The Gentleman Bastard Series (132 page)

The Orchids were divided into two watches, Red and Blue. They would work in six-hour shifts, one watch minding the ship while the other rested. The Red watch, for example, had duty from noon till the sixth hour of the evening, and would come back on duty from midnight till the sixth hour of the morning. Crew on the off watch could do as they pleased, unless the call of “all hands” summoned them to the deck for some strenuous or dangerous undertaking.

The scrub watch didn’t fit into this scheme; the former men of the
Red Messenger
were worked from dawn to dusk, and took their meals after they were dismissed, rather than around noon with the actual crew.

For all their grumbling, Jean didn’t get the sense that the Orchids genuinely resented their new shipmates. In fact, he suspected that the ex-Messengers were taking up most of the less interesting chores, leaving the Orchids that much more time to sleep, or mend personal effects, or gamble, or fuck without a hint of shame in their hammocks or under their blankets. The lack of privacy aboard ship was still a major astonishment to Jean; he was neither a prude nor a virgin, but his idea of
the right place
had always involved stone walls and a firmly locked door.

A lock would mean little on a ship like this, where most any noise was a shared noise. There were a pair of men on the Blue watch who could be heard from the taffrail if they were doing it in the forward berth, and a
woman on the Red watch who screamed the damnedest things in Vadran, usually just as Jean was drifting off to sleep on the deck above her. He and Locke had puzzled over her grammar and concluded that she didn’t actually speak Vadran. Sometimes, her performances were followed by applause.

That aside, the crew seemed to take pride in their discipline. Jean witnessed no fights, few serious arguments, and no out-of-place drunkenness. Beer or wine was had in a respectable fashion at every meal, and by some complicated scheme that Jean had yet to work out, each member of the crew was allowed, about once a week, to go on what was called the Merry Watch, a sort of watch-within-a-watch. The Merry Watch would set up on the main deck, and be allowed a bit of freedom at the ship’s waist (especially for throwing up). They could drink more or less as they saw fit, and were excused even from all-hands calls until they’d recovered.

“It’s not … exactly what I expected,” said Jean as Ezri stood at the larboard rail one morning, pretending not to watch him touch up the gray paint on the bottom of the ship’s smallest boat. She did that, every now and again. Was he imagining things? Was it his quoting Lucarno? He’d avoided quoting anything else at her, even when the opportunity had presented itself. Better to be a mystery, in his book, than to make a cheap refrain of something that had caught her attention.

Thirteen gods, he thought with a start, am I angling myself for a pass at her? Is she—

“Pardon?” she said.

Jean smiled. Somehow he’d guessed she wouldn’t mind his speaking without invitation. “Your ship. It’s not exactly what I expected. From what I read.”

“From what you
read
?” She laughed, crossed her arms, and regarded him almost slyly. “What’d you read?”

“Let me think.” He dipped his brush in the gray alchemical slop and tried to look busy.
“Seven Years between the Gale and the Lash.”

“Benedictus Montcalm,” she said. “Read that one. Mostly bullshit. I think he traded drinks for stories off real sailors until he had his fill.”

“How about
True and Accurate History of the Wanton Red Flag
?”

“Suzette vela Ducasi! I know her!”

“Know her?”

“Know
of
her. Crazy old bitch wound up in Port Prodigal. Scribes for coppers, drinks every coin she gets. Barely speaks decent Therin anymore. Just haunts the gutter and curses her old publishers.”

“Those are all the books I can remember,” said Jean. “Not much of a
taste for histories, I’m afraid. So, how’d you manage to read everything you have?”

“Ahhh,” she said, tossing her hair backward with a flick of her neck. She wasn’t scrawny, thought Jean—no angles on Ezri, just healthy curves and muscle. Had to be healthy, to knock him down as she had, even by surprise. “Out here, the past is a currency, Jerome. Sometimes it’s the only one we have.”

“Mysterious.”

“Sensible.”

“You already know a bit about me.”

“And fair’s fair, is it? Thing is, I’m a ship’s officer and you’re a dangerous unknown.”

“That sounds promising.”

“I thought so too.” She smiled. “More to the point, I’m a ship’s officer and you’re scrub watch. You’re not even real yet.” She framed him with her hands and squinted. “You’re just a sort of hazy
something
on the horizon.”

