Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

As Jean hurried forward with Locke close behind, he was pleased to feel the tension of a few moments earlier evaporating. Crewfolk were smiling again, chattering away at one another, even laughing here and there. A few kept to themselves, arms folded and eyes downcast, but even they looked relieved. The only odd thing about the scene, Jean realized, was how assiduously most of them were trying to keep their attention focused on the ship and the people around them.

More than an hour would pass before many of them would allow themselves to glance out at the water again.

If you could stand on air a thousand feet above Port Prodigal, this midnight, you would see a tenuous ribbon of light set like a jewel in the midst of boundless tropical darkness. Clouds veil the moons and the stars. Even the thin red lines of volcanic flow that sometimes ignite the far horizons are missing; those dark mountains smoulder tonight without visible fire.

Prodigal claims a long beach on the north side of a vast, hilly island. Miles of ancient rainforest recede into the night behind it; not a speck of light burns anywhere within that grim expanse.

The broad harbour, enclosed on all sides, is uncommonly friendly to ships once they slip through either of the arduous passages that bring them from the sea. There are no reefs, no smaller islands, no navigational hazards marring the sandy white bottom of the bay. At the eastern end of town the water shallows to waist-depth, while in the west even heavy ships may all but kiss the shore and keep eight or nine fathoms beneath their keels.

A forest of masts rocks gently above these depths, a floating hodgepodge of docks, boats, working ships and hulls in every state of disrepair. There are two loosely defined anchorages serving Port Prodigal — first, the Graveyard, where float the hundreds of hulls and wrecks that will never move on the open sea again. East of that, claiming all the larger, newer docks, lies the Hospital, so called because its patients may yet live.

A bell began tolling, its slow clang echoing off the water, as soon as the Poison Orchid emerged from the Parlour Passage.

Locke stared over the ship's larboard rail, toward the lights of the city and their rippling reflections on the bay.

"Harbour watch'll ring that damn thing until we drop anchor."Jabril had taken note of his curiosity and moved to the rail beside him. "Gotta let everyone know they're on the job so they keep getting paid their liquor ration." "You spend much time here, Jabril?"

"Born here. Prison in Tal Verrar is what I got the one time I tried to see some other oceans."

Dropping anchor in Prodigal Bay had none of the ceremony Locke had seen elsewhere; no shore pilots, no customs officers, not even a single curious fisherman. And, to his surprise, Drakasha didn't take the Orchid all the way in. They settled about half a mile offshore, furled sails and kept their lanterns burning.

"Drop a boat to larboard," ordered Drakasha, peering at the city and its anchorages through her glass. "Then rig razor-nets at the starboard. Keep lanterns burning. Dismiss Blue Watch below but have sabres ready at the masts. Del, get Malakasti, Dantierre, Big Konar and Rask." "Your will, Captain."

After helping a work party heave one of the ship's larger boats over the side, Locke approached Drakasha on the quarterdeck and found her still studying the town through her glass. "I take it you have reason for caution, Captain?"

"We've been out for a few weeks," said Drakasha, "and things change. I" ve got a big crew and a big ship, but neither of them is the biggest there is." "Do you see something that makes you nervous?"

"Not nervous. Curious. Looks like most of us are home for once. See that line of ships at the eastern docks, closest to us? Four of the council captains are in town. Five, now that I'm back." She lowered her glass and looked sidelong at him. "Plus two or three independent traders, near as I can tell." "I really hope it doesn't come to that," he said quietly.

At that moment Lieutenant Delmastro returned to the quarterdeck, armed and armoured, with four sailors in tow.

Malakasti, a thin woman with more tattoos than words in her vocabulary, had a shipwide reputation as a knife-fighter. Dantierre was a bearded, balding Verrari who favoured tattered nobleman's silks; he'd gone outlaw after a long career as a professional duellist. Big Konar, true to his name, was the largest slab of human flesh aboard the Orchid. And Rask — well, Rask was a type that Locke recognized almost immediately, a murderer's murderer. Drakasha, like many garrista back in Camorr, would keep him on a short leash and give him his head only when she needed blood on the wall. Lots of blood on the wall.

A brutal crew, none of them young and none of them new to Drakasha's command. Locke pondered this while all hands were briefly mustered at the waist.

"Utgar has the ship," Drakasha announced. "We're not putting in tonight. I'm taking Del and a shore party to sound out the town. If all's well, we'll have a busy few days… and we'll start divvying up the shares tomorrow evening. Try not to gamble it all away to your watchmates before it's even in your hands, eh?

"In the meantime, Red Watch, mind the ship. Razor-nets on starboard stay up until we come back. Post lookouts up every mast and keep an eye on the waterline. Blue Watch, some of you sleep near the arms lockers if you're so inclined. Keep daggers and clubs at hand even if you're not." To Utgar, she said more quietly: "Double guard on my cabin door all night." "Aye, Captain."

Drakasha vanished into her cabin for a few moments. She re-emerged, still in her Elderglass mosaic vest, with her sabres now in fine jewelled scabbards, gleaming emeralds in her ears and gold rings over the black leather gloves on her hands. Locke and Jean confronted her together, as unobtrusively as they could. "Ravelle, I do not have time—"

"Captain," said Locke, "you" ve put together a bruising crew because you're out to scare someone who might give you trouble, haven't you? And if they're too stupid to take a hint, you want people who can end things quick. I strongly, strongly suggest that Jerome would serve you well on both counts."

"I… hmmm." She stared at Jean, as though only just noticing the width of his shoulders and upper arms. "That might just add the finishing touch. All right, Valora, you fancy a short night out?"

"I do," said Jean. "But I work best as part of a team. Orrin is just the man to—" "You two think you're so clever," said Drakasha. "But—"

"I mean it," said Jean hurriedly. "Humble apologies, but you" ve seen what he does. You'll have a pile of strongarms at your back; bring him for… situations unforeseen." "Tonight is delicate business," said Drakasha. "Misstepping in Port Prodigal after midnight is like pissing on an angry snake. I need—" "Ahem," said Locke. "Originally, we're from Camorr." "Oh. Be on the boat in five minutes," said Drakasha.

Drakasha took the bow, Delmastro the stern, and everyone else an oar. At a stately pace they scudded across the calm surface of the bay.

"At least that jackass finally stopped ringing the bell," muttered Jean. He had taken a spot on the last rowing bench, next to Big Konar, so he could chat with Ezri. She was trailing one of her hands in the water. "Is that wise?" Jean asked.

"What, fiddling with the water?" Ezri hooked a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the Parlour Passage outlet. "You can't see them by night, but at the entrances to the bay there are rows of huge white stones set across the bottom. Regular lines of them." "Eldren stones," muttered Konar.

"They don't bother us," said Ezri, "but nothing else will pass them. Not one single thing lives in this bay; you can swim at dusk with bloody cuts on your feet and nothing will come along for a taste."