrounding frame.

7

Locke and Jean threw themselves backwards from Requin's balcony ten minutes later, demi-silk lines leading from their leather belts to the perfect anchor-noose knots thed'r tied around the railing. There hadn't been enough room in the chairs for belay lines, but sometimes you couldn't get anywhere in life without taking little risks. Locke hollered as they slid rapidly down through the night air, past balcony after balcony, window after window of bored, satisfied, incurious or jaded gamers. His glee had temporarily wrestled his sorrow down. He and Jean fell for twenty seconds, using their iron descenders to avoid a headlong plummet, and for those twenty seconds all was right with the world, Crooked Warden be praised. Ten of Requin's prized paintings — lovingly trimmed from their frames, rolled up and stuffed into oilcloth carrying tubes — were slung over his shoulder. He" d had to leave two on the wall, for lack of carrying cases, but once again space in the chairs had been limited.

Once Locke had conceived the idea of going after Requin's fairly well-known art collection, he'd nosed around for a potential buyer among the antiquities and diversions merchants of several cities. The price he'd eventually been offered for his hypothetical acquisition of "the art objects" had been gratifying, to say the least.

Their slide ended on the stones of Requin's courtyard, where the ends of their lines hung three inches above the ground. Their landing disturbed several drunk couples strolling the perimeter of the yard. No sooner were they shrugging out of their lines and harnesses than they heard the rush of heavily booted feet and the clatter of arms and armour. A squad of eight Eyes ran toward them from the street-side of the Sinspire.

"Stand where you are," the Eye in the lead bellowed. "As an officer of Archon and Council, I place you under arrest for crimes against Tal Verrar. Raise your hands and offer no struggle, or no quarter will be given."

8

The long, shallow-draft boat drew up against the Archon's private landing, and Locke found his heart hammering. Now came the delicate part, the ever-so-delicate part.

He and Jean were thrust from the boat by the Eyes surrounding them. Their hands were tied behind their backs and thed'r been relieved of their paintings. Those were carried, very carefully, by the last of the arresting Eyes to step off the boat.

The arresting officer stepped up to the Eye in command of the landing and saluted. "We're to take the prisoners to see the Protector immediately, Sword-Prefect."

"I know," said the landing officer, an unmistakable note of satisfaction in his voice. "Well done, Sergeant." "Thank you, sir. The gardens?" "Yes."

Locke and Jean were marched through the Mon Magisteria, through empty hallways and past silent ballrooms, through the smells of weapons-oil and dusty corners. At last they emerged into the Archon's gardens.

Their feet crunched on the gravel of the path as they made their way through the deeply scented night, past the faint glow of silver creeper and the stuttering luminescence of lantern beetles.

Maxilan Stragos sat waiting for them near his boathouse, on a chair brought out for the occasion. With him were Merrain and — oh, how Locke's heart quickened — the bald alchemist, as well as two more Eyes. The arresting Eyes, led by their sergeant, saluted the Archon.

"On their knees," said Stragos casually, and Locke and Jean were forced down to the gravel before him. Locke winced and tried to take in the details of the scene. Merrain wore a long-sleeved tunic and a dark skirt; from his angle Locke could see that her boots weren't courtly fripperies, but black, flat-soled field boots, good for running and fighting. Interesting. Stragos's alchemist stood holding a large, grey satchel, looking nervous. Locke's pulse quickened once again at the thought of what might be in that bag.

"Stragos," said Locke, pretending that he didn't know exactly what was on the Archon's mind, "another garden party? Your armoured jackasses can untie us now; I doubt there are agents of the Priori lurking in the trees."

"I have sometimes wondered to myself," said Stragos, "precisely what it would take to humble you." He beckoned the Eye at his right side forward. "I have regretfully concluded that it's probably impossible."

The Eye kicked Locke in the chest, knocking him backward. Gravel slid beneath him as he tried to squirm away; the Eye reached down and yanked him back up to his knees. "Do you see my alchemist? Here, as you requested?" said Stragos. "Yes," said Locke.

