Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

The hard stream of salt water gushed into their midst once more, and they spun furiously. Locke intersected the spray every few seconds as each rotation of the net brought him around. His dizziness grew and grew as the minutes passed, and though it was becoming extremely fashionable, he focused every speck of dignity on simply not throwing up.

So intense was his dizziness and so swift was their deliverance that he didn't even realize thed'r been swung back onto the deck until the net he was clinging to collapsed into slackness. He toppled forward onto netting and canvas above good, hard planks once again. The net had ceased spinning but the world took its place, rotating in six or seven directions at once, all of them profoundly unpleasant. Locke closed his eyes, but that didn't help. It merely made him blind as well as nauseous.

Men were crawling over him, moaning and swearing. A pair of crewfolk reached down and heaved Locke to his feet; his stomach nearly surrendered at that point and he coughed sharply to fight back his nausea. Captain Drakasha was approaching, her false wig and cloak discarded, and she was tilted at a funny angle.

"The sea won't have you," she said. "The water refuses to swallow you. It's not yet your time to drown, praise Iono. Praise Ulcris!"

Ulcris was the Jereshtd name for the god of the sea, not often heard in Therin lands or waters. There must be more eastern islanders aboard than I reaIized,tho\ight Locke. "Lord of the Grasping Waters shield us," chanted the crew.

"So you're here with us between all things," said Drakasha. "The land won't have you and the sea won't claim you. You" ve fled, like us, to wood and canvas. This deck's your firmament, these sails your heavens. This is all the world you get. This is all the world you need."

She stepped forward with a drawn dagger. "Will you lick my boots to claim a place on it?"

"NO!" the ex-Messengers roared in unison. Thed'r been coached on this part of the ritual. "Will you kneel and kiss my jewelled ring for mercy?" "NO!" "Will you bend your knees to pretty titles on pieces of paper?" "NO!"

"Will you pine for land and laws and kings, and cling to them like a mother's tit?" "NO!" She stepped up to Locke and handed him the dagger. "Then free yourself, brother."

Still unsteady, and grateful for the aid of the crewfolk beside him, Locke used the blade to saw through the rope that bound his hands, and then bent over to cut the rope between his ankles. That accomplished, he turned and saw that all of the ex-Messengers were more or less upright, most of them held by one or two Orchids. Close at hand he could see several familiar faces — Streva, Jabril, a fellow called Alvaro… and just behind them, Jean, watching him uneasily. Locke hesitated, then pointed to Jabril and held out the blade. "Free yourself, brother."

Jabril smiled, took the blade and was finished with his bonds in a moment. Jean glared at Locke, who closed his eyes, not wanting to make further eye contact, and listened as the dagger made its passage through the group, from hand to hand. "Free yourself, brother," they murmured, one after another. And then it was done.

"Unbound by your own hands, you are outlaw brethren of the Sea of Brass," said Captain Drakasha, "and crewmen of the Poison Orchid.""

Even an experienced thief will find occasion to learn new tricks if he lives long enough. That morning and afternoon, Locke had learned how to properly loot a captured ship.

Locke finished his last circuit belowdecks, reasonably certain there were no more Kingfisher crewfolk to round up, and stomped up the companionway to the quarterdeck. The bodies of the Redeemers there had been moved aside and stacked at the taffrail; the bodies of those from the Poison Orchid had been carried down to the waist. Locke could see several of Zamira's crewfolk respectfully covering them with sail canvas.

He quickly surveyed the ship. Thirty or forty Orchids had come aboard and were taking control of the vessel everywhere. They were up the ratlines, with Jean and Delmastro at the wheel, tending the anchors and guarding the thirty or so surviving Kingfisher crewfolk atop the forecastle deck. Under Utgar's supervision, the wounded Kingfishers and Orchids had been carried down to the waist near the starboard entry port, where Captain Drakasha and Scholar Treganne were just coming aboard. Locke hurried toward them.

"It's my arm, Scholar. Hurts something awful." Streva used his good arm to support his injured limb as he winced and held it out for Treganne's inspection. "I think it's broken."

"Of course it's broken, you cretinous turd," she said, brushing past him to kneel beside a Kingfisher whose tunic was completely soaked with blood. "Keep waving it like that and it'll snap right off. Sit down." "But—"

"I work from worst chance to best," Treganne muttered. She knelt on the deck beside the injured Kingfisher, using her cane to brace herself until she was on both knees. Then she gave the cane a twist. The handle separated from the cane's full length, revealing a dagger-sized blade that Treganne used to slice open the sailor's tunic. "I can move you up on my list by kicking your head a couple of times. Still want prompt attention?" "Um… no." "You'll keep. Piss off."

"There you are, Ravelle." Captain Drakasha stepped past Treganne and the injured and grabbed Locke by the shoulder. "You" ve done well for yourself." "Have I?"

"You're as useless as an arse without a hole when it comes to running a ship, but I" ve heard the damnedest things about how you fought just now." "Your sources exaggerate."

"Well, the ship's ours and you gave us her master. Now that we've plucked our flower, we need to sip the nectar before bad weather or another ship comes along." "Will you be taking the Kingfisher as a prize?"

"No. I don't like having more than one prize crew out at a time. We'll shake her down for valuables and useful cargo." "Then burn her or something?"

"Of course not. We'll leave the crew stores enough to make port and watch them scamper for the horizon. You look confused."

"No objections, Captain, it's just… not as downright bastardly as I was expecting."

"You don't think we respect surrenders because we're kindly people, do you, Ravelle?" Drakasha grinned. "I don't have much time to explain, but it's like this. If not for those gods-damned Redeemers, these people—" She waved a hand at the injured Kingfishers waiting for Treganne's attention. "-wouldn't have given or taken a scratch. Four out of five ships we take, I'd say, if they can't rig razor-nets and get bows ready, they just roll right over for it. They know we'll let "em slip off with their lives once we're done. And the common sailors don't own one centira of the cargo, so why should they swallow a blade or a crossbow bolt for it?" "I suppose that does make sense."

"To more people than us. Look at this shambles. Redeemers for security? If those maniacs hadn't been available for free, this ship wouldn't have any real guards. I guarantee it. No sense in it for the owners. These long voyages, four or five months from the far east back to Tal Verrar with spices, rare metals, wood — an owner can lose two ships out of three, and the one that arrives will pay for the two that don't. With profit to spare. And if they get the actual ship back, even sans cargo, so much the better. That's why we don't sink and burn like mad. As long as we show some restraint, and don't get too close to civilization, the folks holding the purse-strings think of us as a natural hazard, like the weather."

"So with the, ah, plucking and sipping the nectar bit, where do we start?"

"Most worthwhile thing at hand is the ship's purse," said Drakasha. "Master keeps it for expenses. Bribes and so forth. Finding it's always a pain in the arse. Some throw it overboard, others hide it somewhere dank and unlikely. We'll probably have to slap this Nera around for a few hours before he spits truth."