Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"Don't kill us, sir," pleaded the captain of the little vessel, a skinny man of about thirty with the tan of a lifelong mariner. "We ain't even from Tal Verrar, just calling so our charter can—"

"You are interrupting critical hydrographic experiments," shouted the blue-robed man, attempting to rise to his feet. He was shoved back down by a squad of leering Orchids. "This information is vital to the interest of all mariners! You cut your own throat if you—" "What the hell's a critical hydrographic experiment, old man?" "By examining sea-floor composition—" "Sea-floor composition? Can I eat that? Can I spend it? Can I take it back to my cabin and fuck it sideways?" "No and no and most certainly no!" "Right," said Locke. "Toss this fucker over the side." "You ignorant bastards! You hypocritical apes! Let go— Let go of me!" Locke was pleased to see Jean stepping in to perform the duty of heaving the robed scholar off the deck; not only would the man be scared witless, but Jean would control the situation precisely to keep him from actually getting hurt.

"Oh, please, sir, don't do that," said the Pilchard's captain. "Master Donatti's harmless, sir, please—"

"Look," said Locke, "is everyone on this tub an idiot besides me? Why would I sully the soles of my boots with a visit to this embarrassment unless you had something I wanted?" "The, um, hydrographic experiments?" asked the captain. "MONEY!" Locke seized him by the front of his tunic and heaved him to his feet. "I want every valuable, every drinkable, every consumable this overgrown dinghy has to offer, or you can watch the old bastard drown! How's that for a hydrographic experiment}"

They didn't clear such a bad haul for such a little ship; obviously, Donatti had paid well to be carried around for his experiments and been unwilling to sail without many of the comforts of home. A boat laden with liquors, fine tobacco, silk pillows, books, artificers" instruments, alchemical drugs and bags of silver coins was soon sent back to the Orchid, while "Ravelle's" pirates finished sabotaging the little ship.

"Rudder lines disabled, sir," said Jean about half an hour after thed'r boarded.

"Halliards cut, braces cut," shouted Delmastro, plainly enjoying her role as an ordinary buccaneer for this attack. She strolled along the larboard rail with a hatchet, chopping things seemingly at whim. "Whatever the hell that was, cut!"

"Sir, please," begged the captain, "that'll take ages to fix, you got all the valuables already—"

"I don't want you to die out here," said Locke, yawning in feigned boredom at the captain's pleas. "I just want to have a few quiet hours before this news gets back to Tal Verrar."

"Oh, sir, we'll do what you ask. Whatever you want; we won't tell no one—"

"Please," said Locke. "Cling to some dignity, Master Pilchard. I want you to talk about this. All over the place. Use it to leverage sympathy from whores. Maybe get a few free drinks in taverns. Most importantly, repeat my name. Orrin Ravelle." "O-orrin Ravelle, sir."

"Captain Orrin Ravelle," said Locke, drawing a dagger and placing it against the captain's throat. "Of the good ship Tal Verrar is Fuckedl You stop in and let them know I'm in the neighbourhood!" "I, uh, I will, sir."

"Good." Locke dropped the man back to the deck and stowed his dagger. "Then let's call it quits. You can have your amusing little toy ship back now."

Locke and Jean met briefly at the stern before boarding the last boat back to the Orchid. "Gods," said Jean, "the Archon is going to love this."

"Well, we didn't He to him, did we? We promised pirate attacks at every compass point. We just didn't say thed'r all feature Zamira as the major attraction." Locke blew a kiss to the city, spread across the northern horizon. "Happy Festa, Protector."

"If there's one thing I never particularly need to do again in my life," said Locke, "it's dangle here all day painting this bloody ship's arse."

At the third hour of the afternoon the next day, Locke and Jean were hanging from crude rope swings secured to the Poison Orchid's taffrail. Now that last night's hasty coat of dark paint had forever blotted out the Chimera, they were laboriously christening the ship with a new moniker, Delight. Their hands and tunics were spattered with thick silver gobs.

They had progressed as far as "Delig", and Paolo and Cosetta were making faces at them through the stern windows of Zamira's cabin.

"I think piracy's a bit like drinking," said Jean. "You want to stay out all night doing it, you pay the price the next day."

The Orchid had turned north that morning a comfortable forty or fifty miles west of the city; Drakasha had cleared the area of their Pilchard raid with haste and decided to spend the day at a remove, brushing up her old wooden girl's new disguise. Or, more accurately, turning that duty over to Locke and Jean.

They finally managed to put the "light" into Delight around the fourth hour of the afternoon. Thirsty and sun-baked, they were hauled up to the quarterdeck by Delmastro, Drakasha and Nasreen. After thed'r gulped down proffered mugs of lukewarm pinkwater, Drakasha beckoned for them to follow her down to her cabin.

"Last night was well done," she said. "Well done and nicely confusing. I don't doubt the Archon will be rather vexed."

"I'd pay something to be a fly on a tavern wall in Tal Verrar these next few days," said Locke. "But it's also given me a thought, on our general strategy." "Which is?"

"You told me that the captain and crew of the ketch weren't Verrari — that will curb some of the impact of their story. There'll be questions about their reliability. Ignorant rumours and mutterings." "Right…"

"So what we've just done will fester," said Zamira. "It will cause comment, speculation and a great deal of aggravation to Stragos, but it won't cause a panic, or have the Verrari rioting in the streets for his intercession. In a way, as our first bit of piracy on his behalf, it's a bit of a botch job." "You wound our professional pride," said Jean.

"And my own! But consider this… perhaps what we need is a string of similarly botched jobs."

"This sounds like it's going to have a very entertaining explanation," said Locke.

"Del told me this afternoon that you two are pinning your hopes for a solution on Stragos's personal alchemist; that you can somehow secure his assistance by making him a private offer."

"That's true enough," said Locke. "It's one of the aspects of last night's visit to the Mon Magisteria that didn't go very well."

"So obviously what we need to do," said Drakasha, "is give you another chance to make this alchemist's acquaintance. Another plausible reason to visit the Mon Magisteria, soon. Good little servants, eager to hear their master's opinion on how their work is progressing."

"Ahhh," said Locke. "And if he's looking to shout at us, we can be sure he'll at least let us in for a chat." "Exactly. So. What we need to do… is something colourful. Some— thing striking, something that is undeniably a sincere example of our best efforts on Stragos's behalf. But… it can't threaten Tal Verrar directly. Not to the point that Stragos would feel it a useful step in his intended direction."

"Hmmm," said Jean. "Striking. Colourful. Non-threatening. I'm not entirely sure these concepts blend well with the piratical life."

"Kosta," said Drakasha, "you're staring at me very strangely. Do you have an idea, or did I leave you out in the sun for too long today?"

"Striking, colourful and not threatening Tal Verrar directly* Locke whispered. "Gods! Captain Drakasha, you would so honour me if you would consent to one humble suggestion …"

Mount Azar was quiet this morning, the twenty-fifth of Aurim, and the sky above Salon Corbeau was blue as a river's depths, unmarked by the old volcano's grey smoke. It was another mild winter on the northern Brass Coast, in a climate more reliable than Verrari clockwork.