"That's what you get. All you will ever get. I have kept my word. Enjoy your useless glimpse." "Stragos, you bastard, we still have work to do for—" "I think not," said the Archon. "I think your work is already done. And at long last, I think I can see precisely why you so aggravated the Bondsmagi that they passed you into my care." "Stragos, if we don't get back to the Poison Orchid—"

"My spotters have reported a ship answering that description anchored to the north of the city. I'll be out to fetch her soon enough, with half the galleys in my fleet. And then I'll have another pirate to parade through the streets, and a crew to drop into the Midden Deep one by one while all ofTal Verrar cheers me on." "But we—"

"You have given me what I need," said Stragos, "if not in the manner in which you intended. Sergeant, did you encounter any difficulty in securing these prisoners from the Sinspire?" "Requin refused to allow us entry to the structure, Protector."

"Requin refused to allow you entry to the structure," said Stragos, clearly savouring each word. "Thereby treating an informal tradition as though it had any precedence over my legal authority. Thereby giving me cause to send my troops in platoons, and do what the bought-and-paid-for constables won't — throw that bastard in a box until we find out just how long he's willing to stay quiet about the activities of his good friends the Priori. Now I have my fighting chance. There's no need for you two to cause further violence in my waters." "Stragos, you motherfucker—" "In fact," said the Archon, "there's no need for you two at all." "We had a deal!"

"And I would have kept it had you not scorned me in the one matter that could brook no disobedience!" Stragos rose from his chair, shaking with anger. "My instructions were to leave the men and women at the Windward Rock alive! Alive!"

"But we—" began Locke, absolutely mystified. "We used the Witfrost, and we did leave them—"

"With their throats cut," said Stragos. "Only the two on the roof lived; I presume you were too lazy to climb up and finish them off." "We didn't—"

"Who else was raiding my island that night, Kosta? It's not exactly a shrine for pilgrims, is it? If you didn't do it, you allowed the prisoners to do it. Either way, the fault is yours." "Stragos, I honestly don't know what you're talking about."

"That won't bring my four good men and women back, will it?" Stragos put his hands behind his back. "And with that, we're done. The sound of your voice, the tone of your arrogance, the sheer effrontery contained within that tongue of yours… you are sharkskin on my eardrums, Master Kosta, and you murdered honest soldiers of Tal Verrar. You will have no priest, no ceremony and no grave. Sergeant, give me your sword."

The sergeant of the arresting Eyes stepped forward and drew his blade. He turned it hilt-first toward the Archon. "Stragos," said Jean. "One last thing."

Locke turned toward him and saw that he was smiling thinly. "I'm going to remember this moment for the rest of my gods-damned life." "I—"

Stragos never finished his sentence, since the Eye sergeant suddenly drew back his sword-arm and slammed the hilt of the weapon into the Archon's face.

9

They did it like this.

The Eyes dragged Locke and Jean from the Sinspire courtyard and shoved them into a heavy carriage with iron-barred windows. Three entered the compartment with them, two rode up top to tend the horses and three stood at the sides and rear, as outriders.

At the end of the street atop the highest tier of the Golden Steps, where the carriage had to turn left to take the switchback ramp down to the next level, another carriage suddenly blocked its way. The Eyes yelled threats; the driver of the other carriage apologized profusely and shouted that his horses were uncommonly stubborn.

Then the crossbow strings began to snap, and the drivers and outriders toppled from their places, caught defenceless in a storm of quarrels. Squads of constables in full uniform appeared on the street to either side of the carriage, waving their staves and shields.

"Move along," they shouted at the wide-eyed bystanders, the wisest of whom had already ducked for cover. "Nothing to see here. Business of Archon and Council."