“Well,” he said, and, aware that he sounded like a nitwit even as he repeated himself, “ah, well.”

“But you were curious.”

“I was?”

“About the ship.”

“Oh. Yeah, I was. I just wondered … now that I’ve seen a fair bit of it—”

“Where’s the singing, where’s the dancing on the yardarms, where’s the ale casks fore and aft, where’s the drinking and puking sunrise to sunset?”

“More or less. Not exactly a navy, you know.”

“Drakasha
is
former navy. Syrune. She doesn’t talk about it much, but she doesn’t try to hide her accent anymore. She did, once.”

Syrune, thought Jean, an island empire even more easterly than Jerem and Jeresh; proud and insular dark-skinned folk who took their ships seriously. If Drakasha was one of them, she’d come from a tradition of sea-officers that some said was as old as the Therin Throne.

“Syrune,” he said. “That explains some things. I thought the past was a currency?”

“She’d’ve let you have that bit for free,” said Ezri. “Trust me, if history’s a coin, she’s sitting on a gods-damned fortune.”

“So she, uh, bends the ship to her old habits?”

“More like we let ourselves be bent.” Ezri gestured to him to keep painting, and he returned to work. “Brass Sea captains are special. They have status, on the water and off. There’s a council of them in Prodigal. But each ship … the brethren sort of go their own way. Some captains get elected.

Some only rule when it’s time to take arms. With Drakasha … she rules because we know she’s our best chance. At anything. They don’t fuck around in Syrune.”

“So you keep naval watches, and drink like nervous husbands, and mind your manners?”

“You don’t approve?”

“Gods’ blood, I damn well approve. It’s just tidier than I imagined, is all.”

“You wouldn’t call anything we do
naval
if you’d ever served on a real ship of war. Most of our crew have, and this is a slacker’s paradise by comparison. We keep our habits because most of us have been aboard other pirate ships, too. Seen the leaks that gain a little bit every day. Seen the mechanisms rusting. Seen the rigging fraying. What good’s slacking all the time if the ship comes apart beneath you while you sleep?”

“So you’re a prudent bunch.”

“Yeah. Look, the sea either makes you prudent, or it kills you. Drakasha’s officers take an oath. We’re sworn that this ship goes down in battle, or by the will of the gods. Not for want of work, or canvas, or cord. That’s a holy vow.” She stretched. “And not for want of paint, either. Give the whole thing another coat, and look sharp about it.”

Officers. Jean reviewed the
Orchid
’s officers as he worked, to keep his mind off Ezri. There was Drakasha, obviously. She kept no watch but appeared when and as she saw fit. She seemed to be on deck at least half the day, and materialized like magic when anything interesting happened. Beneath her, Ezri … dammit, no thoughts concerning Ezri. Not now.

Mumchance, the sailing master, and his little crew of trusted wheel-hands. Drakasha might allow ordinary crewfolk to hold the helm in steady weather, but for any operation of skill, it was Mum and his bunch or nobody. Roughly equal with Mum were the quartermaster—currently assigned to the
Red Messenger
—and the physiker, Treganne, who would likely never admit to being equal with anyone who didn’t have a temple with their name on it. Drakasha had the great cabin, naturally, and the four highest officers were allowed little closet rooms in the companionway, canvas-walled things like his old cabin.

Then there was a carpenter, a sailmaker, a cook, and a boatswain. The only privilege of being a petty officer seemed to be the right to boss a few other crewfolk about from time to time. There was also a pair of … under-lieutenants, Jean supposed. Ezri called them her watch chiefs, and they were Ezri when Ezri wasn’t around. Utgar had the Red watch and a woman
called Nasreen led the Blue, but Jean had yet to meet her, since she’d been entrusted with the
Messenger
’s prize crew.

It seemed that all the menial, back-and-forth mucking about was giving Jean—and the rest of the scrub watch—the chance to learn the ship’s hierarchy, along with its layout. He supposed that was by design.

The weather had been consistent since their capture. Steady light breezes from the northeast, clouds that came and went like a tavern dancer’s favor, endless low waves that made the sea gleam like a million-faceted sapphire. The sun was a pounding heat by day, and enclosure stifled them at night, but Jean was conditioned to this work by now. He was as brown as Paolo and Cosetta. Locke, too, seemed to be making the best of it—tanned and bearded and genuinely wiry, for once, rather than merely slender. His size and an unwise boast about his agility had gotten him assigned to mastslushing duty, foremast and main, each and every morning.

