Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"Compliments of a fine morning, Captain, and the masthead watch says we got white canvas two points off the larboard bow."

Caldris had the wheel to himself that morning, and he drew light puffs from a cheap sheaf of cut-rate tobacco, which stank like sulphur. Locke wrinkled his nose.

Sighing inwardly and stepping with as much care as he could manage, Locke brought out his seeing-glass and hurried forward, up the forecastle and to the rail on the larboard bow. Yes, there it was — hull down, a minute speck of white, barely visible above the dark blue of the distant horizon. When he returned to the quarterdeck, Jabril and several other sailors were lounging around, waiting for his verdict.

"Do we give her the eyeball, Captain?" Jabril sounded merely expectant, but the men behind him looked downright eager.

"Looking for an early taste of those equal shares, eh?" Locke feigned deep consideration, turning toward Caldris long enough to catch the sailing master's private signal for an emphatic "no". As Locke had expected — and he could give legitimate reasons without prompting.

"Can't do it, lads. You know better than that. We've not yet begun to set our own ship to rights; little sense in taking a fight to someone else's. A quarter of us are still unfit for work, let alone battle. We've got fresh food, a clean ship and all the time in the world. Better chances will come. Hold course, Master Caldris." "Hold course, aye."

Jabril accepted this; Locke was discovering that the man had a solid core of sense and a fair knowledge of nearly every aspect of shipboard life, which made him Locke's superior in that wise. He was a fine mate, another bit of good fortune to be grateful for. The men behind Jabril, now… Locke instinctively knew they needed some occupying task to help mitigate their disappointment. "Streva," he said to the youngest, "heave the log aft. Mai, you mind the minute-glass. Report to Master Caldris. Jabril, you know how to use a recurved bow?" "Aye, Captain. Shortbow, recurved, longbow. Decent aim with any."

"I" ve got ten of them in a locker down in the aft hold. Should be easy to find. Couple hundred arrows, too. Rig up some archery butts with canvas and straw. Mount them at the bow so nobody gets an unpleasant surprise in the arse. Start sharpening up the lads in groups, every day when the weather allows. Time comes to finally pay a visit to another ship, I'll want good archers in the tops." "Fine idea, Captain."

That, at least, appeared to restore excitement to the sailors who were still milling near the quarterdeck. Most of them followed Jabril down a hatchway to the main deck. Their interest in the matter gave Locke a further thought. "Master Valora!"

Jean was with Mirlon, their cook, scrutinizing sometliing at the little brick firebox abutting the forecastle. He waved in acknowledgement of Locke's shout.

"By sunset I want to be certain that every man aboard knows where all the weapons lockers are. Make sure of it yourself."

Jean nodded and returned to whatever he was doing. By Locke's reckoning, the idea that Captain Ravelle wanted every man to be comfortable with the ship's weapons — aside from the bows, there were hatchets, sabres, clubs and a few polearms — would be far better for morale than the thought that he would prefer keeping them locked up or hidden. "Well done," said Caldris quietly.

Mai watched the last few grains in the minute-glass bolted to the mainmast run out, then turned aft and shouted, "Hold the line!" "Seven and a half knots," Streva hollered a moment later.

"Seven and a half," said Caldris. "Very well. We've been making that more or less steady since we left Verrar. A good run."

Locke snuck a glance at the pegs sunk into the holes on Caldris's navigational board, and the compass in the binnacle, which showed them on a heading just a hair's breadth west of due south.

"A fine pace if it holds," muttered Caldris around his cigar. "Puts us in the Ghostwinds maybe two weeks from today. Don't know about the captain, but getting a few days ahead of schedule makes me very bloody comfortable."

"And will it hold?" Locke spoke as softly as he could without whispering into the sailing master's ear.

"Good question. Summer's end's an odd time on the Sea of Brass; we got storms out there somewhere. I can feel it in my bones. They" re a ways off, but they're waiting." "Oh, splendid."

"We'll make do, Captain." Caldris briefly removed his cigar, spat something brown at the deck and replaced it between his teeth. "Fact is, we're doing just fine, thank the Lord of the Grasping Waters." "Kill "im, Jabril! Get "im right in the fuckin" "eart!"

Jabril stood amidships, facing a frock coat (donated from Locke's chest) nailed to a wide board and propped up against the mainmast, about thirty feet away. Both of his feet touched a crudely chalked line on the deck planks. In his right hand was a throwing knife, and in his left was a full wine bottle, by the rules of the game.

The sailor who'd been shouting encouragement burped loudly and started stomping the deck. The circle of men around Jabril picked up the rhythm and began clapping and chanting, slowly at first, then faster and faster: "Don't spill a drop! Don't spill a drop! Don't spill a drop] Don't spill a drop] Don't spill a drop!""

Jabril flexed for the crowd, wound up and flung the knife. It struck the coat dead centre, and up went a cheer that quickly turned to howls. Jabril had sloshed some of the wine out of the bottle. "Dammit!" he cried.

" "Wine-waster" shouted one of the men gathered around him, with the fervour of a priest decrying the worst sort of blasphemy. "Pay the penalty and put it where it belongs!"

"Hey, at least I hit the coat," said Jabril with a grin. "You nearly killed someone on the quarterdeck with your throw." "Pay the price! Pay the price! Pay the price!" chanted the crowd.

Jabril put the bottle to his lips, tipped it all the way up and began to guzzle it in one go. The chanting rose in volume and tempo as the amount of wine in the bottle sank. JabriFs neck and jaw muscles strained mightily, and he raised his free hand high into the air as he sucked the last of the dark-red stuff down. The crowd applauded. Jabril pulled the bottle from his lips, lowered! his head and sprayed a mouthful of wine all over the man closest to him. "Oh no," he cried, "I spilled a drop! Ah ha ha ha ha!"

"My turn," said the drenched sailor. "I'm gonna lose on purpose and spill a drop right back, mate!"

Locke and Caldris watched from the starboard rail of the quarterdeck. Caldris was taking a rare break from the wheel; Jean currently had it. They were sailing along in a calm, muggy dusk just pleasant enough for Caldris to separate himself from the ship's precious helm by half a dozen paces. "This was a good idea," said Locke.

"Poor bastards have been under the boot for so long, they deserve a good debauch." Caldris was smoking a pale-blue ceramic pipe, the finest and most delicate thing Locke had ever seen in his hands, and his face was lit by the soft glow of embers.

At Caldris's suggestion, Locke had had large quantities of wine and beer (the Red Messenger was amply provisioned with both, and for a crew twice this size) hauled up on deck, and he'd offered a choice of indulgences to every man on board. A double-ration of fresh roasted pork — courtesy of the small but well-larded pig thed'r brought with them — for those who would stay sober and on watch, and a drunken party for those who wouldn't. Caldris, Jean and Locke were sober, of course, along with four hands who'd chosen the pork.

"It's things like this that make a ship feel like home," said Caldris. "Help you forget what a load of tedious old shit life out here can be." "It's not so bad," said Locke, a bit wistfully.

"Aye, says the captain of the fuckin" ship, on a night sent by the gods." He drew smoke and blew it out over the rail. "Well, if we can arrange a few more nights like this, it'll be bloody grand. Quiet moments are worth more than whips and manacles for discipline, mark my words."