As the bodies hit the cobblestones outside the carriage, the door flew open and the three inside made a futile attempt to aid their fallen comrades. Two more squads of constables, with help from a number of private individuals in plain dress who just happened to get involved at the same signal, charged and overpowered them. One fought back so hard that he was slain by accident; the other two were soon forced down beside the carriage, and their bronze masks removed.

Lyonis Cordo appeared wearing the uniform of an Eye, complete in every detail save for the mask. He was followed by seven more men and women in nearly complete costumes. With them was a young woman Locke didn't recognize. She knelt in front of the two captured Eyes.

"You I don't know," she said to the one on the right. Before the man had time to realize what was happening, a constable had passed a dagger across his throat and shoved him to the ground. Other constables were quickly dragging the rest of the bodies out of sight.

"You, said the woman, regarding the sole surviving Eye, "Lucius Caulus. You I know." "Kill me now," said the man. "I'll give you nothing."

"Of course," said the woman. "But you have a mother. And a sister, who works in the Blackhands Crescent. And you have a brother-by-bonding on the fishing boats, and two nephews—" "Fuck you," Caulus said, "you wouldn't—"

"While you watched. I would. I will. Every single one of them, and you'll be in the room the whole time, and they'll know that you could save them with a few words."

Caulus looked at the ground and began to sob. "Please," he said. "Let this stay between us—"

"Tal Verrar remains, Caulus. The Archon isn't Tal Verrar. But I don't have time to play games with you. Answer my questions or we will find your family." "Gods forgive me," said Caulus, nodding.

"Were you given any special code phrases or procedures to use when re-entering the Mon Magisteria?" "N-no—"

"What, exactly, were the orders that you heard given to your sergeant?"

When the brief interrogation was over and Caulus carted off— alive, to keep him in fear of consequences should he be leaving anything out — along with the bodies, the false Eyes armed themselves with the weapons and harness of the real thing and drew on the brass masks. Then the carriage was off again, speeding on its way to the boat waiting at the inner docks, lest any of Stragos's agents should get across the bay in time to warn of what thed'r seen.

"That went about as well as we could have hoped," said Lyonis, sitting inside the carriage with them. "How good are those fake uniforms?" asked Locke.

"Fake? You misunderstand. The uniforms weren't the hard part; our sympathizers in Stragos's forces supplied us with these some time ago. It's the masks that are damned difficult. One per Eye, no spares; they keep them like family heirlooms. And they spend so much time looking at them that even a close copy would be noticed." Cordo held up his mask and grinned. "After tonight, hopefully we'll never see the damned things again. Now what the hell is in those oilcloth tubes?" "A gift from Requin," said Locke. "Unrelated personal business." "You know Requin well?"

"We share a taste for the art of the late Therin Throne period," said Locke, smiling. "In fact, we've even exchanged some pieces of work recently."

10

As Lyonis knocked the Archon to the ground, the other false Eyes tore their masks off and took action. Locke and Jean slid out of the purely decorative knots at their wrists in less than a second.

One of Lyonis's men underestimated the skills of the real Eye he faced; he fell to his knees with most of his left side sliced open. Two more Priori pretenders closed in and harried the Eye until his guard slipped; they knocked him down and stabbed him several times. The other tried to run and fetch aid, but was slain before he could take five steps.

Merrain and the alchemist looked around, the alchemist far more nervously than Merrain, but two of Lyonis's people put them at swordpoint.

"Well, Stragos," said Lyonis, hauling the Archon back to his knees, "warmest regards from the House of Cordo." He raised his arm, sword reversed to strike, and grinned.

Jean grabbed him from behind, threw him to the ground and stood over him, seething. "The deal, Cordo!"

"Yeah," said Lyonis, still smiling where he lay on the ground, "well, it's like this. You" ve done us quite a service, but we don't feel comfortable having loose ends running around. And there are now seven of us, and two of—"

"You amateur double-crossers," said Locke. "You make us professionals cringe. You think you're so fucking clever. I saw this coming about a hundred miles away, so I had a mutual friend offer an opinion on the subject."

