Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

True to Merrain's word, Stragos had arrived at dawn in a thirty-foot launch of polished black wood, with comfortable leather seats at the stern and gold-gilded scrollwork on every surface. Locke and Jean were given the sails under Caldris's minimal supervision, while Merrain sat in the bow. Locke had wondered if she was ever comfortable anywhere else.

They had sailed north, then rounded the Silver Marina and turned west, chasing the last blue shadow of the night sky on the far horizon.

They rode on for a few minutes, until Merrain whistled for everyone's attention and pointed to her left, across the starboard bow. A tall, dark structure could be seen rising above the waves in the distance. Orange lights glowed at its peak.

Soon enough they had dropped anchor to regard the lonely tower. If Stragos had no praise for Locke and Jean's handling of the vessel, neither did he offer any criticism. "Windward Rock," said Jean. "I" ve heard of it. Some sort of fortress." "A prison, Master de Ferra." "Will we be visiting it this morning?"

"No," said Stragos. "You'll be returning and landing soon enough. For now, I just wanted you to see it… and I wanted to tell you a little story. I have in my service a particularly unreliable captain who has until now done a splendid job of concealing his shortcomings." "Words cannot express how truly sorry I am to hear that," said Locke.

"He will betray me," said Stragos. "His plans for months have been leading up to a grand and final betrayal. He will steal something of great value from me and turn it against me for all to see." "You should have been watching him more closely," Locke muttered. "I have been," said Stragos. "And I am right now. The captain I speak of is you."

The Windward Rock had only one set of doors, iron-bound, eleven feet tall, locked and guarded from the inside. A small panel in the wall beside them slid open as Locke and Jean approached, and a head silhouetted by lamp-light appeared behind it. The guardswoman's voice was devoid of banter: "Who passes?"

"An officer of Archon and Council," said Locke with ritual formality. "This man is my boatswain. These are my orders and papers."

He passed a set of documents rolled into a tight tube to the woman behind the door. She slid the panel closed over her watch-hole, and Locke and Jean waited in silence for several minutes, listening to the rushing passage of surf over the nearby reefs. Two moons were just coming up, gilding the southern horizon with silver, and the stars dusted the cloudless sky like confectioner's sugar thrown against a black canvas.

Finally, there was a metallic clatter and the heavy doors swung outward on creaking hinges. The guardswoman stepped out to meet them, saluting but not returning Locke's papers.

"My apologies for the delay, Captain Ravelle. Welcome to the Windward Rock."

Locke and Jean followed her into the tower's entrance hall, which was divided into two halves by a wall of black iron bars running from floor to ceiling across its breadth. On the far side of these bars, a man behind a wooden desk had control of whatever mechanism closed the gates — they clattered shut behind Locke and Jean after a few seconds.

The man, like the woman, wore the Archon's blue under ribbed black leather armour: bracers, vest and neck-guard. He was cleanshaven and handsome, and he waited behind the bars as the female guard approached to pass him Locke's papers.

"Captain Orrin Ravelle," she said. "And boatswain. Here with orders from the Archon."

The man studied Locke's papers at length before nodding and passing them back through the bars. "Of course. Good evening, Captain Ravelle. This man is your boatswain, Jerome Valora?" "Yes, Lieutenant."

"You're to view the prisoners in the second vault? Anyone in particular?" "Just a general viewing, Lieutenant."

"As you will." The man slid a key from around his neck, opened the only gate set into the wall of iron bars and stepped out toward them, smiling. "We're pleased to render any aid the Protector requires, sir."

"I very much doubt that," said Locke, letting a stiletto slip into his left hand. He reached out and gave the female guard a slash behind her right ear, across the unprotected skin between her leather neck-guard and her tightly coiffed hair. She cried out, whirled and had her black-ened-steel sabre out of its scabbard in an instant.

Jean was tackling the male guard before her blade was even out; the man uttered a surprised choking noise as Jean slammed him against the bars and gave him a sharp chop to the neck with the edge of his right hand. The leather armour robbed the blow of its lethal possibilities without dulling the shock of impact. Gasping, the guard was easily pinned from behind by Jean, who immobilized his arms and held him in a grip like iron.

Locke darted backwards out of the female guard's reach as she slashed with her blade. Her first attack was swift and nearly accurate. Her second was a bit slower, and Locke had no trouble avoiding it. She readied a third swing and misstepped, tripping over her own feet. Her mouth hung open in confusion. "You… fucker…" she muttered. "Poi… poi… son."

Locke winced as she toppled face-first to the stone floor; he'd meant to catch her, but the stuff on the blade had acted faster than he'd expected.

"You bastard," coughed the lieutenant, straining uselessly in Jean's hold, "you killed her!"

"Of course I didn't kill her, you twit. Honestly, you people… pull a blade anywhere around here and everyone assumes straight away that you" ve killed someone." Locke stepped up before the guard and showed him the stiletto. "Stuff on the edge is called Witfrost. You have a good, hard sleep all night, wake up around noon. At which time you'll feel like hell. Apologies. So do you want it in the neck or in the palm of your hand?" "You… you gods-damned traitor!"

"Neck it is." Locke gave the man his own shallow cut just behind his left ear and barely counted to eight before he was hanging in Jean's arms, limper than wet silk. Jean set the lieutenant down gently and plucked a small ring of iron keys from his belt. "Right," said Locke. "Let's pay a visit to the second vault."

"Ravelle didn't exist until a month ago," said Stragos. "Not until I had you to build the lie around. A dozen of my most trusted men and women will swear after the fact that he was real, that they shared assignments and meals with him, that they spoke of duties and trifles in his company.

"My finnickers have prepared orders, duty rosters, pay vouchers and other documents, and seeded them throughout my archives. Men using the name of Ravelle have rented rooms, purchased goods, ordered tailored uniforms delivered to the Sword Marina. By the time I'm dealing with the consequences of your betrayal, he'll seem real in fact and memory." "Consequences?" asked Locke.

"Ravelle is going to betray me just as Captain Bonaire betrayed me when she took my Basilisk out of the harbour seven years ago and raised a red banner. It's going to happen again… twice to the same Archon. I will be ridiculed in some quarters, for a time. Temporary loss for long-term gain." He winced. "Have you not considered the public reaction to what I'm arranging, Master Kosta? I certainly have."

"Gods, Maxilan," said Locke, toying absently with a knot on one of the lines bracing the vessel's relatively small mainsail. "Trapped out at sea, feigning mastery in a trade for which I'm barely competent, fighting for my fife with your fucking poison in my veins, I shall endeavour to keep you in my prayers for the sake of your hardship."

"Ravelle is an ass, too," said the Archon. "I" ve had that specifically written into his back history. Now, something you should know about Tal Verrar — the Priori's constables guard Highpoint Citadel Gaol in the Castellana. The majority of the city's prisoners go there. But while the Windward Rock is a much smaller affair, it's mine. Manned and provisioned only by my people."