Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"Damnation." Behind them, Treganne let her patient slump to the deck and began wiping her bloody hands on his breeches. "No good on this one, Captain. I can see straight through to his lungs behind the wound." "He's dead for sure?" said Locke.

"Well, heavens, I wouldn't know, I'm just the fucking physiker. But I heard in a bar once that dead is the accepted thing to be when your lungs are open to daylight," said Treganne.

"Uh… yes. I heard the same thing. Look, will anyone else here die without your immediate full attention?" "Not likely."

"Captain Drakasha," said Locke, "Master Nera has something of a soft heart. Might I take the liberty of suggesting a plan…"

A few moments later, Locke returned to the waist, holding Antoro Nera by one arm. The man's hands had been bound behind his back. Locke gave him a good shove toward Zamira, who stood with one sabre unsheathed. Behind her, Treganne worked feverishly over the corpse of the newly deceased sailor. The slashed and bloody tunic had been disposed of and a clean one drawn over the corpse's chest. Only a small red spot now marked the lethal wound, and Treganne gave every impression that the unmoving form was still within her power to save. Drakasha caught Nera and set her blade against his upper chest.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," she said, sliding the curved edge of her weapon toward Nera's unprotected neck. He whimpered. "Your ship's badly out of trim. Too much weight of gold. We need to find and remove the master's purse as quick as we can." "I, uh, don't know exactly where it is," said Nera.

"Right. And I can teach fish to fart fire," said Drakasha. "You get one more chance, and then I start throwing your injured overboard." "But… please, I was told—" "Whoever told you anything wasn't me." "I… I don't—"

"Scholar," said Drakasha, "can you do anything for the man you're working on?"

"He won't be dancing anytime soon," said Treganne, "but yes, he'll pull through."

Drakasha shifted her grip on Nera and held him by his tunic-collar with her free hand. She took two steps to her right and, barely looking, drove her sabre down into the dead sailor's neck. Treganne flinched backward and gave the corpse's legs a little push to make it look as though thed'r kicked. Nera gasped. "Medicine is such an uncertain business," said Drakasha.

"In my cabin," said Nera. "A hidden compartment by the compass above my bed. Please… please don't kill any more of—"

"I didn't, actually," said Drakasha. She withdrew her sabre from the corpse's throat, wiped it on Nera's breeches and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Your man died a few minutes ago. My leech says she can save the rest of your injured without trouble."

She spun Nera around, slashed the rope that bound his hands and shoved him toward Locke with a grin. "Return him to his people, Ravelle, and then kindly relieve his secret compartment of its burden." "Your will, Captain."

After that, they began taking the Kingfisher apart more eagerly than newlyweds tearing off layers of formal clothing in their first moment of privacy. Locke felt his fatigue vanishing as he became absorbed in what was essentially one vast robbery, for more physical material than he'd ever stolen before in his life. He was passed from duty to duty among Orchids who laughed and clowned with real spirit, but worked with haste and precision for all that.

First they snatched up anything portable and reasonably valuable — bottles of wine, Master Nera's formal wardrobe, bags of coffee and tea from the galley and several crossbows from the Kingfisher's tiny armoury. Drakasha herself appraised the ship's collection of navigation instruments and hourglasses, leaving Nera the bare minimum required to safely work his vessel back to port.

Next, Utgar and the boatswain scoured the flute from stem to stern, using the surviving scrub watch as mules to haul off stores and equipment of nautical use: alchemical caulk, good sail canvas, carpenter's tools, barrels of pitch and loop after loop of new rope.

"Good shit, hey," said Utgar, as he weighed Locke down with about fifty pounds of rope and a box of metal files. "Much too expensive in Port Prodigal. Always best to get it at what we call the broadside discount."

Last but not least came the Kingfisher's cargo. All the main-deck hatch gratings were raised and a nearly incomprehensible network of ropes and pulleys was rigged on and between the two ships. By noon, crates and casks and oilcloth-wrapped bundles were being lighted along to the Poison Orchid. It was everything Nera had promised and more — turpentine, oiled witchwood, silks, crates of fine yellow wine padded with sheepskins and barrel after barrel of bulk spices. The smell of cloves, nutmeg and ginger filled the air; after an hour or two of work at the hoists, Locke was brown with a sludge that was half sweat and half powdered cinnamon.

At the fifth hour of the afternoon Drakasha called a halt to the forcible transfusion of wealth. The Poison Orchid rode lower in the gleaming water and the lightened flute rolled freely, hollowed out like an insect husk about to fall from a spider's jaws. Drakasha's crew hadn't stripped her clean, of course. They left the Kingfishers their casks of water, salted meat, cheap ale and pink-piss ration wine. They even left a few crates and parcels of valuables that were too deeply or inconveniently stowed for Drakasha's taste. Nonetheless, the sack was thorough. Any landbound merchant would have been well pleased to have a ship unloaded at the dock with such haste.

A brief ceremony was held at the taffrail of the Kingfisher; Zamira blessed the dead of the two vessels in her capacity as a lay priestess of Iono. Then the corpses went over the side, sewn into old canvas with Redeemer weapons weighing them down. The Redeemers themselves were then thrown overboard without a word.

"Ain't disrespectful," said Utgar when Locke whispered to him about this. "Far as they believe, they get consecrated and blessed and all that fine stuff by their own gods the moment they die. No hard feelings if you just tip the heathens over the side afterward. Helpful thing to know if you ever have to kill a bunch of "em again, hey?"

At last, the day's long business was truly concluded; Master Nera and his crew were released to tend to their own fortunes once again. While Drakasha's archers kept watch from their perches on the yard-arms, the network of lines and fend-offs between the two ships was pulled apart. The Poison Orchid hauled up her boats and loosed her sails. In minutes, she was making seven or eight knots to the southwest, leaving the Kingfisher adrift in disarray behind her.

Locke had seen little of Jean all day, and both of them had appeared to work studiously to preserve their separation. Just as Locke had thrown himself into manual labour, Jean had remained with Delmastro on the quarterdeck. They didn't come close enough to speak again until the sun fell beneath the horizon, and the scrub watch was herded together and bound for their initiation.

All the new initiates and half the ship's old company were on the Merry Watch, fuelled by rack after rack of the fine eastern wines thed'r plucked from the Kingfisher. Locke recognized some of the labels and vintages. Stuff that wouldn't sell in Camorr for less than twenty Crowns a bottle was being sucked down like beer, or poured into the hair of celebrating men and women, or simply spilled on deck. The Orchids, men and women alike, were mixing eagerly with the ex-Messengers now. Dice games and wrestling matches and song-circles had erupted spontaneously. Propositions spoken and unspoken were everywhere. Jabril had vanished belowdecks with a crew-woman at least an hour before.

Locke took it all in from the shadows of the starboard side, just below the raised quarterdeck. The starboard stairs weren't flush with the rail; there was space enough for a lean person to wedge comfortably between the two. "Ravelle" had been greeted warmly and eagerly enough when he'd circulated on deck, but now that he'd found a cosy exile nobody seemed to be missing him. In his hands was a large leather jack full of blue wine that was worth its weight in silver, as yet untouched.