The Gentleman Bastard Series (161 page)

“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,
no
,” Drakasha screamed.

But the scholar’s deed was already done; Utgar seemed to jump and shudder as the bolt sank into the small of his back. The gray 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 his neck 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, sabers 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 colors 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 brightness even as it flew, a molten-metal comet, and Rodanov’s crewfolk 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 morning.

“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 crewfolk, and nearly bisected the ship in seconds.

“If they would burn the
Sovereign
,” shouted Rodanov, “all hands take the
Orchid
!”

“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 burnt 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’ sake.”

“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.

17

TEN MORE Orchids fell at the bow saving them, following Zamira’s orders, shoving with all their might against the
Sovereign
with spears and boat hooks 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—I 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 southeast, 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 charred 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, Malakasti, 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.”

I 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 smoldering 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.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

SETTLING ACCOUNTS

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 they’d put over the side, and the rest had been lost during the battle. Locke and Zamira 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 the entry port, into the dark waves below. It was an hour past sunset, and at long last they were truly done.