The Gentleman Bastard Series (124 page)

“This is your doing,” said Locke, patting Caldris on the shoulder. He berated himself for not thinking beforehand of what a strain the voyage would put on the older man. Mazucca would have to be shaped more quickly, and he and Jean would need to pick up whatever slack they could in their inept fashion. “Even with a glassy sea and a fine breeze, there’s no way in hell we’d have pulled this off so far without you.”

“Strong weather coming, though,” said Caldris. “Weather that will test us. Summer’s end, like I said, shit blows up that’s like to knock you halfway round the world. Might spend days riding it out with bare poles, throwing up until there ain’t a dry spot in the holds.” The sailing master sighed, then gave Locke a curious look. “Speaking of holds, I heard the damnedest things the past day or two.”

“Oh?” Locke tried to sound nonchalant.

“Ain’t nobody seen a cat, not on any of the decks. Not a one has come up from wherever they are, not for anything, ale or milk or eggs or meat.” Sudden suspicion clouded his brow. “There are cats down there … right?”

“Ah,” said Locke. His sympathy for Caldris from a moment earlier remained like a weight on his heart. For once, he found himself completely unwilling to lie, and he massaged his eyes with his fingers as he spoke. “Ah.

No, the cats are all safe and sound in their shack in the Sword Marina, right where I left them. Sorry.”

“You fucking jest,” said Caldris in a flat, dead voice. “Come now. Don’t bloody lie to me about this.”

“I’m not.” Locke spread his palms before him and shrugged. “I know you told me it was important. I just … I had a hundred things to do that night. I meant to fetch them, honest.”

“
Important
? I told you it was
important
? I told you it was fucking critical, is what I told you!” Caldris kept his voice at a whisper, but it was like the sound of water boiling against hot coals. Locke winced. “You have imperiled our
souls
, Master Kosta, our very gods-damned souls. We have no women and no cats and no proper
captain
, I remind you, and hard weather sits upon our course.”

“Sorry, honestly.”

“Honestly, indeed. I was a fool to send a land-sucker to fetch cats. I should have sent cats to fetch me a land-sucker! They wouldn’t have disappointed me.”

“Now, surely, when we reach Port Prodigal—”

“
When
is an audacious assumption, Leocanto. For long before then the crew will cop wise to the fact that our cats are not merely shy, but
imaginary
. If they decide the cats have died off, they will just assume that we are cursed and abandon the ship when we touch land. If, however, the absence of smelly little bodies leads them to deduce that their fuckin’ captain in fact brought
none
, they will hang you from a yardarm.”

“Ouch.”

“You think I jest? They will
mutiny
. If we see another sail on that horizon, in any direction, we must give chase. We must bring a fight. You know why?
So we can take some of their bloody cats
. Before it’s too late.”

Caldris sighed before continuing, and suddenly looked ten years older. “If it’s a summer’s-end storm coming up on us,” said Caldris, “it’ll be moving north and west, faster than we can sail. We’ll have to pass through it, for we cannot outrun it by beating up to the east. It’ll catch us still, and it’ll only catch us tired. I’ll do my damnedest, but you’d better pray in your cabin tonight for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Cats falling from the bloody sky.”

16

OF COURSE, no convenient rain of screeching felines was forthcoming that night, and when Locke made his first appearance on the quarterdeck the next morning, there was an ugly ghost-gray haze looming on the southern horizon like the shadow of an angry god. The bright medallion of the sun rising in the otherwise clear sky only made it seem more sinister. The starboard heel of the deck was yet more pronounced, and walking to anywhere on the larboard bow felt almost like going up a small hill. Waves slapped the hull and were pulverized to spray, filling the air with the smell and taste of salt.

Jean was drilling a small group of sailors with swords and polearms at the ship’s waist, and Locke nodded knowingly, as though he caught every nuance of their practice and approved. He toured the deck of the
Red Messenger
, greeting sailors by name, and tried to ignore the feeling that Caldris’ gaze was burning holes in the back of his tunic.

“A fine morning to you, Captain,” muttered the sailing master when Locke approached the wheel. Caldris looked ghoulish in the bright sunlight: his hair and beard washed whiter, his eyes sunken in deeper shadow, every line on his face newly re-etched by the hand of whatever god claimed him.