Locke reached into his boot and pulled out a slightly crumpled, moderately sweaty half-sheet of parchment, folded into quarters. Locke passed this to Lyonis and smiled, knowing as the Priori unfolded it that he would read: / — would take it as a personal affront if the bearers of this note were to be harmed or hindered in any way, engaged as they are upon an errand of mutual benefit. The extension of every courtesy to them will be noted and returned as though a courtesy to myself They bear my full and absolute trust. R All, of course, above Requin's personal seal.

"I know that you yourself are not fond of his chance-house," said Locke. "But you must admit that the same is not generally true among the Priori, and many of your peers keep a great deal of money in his vault—"

"Enough. I take your point." Cordo rose to his feet and all but threw the letter back at Locke. "What do you ask?"

"I only want two things," said Locke. "The Archon and his alchemist. What you do with this gods-damned city is entirely your business." "The Archon must—"

"You were about to gut him like a fish. He's my business now. Just know that whatever happens to him won't be an inconvenience for you."

The sound of shouting arose from the other side of the gardens. No, Locke corrected himself— the other side of the fortress. "What the hell is that?" he asked.

"We have sympathizers at the Mon Magisterial gate," said Cordo. "We're bringing people in to prevent anyone from leaving. They must be making their presence known." "If you try to storm—"

"We're not storming the Mon Magisteria. Just sealing it off. Once the troops inside comprehend the new situation, we're confident they'll accept the authority of the councils."

"You" d better hope that's the case across Tal Verrar," said Locke. "But enough of this shit. Hey, Stragos, let's go and have a chat with your pet alchemist."

Jean hoisted the Archon — still clearly in shock — to his feet, and began to haul him over to where Merrain and the alchemist were standing under guard.

"You," said Locke, pointing at the bald man, "are about to start explaining a hell of a lot of things, if you know what's good for you." The alchemist shook his head. "Oh, but I… I—"

"Pay close attention," said Locke. "This is the end of the Archonate, understand? The whole institution will be sunk in the harbour once and for all tonight. After this, Maxilan Stragos won't have the power to buy a cup of warm piss for all the gold in Tal Verrar. That will leave you with nobody to go crawling to as you spend the rest of your short, miserable life answering to the two men you fucking poisoned. Do you have a permanent antidote?"

"I… I carry an antidote for every poison I use in the Archon's service, yes. Just in case." "Xandrin, don't—" said Stragos. Jean punched him in the stomach. "Oh, no. Do, Xandrin, do," said Locke.

The bald man reached into his satchel and held up a glass vial full of transparent liquid. "One dose is what I carry. This is enough for one man — do not split it. This will cleanse the substance from the humours and channels of the body."

Locke took the vial from him, his hand trembling. "And this… how much will it cost to have another alchemist make more?"

"It's impossible, said Xandrin. "I designed the antidote to defy reactive analysis. Any sample subjected to alchemical scrutiny will be ruined. The poison and its antidote are my proprietary formulation—" "Notes," said Locke. "Recipes, whatever you call the damn things." "In my head," said Xandrin. "Paper is a poor keeper of secrets."

"Well then," said Locke, "until you cook us up another dose, it looks like you're fucking well coming with us. Do you like the sea?"

11

Merrain made her decision then. If the antidote couldn't be duplicated, and she could knock the vial to the ground… the troublesome anomalies Kosta and de Ferra were as good as dead. That would leave only Stragos and Xandrin.

If they were dealt with, all those with any direct knowledge of the fact that she served a master beyond Tal Verrar would be silenced.

She moved her right arm slightly, dropping the hilt of her poisoned dagger into her hand, and took a deep breath.

Merrain moved so fast that the false Eye standing to her side never even had the chance to raise his sword. Her sideways stab, not preceded by any telltale glance or lunge, took him in the side of the neck. She slid the blade sideways as she withdrew, tearing whatever she could in case the poison took a few extra seconds to do its work.

