Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

Jean moaned, sobbing, his hands held out above her. Locke didn't know where he would have touched her, either. There was so little her left — skin and clothing and hair burned into one awful texture. And still she moved, trying feebly to rise. Still she fought for something resembling breath.

"Valora," said Scholar Treganne, hobbling toward them, "Valora don't, don't touch—"

Jean pounded the deck and screamed. Treganne knelt beside what was left of Ezri, pulling a dagger from her belt sheath. Locke was startled to see tears trailing down her cheeks.

"Valora," she said, "take this. She's dead already. She needs you, for the gods" sakes." "No," sobbed Jean. "No, no, no—"

"Valora, look at her, gods damn it. She is beyond all help. Every second is an hour to her and she is praying for this knife."

Jean snatched the knife from Treganne's hand, wiped a tunic sleeve across his eyes and shuddered. Gasping deep breaths despite the terrible smell of burning that lingered in the air, he moved the knife toward her, jerking in time with his sobs like a man with palsy. Treganne placed her hands over his to steady them, and Locke closed his eyes. Then it was over.

"I'm sorry," said Treganne. "Forgive me, Valora, I didn't know — I didn't know what that thing was, what Utgar had. Forgive me."

Jean said nothing. Locke opened his eyes again and saw Jean rising as though in a trance, his sobs all but stifled, the dagger still held loosely in his hand. He moved, as though he saw nothing of the battle still raging behind him, across the deck toward Utgar. Ten more Orchids fell at the bow saving them, following Zamira's orders, shoving with all their might against the Sovereign with spears and boathooks and halberds. Shoving to get her bowsprit and rigging clear of the Orchid, while Rodanov's survivors at the bow fought like demons to escape. But they did it, with Mumchance's help, and the two battered ships tore apart at last.

"All hands," shouted Zamira, dazed by the effort it suddenly required, "All hands! Tacks and braces! Put us west before the wind! Fire party to main hold! Get the wounded aft to Treganne!" Assuming Treganne was alive, assuming… much. Sorrow later. More hardship now.

Rodanov hadn't joined the final fight to board the Orchid; Zamira had last seen him running aft, fighting his way through the blaze and headed for the wheel. Whether in a last hopeless effort to save his ship or destroy hers, he'd failed.

"Help," Utgar whispered, "help, get it out, I can't reach it."

His movements were faint, and his eyes were going glassy. Jean knelt beside him, stared at him and then brought the dagger down overhand into his back. Utgar took a shocked breath; Jean brought the knife down again and again while Locke watched; until Utgar was most certainly dead, until his back was covered in wounds, until Locke finally reached over and grabbed him by the wrist. "Jean—"

"It doesn't help," said Jean, in a disbelieving voice. "Gods, it doesn't help." "I know," said Locke. "I know."

"Why didn't you stop her?" Jean launched himself at Locke, pinning him to the deck, one hand around his throat. Locke gagged and fought back, and it did him about as much good as he expected. "Why didn't you stop her?"

"I tried," said Locke. "She pushed you into me. She knew what we" d do, Jean. She knew. Please—"

Jean released him and sat back as quickly as he had attacked. He looked down at his hands and shook his head. "Oh, gods, forgive me. Forgive me, Locke."

"Always," said Locke. "Jean, I am so, so sorry -1 wouldn't, I wouldn't have had it happen for the world. For the world, do you hear me?"

"I do," he said quietly. He buried his face in his hands and said nothing more.

To the south-east, the fire aboard the Dread Sovereign turned the sea red; it roared up the masts and sails, rained charred canvas like volcanic ash upon the waves, devoured the hull and at last subsided into a billowing mountain of smoke and steam as the ship's blackened hulk slipped beneath the waters.

"Ravelle," said Drakasha, placing a hand on Locke's shoulder and interrupting his reverie, "if you can help, I—"

"I'm fine," said Locke, stumbling to his feet. "I can help. Just maybe… leave Jerome—" "Yes," she said. "Ravelle, we need—"

"Zamira, enough. Enough Ravelle this, Kosta that. Around the crew, sure. But my friends call me Locke." "Locke," she said.

"Locke Lamora. Don't, ah— Ahhh, who the hell would you tell anyway?" He reached up to set a hand on hers, and in a moment they had drawn one another into a hug. "I'm sorry," he whispered, "Ezri, Nasreen, Malakasri, Gwillem—" "Gwillem?" "Yeah, he— One of Rodanov's archers, I'm sorry."

"Gods," she said. "Gwillem was with the Orchid when I stole her. Last of the original crew. Ra— Locke, Mum has the wheel and we're safe for the moment. I need… I need to go down and see my children. And I need… I need you to look after Ezri. They can't see her like that."

"I'll take care of it," he said. "Look, go down. I'll take care of things on deck. We'll get the rest of the wounded back to Treganne. We'll get all the bodies covered up."

"Very good," said Zamira quietly. "You have the deck, Master Lamora. I'll return shortly."

/ have the deck, thought Locke, staring around at the shambles left by the battle: swaying rigging, damaged shrouds, splintered railings, arrows embedded damn near everywhere. Bodies crowded every corner of the waist and forecastle; survivors moved through them like ghosts, many of them hobbling on spears and bows for makeshift canes.

Gods. So this is what a command is. Staring consequences in the eye and pretending not to flinch.

"Jean," he whispered, crouching over the bigger man where he sat on the deck, "Jean, stay here. Stay as long as you like. I'll be close. I just need to take care of things, all right?" Jean nodded, faintly.

"Right," said Locke, glancing around again, this time looking for the least injured. "Konar," he yelled, "Big Konar! Get a pump rigged, the first one you can find that works. Run a hose to this cargo hatch and give the main-deck hold a good soak. We can't have anything smouldering down there. Oscarl! Come here! Get me sail canvas and knives. We've got to do something about all these… all these people."

All the crewfolk dead upon the deck. We've got to do something about them here, Locke thought. And then I'm going to do something about them in Tal Verrar. Once and for all.

"Crooked Warden, Silent Thirteenth, your servant calls. Place your eyes upon the passing of this woman, Ezri Delmastro, Iono's servant and yours. Beloved of a man who is beloved by you." Locke's voice broke, and he struggled for self-control. "Beloved of a man who is my brother. We… we grudge you this one, Lord, and I don't mind saying so."

Thirty-eight left standing; fifty thed'r put over the side, and the rest had been lost during the battle. Locke and Zarnira shared the funeral duties. Locke's recitations had grown more numb with each one, but now, at this last ritual of the night, he found himself cursing the day he'd been chosen as a priest of the Crooked Warden. His presumed thirteenth birthday, under the Orphan's Moon. What power and what magic it had seemed back then. The power and the magic to give funeral orations. He scowled, buried his cynical thoughts for Ezri's sake and continued:

"This is the woman who saved us all. This is the woman who beat Jaffrim Rodanov. We deliver her, body and spirit, to the realm of your brother Iono, mighty Lord of the Sea. Lend her aid. Carry her soul to She who weighs us all. This we pray with hopeful hearts."

Jean knelt over the canvas shroud, and on it he placed a lock of dark-brown hair. "My flesh," he whispered. He pricked his finger with a dagger and let a red drop fall. "My blood." He leaned down to the unmoving head beneath the canvas and left a lingering kiss. "My breath, and my love." "These things bind your promise," said Locke.