Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

A heavy, dark shape splashed into the beer beside him. One of the Jeremites who'd been troubling him above, the one with the spear, had leapt the six or seven feet down into the hold. But the gushing beer was treacherous; the Redeemer's feet went out from under him as he landed and he toppled onto his back. Coldly resigned, Locke drove his sabre into the man's chest, then pried the spear from his dying hands. "Undone by drink," he whispered.

The fight continued above. For the moment, he was alone in the hold with his shoddy little victory.

Four dead, and he'd cheated every one, using luck and surprise and plain skulduggery to do what would have been impossible in a stand-up fight. Knowing that they would never have given or accepted quarter should have made it easier, but the wild abandon of a few minutes before had drained clean away. Orrin Ravelle was a fraud after all; he was plain old Locke Lamora once again. i

He threw up behind a pile of canvas and netting, using the spear to hold himself up until the heaving stopped. "Gods aboveV

Locke wiped his mouth as Jabril and a pair of Orchids slipped down through the cargo hatch, holding on to the rim of the deck rather than leaping. They didn't seem to have caught him puking.

"Four of "em," continued Jabril. His tunic had been partly torn away above a shallow cut on his chest. "Fuck me, Ravelle. I thought Valora scared the piss out of me." Locke took a deep breath to steady himself. "Jerome. Is he all right?"

"Was a minute ago. Saw him and Lieutenant Delmastro fighting on the quarterdeck."

Locke nodded, then gestured aft with his spear. "Stern cabin," he said. "Follow me. Let's finish this."

He led them down the length of the flute's main deck at a run, shoving unarmed, cowering crewfolk out of the way as he passed. The armoured door to the stern cabin was shut, and behind it Locke could hear the sound of frantic activity. He pounded on the door.

"We know you're in there," he yelled, and then turned to Jabril with a tired grin. "This seems awfully familiar, doesn't it?" "You won't get through that door," came a muffled shout from within. "Give it some shoulder," said Jabril.

"Let me try being terribly clever first," said Locke. Then, raising his voice: "First point, this door may be armoured, but your stern windows are glass. Second point, open this fucking door by the count of ten or I'll have every surviving crewman and — woman put to death on the quarterdeck. You can listen while you're doing whatever it is you're doing in there."

A pause; Locke opened his mouth to begin counting. Suddenly, with the ratcheting clack of heavy clockwork, the door creaked open and a short, middle-aged man in a long black jacket appeared.

"Please don't," he said. "I surrender. I would have done it sooner, but the Redeemers wouldn't have it. I locked myself in after they chased me down here. Kill me if you like, but spare my crew."

"Don't be stupid," said Locke. "We don't kill anyone who doesn't fight back. Though I suppose it's nice to know you're not a complete arsehole. Ship's master, I presume?" "Antoro Nera, at your service." Locke grabbed him by his lapels and began dragging him toward the companionway. "Let's go on deck, Master Nera. I think we've dealt with your Redeemers. What the hell were they doing aboard, anyway? Passengers?" "Security," muttered Nera. Locke stopped in his tracks.

"Are you so fucking dim-witted that you didn't know thed'r go berserk the first time someone dangled a fight in front of their noses?"

"I didn't want them! The owners insisted. Redeemers work for nothing but food and passage. Owners thought… perhaps thed'r scare off anyone looking for trouble."

"A fine theory. Only works if you advertise their presence, though. We didn't know they were aboard until they were charging us in a fucking phalanx."

Locke went up the companionway, dragging Nera behind him, followed by Jabril and the others. They emerged into the bright light of morning on the quarterdeck. One of the men was hauling down the flute's colours, and he was knee-deep in bodies.

There were at least a dozen of them. Redeemers, mostly, with their green head-cloths fluttering and their expressions strangely satisfied. But here and there were unfortunate crewfolk, and at the head of the stairs a familiar face — Aspel, the front of his chest a bloody ruin.

Locke glanced around frantically and sighed when he saw Jean, apparently untouched, crouched near the starboard rail. Lieutenant Delmastro was at his feet, her hair unbound, blood running down her right arm. As Locke watched, Jean tore a strip of cloth from the bottom of his own tunic and began binding one of her wounds.

Locke felt a pang that was half-relief and half-melancholy; usually it was him that Jean was picking up in bloody pieces at the end of a fight. Ducking away from Jean had been a matter of split-second necessity in the heat of the struggle. He realized that he was strangely disquieted that Jean hadn't followed him, relentlessly at his heels, looking after him as always. Don't be an ass, he thought. Jean had his own bloody problems. "Jerome," he said.

Jean's head darted around, and his lips nearly formed an "L"-sound before he got himself under control. "Orrin! You're a mess! Gods, are you all right?"

A mess? Locke looked down and discovered that nearly every inch of his clothing was soaked in blood. He ran a hand over his face. What he'd taken for sweat or beer came away red on his palm. "None of it's mine," he said. "I think."

"I was about to come looking for you," said Jean. "Ezri… Lieutenant Delmastro…"

"I'll be fine," she groaned. "Bastard tried to hit me with a mizzenmast. Just knocked the wind out of me."

Locke spotted one of the huge brass-studded clubs lying on the deck near her, and just beyond it, a dead Redeemer with one of Delmastro's characteristic sabres planted in his throat.

"Lieutenant Delmastro," said Locke, "I" ve brought the ship's master. Allow me to introduce Antoro Nera."

Delmastro pushed Jean's hands away and crawled past him for a better view. Lines of blood ran from cuts on her lip and forehead.

"Master Nera. Well met. I represent the side that's still standing. Appearances to the contrary." She grinned and wiped at the blood above her eyes. "I'll be responsible for arranging larceny once we've secured your ship, so don't piss me off. Speaking of which, what ship is this?" "Kingfisher," said Nera. "Cargo and destination?" "Tal Verrar, with spices, wine, turpentine and fine woods."

"That and a fat load of Jeremite Redeemers. No, shut up. You can explain later. Gods, Ravelle, you have been busy."

"Too fucking right," said Jabril, slapping him on the back. "He killed four of them himself in the hold. Rode a beer-cask down on one and must" ve fought the other three straight up."Jabril snapped his fingers. "Like that."

Locke sighed and felt his cheeks warming. He reached up and put a bit of the blood back where he'd found it.

"Well," said Delmastro, "I won't say that I'm not surprised, but I am pleased. You're not fit to tend so much as a fishing boat, Ravelle, but you can lead boarding parties whenever you like. I think we just redeemed about half of Jerem." "You're too kind," said Locke.

"Can you get this ship into order for me? Clear the decks of crewfolk and put them all under guard at the forecastle?" "I can. Will she be all right, Jerome?" "She's been smacked around and cut up a bit, but—"

"I" ve had worse," she said. "I" ve had worse, and I" ve certainly given it back You can go with Ravelle if you like." "I-" "Don't make me hit you. I'll be fine."

Jean stood up and came over to Locke, who shoved Nera gently toward Jabril.

"Jabril, would you escort our new friend to the forecastle while Jerome and I scrape up the rest of his crew?" "Aye, be pleased to."