Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

Locke led Jean down the quarterdeck stairs, into the tangle of bodies amidships. More Redeemers, more crewfolk… and five or six of the men he'd pulled out of the Windward Rock three weeks before. He was uncomfortably aware that the survivors all seemed to be staring at him. He caught snatches of their conversation: "… laughing, he was…" "Saw it as I came up the side. Charged them all by himself…"

"Never seen the like." That was Streva, whose left arm looked broken. "Laughed and laughed. Fucking fearless."

"… "The gods send your doom, motherfuckers". That's what he told them. I heard it…"

"They" re right, you know," whispered Jean. "I" ve seen you do some brave and crazy shit, but that was… that was—"

"It was all crazy and none brave. I was out of my fucking head, get it? I was so scared shitless I didn't know what I was doing." "But in the hold below—"

"I dropped a cask on one," said Locke. "Two more got their throats slit while they were still dumb. The last was kind enough to slip in beer and make it easy. Same as always, Jean. I'm no bloody warrior." "But now they think you are. You pulled it off."

They found Mai, slumped against the mainmast, unmoving. His hands were curled around the sword buried in his stomach, as though he was trying to keep it safe. Locke sighed.

"I have what you might call mixed feelings about that right now," he said.

Jean knelt down and pushed Mai's eyelids closed. "I know what you mean." He paused, seeming to weight his words before continuing. "We have a serious problem." "Really? Us, problems? What ever could you mean?"

"These people are our people. These people are thieves. Surely you see it, too. We can't sell them out to Stragos." "Then we'll die." "We both know Stragos means to kill us anyway—"

"The longer we string him along," said Locke, "the closer we get to pulling off some part of our mission, the closer we are to a real antidote. The more time we get, the greater the chance he'll slip… and we can do something."

"We can do something by siding with our own kind. Look around you, for the gods" sake. All these people do to live is steal. They" re us. The mandates we live by—" "Don't fucking lecture me about propriety!" "Why not? You seem to need it—"

"I" ve done my duty by the men we brought from Tal Verrar, Jean, but they and all of these people are strangers. I aim to have Stragos weeping for what he's done, and if I can spare them to achieve that, by the gods, I'll spare them. But if I have to sink this ship and a dozen like it to bring him down, I'll damn well do that, too."

"Gods," Jean whispered. "Listen you yourself. I thought I was Camorri. You're the pure essence. A moment ago you were morose for the sake of these people. Now you" d fucking drown them all for the sake of your revenge!" "Our revenge," said Locke. "Our lives." "There has to be another way."

"What do you propose, then? Stay out here? Spend a merry few weeks in the Ghostwinds and then politely dieV "If necessary,"said Jean.

The Poison Orchid, under reduced sail, drew near the stern of the Kingfisher, putting herself between the flute and the wind. The men and women lining the Orchid's rail let loose with three raucous cheers, each one louder than the last.

"Hear that? They" re not cheering the scrub watch," said Jean. "They" re cheering their own. That's what we are, now. Part of all this." "They" re str—" "They" re not strangers? said Jean.

"Well." Locke glanced aft, at Lieutenant Delmastro, who'd risen to her feet and taken the Kingfisher's wheel. "Maybe some of them are less strange to you than they are to me." "Now, wait just a—"

"Do what you have to do to pass the time out here," said Locke, scowling, "but don't forget where you come from. Stragos is our business. Beating him is our business."

"Pass the time?" Pass the gods-damned time}" Jean sucked in an angry breath. He clenched his fists and for a second looked as though he might grab Locke and shake him. "Gods, I see what's twisting under your skin. Look, you may be resigned to the fact that the only woman you'll ever consider is years gone. But you" ve been screwed down so tight about that, for so long, that you seem to think the rest of the world keeps your habits." Locke felt as though he'd been stabbed. "Jean, don't you even—"

"Why not? Why not} We carry your precious misery with us like a holy fucking relic. Don't talk about Sabetha Belacoros. Don't talk about the plays. Don't talk about Jasmer, or Espara, or any of the schemes we ran. I lived with her for nine years, same as you, and I" ve pretended she doesn't fucking exist to avoid upsetting you. Well, I'm not you. I'm not content to live like an oath-bound monk. I have a life outside your gods-damned shadow." Locke stepped back. "Jean, I don't… I didn't—" "And stop calling me Jean, for fuck's sake."

"Of course," said Locke coldly. "Of course. If we keep this up we'll be breaking character for good. I can prowl below myself. You get back to Delmastro. She's holding on to that wheel to stay on her bloody feet." "But-" "Go," said Locke.

"Fine." Jean turned to leave, then paused one last time. "But understand — / can't do it. I'll follow you to any fate, and you know it, but I can't fuck these people over, even for our own sake. And even if you think it's for our sake… I can't let you do it, either." "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means you have a lot to think about," said Jean, and he stomped away.

Small parties of sailors had begun slipping over from the Orchid. Utgar rushed up to Locke, red-faced with excitement, leading a group of crewfolk carrying lines and fend-offs to help hold the ships alongside one another.

"Sweet Marrows, Ravelle, we just found out about the Redeemers," Utgar said. "Lieutenant told us what you did. Fuckin" amazing! A job well done!"

Locke glanced at the body of Mai resting against the mainmast, and at Jean's back as he approached Delmastro with his hands out to hold her up. Not caring who saw, he flung his sabre down at the deck planks, where it stuck tip-first, quivering from side to side. "Oh, indeed," he said. "It seems I win again. Hooray for winning."

"Bring the prisoners forward," said Captain Drakasha.

It was full night on the deck of the Poison Orchid, and the ship rode at anchor beneath a star-pierced sky. The moons had not yet begun to rise. Drakasha stood at the quarterdeck rail, backlit by alchemical lamps, wearing a tarpaulin for a cloak. Her hair was covered by a ludicrous woollen wig, vaguely resembling the ceremonial hairpiece of a Verrari magistrate. The deck fore and aft was crowded with shadowed crewfolk, and in a small clear space amidships stood the prisoners.

Nineteen men from the Red Messenger had survived the morning's fight. Now all nineteen stood, bound hands and feet, in an awkward bunch at the ship's waist. Locke shuffled forward behind Jean and Jabril. "Clerk of the court," said Drakasha, "you have brought us a sad lot."

"A sad lot indeed, Your Honour." Lieutenant Delmastro appeared beside the captain, clutching a rolled scroll and wearing a ridiculous wig of her own.

"As wretched a pack of dissolute, cockless mongrels as I" ve ever seen. Still, I suppose we must try them." "Indeed we must, ma'am." "With what are they charged?"

"Such a litany of crimes as turns the blood to jam." Delmastro opened the scroll and raised her voice as she read. "Wilful refusal of the kind hospitality of the Archon of Tal Verrar. Deliberate flight from the excellent accommodations provided by said Archon at the Windward Rock. Theft of a naval vessel with the stated intention of applying it to a life of piracy." "Disgraceful."

"Just so, Your Honour. Now, the next bit is rather confusing: some are charged with mutiny, while others are charged with incompetence."