Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"Poor drunk idiot," he sighed, glancing at Locke. "Still want to make yourself a barking public embarrassment? Seems they" ve already got one in these parts." "Maybe I'll just hold fast after this bottle," said Locke. "Hold fast is a nautical—" "I know," said Locke. "I'll kill myself later."

The two younger barkeeps circulated with large trays, passing out wooden cups of dark ale, first to the officers, who were mostly indifferent, and then to the ordinary sailors, who received them with enthusiasm. As an afterthought, one of them eventually made his way to the corner where Locke and Jean and the other civilians sat.

"Sip of the dark stuff, sirs?" He set cups down before Locke and Jean and, with dexterity approaching that of a juggler, dashed salt into them from a little glass shaker. "Courtesy of the man with more gold than brains." Jean slid a copper onto his tray to be sociable, and the man nodded his appreciation before moving on to the next table. "Sip of the dark stuff, madam?"

"Clearly, we need to come here more often," said Locke, though neither he nor Jean touched their windfall ale. Locke, it seemed, was content to drink his wine, and Jean, consumed by thoughts of what Caldris might challenge them with the next day, felt no urge to drink at all. They passed a few minutes in quiet conversation, until Locke finally stared down at his cup of ale and sighed.

"Salted dark ale just isn't the thing to follow punched-up wine," he mused aloud. A moment later, Jean saw the woman seated behind him turn and tap him on the shoulder.

"Did I hear you right, sir?" She looked to be a few years younger than Locke and Jean, vaguely pretty, with bright scarlet forearm tattoos and a deep suntan that marked her as a dockworker of some sort. "Salted dark not to your taste? I don't mean to be bold, but I" ve just run dry over here—"

"Oh. Oh!" Locke turned, smiling, and passed his cup of ale to her over his shoulder. "By all means, help yourself. My compliments."

"Mine as well," said Jean, passing it over. "It deserves to be appreciated." "It will be. Thank you kindly, sirs." Locke and Jean settled back into their conference of whispers.

"A week," said Locke. "Maybe two, and then Stragos wants us gone. No more theoretical madness. We'll be living it, out there on the gods-damned ocean."

"All the more reason I'm glad you" ve decided not to get too bent around the bottle this evening."

"A little self-pity goes a long way these days," said Locke. "And brings back memories of a time I'd rather forget."

"There's no need for you to keep apologizing for… that. Not to yourself and certainly not to me."

"Really?" Locke ran one finger up and down the side of the half-empty bottle. "Seems I can see a different story in your eyes whenever I make the acquaintance of more than a glass or two. Outside a Carousel Hazard table, of course." "Now, hold on—"

"It wasn't meant as an unkindness," Locke said hurriedly. "It's just the truth, is all. And I can't say you're wrong to feel that way. You… what is it?"

Jean had looked up, distracted by a wheezing sound that was rising behind Locke. The dockworker had half-risen out of her chair and was clutching at her throat, fighting for breath. Jean immediately stood up, stepped around Locke and took her by the shoulders.

"Easy, madam, easy. A little too much salt in the ale, eh?" He spun her around and gave her several firm slaps on the back with the heel of his right hand. To his alarm, she continued choking — in fact, she was sucking in absolutely nothing now with each futile attempt at a breath. She turned and clutched at him with desperate strength; her eyes were wide with terror and the redness of her face had nothing to do with her suntan.

Jean glanced down at the three empty ale-cups on the table before her and a sudden realization settled in his gut like a cold weight. He grabbed Locke with his left hand and all but heaved him out of his chair.

"Back against the wall," he hissed. "Guard yourself!" Then he raised his voice and shouted across the tavern: "Help! This woman needs help!"

There was a general tumult; officers and sailors alike came to their feet, straining to see what was happening. Elbowing through the mass of patrons and suddenly empty chairs came an older woman in a black coat, with her stormcloud-coloured hair drawn into a long, tight tail with silver rings. "Move! I'm a ship's leech!"

She seized the dockworker from Jean's arms and gave her three sharp blows against her back, using the bottom edge of her clenched fist.

"Already tried," cried Jean. The choking woman was flailing against him and the leech alike, shoving at them as though they were the cause of her troubles. Her cheeks were wine-purple. The leech managed to snake a hand around the dockworker's neck and clutch at her windpipe.

"Dear gods," the woman said, "her throat's swelled up hard as a stone. Hold her to the table. Hold her down with all your strength!"

Jean shoved the dockworker down on her tabletop, scattering the empty ale-cups. A crowd was forming around them; Locke was looking at it uneasily, with his back to the wall as Jean had insisted. Looking frantically around, Jean could see the older barkeeper, and one of his assistants… but one was missing. Where the hell was the one who'd served them those cups of ale? "Knife," the leech shouted at the crowd. "Sharp knife! Now!"

Locke conjured a stiletto out of his left sleeve and passed it over. The leech glanced at it and nodded — one edge was visibly dull, but the other, as Jean knew, was like a scalpel. The leech held it in a fencer's grip and used her other hand to force the dock-worker's head back sharply.

"Press her down with everything you" ve got," she said to Jean. Even with the full advantage of leverage and mass, Jean was hard-put to keep the thrashing young woman's upper arms still. The leech leaned sharply against one of her legs, and a quick-witted sailor stepped up behind her to grab the other. "A thrash will kill her."

As Jean watched in horrified fascination, the leech pressed the stiletto down on the woman's throat. Her corded neck muscles stood out like those of a stone statue and her windpipe looked as prominent as a tree-trunk. With gentleness that Jean found awe-inspiring, given the situation, the leech cut a delicate slice across the windpipe just above the point where it vanished beneath the woman's collarbones. Bright-red blood bubbled from the cut, then ran in wide streams down the sides of the woman's neck. Her eyes were rolling back in her head, and her struggles had become alarmingly faint. "Parchment," the leech shouted, "find me parchment!"

To the barkeeper's consternation, several sailors immediately began ransacking the bar, looking for anything resembling parchment. f Another officer shoved her way through the crowd, plucking a letter from within her coat. The leech snatched it, rolled it into a tight, thin tube and then shoved it through the slit in the dockworker's throat, past the bubbling blood. Jean was only partially aware that his jaw was hanging open.

The leech then began pounding on the dockworker's chest, muttering a series of ear-scalding oaths. But the dockworker was limp; her face was a ghastly shade of plum, and the only movement visible was that of the blood streaming out around the parchment tube. The leech ceased her struggles after a few moments and sat down against the edge of Locke and Jean's tables, gasping. She wiped her bloody hands against the front of her coat.

"Useless," she said to the utterly silent crowd. "Her warm humours are totally stifled. I can do nothing else."

"Why, you" ve killed her," shouted the eldest barkeeper. "You cut her fucking throat right where we could all see it!"

"Her jaw and throat are clenched tight as iron," said the leech, rising in anger. "I did the only thing I possibly could to help her!" "But you cut her—"