12

Merrain's first victim had just uttered a gasp of surprise when she moved again, slashing across the back of Xandrin's neck with a knife she'd produced from nowhere. Locke stared for a split second, startled; he counted himself fast, but if she'd been aiming for him he realized that he never would have seen the blow coming in time.

As Xandrin cried out and stumbled forward, Merrain kicked at Locke, a fast attack rather than a solid one. She caught his arm and the vial flew from his fingers; Locke barely had time to yell, "Shit!" before he was diving after it, heedless of the gravel he was about to skin himself against or anything else Merrain might care to do to him. He plucked the still-intact vial off the ground, uttered a whisper of thanks and was then knocked aside as Jean rushed past, arms extended.

As he hit the ground with the vial clutched to his chest, Locke saw Merrain wind up and hurl her knife; Jean struck her at the moment of release, so that rather than impaling Stragos through the neck or chest as she'd clearly intended, she bounced her blade off the gravel at his feet. The Archon flinched away from the weapon nonetheless.

Merrain, improbably, put up an effective struggle against Jean; she freed one arm from his grasp somehow and elbowed him in the ribs. Lithe and no doubt desperate as all hell, she kicked his left foot, broke his grip and tried to stumble away. Jean retained enough of a hold on her tunic to tear off her left sleeve all the way to the shoulder; thrown off-balance as it gave way, he fell to the ground.

Locke caught a flash of an elaborate, dark tattoo against the pale skin of Merrain's upper arm — something like a grapevine entwined around.-..I. _„a sword. Then she was off like a crossbow bolt, darting into the night, away from Jean and the false Eyes who chased her in vain for a few dozen steps before giving up and swearing loudly.

"Well, what the— Oh, hell," said Locke, noticing for the first time that the false Eye Merrain had stabbed, along with Xandrin, was writhing on the ground with rivulets of foaming saliva trickling from the corners of his mouth. "Oh, shit, shit, hell," Locke shouted, bending helplessly over the dying alchemist. The convulsions ceased in just a few seconds, and Locke stared down at the single vial of antidote in his hands, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. "No," said Jean from behind him. "Oh, gods, why did she do that?" "I don't know," said Locke. "What the hell do we do?" "We… shit. Damned if I know that, either." "You should—"

"Nobody's doing anything," said Locke. "I'll keep this safe. Once this is over, we'll sit down with it, have dinner, talk it over. We'll come up with something." "You can—"

"Time to go," said Locke, as firmly as he could. "Get what we came here for and go, before things get more complicated." Before troops loyal to the Archon notice that he's having a bad night. Before Lyonisfinds out that Requin is actually hunting for us as we speak. Before some other gods-damned surprise crawls out of the ground to bite us on the arse. "Cordo," he shouted, "where's that bag you promised?"

Lyonis gestured to one of his surviving false Eyes, and the woman passed a heavy burlap sack to Locke. Locke shook it out — it was wider than he was, and nearly six feet long.

"Well, Maxilan," he said, "I offered you the chance to forget all of this, and let us go, and keep what you had, but you had to be a fucking arsehole, didn't you?"

"Kosta," said Stragos, at least rediscovering his voice, "I… I can give you—"

"You can't give me a gods-damned thing." Stragos appeared to be thinking of making an attempt for Merrain's dagger, so Locke gave it a hard kick. It skittered across the gravel and into the darkness of the gardens. "Those of us in our profession, those who hold with the Crooked Warden, have a little tradition we follow when someone close to us dies. In this case, someone who got killed as a result of this mad rucking scheme of yours." "Kosta, don't throw away what I can offer—"

"We call it a death-offering," said Locke. "Means we steal something of value, proportional to the life we lost. Except in this case I don't think there's anything in the world that qualifies. But we're doing our best." Jean stepped up beside him and cracked his knuckles.

"Ezri Delmastro," he said, very quietly, "I give you the Archon of Tal Verrar."

