Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"The Tattered Crimson," Ezri continued. "It's either the heart of Port Prodigal or the arsehole, depending on your perspective."

To the left of the entryway was a ship's longboat, mounted to the building by heavy wooden struts and iron chains. A few human arms and legs were sticking out of it. As Jean watched, the doors to the Tattered Crimson slammed outward and a pair of brutes emerged, carrying a limp old man between them. Without ceremony or pity, they heaved him into the boat, where his arrival caused some incoherent shouting and flailing of limbs.

"Now watch your step," said Ezri, grinning. "Get too drunk to stand and they throw you overboard. Some nights there's ten or twenty people piled up in that boat."

A moment later Jean was squeezing past those brutes into the familiar smells of a busy tavern at an hour closer to dawn than dinner. Sweat, scalded meat, puke, blood, smoke and a dozen kinds of bad ale and wine: the bouquet of civilized nightlife.

The place looked to be constructed for a clientele that would be waging war not just on one another but on the bar and pantry. The bar itself, at the far side of the room, was enclosed from countertop to ceiling by iron panels, leaving only three narrow windows through which the staff could serve drinks and food like archers letting fly from murder-holes.

There were only floor-tables down here, in the Jereshti fashion: low surfaces around which men and women sat, knelt or lay on scuffed cushions. In the cavelike fug of the dimly lit room, they played cards and dice, smoked, drank, arm-wrestled, argued and tried to laugh off the attention of the prowling heavies who were obviously looking for candidates to toss into the boat outside.

Conversation wavered as Drakasha's party appeared; cries of "Orchids!" and "Zamira" s back!" could be heard. Drakasha nodded to the room at large and slowly turned her gaze up to the second floor.

Stairs led up on either side of the common room; at the sides, the second floor was little more than a railed walkway. Above the bar and the entry, it expanded into wider balconies with Therin-style tables and chairs. Jean presumed that the "high table" was the one he'd glimpsed from the outside. A moment later Drakasha began to move toward the stairs that led in that very direction.

A sudden current of excitement rose in the air; too many conversations halted absolutely, too many eyes followed their passage. Jean cracked his knuckles and prepared himself for things to get interesting.

Atop those stairs was a railed alcove backed by the windows overlooking the darkened square from which thed'r just come. Red silk banners hung in niches with alchemical globes behind them, giving off a low, vaguely ominous rose-tinted light. Two wide tables had been pushed together to accommodate a party of twelve, all clearly sailors and toughs much, Jean realized to his own amusement, like themselves.

"Zamira Drakasha," said the woman at the head of the table, rising from her chair. She was young, roughly Jean's own age, with the sun-browned skin and faint lines edging her eyes that told of years spent on the water. Her sand-coloured hair was drawn back into three tails, and though shorter than Zamira she looked to outweigh her by about two stone. Tough and round, this one, with a well-worn sabre hilt visible at her belt.

"Ranee," said Drakasha, "Chay. It's been a long night, love, and you know full well you're sitting at my table."

"That's damn peculiar. It's got our drinks on top of it, and our arses in its chairs. You think it's yours, maybe you should take it with you when you're out of town."

"When I'm away on my business, you mean. Fighting my ship, flying the red flag. You know where the sea is, right? You" ve seen other captains coming and going—"

"I don't have to break myself month in and month out, Drakasha. I just pick richer targets in the first place."

"You're not hearing me, Chay. I really don't care what sort of dog gnaws bones at my place when I'm gone," said Drakasha, "but when I come back I expect her to crawl under the table where she belongs."

Ranee's people exploded out of their chairs and Chay raised a hand, grinning fiercely. "Pull steel, you dusty cunt, and I'll kill you fair in front of witnesses. Then the Maintainers can haul your crew back to the docks for brawling and Ezri here can see how your brats like the taste of her tits—" "Show your hand, Ranee. You think you're fit to keep this spot?" "Name the test and I'll leave you weeping."

"We're going to have the house brutes on us—" Jean whispered to Ezri.

"No," she said, waving him to silence. "Calling out isn't like plain brawling. Especially not between captains."

"For the table," shouted Drakasha, reaching for a half-empty bottle, "all the Crimson as our witness, the contest is drinks. First on her arse takes her sorry crew and moves down to the floor."

"I was hoping for something that" d take longer than ten minutes," said Ranee, "but I accept. You be my guest with that bottle."

Zamira looked around, then snatched two small clay cups of equal size from places previously occupied by Ranee's crewfolk. She tossed their contents onto the tabletop, then refilled them from the bottle. It was white Kodari brandy, Jean saw, rough as turpentine, packing quite a sting. Ranee's crew backed up against the windows, and Ranee herself came around the table to stand beside Zamira. She lifted one of the cups.

"One thing," said Zamira. "You're gonna take your first drink Syrune-fashion." "What the hell's that?"

"Means you drink it through your fucking eyes." Drakasha's left arm was a blur as she whipped her own cup from the tabletop and dashed its contents into Ranee's face. Before Ranee could even scream, Drakasha's right arm came up just as fast. Her gloved fist, rings and all, met Ranee's jaw with the sound of a cracking whip, and the younger woman hit the floor so hard the cups atop the table rattled.

"Are you on your arse down there, love, or is that your head? Anybody think there's a difference?" Drakasha stood over Ranee and slowly tipped the contents of the second clay cup into her own mouth. She swallowed it all without flinching and tossed the cup over her shoulder. "You said it was gonna be—"

Before Ranee's angry crewman, probably her first mate, could finish his protest, Locke stepped forward with his hand upraised.

"Zamira kept her oath. The test was a drink, and your captain's on her arse." "But—"

"Your captain should" ve had the wit to be more specific," said Locke, "and she lost. You going to take her oath backer her?" The man grabbed Locke by the front of his tunic. The two of them scuffled briefly and Jean darted forward, but before the situation went to hell Ranee's sailor was hauled back, grudgingly but firmly, by his friends. "Who the hell are you, anyway?" he shouted. "Orrin Ravelle," said Locke. "Never fucking heard of you."

"I think you'll remember me, though." Locke dangled a small leather pouch in front of the man. "Got your purse, prickless." "You motherfu—" Locke gave the purse a hard toss backward, and it landed somewhere down among the hundred or so patrons watching the action on the balcony with eyes wide and mouths open.

"Oops," said Locke, "but I'm sure you can rely on all the upstanding folks down there to keep it safe for you."

"Enough!" Zamira reached down, grabbed Ranee by the collar and hoisted her to a sitting position. "Your captain called it and your captain lost. Is she your captain?" "Yes," said the man, scowling.

"Then keep her oath." Zamira dragged Ranee to the head of the stairs and knelt in front of her. "Not such a very regal bitch after all, eh, Chay?"

Ranee reared back to spit blood in Drakasha's face, but the older captain's slap was faster and the blood spewed out across the stairs.