Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"I'll be damned," said Locke. "Looks like our lads are going to have their first chance at some plunder." "If only it" d had the courtesy to show up yesterday!"

"I'll wager I would have screwed things up regardless. But… can you imagine those poor bastards grappling their prey, leaping over the rails, swords in hand, screaming, "Your cats! Give us all your gods-damned cats!""

Jean laughed. "What a bloody mess we've unleashed. At least we'll have some entertainment. This'll be damn awkward with the Messenger in such a state. Maybe they'll come back for us and beg us to lend a hand." "Thed'r beg you, maybe," said Locke. As Locke watched, the Messenger's forecourse shuddered into existence, an unfolding square of white. Straining, he could just see tiny figures dashing to and fro on the deck and in the rigging. His former ship put her bow a touch to larboard, bringing the wind onto her larboard quarter.

"She's limping like a horse with a broken ankle," said Jean. "Look, they won't trust the mainmast with any canvas. Can't say I blame them." Jean scrutinized the scene for a few moments more. "Their new friend's coming up north-north-west, I think. If our lads sneak west and look harmless enough, maybe… otherwise, that new ship's got plenty of room to run west or south. If she's in any decent shape at all, Messenger'll never catch her."

"Jean…" said Locke, very slowly, a bit hesitant to trust his own naval judgment. "I don't… I don't think escape is anywhere on their minds. Look, they're straight on for the Messenger."

The next few minutes confirmed this. Indeed, the newcomer's sails soon doubled in size, and Locke could see the faintest line of the hull beneath them. Whatever she was, she was angled well north of west, fit to cut straight across the path of the Red Messenger.

"And she's fast," said Jean, clearly fascinated. "Look at her come on! I'd bet my own liver the Messenger's not even making four knots. She's doing twice that or more."

"Maybe they just don't give a whit for the Messenger," said Locke. "Maybe they can see she's wounded and they're just going to fly right past." "A "kiss my arse and fare-thee-well"," said Jean. "Pity."

The newcomer grew steadily; blurry shapes became a sleek, dark hull, billowing sails, the thin lines of masts. "Two masts," said Jean. "Brig, flying loads of canvas."

Locke felt an unexpected surge of urgency; he tried to restrain his excitement as the Messenger plodded feebly to the south-west while the newcomer steadily gained on her. Now the strange vessel showed her starboard side to them. As Jean had said, she had two masts, as well as a swift low profile and a hull so black she gleamed.

A dark speck appeared in mid-air above her stern. It moved upward, expanded and burst apart into a huge fluttering flag — a banner of solid crimson, bright as fresh-spilled blood. "Oh, gods," cried Locke. "You have to be fucking kidding!"

The newcomer raced on, foam-capped water surging at her bow, closing the gap with the Red Messenger with every passing second. Low white shapes appeared from behind her — boats crammed with the dark specks of sailors. The new ship swung round to the Messenger's lee like a hungry beast cutting off her prey's escape; meanwhile, her boats knifed across the gleaming water to launch their attack from windward. Whatever Jabril and his crew did to try to foil their entrapment, it wasn't enough; chorus after chorus of belligerent cheers echoed faintly across the water, and little black specks were soon swarming up the Messenger's sides.

"No!" Locke was unaware that he'd leapt to his feet until Jean pulled him back down hastily. "Oh, you bastards! You rotten, miserable, skulking bastards! You can't take my fucking ship—" "Which was already taken," said Jean.

"I come a thousand miles to shake your bloody hands," Locke screamed, "and you show up two hours after they put us overboard!" "Not even half that," said Jean. "Bloody fucking limp-cocked witless laggard piratesV

"Thieves prosper," said Jean, biting his knuckles as he snorted with laughter.

The battle, if it could be called that, didn't last five minutes. Someone on the quarterdeck brought the Messenger around, luffing straight into the wind, killing what little speed she'd had. All her sails were taken in and she soon drifted gently with one of the marauder's boats tied up at her side. Another boat hurried back to the ship that had birthed it. That vessel, under a far lazier press of sail than it had set out to snatch up the Messenger, then came round on a starboard tack and began to bear down in the general direction of Locke and Jean — an ominous monster toying with its next tiny meal.

"I think this might be one of those "good news, bad news" situations," said Jean, cracking his knuckles. "We may need to ready ourselves to repel boarders."

"With what? One stiletto and hurtful insinuations about their mothers?" Locke clenched his fists; his anger had become excitement. "Jean, if we get aboard that ship and talk our way into her crew, we're back in the game, by the gods!" "They might just mean to kill us and take the boat."

"We'll see," said Locke. "We'll see. First we'll exchange courtesies. Have ourselves some diplomatic interaction."

The pirate vessel came on slowly as the sun sank toward the west, and the colour of sky and water alike gradually deepened by a shade. She was indeed black-hulled — witchwood — and larger than the Red Messenger even at a glance. Sailors crowded her yardarms and deck railings; Locke felt a pang of envy to see such a large and active crew. She sliced majestically through the water, then luffed-up as orders were shouted from the quarterdeck. Sails were reefed with precise and rapid movements; she slowed to a crawl, blocked their view of the Red Messenger and presented her larboard side at a distance of about twenty yards.

"Ahoy the boat," cried a woman at the rail. She was rather short, Locke could see — dark-haired, partially armoured, backed up by at least a dozen armed and keenly interested sailors. Locke felt his skin crawl under their scrutiny, and he donned a cheerful mask. "Ahoy the brig," he shouted. "Fine weather, isn't it?" "What do you two have to say for yourselves?"

Locke rapidly considered the potential advantages of the pleading, cautious and cocky approaches, and decided that cocky was the best chance they had of making a memorable impression. "Avast," he cried, standing up and hoisting his stiletto over his head, "you must perceive we hold the weather gauge, and you are luffed-up with no hope of escape! Your ship is ours, and you are all our prisoners! We are prepared to be gracious, but don't test us."

There was an outbreak of laughter on the deck of the ship, and Locke felt his hopes rise. Laughter was good; laughter like that rarely preceded bloody slaughter, at least in his experience. "You're Captain Ravelle," shouted the woman, "aren't you?" "I, ah, see my reputation precedes me!" "Previous crew of your previous ship might have mentioned you." "Shit," Locke muttered. "Would you two care to be rescued?"

"Yes, actually," said Locke. "That would be a damn polite thing for you to do."

"Right, then. Have your friend stand up. Both of you get all your clothes off." "What?"

An arrow hissed through the air, several feet above their heads, and Locke flinched.

"Clothes off! You want charity, you entertain us first! Get your big friend up and get naked, both of you!" "I don't believe this," said Jean, rising to his feet.

"Look," shouted Locke as he began to slip out of his tunic, "can we just drop them in the bottom of the boat? You don't want us to throw them overboard, right?"

"No," said the woman. "We'll keep "em plus the boat, even if we don't keep you. Breeches off, gentlemen! That's the way!"

Moments later Locke and Jean stood, precariously balanced in the wobbling boat, stark naked with the rising evening breeze plainly felt against their backsides.