Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"Good." Caldris clapped Locke on the back and seemed to relax. "Good. Keep it that way, eh? Now! We're lost at sea, Master Kosta! Find our latitude!"

It was the fourth day of their training with the Verrari sailing master; after their customary morning of torture at the oars, Caldris had led them out to the seaward side of the Silver Marina. Perhaps five hundred yards out from the glass island, still well within the sweep of calmed sea provided by the city's encircling reefs, there was a flat-topped stone platform in forty or fifty feet of translucent blue-green water. Caldris had called it the Lubbers" Castle; it was a training platform for would-be Verrari naval and merchant sailors.

Their dinghy was lashed to the side of the platform, which was perhaps thirty feet on a side. Spread across the stones at their feet were an array of navigational devices: backstaffs, cross-staffs, hourglasses, charts and compasses, a Determiner's Box and a set of unfathomable peg-boards that Caldris claimed were used for tracking course changes. The kitten was sleeping on an astrolabe, covering up the symbols etched into its brass surface.

"Friend Jerome was tolerably good at this," said Caldris. "But he's not to be the captain; you are."

"And I thought you were to handle all the important tasks, on pain of gruesome death, as you" ve only mentioned tenscore times."

"I am. You're mad if you think that's changed. But I need you to understand just enough not to gawk with your thumb up your arse when I say this or do that. Just know which end to hold, and be able to read a latitude that doesn't put us off by half the fucking world." "Sun-shadow and horizon," muttered Locke.

"Indeed. Later on tonight, we'll use the old-style staff for the only thing it's still good for — taking your reading from the stars." "But it's just past noon!"

"Right," said Caldris. "We're in for a good long haul today. There's books and charts and maths to do, and more sailing and rowing, then f more books and charts. Late to bed, you'll be. Better get comfortable with this here Lubbers" Castle." Caldris spat on the stones. "Now fetch that fucking latitude!"

"What's it mean if we broach?" said Jean.

It was late in the evening of their ninth day with Caldris, and Jean was soaking in a huge brass tub. Despite the warmth of their enclosed chambers at the Villa Candessa, he'd demanded hot water, and it was still sending up wisps of curling steam after three-quarters of an hour. On a little table beside the tub was an open bottle of Austershalin brandy (the 554, the cheapest readily available) and both of the Wicked Sisters.

The shutters and curtains of the suite's windows were all drawn tight, the door was bolted and Locke had wedged a chair up beneath its handle. That might provide a few seconds" additional warning if someone tried to enter by force. Locke lay on his bed, letting two glasses of brandy loosen the knots in his muscles. His knives were set out on the nightstand, not three feet from his hands. "Ah, gods," he said. "I know this. It's… something… bad?"

"To meet strong winds and seas abeam," said Jean, "taking them on the side, rather than cutting through them with the bow." "And that's bad."

"Powerful bad." Jean was paging through a tattered copy of Indrovo Lencallis's Wise Mariner's Practical Lexicon, With Numerous Enlightening Examples from Honest History. "Come on, you're the captain of the ship. I'm just your skull-cracker."

"I know. Give me another." Locke's own copy of the book was currently resting underneath his knives and his glass of brandy.

"Hmmm."Jean flipped pages. "Caldris says to put us on a beam reach. What the hell's he talking about?"

"Wind coming in perpendicular to the keel," muttered Locke. "Hitting us straight on the side." "And now he wants a broad reach."

"Right." Locke paused to sip his brandy. "Wind neither blowing right up our arse nor straight on the side. Coming from one of the rear quarters, at forty-five degrees or so to the keel."

"Good enough."Jean flipped pages again. "Box the compass. What's the sixth point?" "Hard east. Gods, this is just like dinner with Chains back home." "Right on both counts. South a point." "Um, east by south." "Right. South another point." "South-east-east?" "And another point."

"Ah, gods." Locke downed the rest of his brandy in one gulp. "Southeast by go-fuck-yourself. That's enough for tonight." "But—"

"I am the captain of the bloody ship," said Locke, rolling over onto his stomach. "My orders are to drink your brandy and go to bed." He reached out, pulled a pillow completely over his head and was fast asleep in moments. Even in his dreams he was tying knots, bracing sails and finding latitudes.

"I was not aware," said Locke the next morning, "that I had joined your navy. I thought the whole idea was to run away from it." "A means to an end, Master Kosta."

The Archon had been waiting for them in their private bay within the Sword Marina. One of his personal boats (Locke remembered it from the glass caverns beneath the Mon Magisteria) was tied up behind their dinghy. Merrain and half a dozen Eyes had been in attendance. Now Merrain was helping Locke try on the uniform of a Verrari naval officer.

The tunic and breeches were the same dark blue as the doublets of the Eyes. The coat, however, was brownish-red, with stiff black leather sewn along the forearms in approximation of bracers. The single neckcloth was dark blue, and gleaming brass devices in the shape of roses over crossed swords were pinned to his upper arms just below the shoulders.

"I don't have many fair-haired officers in my service," said Stragos, "but the uniform is a good fit. I'll have two more made by the end of the week." Stragos reached out and adjusted some of Locke's details — tightening his neck-cloth, shifting the hang of the empty scabbard at his belt. "After that, you'll wear it for a few hours each day. Get used to it. One of my Eyes will instruct you in how to carry yourself, and the courtesies and salutes we use." "I still don't understand why—"

"I know." Stragos turned to Caldris, who, in his master's presence, has lost his customary vulgar impishness. "How are they doing in their training, Sailing Master?"

"The Protector is already well aware," said Caldris slowly, "of my general opinion concerning this here mission." "That's not what I asked."

"They are… less hopeless than they were, Protector. Somewhat less hopeless."

"That will do, then. You still have nearly three weeks to mould them. I daresay they already look better acquainted with hard work under the sun." "Where's our ship, Stragos?" asked Locke. "Waiting." "And where's our crew?" "In hand." "And why the hell am I wearing this uniform?"

"Because it pleases me to make you a captain in my navy. That's what's meant by the twin roses-over-swords. You'll be a captain for one night only. Learn to look comfortable in the uniform. Then learn to be patient waiting for your orders."

Locke scowled, then placed his right hand on his scabbard and crossed his left arm, with a clenched fist, across his chest. He bowed from the waist at the precise angle he'd seen Stragos's Eyes use on several occasions. "Gods defend the Archon of Tal Verrar."

"Very good," said Stragos. "But you're an officer, not a common soldier or sailor. You bow at a shallower angle."

He turned and walked toward his boat. The Eyes formed ranks and marched after him, and Merrain began pulling the uniform hurriedly off Locke.

"I return you gentlemen to Caldris's care," said the Archon as he stepped down into the boat. "Use your days well."

"And just when in the name of the gods do we get to learn how this all fits together?" "All in good time, Kosta."