Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"New swells coming in," said Zoran, chief dock attendant of the morning watch.

"I don't see any more waves than what we already got." Giatti, his more junior counterpart, stared earnestly across the harbour.

"Not swells, you idiot, swells. Gentlefolk. The landed and larded class." Zoran adjusted his olive-green tabard and brushed it clean, wishing that he didn't have to wear Lady Saljesca's damned felt hat. It made him look taller, but it generated sweat without keeping it out of his eyes.

Beyond the natural rock walls of Salon Corbeau's harbour, a stately brig, a two-master with a dark witchwood hull, had just joined the two Lashani feluccas at anchor in the gentle sea. A longboat was coming in from the new arrival: four or five of the quality rowed by a dozen oarsmen.

As the longboat pulled up alongside the dock, Giatti bent down and began uncoiling a rope from one of the dock pilings. When the bow of the boat was secure, Zoran stepped to its side, bowed and extended his hand to the first young woman to rise from her seat.

"Welcome to Salon Corbeau," he said. "How are you styled, and how must you be announced?" The short young woman, unusually muscular for someone of her station, smiled prettily as she took Zoran's hand. She wore a forest-green jacket over a matching set of frilled skirts; the colour set her curly chestnut hair off rather well. She appeared to be wearing rather less make-up and jewellery than might be expected, however. A poorer relative of whoever owned the ship?

"Forgive me, madam, but I must know whom I'm announcing." She stepped safely onto the dock, and he released his grip on her hand. To his surprise, she didn't release hers, and in one smooth motion she was up against him with the menacing weight of a blackened-steel dagger touching the crook of his thigh. He gasped.

"Heavily armed pirates, party of ninety-eight," the woman said. "Scream or fight back and you're going to be one surprised eunuch."

"Stay calm," said Delmastro as Locke led Jean, Streva, Jabril and Big Konar up onto the dock. "We're all friends here. Just a wealthy family coming up for a visit to your lovely little village. City. Thing." She kept her knife between herself and the older dock attendant so that there was no chance of anyone seeing it from more than a few feet away. Konar took the younger dock attendant, placing one arm around his shoulder as though they knew each other, and muttered something into his ear that made the colour drain from the poor fellow's face.

Slowly, carefully, the Orchids all made their way onto the dock. At the heart of the group, those wearing layers of fine clothing tried not to make too much noise, laden down as they were with an arsenal of clattering weapons beneath their cloaks and skirts. It had been too much to suppose that the dock attendants wouldn't notice sabres and hatchets in the belts of the rowers. "Here we are, then," said Locke. "Looks like a nice place," said Jean.

"Looks are most assuredly deceiving. Now we just wait for the captain to get things started."

"Excuse me? Excuse me, sir?"

Zamira Drakasha, alone in the Orchid's smallest boat, stared up at the bored-looking guard behind the ornamented gunwale of the yacht closest to her ship. That yacht, about fifteen yards long, had a single mast and banks of four oars per side. Those oars were locked upward now, poised like the wings of a stuffed and mounted bird. Just abaft the mast was a tent-like pavilion with faintly fluttering silk walls. This tent was between the guard and the mainland.

The guard peered down at her, squinting. Zamira was wearing a thick, shapeless yellow dress that was almost a robe. She'd left her hat in her cabin and pulled the bangles from her wrists and the ribbons from her hair. "What do you want?"

"My mistress has left me to tend to chores on her ship, while she takes her pleasure ashore," said Zamira. "I have several heavy things to move, and I was wondering if I could beg for your help." "You want me to come over there and be a mule for you?" "It would be so kind of you." "And, ah, what are you prepared to do in exchange?"

"Why, offer my heartfelt thanks to the gods for your goodness," said Zamira, "or perhaps I could brew you some tea?" "You have a cabin over there?" "Yes, by the kindness of my mistress—"

"A few minutes alone with you and that mouth of yours, and I'd be happy to move your shit for you." "How… how inappropriate1. My mistress will—" "Who" s your mistress, then?" "The Lady-in-Becoming Ezriane de la Mastron, of Nicora—"

"Nicora? Ha! As if anyone would give a shit. Get lost." The guard turned away, chuckling to himself. "Ah," said Zamira. "So be it. I know when I'm not wanted."

She reached forward and moved the dun-coloured tarpaulin on the bottom of the boat, just ahead of her feet. Beneath it was the heaviest crossbow in the Poison Orchid's arsenal, carrying a barbed steel bolt the length of her upper arm. "And I simply do not care.""

The guard was no doubt flustered by the sudden emergence, two seconds later, of a crossbow quarrel's point from his sternum. Zamira wondered if he had time to speculate on the location of the rest of the bolt before he collapsed, the upper and lower halves of his spine no longer on speaking terms. Zamira pulled the yellow dress up and over her head, then tossed it into the stern of the boat. Beneath it she wore her Elderglass vest, light tunic and breeches, boots and a pair of slender leather bracers. Her sword-belt was at her waist, empty; she reached beneath her rowing bench, pulled out her sabres and slid them into their scabbards. She rowed her little boat up against the yacht's side and waved to Nasreen, who stood at the Orchid's bow. Two crewfolk climbed over the brig's side and dived into the water.

The swimmers were alongside a minute later. Zamira helped them out of the water and sent them forward to man one of the sets of oars. She then pulled the pins to release the yacht's anchor chains; no sense in wasting time hoisting it up. With her two sailors rowing and Zamira manning the rudder, it took just a few minutes to shift the yacht behind the Poison Orchid.

Her crew began to come quietly down onto the yacht, armed and armoured, looking completely incongruous as they squeezed themselves onto the fragile, scrollwork-covered vessel. Zamira counted forty-two before she felt the boat could take no more; crewfolk were crouched on deck, stuffed into the cabin and manning all the oars. This would do: nearly two-thirds of her crew on shore to handle the main attack, and the other third on the Orchid to hit the vessels in the harbour.

She waved at Utgar, who would be in charge of that last duty. He grinned and left the entry port to begin his final preparations.

Zamira's rowers brought the yacht out and around the Orchid; they turned to larboard just past her stern and pointed themselves straight toward the beach. Beyond that the buildings and tiered gardens of the rich little valley could be seen, laid out neat as food before a banquet. "Who brought the finishing touch?" Zamira asked.

One of her crewmen unfolded a red silk banner and began securing it to the ensign-halyard dangling from the yacht's mast.

"Right, then." Zamira knelt at the bow of the yacht and gave her sword-belt a habitual adjustment. "Oars, with a will! Put us on that beach!"

As the yacht surged forward across the temporarily calm waters of the bay, Zamira noticed a few small figures atop the nearby cliffs finally taking alarm. One or two of them ran toward the city; it looked as though thed'r arrive about the same time Zamira expected to feel the sand of the beach beneath her boots. "That's it," she shouted, "send up the red and let's have some music!"

As the scarlet banner shot up the halyard and caught the wind, every Orchid on the yacht let loose with a wild, wordless howl. Their yells echoed throughout the harbour, the disguised Orchids at the dock began seizing weapons, every visible person on the cliffs was now fleeing for the city and Zamira's sabres flashed in the sunlight as she drew them for action. It was the very definition of a beautiful morning.