“Did you sleep last night, Master Caldris?”

“I found myself strangely unable, Captain.”

“You must rest sometime.”

“Aye, and the ship must generally stay above the waves, or so I’ve heard it suggested.”

Locke sighed, faced the bow, and studied the darkening southern sky. “A summer’s-end storm, I daresay. Been through enough of them in my time.” He spoke loudly and casually.

“Soon enough you’ll be in one more, Captain.”

Locke spent the afternoon counting stores in the main hold with Mal as his scribe, marking little lines on a wax tablet. They ducked and weaved through a forest of salted meat in treated cloth sacks, hung from the beams in the hold and swaying steadily with the increasing motion of the ship. The hold was danker already from constant occupation by the crew; those who had been inclined to sleep in the more open space beneath the forecastle had abandoned it as the promise of hard weather had loomed. Locke was certain he smelled piss; someone was either too lazy or too frightened to crawl out and use the craplines. That could get ugly.

The whole sky was a cataract of haze-gray by the fourth hour of the
afternoon. Caldris, slumped against the mast for a brief respite while Bald Mazucca and another sailor held the wheel, ordered sails trimmed and lanterns passed around from the storm lockers. Jean and Jabril led parties belowdecks to ensure that their cargo and equipment was all properly stowed. A weapons locker flying open, or a barrel tumbling around in a rocking ship, would send hapless sailors to meet the gods.

After dinner, at Caldris’ whispered insistence, Locke ordered those sailors who’d dipped into the ship’s store of tobacco to smoke their last until further notice. Open flames would no longer be tolerated anywhere; alchemical lanterns would provide all of their light, and they would use the hearthstone or—more likely—take cold meals. Locke promised an extra half of a wine ration each night if that became necessary.

A premature darkness had infused the sky by the time Locke and Jean could sit down for a quiet drink in the stern cabin. Locke closed the shutters over his stern windows, and the compartment seemed smaller than ever. Locke regarded the dubious comforts of this symbol of Ravelle’s authority: a padded hammock against the larboard bulkhead, a pair of stools, his sword and knives hung on the wall by storm clasps. Their “table” was a flat wooden board atop Locke’s chest. Sad as it was, it was princely compared to the glorified closets claimed by Jean and Caldris, or the way the men seemed to burrow in cargo and canvas matting on the main deck.

“I’m so sorry about the cats,” said Locke.

“I could have remembered as well,” said Jean. Unspoken was the obvious statement that he’d trusted Locke enough not to feel that he needed to concern himself. Jean might be doing his best to stay polite, but guilt twisted in Locke’s stomach more sharply for it.

“No sharing this blame,” said Locke, sipping his warm ale. “I’m the captain of the bloody ship.”

“Don’t be grandiose.” Jean scratched his belly, which had been reduced by his recent activity to a much less dramatic curve than it had once possessed. “We’ll think of something. Hell, if we spend a few days plowing through a storm, the men won’t have time to worry about anything except when and how hard to piss their breeches.”

“Hmmm. Storm. Fine opportunity for one of us to misstep and look a fool in front of the men. More likely to be me than you.”

“Quit brooding.” Jean grinned. “Caldris knows what he’s doing. He’ll haul us through somehow.”

There was a sudden heavy impact on the cabin door. Locke and Jean jumped up from their stools in unison, and Locke darted for his weapons. Jean shouted, “What passes?”

“Kosta,” came a faint voice, followed by a feeble rattling, as though someone was trying and failing to work the latch.

Jean pulled the door open just as Locke finished buckling on his sword-belt. Caldris stood at the bottom of the companionway, clutching the doorframe for support, swaying on his feet. The amber glow of Locke’s cabin lamp revealed wretched details: Caldris’ eyes were bloodshot and rolling upward, his mouth hung open, and his waxy skin was glazed with sweat.

“Help, Kosta,” he whispered, wheezing with a sound that was painful just to hear.

Jean grabbed him and held him up. “Damn,” he muttered. “He’s not just tired, Leo … Captain. He needs a bloody physiker!”

“Help … Kosta,” moaned the sailing master. He clawed at his left upper arm with his right hand, and then at his left breast. He squeezed his eyes shut and winced.

