Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"Was it absolutely necessary to sack Salon Corbeau so thoroughly?" said Stragos.

Locke and Jean were seated in the Archon's office, surrounded by the faint, shadowy flutterings of his thousand mechanical insects. It might just have been a trick of the low-lit room, but it looked to Locke as if the lines on Stragos's face had deepened in the days since he'd last seen him.

"It was loads of fun. You have some particular attachment to the place?"

"Not for my own sake, Lamora — it's just that I had the clear impression that you were going to focus your activities on shipping in the vicinity of Tal Verrar." "Salon Corbeau is generally considered to be in the vicinity of—" "Is it a ship, Lamora?" "There were ships in the harbour—"

"I have the gods-damned numbers here, from my agents," said Stragos. He stabbed at a piece of parchment with two fingers. "Two feluccas sunk. Forty-six yachts, pleasure-barges and smaller craft burned or sunk. One hundred and eighteen slaves stolen. Nineteen of Countess Saljesca's private guard slain, sixteen wounded. The vast majority of Salon Corbeau's residences and guest villas burned, the gardens all but destroyed. Her replica stadium gutted. Miscellaneous damages and losses exceeding ninety-five thousand solari at a first estimate. About the only things you missed were a few shops and Lady Saljesca's residence itself!"

Locke smirked. That had been by design; after Saljesca's most important guests had fled to her fortress-like manor and barricaded themselves inside with her remaining soldiers, attacking the manor would have been fruitless; the Orchids would have been slaughtered beneath the walls. But with their only opposition bottled up atop the valley, Drakasha's crew had been free to run amok for more than an hour, looting and burning the valley at leisure. Thed'r lost only four crewfolk in the attack.

As for the shops, well — Locke had specifically requested that the area surrounding the Baumondain family business be left alone.

"We didn't have time to hit everything," he said. "And now that Salon Corbeau's more or less ruined, some of those artisans might see fit to settle in Tal Verrar. Safer down here, with you and your military around, right?"

"How can you spend your time executing a raid like that so efficiently," said Stragos, "when your efforts toward my primary design are so perfunctory?" "I object—"

"One attack by Orrin Ravelle — thank you for that, by the way — the night of the Festa, against an Iridani ketch hired by a mad eccentric. Two more reported attacks, both in the vicinity of Salon Corbeau, one by Ravelle and one by the unknown "Captain de la Mastron". Does Drakasha fear to take credit for her own work?"

"We're trying to create the impression of multiple pirates at work—"

"What you are trying is my patience. You have stolen no major cargoes, burned no ships at sea, nor even murdered any crewfolk. You content yourselves with money and portable valuables, you humiliate and frighten your prisoners, you do little more than vandalize their vessels and then you vanish."

"We can't weigh ourselves down with heavier cargo; we've got a lot of roaming to do."

"It seems to me that you have a fair bit of killing to do," said Stragos. "The city is more bemused now than concerned; I continue to suffer in the public eye for the Ravelle affair, but few fear that this spree of… hooliganism truly bodes ill for Verrari trade.

"Even the sack of Salon Corbeau has failed to arouse anxiety. Your recent attacks give the impression that you now fear to approach the city again; that these waters remain safe." Stragos glared before continuing. "Were I purchasing goods from a tradesman, at the moment I would not be well pleased with their quality." "The difference, of course," said Locke, "is that when I get fitted for, say, new jackets, I don't poison my tailor until he has the length of the sleeves right—"

"My life and fortunes are at stake," said Stragos, rising from his chair. "And so are yours, dependent upon your success. I require butchers, not jesters. Take ships within sight of my city's walls. Put their crews to the sword. Take their cargo or burn it — the time has come to be serious. That and that alone will stir this city to its foundations.

"Do not return," he said, emphasizing every word, "until you have spilled blood in these waters. Until you have become a scourge." "So be it," said Locke. "Another sip of our antidote—" "No." "If you wish us to work with absolute confidence—"

"You will keep," said Stragos, "like pickled eggs in a jar. it has been less than two weeks since your last dose. You are in no danger for six more."

"But— Wait, Archon." Jean interrupted him as he was turning to leave. "One thing more. When we came to this city on the night of the Festa, we were attacked again." Stragos's eyes narrowed. "The same assassins as before?"

"If you mean the same mystery, yes, we think so," said Jean. "Some lurked in wait for us at the docks after we visited Requin. If they received a tip-off concerning our presence in the city, they moved damned fast."

"And the only place we went," added Locke, "before visiting the Golden Steps was here."

"My people had nothing to do with it," said Stragos. "Indeed, this is the first I have heard of the matter." "We left four dead behind us," said Jean.

"Unremarkable. The constables found nearly thirty bodies throughout the city after the Festa; there are always arguments and robberies to supply them." Stragos sighed. "Obviously, this is nothing of my doing, and I have nothing more to tell you on the matter. I presume you'll be returning straight to your ship when you leave." "At speed," said Locke. "Staying as far from the islands as we can."

"The complications of some previous malfeasance have come back to ensnare you," said Stragos. "Now leave. No more antidote and no more consultation. You extend your lease on fair health again only once you send panicked merchants to my gates, begging for help because death lurks beyond these harbours. Go now and do your job." He whirled and left without a further word. A moment later a squad of Eyes marched in through the main door and waited expectantly. "Well, damn," muttered Jean.

"We'll get the bastard," said Ezri as they lay together in her cabin that night. The Poison Orchid, now calling itself the Mercurial, was treading heavy seas about twenty miles south-west of Tal Verrar, and the two of them clung to one another as they rocked back and forth in the hammock.

"With difficulty," said Jean. "He won't see us now until we do some serious work on his behalf… and if we do that, we might push things to the point where he no longer needs us. We'll get a knife rather than an antidote. Or… if it comes to that, he'll get the knife—" "Jean, I don't want to hear that," she said. "Don't talk about it." "It's got to be faced, love—"

"I don't believe it," she said. "I don't. There's always a way to attack or a way to escape. That's the way it is out here." She rolled over on top of him and kissed him. "I told you not to give up, Jean Tannen, and the thing about me is I get my way." "Gods," whispered Jean, "how did I ever live before I met you?"

"Sadly, poorly, miserably," she said. "I make everything so much better. It's why the gods put me here. Now stop moping and tell me something pleasant!" "Something pleasant?"

"Yeah, slackwit, I" ve heard that other lovers sometimes tell one another pleasant things when they're alone—" "Yes, but with you it's sort of on pain of death, isn't it?" "It could be. Let me find a sabre—"

"Ezri," he said with sudden seriousness. "Look — when this is over, Stragos and all, Leocanto and I might be… very rich men. If our other business in Tal Verrar goes well." "Not if," she said. "When."