The Gentleman Bastard Series (134 page)

“On deck there!” The foremast lookout sounded excited. “Send to the captain she’s turning to larboard!”

“How far?” Delmastro stepped away from her smoke barrels. “Is she coming about to head right for us?”

“No, she’s come about three points around.”

“They want to have a closer look,” said Jean, “but they’re not hopping into the hammock with us just yet.”

There was a shout from the quarterdeck, and a moment later Delmastro blew her whistle three times.

“Scrub watch! Scrub watch to the quarterdeck!”

They hurried aft, past crewfolk removing well-oiled bows from canvas covers and stringing them. As Delmastro had promised, about half the usual watch was on deck; those involved in preparing weapons were crouched down or hiding behind the masts and the chicken coops. Drakasha was waiting for them at the quarterdeck rail, and she started speaking the moment they arrived.

“They still have time and room enough to put about. It’s a flute, and I doubt they could run from us forever in any weather, but they could make us work for the catch. My guess is six or seven hours, but who wants to be bored for that long? We’ll pose as a charter brig on fire and see if we can’t entice them to do the sociable thing.

“I offered a chance to prove yourselves, so you’re the teeth of the trap. You’ll fight first. Good on you if you come back. If you don’t want to fight, get under the forecastle and stay scrub watch until we’re quits with you.

“As for me, I woke up hungry this morning. I mean to have that fat little prize. Who among you would fight for a place on my ship?”

Locke and Jean thrust their arms into the air, along with everyone nearby. Locke glanced quickly around and saw that nobody seemed to be declining their chance.

“Good,” said Drakasha. “We’ve three boats, seating about thirty. You’ll have them. Your task will be to look innocent at first; stay near the
Orchid
. At the signal, you’ll dash out and attack from the south.”

“Captain,” said Jabril, “what if we can’t take her ourselves?”

“If numbers or circumstances are against you, hold fast to whatever scrap of deck you can. I’ll bring the
Orchid
alongside and grapple to her. Nothing that ship carries can stand against a hundred fresh boarders.”

A fine comfort that’ll be, to those of us already dead or dying, Locke thought. The reality of what they were about to do had only just come home to him, and he felt an anxious fluttering in his stomach.

“Captain!” One of the lookouts was hailing from the maintop. “She’s sent up Talishani colors!”

“She might be lying,” muttered Jabril. “Decent bluff. If you’re going to fly a false flag, Talisham’s got a bit of a navy. And nobody’s at war with ’em right now.”

“Not
too
clever, though,” said Jean. “If she had escorts in sight, why not fly it at all times? Only someone with cause to be worried hides their colors.”

“Aye. Them and pirates.” Jabril grinned.

Captain Drakasha shouted across the crowd. “Del! Have one of your smoke barrels sent over to the starboard rail. Just forward of the quarterdeck stairs.”

“You want smoke from the weather rail, Captain?”

“A good smudge right across the quarterdeck,” said Drakasha. “If they want to chat with signal flags, we need an excuse to keep mum.”

The lanky sailing master, holding the wheel a few feet behind Drakasha, cleared his throat loudly. She smiled, then seemed to have an idea. Turning to a sailor on her left, she said, “Get three signal pennants from the flag chest and let them fly from the stern. Yellow over yellow over yellow.”

“All souls in peril,”
said Jean. “That’s a come-hither look, and no fooling.”

“I thought it was just a distress signal,” said Locke.

“Should’ve read the book more closely. Three yellow pennants says we’re so hard up that we’ll legally grant them salvage rights to anything we don’t carry on our persons. They save it, they own it.”

Delmastro and her crew had moved a smoke barrel into position at the starboard rail, and lit it with a bit of twist-match. Gray tendrils of smoke began to snake up and over the quarterdeck, chasing the darker black cloud rising from the lee side. At the taffrail, a pair of sailors was sending up three fluttering yellow pennants.

“Extra lookouts aloft and at the rails to give Mumchance a hand,” called Drakasha. “Archers up one at a time. Keep your weapons down in the tops; stay out of sight if you can, and play meek until I give the signal.”

“Captain!” The mainmast lookouts were shouting down once more. “She’s turned to cut our path, and she’s adding sail!”

“Funny how tender-hearted they get as soon as they see that signal,” said Drakasha. “Utgar!”

