Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

Around the second hour of the afternoon, just as the rain was abating and the sun burning through the clouds above, the Red Messenger appeared out of the Trader's Gate Passage and dropped anchor beside the Orchid. Nasreen, Gwillem and the prize crew came back aboard, along with several of the ex-Messengers who'd recovered enough to move around.

"What the hell is he doing here?" one of them hollered when he saw Locke.

"Come with me," said Jabril, putting an arm around the man's shoulder. "Nothin" I can't explain. And while I'm at it, I'll tell you about a thing called the scrub watch…" Scholar Treganne ordered a boat lowered so she could visit the Messenger and examine the injured still aboard her. Locke helped hoist the smallest boat down, and while he was doing so Treganne crossed paths with Gwillem at the entry port.

"We've traded cabins," she said gruffly. "I" ve got your old compartment, and you can have mine." "What? What? Why}" "You'll find out soon enough."

Before the Vadran could ask any more questions, Treganne had clambered over the side and Zamira had taken him by the arm. "What sort of bid will the Shipbreaker open with for her?" "Two silvers and a cup of cowpox scabs," said Gwillem. "Yes, but what can I reasonably talk him up to?"

"Eleven or twelve hundred solari. He's going to need two new topgallant masts, as the fore was sprung as well. It just didn't come down. New yards, some new sails. She's had work done recently, and that's a help, but a look at her timbers will show her age. She's got maybe ten years of use left in her."

"Captain Drakasha," said Locke, stepping up beside Gwillem. "If I may be so bold—" "This scheme you were talking about, Ravelle?"

"I'm sure I can squeeze at least a few hundred more solari out of him."

"Ravelle?" Gwillem frowned at him. "Ravelle, the former captain of the Red Messenger}"

"Delighted to meet you," said Locke, "and all I need to borrow, Captain, are some better clothes, a few leather satchels and a pile of coins." "What?"

"Relax. I'm not going to spend them. I just need them for show. And you" d better let me have Jerome as well."

"Captain," said Gwillem, "why is Orrin Ravelle alive and a member of the crew and asking you for money?" "Del!" hollered Drakasha. "Right here," she said, appearing a moment later.

"Del, take Gwillem aside and explain to him why Orrin Ravelle is alive and a member of the crew."

"But why is he asking you for money?" said Gwillem. Ezri grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away. "My people expect to be paid for the Messenger," said Drakasha. "I need to be sure that whatever you're scheming won't actually make things worse."

"Captain, in this matter I'd be acting as a member of your crew — lest you forget, I have a share of what we get for the Messenger, too."

"Hmmm." She looked around and tapped her fingers on the hilt of one of her sabres. "Better clothes, you say?"

The Shopbreaker's agents, primed by rumours from the night before, were swift to spot the new sail in Prodigal Bay. At the fifth hour of the afternoon, an ornate barge rowed by banks of slaves pulled alongside the Red Messenger.

Drakasha waited to receive the occupants of the barge with Delma-stro, Gwillem and two dozen armed crewfolk. First up the side was a squad of guards, men and women sweating beneath armour of boiled leather and chain. Once thed'r swept the deck with their eyes, a team of slaves leapt aboard and rigged lines to haul a hanging chair from barge to ship. Sweating furiously, they strained to heave this chair and its occupant up to the entry port.

The Shopbreaker was exactly as Drakasha remembered: an old, paper-skinned Therm so distended with fat that it looked as though he'd popped his seams, and his viscous flesh was pouring out into the world around him. His jowls ended somewhere below the middle of his neck, his fingers were like burst sausages and his wattles had so little firmament behind them that they quivered when he blinked. He managed to rise from his chair, with the help of a slave at either hand, but he didn't look remotely comfortable until another slave produced a wide lacquered shelf, a sort of portable table. This was set before him, and he heaved his massive belly atop it with a groan of relief.

"A limping brig," he said to no one in particular. "One t" gallant mast gone and the other one fit for firewood. Somewhat aged. A lady whose fading charms are ill-concealed by recent layers of paint and gilt. Oh. Forgive me, Zamira. I did not see you standing there."

"Whereas I felt the ship heel over the instant you came aboard," said Drakasha. "She was tough enough to pull through a summer's-end storm even in the hands of an incompetent. Her lines are clean, topgallant masts are cheap and she's sweeter by far than most of the heaps you haul to the east."

"Heaps procured for me by captains like yourself. Now, I'll want to peek under her breeches and see if she has any quim left to speak of. Then we can discuss the size of the favour I'll be doing you." "Pose all you like, old man. I'll have a fair price for a fair ship."

"Fair she is," said Leocanto Kosta (as Zamira had come to think of him), choosing that moment to emerge from his lurking place within the companionway. The OrchicFs little store of fine clothing had furnished him with a veneer of wealth. His mustard-brown coat had cloth-of-silver cuffs, his tunic was unstained silk, his breeches were passable and his shoes were polished. They were also large enough for a man of Jerome's build, but Kosta had stuffed them with rags to help them fit. One couldn't have everything.

A borrowed rapier hung from his belt, and several of Zamira's rings gleamed on his fingers. Behind him came Jerome, dressed as the Dutiful Manservant of Common Demeanour, carrying three heavy leather satchels over his shoulder. The speed with which thed'r assumed these roles led Zamira to infer thed'r used them elsewhere. "M" lord," said Drakasha, "have you finished your inspection?"

"I have. And, as I said, fair. Not excellent, but hardly a death trap. I can see fifteen years in her, with a bit of luck."

"Who the fuck might you be?" The Shopbreaker regarded Kosta with eyes like a bird suddenly confronted by a rival's beak just as it's about to seize a worm. "Tavrin Callas," said Kosta. "Lashain." "A peer?" asked the Shopbreaker. "Of the Third. You don't need to use my title." "Nor will I. Why are you sniffing around this ship?"

"Your skull must be softer than your belly. I'm angling to buy her from Captain Drakasha." "/ am the one who buys ships in Prodigal Bay."

"By what, the writ of the gods? I'm in funds and that's all that signifies." "Your funds won't help you swim, boy—"

^Enough] said Drakasha. "Until one of you pays for it, this is my ship you're standing on." "You're very far from home, pup, and you cross me at your—"

"You want this ship, you pay full weight of metal for it." Drakasha seethed, her irritation genuine. The Shopbreaker was powerful and useful, but in a contest of sheer force any Brass Sea captain could crush him beneath their heel. Lack of competition led him to presume too much upon the patience of others. "If Lord Callas tenders the best offer, I'll take it from him. Are we through being foolish?" "I'm prepared to buy my ship," said Kosta.

"Now hold it, Captain," said Delmastro on cue. "We know the Ship-breaker can pay. But we've yet to see the lordship's coin."

"Del's right," said Drakasha. "We use letters of credit to wipe our arses down here, Lord Callas. You" d best have something heavy in those bags."

"Of course," said Kosta, snapping his fingers. Jerome stepped forward and dropped one satchel on the deck at Drakasha's feet. It landed with a jangling clink.

"Gwillem," she said, motioning him forward. He crouched over the satchel, unbound its clasps and revealed a pile of gold coins— in actuality, a combination of Zamira's ship's purse and the funds Leocanto and Jerome had brought to sea. Gwillem lifted one, held it up to the sunlight, scratched it and bit it. He nodded. "The real thing, Captain. Tal Verrar solari."