Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"Two things," said Zamira. "First, I'm calling the council for tomorrow. I'll expect to see you there at the usual place and time. Nod your silly head." Ranee nodded, slowly.

"Second, I don't have brats. I have a daughter and a son. And if you ever forget that again, I'll carve your fucking bones into toys for them."

With that, she heaved Ranee down the stairs. By the time she landed in a heap at the bottom, her chagrined crew was hurrying after her, under the triumphant stares of Drakasha's party. "See you around… Orrin Ravelle," said the purseless sailor.

"Valterro," said Zamira sternly, "this was all business. Don't make it personal."

The man looked no happier, but he moved off with the rest of Ranee's crew.

"That bit about your children sounded very personal," whispered Jean.

"So I'm a hypocrite," muttered Drakasha. "You want to protest, you can take a drink Syrune-fashion." Zamira moved to the rail overlooking the main floor and raised her voice to a shout. "Zacorin! You hiding down there somewhere?"

"Hiding's the word, Drakasha," came a voice from behind the windows of the armoured bar. "War over yet?"

"If you" ve got a cask of anything that doesn't taste like pig sweat, send it up. And some meat. And Ranee's bill. Poor dear needs all the help she can get."

There was an outbreak of laughter across the floor. Ranee's crew, carrying her out by her arms and legs, didn't look even vaguely amused.

"So that's that," said Zamira, settling into the chair Ranee had just vacated. "Make yourselves comfortable. Welcome to the high table at the Tattered Crimson."

"Well," said Jean as he took a seat between Locke and Ezri, "did that go as you hoped?" "Oh yeah." She smirked at Drakasha. "Yeah, I'd say our flag is flown.""

They did their best to look relaxed and amused for the better part of an hour, helping themselves to the Crimson's mediocre dark ale and all the better liquors Ranee's crew had left behind. Grease-blanketed duck was the dish of the evening; most of them treated it as decoration, but Rask and Konar gradually brutalized it down to a pile of bones. "So what do we do now?" asked Locke.

"Word'll go out to all the usual vultures that we're back in," said Drakasha. "Less than a day or two and they'll be courting us. Liquor and rations will go first; always easiest to sell. Nautical spares and stores we keep for ourselves. As for the silks and finer things, those independent traders moored at the Hospital docks are our friends in that regard. They'll try to clean us out for fifteen to twenty per cent of market value. Good enough for us, then they haul it back across the sea and sell it at full price with innocent smiles on their faces." "What about the Messenger?"

"When she shows up, the Shopbreaker will pay us a visit. He'll offer us piss in a clay bowl and we'll talk him up to piss in a wooden jug. Then she's his problem. She's worth maybe six thousand solari with her rigging intact; I'll be lucky to take him for anything near two. His crew will sail her east and sell her to some eager merchant for about four, undercutting his competition and carving a fat profit at the same time."

"Hell," said Lieutenant Delmastro, "some of the ships on the Sea of Brass routes have been taken and resold three or four times."

"This Shipbreaker," said Locke, feeling a scheme in the birthing, "I take it the fact that his trade is also his name means he doesn't have any competitors?" "All dead," said Delmastro. "The ugly and publicly instructive way."

"Captain," said Locke, "how long will all of this take? It's nearly the end of the month, and—"

"I'm well aware of what day it is, Ravelle. It takes as long as it takes. Maybe three days, maybe seven or eight. While we're here everyone on the crew gets at least one chance at a day and night ashore, too." "I—"

"I haven't forgotten the matter you're concerned about," Drakasha said. "I'll bring it to the council tomorrow. After that, we'll see."

"Matter?" Delmastro looked genuinely confused. Locke had been half-expecting Jean to have told her by now, but apparently thed'r been spending their private time in a wiser and more diverting fashion.

"You'll find out tomorrow, Del. After all, you'll be at the council with me. No more on the subject, Ravelle."

"Right." Locke sipped beer and held up a finger. "Something else, then. Let me request a few things of you in private before this Ship-breaker comes calling. Maybe I can help you squeeze a higher price out of the fellow."

"He's not a fellow," said Drakasha. "He's as slippery as a pus-dipped turd and about as pleasant."

"So much the better. Think on Master Nera; at least let me make the attempt." "No promises," said Zamira. "I'll hear you, at least."

"Orchids," boomed a deep-voiced man as he appeared at the top of the stairs. "Captain Drakasha! You know they're still pulling Ranee's teeth out of the walls downstairs?"

"Ranee fell ill with a sudden bout of discourtesy," said Zamira. "Then she just fell. Hello, Captain Rodanov."

Rodanov was one of the largest men Locke had ever seen; he must have been just shy of seven feet tall. He was about Zamira's age, and somewhat round in the belly. But his long, muscle-corded arms looked as though thed'r be about right for strangling bears, and the fact that he didn't deign to carry a weapon said much. His face was long and heavy-jawed, his pale hair receding, and his eyes were bright with the satisfied humour of a man who feels himself equal to the world. Locke had seen his type before, among the better garristas of Camorr, but none so towering; even Big Konar could only outdo him in girth.

Incongruously, his huge hands were wrapped around a pair of delicate wine bottles made of sapphire-coloured glass with silver ribbons below their corks. "I took a hundred bottles of last year's Lashani Blue out of a galleon a few months ago. I saved a few because I know you have a taste for it. Welcome back."

"Welcome to the table, Captain." At Drakasha's gesture, Ezri, Jean, Locke and Konar shuffled one chair to the left, leaving the chair next to Zamira open. Jaffrim settled into it and passed her the wine bottles. When she offered her right hand he kissed it, then stuck out his tongue.

"Mmm," he said, "I always wondered what Chavon would taste like." He helped himself to a discarded cup as Zamira laughed. "Who" s closest to the ale cask?" "Allow me," said Locke.

"Most of you I" ve met," said Rodanov. "Rask, of course, I'm shocked as hell you're still alive. Dantierre, Konar, good to see you. Malakasti, love, what's Zamira got that I haven't? Wait, I'm not sure I want to know. And you." He slipped an arm around Lieutenant Delmastro and gave her a squeeze. "I didn't know Zamira still let children run free on deck. When are you going to reach your growth?"

"I grew in all the right directions." She grinned and feigned a punch to his stomach. "You know, the only reason people think your ship's a three-master is because you're always standing on the quarterdeck."

"If I take my breeches off," said Rodanov, "it suddenly looks as though she's got four."

"We might believe that if we hadn't seen enough naked Vadrans to know better," said Drakasha.

"Well, Vm no shame to the old country," said Rodanov as Locke passed him a cup full of beer. "And I see you" ve been picking up new faces."

"Here and there. Orrin Ravelle, Jerome Valora. This is Jaffrim Rodanov, captain of the Dread Sovereign."

"Your health and good fortune," said Rodanov, raising his cup. "May your foes be unarmed and your ale unspoiled."

"Foolish merchants and fine winds to chase them on," said Zamira, raising one of the wine bottles he'd given her. "Did you have a good sweep this time out?"

"Holds are fit to bust," said Drakasha. "And we pulled in a little brig, about a ninety-footer. Ought to be here by now, actually." "That the Red Messenger}" "How" d you—"