A fairly young Vadran, the skin of his shaved head red-baked over a braided black beard, appeared just beside Lieutenant Delmastro.

“Hide Paolo and Cosetta on the orlop deck,” said Zamira. “We’re about to cause an argument.”

“Aye,” he said, and hurried up the quarterdeck stairs.

“As for you,” said Drakasha, returning her attention to the scrub watch, “hatchets and sabers are set out at the foremast. Take your choice and wait to help send the boats down.”

“Captain Drakasha!”

“What is it, Ravelle?”

Locke cleared his throat and offered a silent prayer to the Nameless Thirteenth that he knew what he was doing. The time for a gesture was now; if he didn’t do something to restore a bit of prestige to Ravelle, he’d end up as just another member of the crew, shunned for his past failure. He needed to be respected if he expected to achieve any part of his mission. That meant a grand act of foolishness.

“It’s my fault that these men nearly died aboard the
Messenger
. They were my crew, and I should have looked after them better. I’d like the chance to do that now. I want … the first seat on the lead boat.”

“You expect me to let you command the attack?”

“Not command,” said Locke. “Just go up the side first. Whatever’s there to bleed us, let it bleed me first. Maybe I can spare whoever comes up next.”

“That means me as well,” said Jean, placing a hand on Locke’s shoulder, somewhat protectively. “I go where he goes.”

Gods bless you, Jean, thought Locke.

“If it’s your ambition to stop a crossbow bolt,” said Drakasha, “I won’t say no.” She seemed a bit taken aback, however, and she gave the tiniest fraction of an approving nod to Locke as the crowd began to break up and head forward for their weapons.

“Captain!” Lieutenant Delmastro stepped forward, her hands and forearms covered in soot from the smoke barrels. She glanced at Locke and Jean as she spoke. “Just who
is
leading the cutting-out boats anyway?”

“Free-for-all, Del. I’m sending one Orchid per boat to hold them; what the scrub watch does after they climb the sides is their business.”

“I want the boats.”

Drakasha stared at her for several seconds, and said nothing. She was wreathed in gray smoke from the waist down.

“I had nothing to do when we took the
Messenger
, Captain,” Delmastro said hastily. “In fact, I haven’t had any real fun with a prize for weeks.”

Drakasha flicked her gaze over Jean and frowned. “You crave an indulgence.”

“Aye. But a useful one.”

Drakasha sighed. “You have the boats, Del. Mind you, Ravelle gets his wish.”

Translation: If he takes an arrow for anyone, make sure it’s you, thought Locke.

“You won’t regret it, Captain. Scrub watch! Arm yourselves and meet me at the waist!” Delmastro dashed up the quarterdeck stairs, past Utgar, who was leading the Drakasha children along with one clinging tightly to either hand.

“You’re a bold and stupid fellow, Ravelle,” said Jabril. “I think I almost like you again.”

“… at least he can fight, we know that much,” Locke heard one of the other men saying. “You should’ve seen him take care of the guard the night we got the
Messenger
. Pow! One little punch folded him right up. He’ll show us a thing or two this morning. You wait.”

Locke was suddenly very glad he’d already pissed everything he had to piss.

At the waist, an older crew-woman stood watch on small barrels packed full of the promised hatchets and sabers. Jean drew out a pair of hatchets, hefted them, and frowned as Locke hesitated before the barrels.

“You have any idea what you’re doing?” he whispered.

“None whatsoever,” said Locke.

“Take a saber and try to look comfortable.”

Locke drew a saber and gazed at it as though immensely satisfied.

“Anyone with a belt,” shouted Jean, “grab a second weapon and tuck it in. You never know when you or someone else might need it.”

As half a dozen men took his advice, he sidled up to Locke and whispered again. “Stay right beside me. Just … keep up with me and stand tall. Maybe they won’t have bows.”

Lieutenant Delmastro returned to their midst, wearing her black leather vest and bracers, as well as her knife-packed weapon belt. Locke noticed that the curved handguards of her sabers were studded with what looked like jagged chips of Elderglass.

“Here, Valora.” She tossed a leather fighting collar to Jean and held her tightly tailed hair up to leave her neck fully exposed. “Help a girl out.”

