Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"Once upon a time. Jerome and I both. Now I suppose we make this ship our stage."

"Indeed you do." Caldris moved to the wheel (which was actually a pair of wheels, joined by a mechanism below the deck, to allow more than one sailor to exert their strength against it in hard weather), evading a brief attack on his bare feet by the kitten. "Places!"

Locke and Jean hurried to the quarterdeck to stand near him, ostensibly aloof and concentrating on their own tasks while remaining close enough to pick up on a whisper or a prompting gesture.

"Imagine us beating to windward with the breeze coming in across the larboard bow," said Caldris. It was necessary to imagine, for in the enclosed little bay not the slightest breeze stirred. "The time has come for us to tack. Just sound off the steps. I need to know you" ve got them down."

Locke pictured the operation in his head. No square-rigged ship could sail straight into the wind. To move in a desired direction against the breeze required sailing at something like a forty-five-degree angle to it, and switching over at intervals to present different sides of the bow to the wind. It was in effect a series of zigzags, tack after tack, arduously clawing in a desired direction. Each changeover, from larboard tack to starboard tack or vice versa, was a delicate operation with many opportunities for disaster.

"Master Caldris," he bellowed, "we shall put the ship about. The wheel is yours." "Very good, sir." "Master de Ferra!"

Jean gave three short blasts on the whistle he wore, as Locke did, around his neck. "All hands! All hands ready to put the ship about!"

"Master Caldris," said Locke, "neatness counts. Seize your wheel. Put your helm down."

Locke waited a few seconds for dramatic effect, then yelled: "Helm a-lee!"

Caldris mimed hauling the wheel in the direction of the ship's lee side, in this case the starboard, which would tilt the rudder in the opposite direction. Locke conjured a vivid mental picture of the sudden press of water against it, forcing the ship into a turn to larboard. They would be coming into the eye of the wind, feeling its full force; an error at this point could "lock them in irons", stalling all progress, stealing power from rudder and sails alike. They would be helpless for minutes, or worse — an error like that in heavy weather could flip them, and ships were not acrobats.

"Imaginary sailors! Tacks and sheets!" Jean waved his arms and hollered his instructions to the invisible deck hands. "Smartly now, you slothful dogs!"

"Master de Ferra," called Locke, "that imaginary sailor is not minding his duty!"

"I'll fuckin" kill you later, you cabbage-brained pig-rapist! Seize your rope and wait for my word!"

"Master Caldris!" Locke whirled toward the sailing master, who was nonchalantly sipping from a leather skin of pinkwater. "Hard over!"

"Aye, sir." He belched and set the skin down on the deck at his feet. "By your word, hard over." "Up mainsail," cried Locke.

"Bowlines off! Braces off!" Jean blew another blast on his whistle. "Yards around for the starboard tack!"

In Locke's mind, the ship's bow was now tilting past the heart of the wind; the larboard bow would become their lee and the wind would blow in across the starboard side of the ship. The yards would be rapidly re-braced for the sails to take advantage of the wind's new aspect, and Caldris would be frantically reversing his wheel's turn. The Red Messenger would need to stabilize her new course; if she were pushed too far to larboard, they might find themselves moving in the opposite of their intended direction, with the sails braced improperly to boot. They would be lucky to be merely embarrassed by such a fiasco. "Hard over," he yelled again. "Aye, sir," cried Caldris. "Heard the captain fine the first time."

"Lines on! Braces on!" Jean blew his whistle yet again. "Haul off all, you fuckin" maggots!"

"We're now on the starboard tack, Captain," said Caldris. "Surprisingly, we didn't lose her in stays and we'll all live to see another hour."

"Aye, no bloody thanks to this useless cur of an imaginary sailor!" Locke mimed grabbing a man and forcing him to the deck. "What's your gods-damned problem, you work-shirking little orlop worm?"

"First mate de Ferra beats me cruelly," cried Jean in a squeaky voice. "He is a monstrous bad fellow, who makes me wish I'd taken priest's orders and never set foot aboard!"

"Of course he does! It's what I pay him for." Locke mimed hefting a blade. "For your crimes, I swear you'll die on this very deck unless you can answer two bloody questions! First — where the hell is my non-imaginary crew? And second, why in the name of all the gods am I supposed to practise wearing this damned uniform?"

He was startled out of his act by the sound of applause from behind him. He whirled to see Merrain standing just beside the entry port at the ship's rail; she'd come up the ramp in absolute silence.

"Oh, wonderful!" She smiled at the three men on deck, stooped down and plucked up the kitten, who'd moved immediately to attack Merrain's fine leather boots. "Very convincing. But your poor invisible sailor doesn't have the answers you seek." "Are you here to name someone who does?"

"On the morrow," she said, "the Archon orders you to take the sails of one of his private boats. He wishes to see a demonstration of your skills before you receive your final orders for sea. He and I will be your passengers. If you can keep our heads above water, he'll show you where your crew is. And why we've had you practising with that uniform."

There was one guard pacing the dock at the base of the lonely island. His lamp cast soft yellow light rippling across the black water as Locke threw him a rope from within the little launch. Rather than tying them up, the guard thrust his lantern down toward Locke, Jean and Caldris, and said, "This dock is strictly off… oh, gods. My apologies, sir."

Locke grinned, feeling the authority of the full Verrari captain's uniform enfold him like nothing so much as a warm blanket. He grabbed a piling and heaved himself up onto the dock, while the guard saluted him awkwardly with his lantern-hand crossed over his chest.

"Gods defend the Archon of Tal Verrar," said Locke. "Carry on. It's your job to challenge strange boats at night, soldier."

While the soldier tied the launch to a piling, Locke reached down and helped Jean up. Moving gracefully in the now-familiar costume, Locke then stepped around behind the dock guard, unfurled a leather crimper's hood from within his jacket, slammed it down over the soldier's head and cinched the drawstring tight.

"Gods know there's none stranger than ours that you're ever likely to see."

Jean held the soldier by his arms while the drugs inside the hood did their job. He lacked the constitution of the last man Locke had tried to knock out with such a hood, and sagged after just a few seconds of muffled struggle. When Locke and Jean tied him firmly to the piling at the far corner of the dock and stuffed a rag in his mouth, he was sleeping peacefully.

Caldris clambered out of the boat, picked up the guard's lantern and began pacing with it in his place.

Locke stared up at the stone tower that was their objective: seven storeys tall, its battlements were orange-lit by alchemical navigation beacons warning ships away. Ordinarily there would be guards up there as well, watching the waters and the dock, but the hand of Stragos was at already at wort Nothing moved atop the tower.

"Come on, then," Locke whispered to Jean. "Let's get inside and do some recruiting."

"It's called Windward Rock," Stragos said. He pointed at the stone tower that jutted from the little island, perhaps a single arrow-flight from the line of hissing white surf that marked Tal Verrar's outer barrier of glass reefs. They floated at anchor in seventy feet of water, a good mile west of the Silver Marina. The warm morning sun was just rising over the city behind them, making tiers of soft light from its layers of foggy haze.