He punched Stragos so hard that the Archon's feet left the gravel. In a moment, he was stuffing the unconscious old man into the burlap sack. Another moment, and the sack was tied off and slung over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes.

"Well, Lyonis," said Locke, "best of luck with your revolution, or whatever the hell it is. We're sneaking out of here before things have a chance to get any more interesting on us." "And Stragos—" "You'll never see him again," said Locke. "Good enough, then. Are you leaving the city?" "Not half fast enough for our gods-damned taste." Jean dumped him on the quarterdeck, under the eyes of Zamira and all the surviving crew. It had been a long and arduous trip back — first to retrieve their backpacks from Cordo's little boat, and then to dutifully retrieve Drakasha's ship's boat, and then to row nearly out to sea — but it had all been worth it. The entire night had been worth it, Locke decided, just to see the expression on Stragos's face when he found "Zamira standing over him.

"Dr… r… akasha," he mumbled, then spat one of his teeth onto the deck. Blood ran in several streams down his chin.

"Maxilan Stragos, former Archon of Tal Verrar," she said. " "Final Archon of Tal Verrar. Last time I saw you my perspective was somewhat different." "As was… mine." He sighed. "What now?"

"There are too many debts riding on your carcass to buy them off with death," said Zamira. "We thought long and hard about this. We've decided that we're going to try to keep you around for as long as we possibly can."

She snapped her fingers and Jabril stepped forward, carrying a mass of sturdy, if slightly rusted, iron chains and cuffs in his arms. He dropped them on the deck next to Stragos and laughed as the old man jumped. The hands of other crewfolk seized him, and he began to sob in disbelief as his legs and arms were clamped, and as the chains were draped around him.

"You're going in the orlop, Stragos. You're going into the dark. And we're going to treat it as a special privilege to carry you around with us wherever we go. In any weather, in any sea, in any heat. We're going to haul you a mighty long way. You and your irons. Long after your clothes fall off, I guarantee you'll still have those to wear." "Drakasha, please—"

"Throw him as far down as we've got," she said, and half a dozen crewfolk began carrying him toward a main-deck hatch. "Chain him to the bulkhead. Then let him get cosy." "Drakasha," he screamed, "you can't! You can't! I'll go mad!"

"I know," she said. "And you'll scream. Gods, how you'll wail down there. But that's okay. We can always do with a bit of music at sea."

Then he was carried below the Poison Orchid's deck, to the rest of his life.

"Well," said Drakasha, turning to Locke and Jean. "You two delivered. I'll be damned, but you got what you wanted."

"No, Captain," said Jean. "We got what we went after, mostly. But we didn't get what we wanted. Not by a long gods-damned shot." "I'm sorry, Jerome," she said.

"I hope nobody ever calls me that again," said Jean. "The name is Jean."

"Locke and Jean," she said. "All right, then. Can I take you two somewhere?"

"Vel Virazzo, if you don't mind," said Locke. "We've got some business to transact." "And then you'll be rich men?" "We'll be in funds, yes. Do you want some, for your—"

"No," she said. "You went into Tal Verrar and did the stealing. Keep it. We've got swag enough from Salon Corbeau, and so few ways to split it now. We'll be fine. So what will you do after that?" "We had a plan," said Locke. "Remember what you told me at the rail that night? If someone tries to draw lines around your ship, just… set more sail?" Drakasha nodded. "I suppose you could say we're going to give it a try," said Locke. "Will you need anything else, then?"

"Well," said Locke, "for safety's sake, given our past history… perhaps you" d lend us a small sack and give us something small but rather important?" They met the next day, at Requin's invitation, in what could only be described as the wreckage of his office. The main door was smashed off its hinges, the suite of chairs still lay broken across the floor and of course almost all of the paintings on the walls had been sliced out of their frames. Requin seemed to derive a perverse pleasure in seating the seven Priori on fine chairs in the midst of the chaos and pretending that all was perfectly normal. Selendri paced the room behind the guests.

