Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

The little boy nodded and Zamira kissed him on the forehead, burying her nose in his tangle of short, dark curls with her eyes closed.

"Oh, good," she said a moment later. "Because after that, Mummy needs to fetch her armour and her sabres. And then she needs to go and board that lying motherfucker's ship and sink it like a stone."

Jaffrim Rodanov was at the bow of his ship, the Poison Orchid steady in the centre of his glass, when she suddenly whirled to larboard and pointed herself at him like an arrow. Her mainsails shivered and began to vanish as Drakasha's crew hauled them up for battle.

"Ah," he said. "There we go, Zamira. Doing the only sensible thing at last."

Rodanov had dressed for a fight, as usual, in a leather coat reinforced with mail inset at the back and the lapels. The nicks and creases in the battered old thing were always a comfort to him; a reminder that people had been trying and failing to kill him for years.

On his hands he wore his favoured weapons, segmented blackened-steel gauntlets. In the confusion of a close melee, they could catch blades and crack skulls with equal aplomb. For the less personal work of actually forcing his way aboard the Orchid, he leaned on a waist-high iron-studded club. He folded his glass carefully and slipped it into a pocket, resolving to return it to the binnacle before the fight began. Not like the last time. "Orders, Captain?"

Ydrena waited on the forecastle stairs, her own curved sword sheathed on her back, with the majority of his crew ready behind her.

"She's for us," boomed Rodanov. "I know this doesn't come easy, but Drakasha's raiding in Verrari waters. She'll call down hell on the life we all enjoy — unless we stop her now.

"Form up to starboard, as we planned. Shields up front. Crossbows behind. Remember, one volley, then throw "em down and pull steel. Boat crews, over the starboard side once we're locked with the Orchid. Grapples ready at the waist and bow. Helm! You have your orders — make it perfect or pray you die in the fight.

"This day will be red! Drakasha is a foe to be reckoned with. But what are we, over all the winds and waters of the Sea of Brass?" "SOVEREIGN!" the crew shouted as one. "Who are we, never boarded and never beaten?" "SOVEREIGN!"

"What do our enemies scream when they speak the name of their doom at the judgment of the gods?" "SOVEREIGN!"

"We are!" He waved his club above his head. "And we have some surprises for Zamira Drakasha! Bring the cages forward!"

Three teams of six sailors apiece brought canvas-covered cages to the forecastle deck. These cages had wooden carrying handles set well beyond their steel-mesh sides. They were about six feet long, and half as wide and high. "Nothing to eat since yesterday, right?" "No," said Ydrena.

"Good." Rodanov double-checked the sections of the starboard rail his carpenter had weakened so that one good shove would knock them over for about a ten-foot length. A blemish on his beloved Sovereign, but one that could be fixed easily enough later. "Set them down over here. And kick the cages. Let's get them riled up."

The two ships crashed through the waves toward one another, and for a second time Locke Lamora found himself about to get involved rather intimately in a battle at sea.

"Steady, Mum," called Drakasha, who stood peering out over the larboard quarterdeck rail. Locke and Jean waited nearby, armed with hatchets and sabres. Jean also had a pair of leather bracers liberated from the property of Basryn, who was nowhere to be seen since he alone had gone over the side with the small boat. My boat, Locke thought, somewhat bitterly.

For their "flying company", Locke and Jean had Malakasti, Jabril and Streva, as well as Gwillem. All save the latter had shields and spears; the timid-looking quartermaster wore a leather apron stuffed with heavy lead bullets for the sling he carried in his left hand.

Most of the crew waited amidships, ranked as Drakasha had ordered: those with large shields and stabbing swords up front, those with polearms behind them. The mainsails were drawn up, fire buckets were set out, the larboard entry port was protected by what Delmastro had called a "skinner net" and the Poison Orchid was rushing into the Dread Sovereign's embrace like a long-separated lover.

Delmastro appeared out of the mess at the waist. She looked much as she had the first time Locke had ever seen her, with her leather armour and her hair pulled back for action. Paying no heed to the weapons they were carrying at their belts, she leapt onto Jean, wrapping her arms and legs around him. He put his arms behind her back and they kissed until Locke chuckled out loud. Not the sort of thing one saw just before most battles, he imagined. "This day is ours," she said when they parted at last.

"Try not to kill everyone over there before I even get involved, right?" Jean grinned down at her, and she handed him something in a small silk bag. "What's this?"

"Lock of my hair," she said. "Meant to give it to you days ago, but we got busy with all the raiding. You know. Piracy. Hectic life." "Thank you, love," he said.

"Now, if you find yourself in trouble wherever you go, you can hold up that little bag to whoever's bothering you, and you can say, "You have no idea who you're fucking with. I'm under the protection of the lady who gave me this object of her favour." " "And that's supposed to make them stop?"

"Shit no, that's just to confuse them. Then you kill them while they're standing there looking at you funny." They hugged again, and Drakasha cleared her throat.

"Del, if it's not too much trouble, we're planning to attack that ship just ahead of us, so could you—"

"Oh, yeah, the fight for our lives. I suppose I could help you out for a few minutes, Captain." "Luck, Del." "Luck, Zamira." "Captain," said Mumchance, "now—"

"Nasreen!" Drakasha bellowed at the top of her considerable voice. "Starboard anchor away!""

"Sound collision," called Delmastro a moment later, "all hands brace yourselves! Up aloft! Grab a mast, grab a line!"

Someone began to ring the foremast bell frantically. The two ships were closing with astonishing speed. Locke and Jean crouched on the larboard quarterdeck stairs, clinging tight to the inner rail. Locke glanced over at Drakasha and saw that she was counting something, mouthing each number intently to herself. Curious, he tried to puzzle them out and concluded she wasn't counting in Therin.

"Captain," said Mumchance, calm as someone ordering coffee, "other ship—"

"Helm hard-a-larboard," Drakasha shouted. Mumchance and his mate began manhandling the ship's wheel to the left. Suddenly there was a creak and a snapping noise from the bow; the ship shuddered end to end and was jerked to starboard as though caught in the teeth of a gale. Locke felt his stomach protesting and clung to the rail with all of his strength. "Anchor party," yelled Drakasha, "cut the cable!" Locke had an excellent view of the Dread Sovereign rushing down on them, scarcely a hundred yards away. He gasped to think of that heavy ship's bowsprit plunging like a spear into the Orchid or her massed crewfolk, but even as he watched, the three-master heeled over to larboard, making a turn of her own.

Rodanov avoided a head-on collision, and Locke had to guess that was intentional; while it might have done serious damage to the Orchid, it would have locked his ship precisely where Zamira could best resist his boarders, and possibly sunk both ships sooner or later.

What happened was spectacular enough: the sea creamed white between the two vessels and Locke heard the protesting waves hissing like steam baking furiously from hot coals. There was no way for the Sovereign or the Orchid to shed all their forward momentum, but they slid into one another along their sides with a rolling cushion of water between them. The whole world seemed to shake as they met; timbers creaked, masts shuddered and high overhead an Orchid was pitched from her position. She struck the Sovereign's deck, becoming the first casualty of the battle.