Their food still came late after each long day, and though charmless it was more than ample. They had a full liquor ration now, too. As much as Jean hated to admit it, even to himself, he didn’t mind this turn of events so very much. He could work and sleep in confidence that the people ruling the ship knew their business; he and Locke no longer had to run everything on improvisation and prayer. If not for the damned log, with its relentless record of day after day passing them by, day after day of the antidote waning, it would have been a good time. A good and timeless interval, with Lieutenant Delmastro to puzzle over.

But neither he nor Locke could stop counting the days.

2

ON THE eighteenth of Festal, Bald Mazucca snapped.

He’d given no warning; though he’d been sullen in the undercastle each night, he was one among many tired and short-tempered men, and he’d made no further threats toward anyone, crew or scrub watch.

It was dusk, two or three hours into the Blue watch’s duty, and lanterns were going up across the ship. Jean was sitting next to Locke by the chicken coops, unraveling old rope into its component yarns. Locke was shredding these into a pile of rough brown fibers. Tarred, this stuff would become oakum, and be used for everything from caulking seams to stuffing pillows. It was a miserably tedious job, but the sun was almost gone and the end of duty for the day was nearly at hand.

There was a clatter from somewhere near the undercastle, followed by
swearing and laughter. Bald Mazucca stomped into sight, carrying a mop and a bucket, with a crewman Jean didn’t recognize at his heels. The crewman said something else that Jean didn’t catch, and then it happened—Mazucca whirled and flung the heavy bucket at him, catching him right in the face. The crewman fell on his backside, stunned.

“Gods
damn
you,” Mazucca cried, “d’you think I’m a fuckin’ child?”

The crewman fumbled at his belt for a weapon—a short club, Jean saw. But Mazucca’s blood was up, and the crewman was still recovering from the blow. In a moment, Mazucca had kicked him in the chest and snatched the club for himself. He raised it above his head, but that was as far as he got. Three or four crewfolk hit him simultaneously, knocking him to the deck and wrestling the club from his hand.

Heavy footsteps beat rapidly from the quarterdeck to the waist. Captain Drakasha had come without being summoned.

As she flew past, Jean—his rope work quite forgotten—felt his stomach flutter. She had
it
. She wore it like a cloak. The same aura that he’d once seen in Capa Barsavi, something that slept inside until it was drawn out by anger or need, so sudden and so terrible. Death itself was beating a tread upon the ship’s planks.

Drakasha’s crewfolk had Mazucca up and pinned by the arms. The man who’d been hit by the bucket had retrieved his club and was rubbing his head nearby. Zamira came to a halt and pointed at him.

“Explain yourself, Tomas.”

“I was … I was … sorry, Cap’n. Just having some fun.”

“He’s been hounding me all fuckin’ afternoon,” said Mazucca, subdued but nowhere near calm. “Hasn’t done a lick of work. Just follows me around, kicks my bucket, takes my tools, messes up my shit and sets me to fixing it again.”

“True, Tomas?”

“I just … it was just fun, Cap’n. Teasing the scrub watch. Didn’t mean nothing. I’ll stop.”

Drakasha moved so fast Tomas didn’t even have time to flinch until he was already on his way back to the deck, his nose broken. Jean had noted the elegant upward sweep of her arm and the precise use of the palm—he’d been on the receiving end of that sort of blow at least twice in his life. Tomas, stupid ass that he was, had his sympathy.

“Agggh,” said Tomas, spraying blood.

“The scrub watch are like tools,” said Drakasha. “I expect them to be kept in a useful trim. Maintained. You want to have fun, you make sure it’s responsible fun. I’m halving your share of the
Red Messenger
loot, and your
share of the sale.” She gestured to the women standing behind him. “You two. Haul him aft and find Scholar Treganne.”

As Tomas was being dragged toward the quarterdeck for a surprise visit to the ship’s physiker, Drakasha turned to Mazucca.

“You heard my rules, first night you were on my ship.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Captain Drakasha, he just—”

“You did hear. You
did
hear what I said, and you understood.”

“I did, I was angry, I—”