"Has everything gone more smoothly for you ladies and gentlemen since last night?" asked Requin.

"Fighting's ended in the Sword Marina,"said Jacantha Tiga, youngest of the Inner Seven. "The navy is on the leash."

"The Mon Magisteria is ours," said Lyonis Cordo, standing in for his father. "All of Stragos's captains are in custody, except for two captains of intelligence—"

"We can't have another fucking Ravelle incident," said a middle-aged Priori.

"I" ve got people working on that issue myself," said Requin. "They won't go to ground within the city, I can promise that much."

"The Ambassadors from Talisham, Espara and the Kingdom of the Seven Marrows have publicly expressed confidence in the leadership of the councils," said Tiga.

"I know," said Requin, smiling. "I forgave them some rather substantial debts last night and suggested that they might make themselves useful to the new regime. Now, what about the Eyes?"

"About half of them are alive and in custody," said Cordo. "The rest are dead, with just a few thought to be trying to stir up resistance." "They won't get far," said Tiga. "Loyalty to the old Archonate won't t! buy food or beer. I expect they'll turn up dead here and there once they annoy the regulars too much."

"We'll have the rest quietly disposed of over the next few days," said Cordo.

"Now, I wonder," said Requin, "if that's really so very wise. The Eyes of the Archon represent a significant pool of highly trained and committed people. Surely there's got to be a better use for them than filling graves." "They were loyal to Stragos alone—"

"Or perhaps to Tal Verrar, were you to ask them." Requin placed a hand over his heart. "My patriotic duty compels me to point this out."

Cordo snorted. "They were his shock troops, his bodyguards, his torturers. They" re useless to us, even if not actively seditious."

"Perhaps, for all of his vaunted military understanding, our dear departed Archon employed the Eyes inefficiently," said Requin. "Perhaps the business with the faceless masks was too much. They might have been better off in plainclothes, as an enhancement to his intelligence apparatus, rather than terrorizing people as his enforcers."

"Maybe for his sake," said Tiga. "Had he done so, that intelligence apparatus might have foiled our move against him yesterday. It was a close thing."

"Still," said Cordo, "hard to keep a kingdom when you no longer have a king."

"Yes," said Tiga, "we're all so very impressed, Cordo. Subtly mention your involvement in passing as often as you like, please." "At least I—"

"And more difficult still to keep a kingdom," interrupted Requin, "when you discard perfectly good tools left behind by the former king."

"Forgive us our density," said Saravelle Fioran, a woman nearly as old as Marius Cordo, "but what precisely are you driving at, Requin?"

"Merely that the Eyes, properly vetted and retrained, could be a significant asset to Tal Verrar, if used not as shock troops but as… a secret constabulary?"

"Says the man in charge of the very people such a force would be charged with hunting down," scoffed Cordo.

"Younger Cordo," said Requin, "those are also the "very people" whose interference with your family business is kept to an acceptable minimum through my involvement. They are the very people who were instrumental in delivering our victory yesterday — carrying your messages, filling the streets to detain army reinforcements, distracting Stragos's most loyal officers while some of you were allowed to approach this affair with the air of amateurs dabbling at lawn-bowling." "Not I—" said Cordo.

"No, not you. You did fight. But I flaunt my hypocrisy with a smile on my face, Lyonis. Don't you dare pretend, here in our highest privacy, that your disdain somehow absolves you from your involvement with the likes of me. You don't want to imagine a city with crime unregulated by the likes of me! As for the Eyes, I am not asking, I am telling. Those few who were true fanatics for Stragos can conveniently trip and land on swords, yes. The rest are too useful to throw away" "On what grounds," said Tiga, "do you presume to lecture—"

"On the grounds that six of the seven people sitting here have seen fit to store goods and funds in the Sinspire vault. Items that, let us be frank, need not ever reappear in the event that I begin to feel anxious about our relationship.