Jean placed the collar around her neck and clasped it behind her head. She tugged it once, nodded, and put up her arms. “Listen up! Until we make an unfriendly move, you’re wealthy passengers and land-sucking snobs, sent out in the boats to save your precious skins.”

A pair of crewmen were making the rounds of the scrub watch, handing out fine hats, brocaded jackets, and other fripperies. Delmastro seized a silk parasol and shoved it into Locke’s hands. “There you go, Ravelle. That might deflect some harm.”

Locke shook the folded parasol over his head with exaggerated belligerence, and got some nervous laughter in exchange.

“Like the captain said, it’ll be one Orchid per boat, to make sure they come back even if you don’t,” said Delmastro. “I’ll take Ravelle and Valora with me, in the little boat you donated from the
Messenger
. Plus you and you.” She pointed to Streva and Jabril. “Whatever else happens, we’re first to the side and first up.”

Oscarl, the boatswain, appeared with a small party of assistants carrying lines and blocks to begin rigging hoisting gear.

“One thing more,” said Delmastro. “If they ask for quarter, give it. If they drop their weapons, respect it. If they carry on fighting, slaughter them where they fucking stand. And if you start to feel sorry for them, just remember what signal we had to fly to get them to lend aid to a ship on fire.”

6

FROM THE water, the illusion of that fire seemed complete to Locke’s eyes. All the smoke barrels were going now; the ship trailed a black-and-gray cloud that all but enveloped its quarterdeck. The figure of Zamira appeared now and again, her spyglass briefly catching the sun before she vanished back into the darkness. A team of crewmen had rigged small pumps and canvas hoses amidships (at the rail, where they could best be seen), and they were directing streams of water at the cloud of smoke, though actually doing nothing but washing the deck.

Locke sat at the bow of the little boat, feeling vaguely ridiculous with his parasol in hand and a cloth-of-silver jacket draped over his shoulders like a cape. Jean and Jabril shared the forward rowing bench, Streva and Lieutenant Delmastro were behind them, and a very small crewman named
Vitorre—little more than a boy—crouched in the stern to take over from them when they boarded the flute.

That ship, her curiously round and wallowing hull-curves now plainly visible, was angled somewhat away from them to the north. Locke estimated that it would cross paths with the
Poison Orchid
, or very nearly so, in about ten minutes.

“Let’s start rowing for her,” said Delmastro. “They’ll expect it by now.”

Their boat and the two larger ones had been keeping station about a hundred yards southeast of the
Orchid
. As the four rowers in the lead boat began to pull north, Locke saw the others catch their cue and follow.

They bobbed and slipped across the foot-high waves. The sun was up and its heat was building; it had been half past the seventh hour of the morning when they’d left the ship. The oars creaked rhythmically in their locks; now they were abreast with the
Orchid
, and the newcomer was about half a mile to their northeast. If the flute caught wind of the trap and tried to flee to the north, the ship would loose canvas to fly after it. If it tried to flee south, however, it would be up to the boats to slip into its path.

“Ravelle,” said Delmastro, “at your feet, the breaching shears. You see them?”

Locke looked down. Tucked away beneath his seat was an ugly-looking hinged device with a pair of wooden handles. These handles worked a metal jaw.

“I think so.”

“Bows aren’t our biggest problem. The most trouble they can give us is if they rig razor nets against boarding; we’ll slash ourselves to pieces trying to climb on deck. If those nets are rigged, you
must
use those shears to cut a slit for us to get in.”

“Or die trying,” he said. “I think I get it.”

“But the good news is, rigging razor nets is a pain in the ass. And they won’t be up at all if they’re expecting to send out boats and receive passengers. If we can just get close enough before we tip our hand, they won’t have time to use them.”

“What’s the signal to tip our hand?”

“You won’t miss it. Trust me.”

7

ZAMIRA DRAKASHA stood at the starboard quarterdeck rail, taking a break from the smoke. She studied the approaching flute through her glass; there was elaborate ornamentation on the stubby forepeak, and a somewhat
whimsical gold-and-black paint scheme along her tall sides. That was agreeable; if she was well maintained she was likely to be carrying a respectable cargo and a bit of coin.

A pair of officers stood at the bow, studying her ship through their own glasses. She waved in what she hoped was an encouraging fashion, but received no response.