“Help me?” Locke put a hand beneath Caldris’ chin; the man’s pulse was wild and erratic. “What do you mean, help me?”

“No.” Caldris grimaced with concentration, sucking in a harsh breath between each word. “Help.
Me
. Kosta!”

“Lay him on the table,” said Jean, and together he and Locke pressed the old man down onto his back.

“Sweet gods,” said Locke, “is it the poison? I don’t feel any different.”

“Nor I,” said Jean. “I think … I think his heart is seizing up. I’ve seen it before. Shit. If we can calm him down, maybe get him to drink something—”

But Caldris moaned again, dug feebly at the left side of his chest with both hands, and shuddered. His hands fell limp. One long, strangled exhalation escaped from his throat, and Locke, in rising horror, felt frantically around the base of his neck with the fingers of both hands.

“His pulse is gone,” Locke whispered.

A soft rattle on the cabin roof, gentle at first but quickly rising in tempo, told them that the first drops of rain were beginning to fall on the ship. Caldris’ eyes, fixed on the ceiling, were lifeless as glass.

“Oh,
shit
,” said Jean.

II
CARDS UP THE SLEEVE

“Gamblers play just as lovers make love and drunkards drink—blindly and of necessity, under domination of an irresistible force.”

Jacques Anatole Thibault

CHAPTER EIGHT

SUMMER’S END

1

DARK WATER ACROSS THE BOW, water at the sides, water in the air, falling with the weight of lead pellets against Locke’s oilcloak. The rain seemed to come first from one side and then another, never content to fall straight down, as the
Red Messenger
rocked back and forth in the gray hands of the gale.

“Master Valora!” Locke held fast to the safety lines knotted around the mainmast (as they were knotted all around the deck) and bellowed down the main-deck hatch. “How much water in the well?”

Jean’s answer came up a few moments later. “Two feet!”

“Very good, Master Valora!”

Locke caught a glimpse of Bald Mazucca staring at him, and he suppressed a feeling of unease. He knew that Caldris’ sudden death the day before had been taken by the crew as an omen of the worst sort; they were openly muttering about women and cats, and the focal point of all their unkind attention was one Orrin Ravelle, whose status as captain and savior was steadily fraying. Locke turned toward the helmsman and found him once again squinting ahead into the stinging rain, seemingly absorbed in his duty.

Two cloaked sailors stood at the second wheel behind Mazucca; in seas this strong control of the rudder could easily fly free from the grip of a single man. Their faces were dark shadows within their hoods; they had nothing friendly to say to Locke, either.

The wind screamed through the lines and yards overhead, where most
of the sails were tightly furled. They continued to push vaguely southwest under the press of nothing but close-reefed topsails. They were heeled over so far to starboard that Mazucca and his assistants were not merely standing in wait at their wheels. The crashing sea demanded their constant, tedious concentration to keep the ship stable, and still the sea was rising.

A rush of gray-green water ran over Locke’s bare toes and he sucked in breath; he’d abandoned his boots for the more certain footing of unprotected feet. Locke watched that water roll across the deck, unwelcome but constant guest, before it poured away down the scuppers and leaked past the edges of the storm-canvas laid beneath the hatch gratings. In truth the water was warm, but here in the sunless heart of the storm, with the wind like knives in the air, his imagination made it seem cold.

“Captain Ravelle!”

Jabril was approaching along the larboard rail, storm lantern in one night-black hand. “It might’ve been advisable to take down the fuckin’ topgallant masts a few hours ago,” he shouted.

Since Locke had risen that morning, Jabril had offered at least half a dozen rebukes and reminders without prompting. Locke stared upward at the very tips of the main and foremasts, nearly lost in the swirling haze overhead. “I gave it some thought, Jabril, but it didn’t seem necessary.” According to some of what Locke had read, even without sails flying from their yards, the topgallant masts might give unwanted leverage to deadly storm winds, or even be lost over the side as the vessel bucked and heaved. He’d been too busy to think of striking them down.

“It’ll seem pretty gods-damned necessary if they come down and take more of the rigging with them!”

“I might have them struck down in a while, Jabril, if I think it proper.”