Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"But not too close to the docks. Piss," said Konar, almost apologetically. "Well, damn," said Jean. "That sounds nice."

"Sure, I suppose," said Ezri. "Makes fishing a pain in the arse. Little boats crowd the Trader's Gate Passage and muck up the works there more than usual. Speaking of mucking up the works…" "Mmm?" "I don't see the Red Messenger anywhere." "Ah."

"But she was crawling like a snail," she said. "And we do have some interesting company in her place." "Such as?"

"See that first row of ships? Starboard to larboard, that's Osprey, Pierro Strozzi's lugger. His crew's tiny and so's his ambition, but he could sail a barrel through a hurricane. Next to that, Regal Bitch, Captain Chavon Ranee. Ranee is a pain in the arse. Has a real temper. Next is Draconic, Jacquelaine Colvard's brig. She's reasonable, and she's been out here longer than anyone. "That big three-master on the far end is the Dread Sovereign, Jaffrim Rodanov's lady. Nasty piece of work. Last I saw she was on the beach being careened, but now she looks ready for sea."

With six people pulling at the oars, they made short work of the trip. In just a few moments they were alongside a crumbling stone jetty. As Jean secured his oar, he spied a man's corpse bobbing gently in the water.

"Ah," said Ezri. "Poor bastard. That's the mark of a lively night in these parts."

Drakasha's shore party tied the boat to the very end of the jetty and went up as though boarding an enemy vessel, with wary hearts and hands near their weapons.

"Holy gods," exclaimed a mostly toothless drunk cradling a wineskin in the middle of the jetty. "It's Drakasha, isn't it?" "It is. Who are you?" "Banjital Vo."

"Well, Banjital Vo," said Drakasha, "I'm making you responsible for the safety of the boat we just tied up." "But… I—"

"If it's here when we come back, I'll give you a Verrari silver. If anything's happened to it, I'll ask around for you, and when I find you I'll pull your gods-damned eyes out." "I'll… I'll keep it like it were my own." "No," said Drakasha, "keep it like it's mine?

She led them off the jetty and up a gently sloping sand path bordered by canvas tents, roofless log cabins and partially collapsed stone buildings. Jean could hear the snores of sleeping people within those decrepit structures, plus the soft bleat of goats, the growls of mongrel dogs and the flutter of agitated chickens. A few cookfires had burned down to coals, but there were no lanterns or alchemical lights hung out anywhere on this side of town.

A pungent stream of piss and night soil was trickling down the right-hand side of the path, and Jean stepped carefully to avoid it, as well as a sprawled corpse damming the flow about fifty yards up from the jetty. The occasional semi-lucid drunk or pipe-smoker stared at them from various nooks and shadows, but they weren't spoken to until they crested a rise and found stones beneath their feet once again.

"Drakasha," shouted a corpulent man in leathers with blackened-iron studs, "welcome back to civilization!" The man carried a dim lantern in one hand and a bronze-ringed club in the other. Behind him was a taller fellow, scruffy and pot-bellied, armed with a long oak staff.

"Handsome Marcus," said Drakasha. "Gods, you get uglier every time I come back. Like someone's slowly sculpting an arse out of a human face. Who's the new charmer?"

"Guthrin. Wise lad decided to give up sailing and join the rest of us big swinging cocks in the glamorous life."

"Yeah? Well," Drakasha said, holding out a closed fist and shaking it so that the coins inside clinked against one another, "I found these in the road. They belong to you?"

"I got a happy home for "em right here. See now, Guthrin, that's the style. Show this lady some favour and she returns the compliment. Fruitful voyage, Captain?" "Belly so full we can't swim any more, Marcus."

"Good on you, Captain. You'll want to hear from the Shopbreaker, then?"

"Nobody wants to hear from that waste of a working arsehole, but if he wants to open his purse and bend over, I" ve got a little something in wood and canvas for his collection." "I'll pass the word. You in for the night?" "Toehold, Marcus. Just here to fly the flag."

"Fine idea." He glanced around briefly, and then his voice grew more serious. "Chavon Ranee has the high table at the Crimson. Just so you can look all-knowing when you walk in the door." "Obliged to you."

When the two men had strolled on their way down the path toward the jetty, Jean turned to Ezri. "Guards of some sort?"

"Maintainers," she said. "More like a gang. Sixty or seventy of them, and they're what we have for order around here. Captains pay them a little out of every load they bring in, and they beat the rest of their living out of public nuisances. You can pretty much do as you like, long as you hide the bodies and don't burn anything down or wake up half the city. Do that and the Maintainers come out to do a bit of maintaining." "So what's "flying the flag", exactly?"

"Gotta play these games sometimes," said Ezri. "Let everyone in Prodigal know that Zamira's back, that she's got a hold full of swag, that she'll kick their heads in for looking at her cross-eyed. You know? Especially her brother and sister captains." "Ah. I'm with you."

They entered the city proper; here, at least, were the lights thed'r seen from out in the bay, pouring from open windows and doors on both sides of the street. The buildings here had started as respectable stone homes and shops, but time and mischief had marked their faces. Broken windows were covered over with planking from ships or scraps of tattered sailcloth. Many of the houses sprouted leaning wooden additions that looked unsafe to approach, let alone live in; others grew wattle-and-daub third or fourth storeys like mushrooms from their old roofs.

Jean felt a sudden pang of grudging nostalgia. Drunkards lying senseless in the alleys. Larcenous children eyeing their party from the shadows. Maintainers in long leather coats thumping some poor bastard senseless behind a cart with no wheels. The sounds of swearing, argument, laughter and ale-sickness pouring from every open window and door… this place was, if not quite a fraternal relation to Camorr, at least a first cousin.

"Orchids," hollered someone from a second-storey window. "Orchids!"

Zamira acknowledged the drunken shout with a casual wave and turned right at a muddy crossroads. From the dark mouth of an alley a heavyset man stumbled, wearing nothing but soiled breeches. He had the glassy, unfocused eyes of a Jeremite powder-smoker, and in his right hand was a serrated knife the length and width of Jean's forearm.

"Coin or suck," said the man, threads of saliva dangling down his chin. "Don't care which. Got needs. Give us a—"

If he was oblivious to the fact that he was facing eight opponents, he wasn't oblivious to Rask knocking his blade-hand aside and shoving him back into the alley by his neck. What happened next took only a few seconds; Jean heard a wet gurgle, and then Rask was stepping back out into the street, wiping one of his own knives on a rag. He threw this rag into the alley behind him, sheathed his knife and hooked his thumbs nonchalantly into his belt. Ezri and Drakasha didn't appear to think the incident worthy of comment and they strolled on, casual as temple-goers on Penance Day morning.

"Here we are," said Ezri as they reached the top of another small hill. A wide, half-paved square, its muddy sections crisscrossed by overlapping wagon tracks, was dominated by a fat two-storey building with a portico constructed around the chopped-off stern facing of an old ship. Time, weather and no doubt countless brawls had scuffed and chipped its elaborate scrollwork, but people could be seen drinking and revelling behind the second-storey windows, in what would have been the great cabin. Where the rudder had once been mounted was now a heavy double door, flanked by alchemical globes (the round, thick kind that were nearly impossible to break) in an approximation of stern lanterns.