"I have an investment in this city, the same as you. I would not take kindly to having a foreign power interrupt my affairs. To give Stragos his due, I cannot imagine that the army and navy in your hands will inspire a great deal of awe in our enemies, given what happened last time the Priori governed during a war. Therefore I see fit to hedge all of our bets." "Surely we could discuss this in just a few days," said Lyonis.

"I think not. Inconveniences like our surviving Eyes have a habit of disappearing before arguments can broaden, don't they? It's a busy time. Messages might be lost, or misconstrued, and I'm sure there" d be a perfectly plausible reason for whatever happened." "So what do you want?" asked Fioran.

"If you're going to take the Mon Magisteria as an administrative centre for our shiny new government, I would imagine that a suite of offices would be a good start. Something nice and prestigious, before all the nice ones are gone. Plus I'll expect a rudimentary operating budget by the end of the week; I'll set down the rough finnicking myself. Salaries for the next year. Speaking of which, I will expect at least three or four positions within the hierarchy of this new organization to be placed entirely at my discretion. Salaries in the range of ten to fifteen solari per annum."

"So you can pass out sinecures to some of your jumped-up thieves," said Lyonis.

"So I can aid them in their transition to life as respectable citizens and defenders of Tal Verrar, yes," said Requin.

"Will this be your own transition to life as a respectable citizen?" asked Tiga.

"Here I thought I already was," said Requin. "Gods, no. I have no desire to turn away from the responsibilities I currently enjoy. But it just so happens that I have an ideal candidate in mind to head our new organization. Someone who shares my qualms about the manner in which Stragos employed his Eyes, and who should be taken all the more seriously for the fact that she used to be one."

Selendri couldn't help smiling as the Priori turned in their seats to stare at her. "Now, Requin, hold on—" said Cordo.

"I see no need," said Requin. "I don't believe your six fellows are actually going to deny me this very minor and very patriotic request, are they?"

Cordo looked around, and Selendri knew what he was seeing on the faces of the other Priori: if he formally tried to stop this, he would be alone, and he would weaken not only his father's borrowed position but his own future prospects.

"I think her starting compensation should be something handsome, rather handsome," said Requin cheerfully. "And of course she'll require use of official carriages and barges. An official residence; Stragos had dozens of houses and manors at his disposal. Oh, and I think her office at the Mon Magisteria should be the nicest and most prestigious of all. Don't you?"

They kissed one another for a very long time, alone in the office once the Priori had left in various states of bemusement, worry and aggravation. As he usually did, Requin removed his gloves to run the brown, pocked skin of his hands over her, over the matching scar tissue on her left-hand side as well as the healthy flesh on her right.

"There you are, my dear," he said. "I know you" ve been chafing here for some time, running up and down these tower steps, fetching and bowing for drunkards of quality" "I'm still sorry for my failure to—"

"Our failure was entirely shared," said Requin. "In fact, I fell for Kosta and de Ferra's line of bullshit harder than you did — you retained your suspicion the whole way. Left to your own devices, you would have thrown them out of the window early on and avoided the entire mess at the end, I'm sure." She smiled.

"And those smirking Priori assume I'm inflicting one last grand sinecure on them where you're concerned." Requin ran his fingers through her hair. "Gods, are they in for a surprise. I can't wait to see you in action. You'll build something that will make my little coteries of felantozzi look tawdry."

Selendri stared around at the wreckage of the office. Requin laughed. "I suppose," he said, "that I have to admire the audacious little shits. To spend two years planning such a thing, and then the business with the chairs… and with my seal! My, Lyonis was throwing a fit—" "I'd have thought you" d be furious," said Selendri. "Furious? I suppose I am. I was rather fond of that suite of chairs." "I know how long you worked to acquire those paintings—"

"Ah, the paintings, yes." Requin grinned mischievously. "Well, as for that… the walls have been left somewhat under-decorated. How would you like to go down to the vault with me to start fetching out the real ones?" "What do you mean, the real ones?"