The Gentleman Bastard Series (130 page)

Ezri showed off the set of iron knuckles around the fingers of her right hand. “That was the contingency plan.”

“Damn, am I glad you didn’t do that. But you could’ve.… I might have fallen backwards if you hadn’t shoved fast enough. Hooking one foot around my shin from behind—”

“Thought about it. Or a good stiff jab to the sensitive spot in your armpit—”

“And an arm twist, yeah. That would’ve—”

“But I
don’t
trust that against someone so big; the leverage is wrong unless—”

Drakasha cleared her throat loudly, and Jean and Ezri fell silent, almost sheepishly.

“You lied to me about Jerome, Ravelle.” She retrieved her sword-belt and slid her sabers into their scabbards with a pair of sharp clacks. “He’s no hired agent. He’s a friend. The sort who’d refuse to let you get thrown off a ship by yourself. The sort
you’d
try to protect, even though I told you it would mean your death.”

“Clever,” said Locke, feeling a faint warmth rising on his cheeks. “So that’s what this was all about.”

“More or less. I needed to know what sort of man you were before I decided what to do with you.”

“And what have you decided?”

“You’re reckless, vain, and too clever by half,” she said. “You suffer from the delusion that your prevarications are charming. And you’re just as willing as Jerome is to die stupidly on behalf of a friend.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Well … perhaps I’ve grown fond of the ugly lump over the years. Does that mean we’re going back to the hold, or to the open sea?”

“Neither,” said Drakasha. “You’re going to the forecastle, where you’ll eat and sleep with all the other crewmen from the
Red Messenger
. I’ll peel your other lies apart at leisure. For the time being, I’m satisfied that if you’ve got Jerome to look after, you’ll be sensible.”

“And so we’re what? Slaves?”

“No one aboard this ship takes slaves,” said Drakasha with a dangerous edge in her voice. “We do execute our fair share of smart-asses, however.”

“I thought I was a charming prevaricator.”

“Grasp this,” said Drakasha. “Your whole world consists of the few inches of empty deck I allow you, and you’re gods-damned lucky to have them. Ezri and I will explain the situation to all of you at the forecastle.”

“And our things? The papers, I mean? The personal documents? Keep the gold, but—”

“Keep it? You really
mean
that? What a sweetheart this man is, Ezri.” Drakasha used her right boot to tip the cover of Locke’s sea chest closed. “Let’s call your papers a hostage to your good behavior. I have a shortage of blank parchment, and two children who’ve recently discovered the joys of ink.”

“Point thoroughly taken.”

“Ezri, haul them up on deck and get their manacles off. Let’s get back to acting as though we have somewhere important to be.”

2

ON THE quarterdeck they were met by a harried-looking woman of middle years, short and broad, with a finger-length halo of white hair above the lines of a face that had obviously contributed many years of scowls to the world. Her wide, predatory eyes were in constant motion, like an owl unable to decide whether it was bored or hungry.

“You might have caught a less wretched bunch, had you looked nearly anywhere,” she said without preamble.

“And you might have noticed it hasn’t exactly been a buyer’s market for prizes recently.” Zamira bore the woman’s manner with the ease of what must have been a very old familiarity.

“Well, if you want to use frayed hemp to weave a line, don’t blame the rope maker when it snaps.”

“I know better than to blame you for anything, Scholar. It leads to weeks of misery for everyone. How many?”

“Twenty-eight at the forecastle,” she said. “Eight had to be left aboard the prize. Broken bones in every case. Not safe to move them.”

“Will they last to Port Prodigal?”

“Assuming their ship does. Assuming they do as I told them, which is a bold—”

“That’s the best we can do for them, I’m sure. Condition of the twenty-eight?”

“I’m sure you heard me say ‘wretched,’ which derives from a state of wretchedness, which is in turn caused by their being wretches. I could use a
number of other highly technical terms, only some of them completely imaginary—”

“Treganne, my patience is as long-vanished as your good looks.”

“Most of them are still suffering from long enclosure. Poor sustenance, little exercise, and nervous malaise. They’ve been eating better since leaving Tal Verrar, but they’re exhausted and battered. A handful are in what I’d call decent health. An equal number are not fit for any work at all until I say otherwise. I won’t bend on that … Captain.”

