Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"Jabril," said Locke, raising his voice, "in time, as we come to know one another's strengths, we can hold proper votes for some of the officers we'll need. For now, I'm naming you acting mate." "Mate of what?"

"Mate of whatever." Locke grinned and slapped him on the back. "I'm not in the navy any more, remember? You'll answer to Jerome. Keep the men in order. Take the weapons from that soldier tied to the dock, just in case we need to pull a little steel this evening. I don't expect a fight, but we should be ready."

"Good evening, Captain Ravelle," said Caldris. "I see you" ve fetched them out just as you planned."

"Aye," said Locke. "Jabril, this is Caldris, my sailing master. Caldris, Jabril is acting mate under Jerome. Listen to me!" Locke raised his voice without shouting, lest it echo across the water to unseen ears. "I came with a boat for six. I have a boat for forty nearby. I need two men to help me row. Won't be half an hour, and then we'll be away."

Two younger prisoners stepped forward, looking eager for anything that would relieve the tedium of what thed'r been through.

"Right," said Locke as he stepped down into their little boat, after Caldris and the two sailors. "Jerome, Jabril, keep order and quiet. Try to sort out those that can work right away from those that will need a few days to recover their strength."

Anchored half a mile out from the Windward Rock was a long launch, invisible in the moonlight until Caldris's lantern found it from about fifty yards away. Locke and Caldris worked quickly to rig the boat's small sail; then, slowly but surely, they steered their way back toward the Rock with the two ex-prisoners rowing the little boat beside them. Locke glanced around nervously, spotting a sail or two gleaming palely on the far horizons, but nothing closer.

"Listen well," he said when the launch was tied up below the dock and surrounded by his would-be crew. He was pleasantly surprised at how quickly thed'r settled down to the business at hand. Of course, that made sense — they were the crews of impounded ships, not hardcases imprisoned for individual crimes. It didn't make saints of them, but it was nice to have something unforeseen working in his favour for once.

"Able hands take the oars. Don't be shy if you're less than able for the time being; I know some of you have been down there too damn long. Just sit in the middle of the launch and take it easy. You can recover yourselves on the voyage out. We've plenty to eat."

That lent them some cheer. Once at sea, Locke knew, the state of their rations might easily approach that of the prison slop they were leaving behind, but for a fair few days thed'r have a supply of fresh meat and vegetables to look forward to.

In good order the former prisoners clambered aboard the launch; soon the gunwales were lined with those claiming to be able-bodied and oars were being slipped into their locks. Jabril took the bow, waving up at Locke and Caldris when all was in readiness.

"Right," said Locke. "The Messenger is anchored south of the Sword Marina on the seaward side, wanting nothing save her crew. One guard stands watch for the night, and I'll deal with him. Just follow us and go aboard once I" ve done that; the nets are lowered over the side and the defences are stowed."

Locke took the bow of the small boat and struck what he hoped was an appropriately regal posture. Jean and Caldris took the oars, and the last two prisoners sat at the stern, one of them holding Caldris's lantern.

"Say farewell to the Windward Rock, boys," said Locke. "And bid fuck-you to the Archon of Tal Verrar. We're bound for sea."

A shadow within shadows watched the two boats depart.

Merrain moved out of her position beside the tower and gave a small wave as the low, grey shapes diminished into the south. She loosed the black silk scarf that had covered her lower face and pushed back the hood of her black jacket; she had lain in the shadows beside the tower for nearly two hours, waiting patiently for Kosta and de Ferra to finish their business. Her own boat was stashed beneath a rocky overhang on the east side of the island, little more than a cockleshell of treated leather over a wood frame. Even in moonlight, it was all but invisible on the water. She padded quietly into the entrance hall of the prison, finding the two guards much where she expected, carelessly strewn about in the grip of Witfrost sleep. True to the Archon's wishes, Kosta and de Ferra had prevented anyone from harming them.

"Alas for that," she whispered, kneeling over the lieutenant and running a gloved finger across his cheeks. "You're a handsome one."

She sighed, slipped a knife from its sheath within her jacket and cut the man's throat with one quick slash. Moving back to avoid the growing pool of blood, she wiped the blade on the guard's breeches and contemplated the woman lying across the entrance hall.

The two atop the tower could live; it wouldn't be plausible for anyone to have climbed the stairs and gone for them. But she could do the one on the dock, the two here and the one who was supposed to be downstairs.

That would be enough, she reckoned — it wasn't that she desired Kosta and de Ferra to fail. But if they did return successful in their mission, what was to stop Stragos from assigning them another task? His poison made tools of them indefinitely. And if they could return victorious, well… men like that were better off dead if they couldn't be put to use on behalf of the interests she served.

Resolved, she set about finishing the job. The thought that for once it would be entirely painless was a comfort in her work.

"Captain Ravelle!"

The soldier was one of those hand-picked by the Archon to be in on some part of the deception. He feigned surprise as Locke appeared on the Red Messenger's deck, followed by Jean, Caldris and the two ex-prisoners. The launch full of men was just butting up against the ship's starboard side. "I didn't expect you back this evening, sir… Sir, what's going on?"

"I have reached a decision," said.Locke, approaching the soldier. "This ship is too fine a thing for the Archon to have. So I am relieving him of its care and taking it to sea." "Now hold on… hold on, sir, that's not funny."

"Depends on where you're standing," said Locke. He stepped up and delivered a feigned punch to the soldier's stomach. "Depends on if you're standing." By arrangement, the man did a very credible impression of having received a devastating blow and fell backwards to the deck, writhing. Locke grinned. Let his new crew whisper of that among themselves.

The crew in question had just started to come up the boarding nets on the starboard side. Locke relieved the soldier of his sword, buckler and knives, then joined Jean and Caldris at the rail to help the men up.

"What's to be done with the launch, Captain?" Jabril spoke as he came over the side.

"It's too damn big to carry with us on this little bitch," said Locke. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the "subdued" guard. "We'll set him adrift in it. Jerome!" "Aye, sir," said Jean.

"Get everyone up and muster all hands at the waist. Master Caldris! You know the vessel best for now; give us light."

Caldris fetched alchemical lamps from a locker near the wheel, and with Locke's help he hung them about the deck until they had more than enough soft, golden light to work by. Jean produced his little whistle and blew three short blasts. In moments, he had the crew herded into the middle of the ship's waist, before the mainmast. Before them all, Locke stood, stripped off his Verrari officer's coat and pitched it over the side. They applauded.

"Now we must have haste without carelessness," he said. "Those of you who do not believe yourselves fit for work, hands up! No shame, lads."