Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

Locke gazed out across the black waves and was startled to see a pale white-green shape, glowing like an alchemical lantern, leap up from the waves and splash back down a few seconds later. The arc of its passage left an iridescent after-image when he blinked. "Gods," he said, "what the hell is that}"

There was a fountain of the things now, about a hundred yards from the ship. They flew silently after one another, appearing and disappearing above the surf, casting their ghostly light on black water that returned it like a mirror. "You really are new to these waters," said Caldris. "Those are flit-wraiths, Kosta. South of Tal Verrar, you see "em all about. Sometimes in great schools, or arches leapin" over the water. Over ships. They" ve been known to follow us about. But only after dark, mind you." "Are they some kind offish?"

"Nobody rightly knows," said Caldris. "Flit-wraiths can't be caught. They can't be touched, as I hear it. They fly right through nets, like they was ghosts. Maybe they are." "Eerie," said Locke.

"You get used to "em after a few years," said Caldris. He drew smoke from his pipe and the orange glow strengthened momentarily. "The Sea of Brass is a damned strange place, Kosta. Some say it's haunted by the Eldren. Most say it's just plain haunted. I" ve seen things. Saint Corella's Fire, burnin" blue and red up on the yardarms, scaring the piss outta the top-watch. I sailed over seas like glass and seen… a city, once. Down below, not kidding. Walls and towers, white stone. Plain as day, right beneath our hull. In waters that our charts put at a thousand fathoms. Real as my nose, it was, then gone."

"Heh," said Locke, smiling. "You're pretty good at this. You don't have to toy with me, Caldris."

"I'm not toying with you one bit, Kosta." Caldris frowned, and his face took on a sinister cast in the pipe-light. "I'm telling you what to expect. Flit-wraiths is just the beginning. Hell, flit-wraiths is almost friendly. There's things out there even I have trouble believing. And there's places no sensible ship's master will ever go. Places that are… wrong, somehow. Places that wait for you."

"Ah," said Locke, recalling his desperate early years in the old and rotten places of Camorr and a thousand looming, broken buildings that had seemed to wait in darkness to swallow small children. "Now there I grasp your meaning."

"The Ghostwind Isles," said Caldris, "well, they're the worst of all. In fact, there's only eight or nine islands human beings have actually set foot on and come back to tell about it. But gods know how many more are hiding down there, under the fogs, or what the fuck's on "em." He paused before continuing, "You ever hear of the three settlements of the Ghostwinds?" "I don't think so," said Locke.

"Well." Caldris took another long puff on his pipe. "Originally there was three. Settlers out of Tal Verrar touched there about a hundred years ago. Founded Port Prodigal, Montierre and Hope-of-Silver. Port Prodigal's still there, of course. Only one left. Montierre was doing well until the war against the Free Armada. Prodigal's tucked well back in a fine defensive position; Montierre wasn't. After we did for their fleet, we paid a visit. Burned their fishing boats, poisoned their wells, sank their docks. Torched everything standing, then torched the ashes. Might as well have just rubbed the name "Montierre" off the map. Place ain't worth resettling." "And Hope-of-Silver?"

"Hope-of-Silver," said Caldris, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Fifty years ago, Hope-of-Silver was larger than Port Prodigal. On a different island, farther west. Thriving. That silver wasn't just a hope. Three hundred families, give or take. Whatever happened, happened in one night. Those three hundred families, just… gone." "Gone?"

"Gone. Vanished. Not a body to be found. Not a bone for birds to pick at. Something came down from those hills, out of that fog above the jungle, and gods know what it was, but it took "em all." "Merciful hells."

"If only," said Caldris. "A ship or two poked around after it happened. They found one ship from Hope-of-Silver itself, drifting offshore, like it" d put out in a real hurry. On it, they found the only bodies left from the whole mess. A few sailors. All the way up the masts, up at the very tops." Caldris sighed. "Thed'r lashed themselves there to escape whatever thed'r seen… and they were all found dead by their own weapons. Even where they were, they killed themselves rather than face whatever was comin" for "em.

"So pay attention to this, Master Kosta." Caldris gestured at the circle of relaxed and rowdy sailors, drinking and throwing knives by the light of alchemical globes. "You sail a sea where shit like that happens, you can see the value of making your ship a happy home." "Need a word, Captain Ravelle."

A day had passed. The air was still warm and the sun still beat down with palpable force when not behind the clouds, but the seas were higher and the wind stiffer. The Red Messenger lacked the mass to knife deep into the turbulent waves without shuddering, and so the deck beneath Locke's feet became even less of a friend.

Jabril — recovered from his close engagement with a wine bottle — and a pair of older sailors approached Locke as he stood by the starboard rail late in the afternoon, holding tight and trying to look casual. Locke recognized the older sailors as men who'd declared themselves unfit at the start of the voyage; days of rest and large portions had done them good. Locke, in light of the ship's understrength complement, had recently authorized extra rations at every meal. The notion was popular. "What do you need, Jabril?" "Cats, Captain."

The bottom fell out of Locke's stomach. With heroic effort, he managed to look merely puzzled. "What about them?"

"We been down on the main deck," said one of the older sailors. "Sleeping, mostly. Ain't seen no cats yet. Usually the little buggers are crawlin" around, doin" tricks, lookin" to curl up on us."

"I asked around," said Jabril. "Nobody" s seen even one. Not on the main deck, not up here, not on the orlop. Not even in the bilges. You keepin" "em in your cabin?"

"No," said Locke, picturing with perfect clarity the sight of eight cats (including Caldris's kitten) lounging contentedly in an empty armoury shack above their private bay back at the Sword Marina. Eight cats sparring and yowling over bowls of cream and plates of cold chicken.

Eight cats who were undoubtedly still lounging in that shack, right where he'd forgotten them, the night of the fateful assault on the Windward Rock. Five days and seven hundred miles behind them.

"Kittens," he said quickly. "I got a pack of kittens for this trip, Jabril. I reckoned a ship with a new name could do with new cats. And I can tell you they're a hell of a shy bunch -1 myself haven't seen one since I dumped them on the orlop. I expect they're just getting used to us. We'll see them soon enough."

"Aye, sir." Locke was surprised at the relief visible on the faces of the three sailors. "That's good to hear. Bad enough we got no women aboard until we get to the Ghostwinds; no cats would be plain awful."

"Couldn't tolerate no such offence," whispered one of the older sailors.

"We'll put out some meat every night," said Jabril. "We'll keep poking around the decks. I'll let you know soon as we find one." "By all means," said Locke.

Seasickness had nothing to do with his sudden urge to throw up over the side the moment they were gone. On the evening of their fifth day out from Tal Verrar, Caldris sat down for a private conversation in Locke's cabin with the door bolted.

"We're doing well," the sailing master said, though Locke could see dark circles like bruises under his eyes. The old man had slept barely four hours a day since thed'r reached the sea, unable to trust the wheel to Locke or Jean's care without supervision. He" d finally cultivated a fairly responsible master's mate, a man called Bald Mazucca, but even he was lacking in lore and could only be trained a little each day, with Caldris's attention so divided.