“I won’t ask you to. Disease?”

“Miraculously absent, if you mean fevers and contagions. Also little by way of sexual consequences. They’ve been locked away from women for months, and most of them are Eastern Therin. Very little inclination to lie with one another, you know.”

“Their loss. If I have further need of you—”

“I’ll be in my cabin, obviously. And mind your children. They appear to be steering the ship.”

Locke stared at the woman as she stamped away. One of her feet had the hollow, heavy sound of wood, and she walked with the aid of a strange cane made of stacked white cylinders. Ivory? No—the spine of some unfortunate creature, fused together with shining seams of metal.

Drakasha and Delmastro turned toward the ship’s wheel, a doubled affair like the one aboard the
Messenger
, currently tended by an unusually tall young man who was all sharp, gangling angles. At either side stood Paolo and Cosetta, not actually touching the wheel but mimicking his movements and giggling.

“Mumchance,” said Drakasha as she stepped over and pulled Cosetta away from the wheel, “where’s Gwillem?”

“Craplines.”

“I
told
him he was on sprat duty,” said Ezri.

“I’ll have his fucking eyes,” said Drakasha.

Mumchance seemed unruffled. “Man’s gotta piss, Captain.”

“Gotta piss,” mumbled Cosetta.

“Hush.” Zamira reached around Mumchance and snatched Paolo back from the wheel as well. “Mum, you know full well they’re not to touch the wheel or the rails.”

“They wasn’t touching the wheel, Captain.”

“
Nor
are they to dance at your side, cling to your legs, or in any other way assist you in navigating the vessel. Clear?”

“Savvy.”

“Paolo,” said Drakasha, “take your sister back to the cabin and wait for me there.”

“Yes,” said the boy, his voice as faint as the sound of two pieces of paper sliding together. He took Cosetta’s hand and began to lead her aft.

Drakasha hurried forward once again, past small parties of crewfolk working or eating, all of whom acknowledged her passing with respectful nods and waves. Ezri pushed Locke and Jean along in her wake.

Near the chicken coops, Drakasha crossed paths with a rotund but sprightly Vadran a few years older than herself. The man was wearing a dandified black jacket covered in tarnished brass buckles, and his blond-gray hair was pulled into a billowing ponytail that hung to the seat of his breeches. Drakasha grabbed him by the front of his tunic with her left hand.

“Gwillem, what part of ‘watch the children for a few minutes’ did Ezri fail to make clear?”

“I left them with Mum, Captain—”

“They were your problem, not his.”

“Well, you trust him to steer the ship, why not trust him to—”

“I do trust him with my loves, Gwillem. I just have a peculiar attachment to having orders followed.”

“Captain,” said Gwillem in a low voice, “I had to drop some brown on the blue, eh? I could’ve brought them to the craplines, but I doubt you would have approved of the education they’d have received.”

“Hold it in, for Iono’s sake. I only took a few minutes. Now go pack your things.”

“My things?”

“Take the last boat over to the
Messenger
and join the prize crew.”

“Prize crew? Captain, you know I’m not much good—”

“I want that ship eyeballed and inventoried, bowsprit to taffrail. Account for everything. When I haggle with the Shipbreaker over it, I want to know exactly how far the bastard is trying to cheat me.”

“But—”

“I’ll expect your written tally when we rendezvous in Port Prodigal. We both know there was hardly any loot to sling over and count today. Get over there and earn your share.”

“Your will, Captain.”

“My quartermaster,” Zamira said when Gwillem had trudged away, swearing. “Not bad, really. Just prefers to let work sort of
elude
him whenever possible.”

At the bow of the ship was the forecastle deck, raised perhaps four and a half feet above the weather deck, with broad stairs on either side. In between
those stairs a wide, uncovered opening led to a dark area that was half compartment and half crawlspace beneath the forecastle. It was seven or eight yards long by Locke’s estimate.

The forecastle deck and stairs were crowded with most of the
Red Messenger
’s men, under the casual guard of half a dozen of Zamira’s armed crewfolk. Jabril, sitting next to Aspel at the front of the crowd, seemed deeply amused to see Locke and Jean again. The men behind him began to mutter.

“Shut up,” said Ezri, taking a position between Zamira and the newcomers. Locke, not quite knowing what to do, stood off to one side with Jean and waited for instructions. Drakasha cleared her throat.

