Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

The Archon smiled. "That's where Ravelle's treachery will reach the point of no return. That, Master Kosta, is where you'll get your crew."

True to Stragos's warning, there was an additional guard to be disarmed in the first cell level beneath the entrance hall, at the foot of a wide spiral staircase of black iron. The stone tower above was for guards and alchemical lights; the Windward Rock's true purpose was served by three ancient stone vaults that went down far beneath the sea, into the roots of the island.

The man saw them coming and took immediate alarm; no doubt Locke and Jean descending alone was a breach of procedure. Jean relieved him of his sword as he charged up the steps, kicked him in the face and pinned him, squirming, on his stomach. Jean's month of exercise at Caldris's whim seemed to have left his strength more bullish than ever, and Locke almost pitied the poor fellow struggling beneath him. Locke reached over, gave the guard a touch of Witfrost and whistled jauntily.

That was it for the night shift, a skeleton force with no cooks or other attendants. One guard at the docks, two in the entrance hall, one on the first cell level. The two on the roof, by Stragos's direct order, would have sipped drugged tea and fallen asleep with the pot between them. Thed'r be found by their morning relief with a plausible excuse for their incapacity — and another lovely layer of confusion would be thrown over the whole affair.

There were no boats kept at Windward Rock itself, so even if prisoners could conceivably escape from iron-barred cells set into the weeping walls of the old vaults and win free through the barred entrance hall and lone reinforced door, thed'r face a swim across a mile of open water (at least), watched with interest by many things in the depths eager for a meal.

Locke and Jean ignored the iron door leading to the cells of the first level, continuing down the spiralling staircase. The air was dank, smelling of salt and unwashed bodies. Past the iron door on the second level, they found themselves in a vault divided into four vast cells, long and low-ceilinged, two on each side with a fifteen-foot corridor down the middle.

Only one of these cells was actually occupied; several dozen men lay sleeping in the pale-green light of barred alchemical globes set high on the walls. The air in there was positively rank, dense with the odours of unclean bedding, urine and stale food. Faint tendrils of mist curled around the prisoners. A few wary pairs of eyes tracked Locke and Jean as they stepped up to the cell door.

Locke nodded to Jean, and the bigger man began to pound his fist against the bars of the door. The clamour was sharp, echoing intolerably from the dripping walls of the vault. Disturbed prisoners rose from their dirty pallets, swearing and hollering.

"Are you men comfortable in there?" Locke shouted to be heard above the din. Jean ceased his pounding.

"We" d be lots more comfortable with a nice sweet Verrari captain in here for us to fuck sideways," said a prisoner near the door.

"I have no patience to speak of," said Locke, pointing at the door he and Jean had come through. "If I walk out through that door, I won't be coming back."

"Piss off, then, and let us sleep," said a scarecrow of a man in a far corner of the cell.

"And if I won't be coming back," said Locke, "then none of you poor bastards will ever find out why vaults one and three have prisoners in every cell… while this one is completely empty save for yourselves." That got their attention. Locke smiled.

"That's better. My name is Orrin Ravelle. Until a few minutes ago, I was a captain in the navy of Tal Verrar. And the reason you're here is because I selected you. Every last one of you. /selected you, and then I forged the orders that got you assigned to an empty cell vault."

"I chose forty-four prisoners, originally," said Stragos. They stared at the Windward Rock in the fight of the morning sun. A boat of blue-coated soldiers was approaching it in the distance, presumably to relieve the current shift of guards. "I had the second cell vault cleared except for them. All the orders signed "Ravelle" are plausible, but upon scrutiny, the signs of forgery will become evident. I can use that later as a handy excuse to arrest several clerks whose loyalties aren't… straightforward enough for my taste." "Efficient," said Locke.

"Yes." Stragos continued, "These prisoners are all prime seamen, taken from ships that were impounded for various reasons. Some have been in custody for a few years. Many are actually former crewmen of your Red Messenger, lucky not to be executed along with their officers. Some of them might even have past experience at piracy." "Why keep prisoners at the Rock?" asked Jean, "In general, I mean?" "Oar fodder," answered Caldris. "Handy thing to keep on hand. War breaks out, they'll be offered full pardons if they agree to work as galley rowers for the duration. The Rock tends to have a couple of galleys" worth, most of the time."

"Caldris is entirely correct," said Stragos. "Now, as I said, some of those men have been in there for several years, but none of them have ever had to endure conditions like those of the past month. I have had them deprived of everything from clean bedding to regular meals. The guards have been cruel, disturbing their sleeping hours with loud noises and buckets of cold water. I daresay by now that there isn't a man among them who doesn't hate the Windward Rock, hate Tal Verrar and hate me. Personally."

Locke nodded slowly. "And that's why you expect them to greet Ravelle as their saviour."

"You're the one responsible for shoving us into this hell, you fuckin" Verrari arse-licker?"

One of the prisoners stepped up to the bars and clutched them; the depredations of the cell vault had yet to whittle away a build fright-eningly close to that of the heroic statuary of old. Locke guessed he was a recent arrival; his muscles looked carved from witchwood. His skin and hair were black enough to shrug off the pale-green light, as though in disdain.

"I'm the one responsible for moving you to this vault," said Locke. "I didn't lock you up in the first place. I didn't arrange for the treatment you" ve been receiving." " "Treatment's a fancy fuckin" word for it." "What's your name?" "Jabril." "Are you in charge?"

"Of what?" Some of the man's anger seemed to ebb, transmuting to tired resignation. "Nobody" s in fuckin" charge behind iron bars, Captain Ravelle. We piss where we sleep. We don't keep bloody muster rolls or duty shifts." "You men are all sailors," said Locke. "Was sailors," saidjabril.

"I know what you are. You wouldn't be here otherwise. Think about this — thieves get let out. They go to West Citadel, they work at hard labour, they slave until they rupture or get pardoned. But even they get to see the sky. Even their cells have windows. Debtors are free to go when their debts are paid. Prisoners of war go home when the war's over. But you poor bastards… you're penned up here against need. You're cattle. If there's a war, you'll be chained to oars, and if there's no war… well." "There's always war," said Jabril.

"Seven years since the last one," said Locke. He stepped up to the bars just across from Jabril and looked him in the eyes. "Maybe seven years again. Maybe never. You really want to grow old in this vault, Jabril?" "What's the bloody alternative… Captain?"

"Some of you came from a ship impounded recently," said Locke. "Your captain tried to smuggle in a nest of stiletto wasps."

"The Fortunate Venture, aye," said Jabril. "We was promised high heaps of gold for that job."

"Fucking things killed eight men on the voyage," said another prisoner. "We thought we" d inherit their shares."