“Some of us haven’t met. I’m Zamira Drakasha, captain of the
Poison Orchid
. Lend an ear. Jabril told me that you took ship in Tal Verrar thinking you were to be pirates. Anyone having second thoughts?”

Most of the
Messenger
’s men shook their heads or quietly muttered denials.

“Good. I
am
what your friend Ravelle pretended to be,” Drakasha said, reaching over and putting one of her arms around Locke’s shoulders. She smiled theatrically, and several of the
Messenger
’s less-battered men chuckled. “I have no lords or masters. I fly the red flag when I’m hungry and a false flag when I’m not. I have one port of call: Port Prodigal in the Ghostwinds. Nowhere else will have me. Nowhere else is
safe
. You live on this deck, you share that peril. I know some of you don’t understand. Think of the world. Think of
everywhere in the world
that isn’t this ship, save one rotten little speck of misery in the blackest asshole of nowhere. That’s what you’re renouncing. Everything. Everyone. Everywhere.”

She released Locke, and seemed to note the somber expressions of the
Messenger
’s crew with approval. She pointed at Ezri.

“My first mate, Ezri Delmastro. We call her ‘lieutenant’ and so do you. She says it, I back it. Never presume otherwise.

“You’ve met our ship’s physiker. Scholar Treganne tells me you could be worse and you could be better. There’ll be rest for those that need it. I can’t use you if you’re in no condition to work.”

“Are we being invited to join your crew, Captain Draksaha?” asked Jabril.

“You’re being offered a chance,” said Ezri. “That’s all. After this, you’re not prisoners, but you’re not free men. You’re what we call the scrub watch. You sleep here, in what we call the undercastle. Worst place on the ship, more or less. If there’s a filthy shit job to be had, you’ll do it. If we’re short blankets or clothes, you’ll go without. You’re last for meals and drinks.”

“Every member of my crew can give you an order,” said Drakasha, picking up as Ezri finished. Locke had a notion that they’d honed this routine together over time. “And every one of them will expect to be obeyed. We’ve no formal defaults; cop wise or slack off and someone will just beat the hell out of you. Raise enough fuss that I have to notice and I’ll throw you over the side. Think I’m kidding? Ask someone who’s been here a while.”

“How long do we have to be on the scrub watch?” asked one of the younger men near the back of the crowd.

“Until you prove yourselves,” said Drakasha. “We raise anchor in a few minutes and sail for Port Prodigal. Anyone who wants to leave when we get there, be gone. You won’t be sold; this isn’t a slaving ship. But you’ll get no pay save drink and rations. You’ll walk away with empty pockets, and in Prodigal, slavery might be kinder. At least someone would give a shit that you lived or died.

“If we cross paths with another sail on the way down,” she continued, “I’ll give thought to taking her. And if we fly a red flag, that’s your chance. You’ll go in first; you’ll board the prize before any of us. If there’s fire or bows or razor nets or gods-know-what, you’ll taste it first and bleed first. If you survive, grand. You’re crew. If you refuse, we dump you in Port Prodigal. I only keep a scrub watch on hand as long as I have to.”

She nodded to Ezri.

“As of now,” said Delmastro, “you can have the forecastle and the weather deck far back as the mainmast. Don’t go below or touch a tool without instructions. Touch a weapon, or try to take one from one of the crew, and I guarantee you’ll die on the instant. We’re touchy about that.

“You want to get cozy with a member of the crew, or they offer to get cozy with you, do what you will as long as you’re off duty and you stay off the bloody weather deck. Out here, what’s given is given. You try to take something by force, you’d better pray you die in the attempt, because we’re touchy about that, too.”

Zamira took over again and pointed at Locke and Jean. “Ravelle and Valora will be rejoining you.” A few of the men grumbled, and Zamira rested her hands on her saber hilts. “Mind your fucking manners. You put them over the side and vowed to let Iono be their judge. I showed up about an hour later. That settles that; anyone who thinks they know better than the Lord of the Grasping Waters can jump over the rail and take it up with Him in person.”

“They’re scrub watch like the rest of you,” said Ezri.

Still, the men didn’t seem particularly enthusiastic, and Zamira cleared her throat. “This is an equal-shares ship.”

That
got their attention.