Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"I'm sure you heard me say "wretched", which derives from a state of wretchedness, which is in turn caused by their being wretches. I could use a number of other highly technical terms, only some of them completely imaginary—" "Treganne, my patience is as long-vanished as your good looks."

"Most of them are still suffering from long enclosure. Poor sustenance, little exercise and nervous malaise. They" ve been eating better since leaving Tal Verrar, but they're exhausted and battered. A handful are in what I'd call decent health. An equal number are not fit for any work at all until I say otherwise. I won't bend on that… Captain." "I won't ask you to. Disease?"

"Miraculously absent, if you mean fevers and contagions. Also little byway of sexual consequences. They" ve been locked away from women for months, and most of them are Eastern Therin. Very little inclination to lay with one another, you know." "Their loss. If I have further need of you—"

"I'll be in my cabin, obviously. And mind your children. They appear to be steering the ship."

Locke stared at the woman as she stamped away. One of her feet had the hollow, heavy sound of wood, and she walked with the aid of a strange cane made of stacked white cylinders. Ivory? No — the spine of some unfortunate creature, fused together with shining seams of metal.

Drakasha and Delmastro turned toward the ship's wheel, a doubled affair like the one aboard the Messenger, currently tended by an unusually tall young man who was all sharp, gangling angles. At either side stood Paolo and Cosetta, not actually touching the wheel but mimicking his movements and giggling.

"Mumchance," said Drakasha as she stepped over and pulled Cosetta away from the wheel, "where's Gwillem?" "Craplines." "I told him he was on sprat duty," said Ezri. "I'll have his rucking eyes," said Drakasha. Mumchance seemed unruffled. "Man's gotta piss, Captain." "Gotta piss," mumbled Cosetta.

"Hush." Zamira reached around Mumchance and snatched Paolo back from the wheel as well. "Mum, you know full well they're not to touch the wheel or the rails." "They wasn't touching the wheel, Captain."

"Nor are they to dance at your side, cling to your legs or in any other way assist you in navigating the vessel. Clear?" "Savvy."

"Paolo," said Drakasha, "take your sister back to the cabin and wait for me there."

"Yes," said the boy, his voice as faint as the sound of two pieces of paper sliding together. He took Cosetta's hand and began to lead her aft.

Drakasha hurried forward once again, past small parties of crewfolk working or eating, all of whom acknowledged her passing with respectful nods and waves. Ezri pushed Locke and Jean along in her wake.

Near the chicken coops, Drakasha crossed paths with a rotund but sprightly Vadran a few years older than herself. The man was wearing a dandified black jacket covered in tarnished brass buckles, and his blond-grey hair was pulled into a billowing ponytail that hung to the seat of his breeches. Drakasha grabbed him by the front of his tunic with her left hand.

"Gwillem, what part of "watch the children for a Few minutes" did Ezri fail to make clear?" "I left them with Mum, Captain—" "They were your problem, not his." "Well, you trust him to steer the ship, why not trust him to—"

"I do trust him with my loves, Gwillem. I just have a peculiar attachment to having orders followed."

"Captain," said Gwillem in a low voice, "I had to drop some brown on the blue, eh? I could" ve brought them to the craplines, but I doubt you would have approved of the education thed'r have received—"

"Hold it in, for Iono's sake. I only took a few minutes. Now go and pack your things." "My things?" "Take the last boat over to the Messenger and join the prize crew." "Prize crew? Captain, you know I'm not much good—"

"I want that ship eyeballed and inventoried, bowsprit to taffrail. Account for everything. When I haggle with the Shipbreaker over it, I want to know exactly how far the bastard is trying to cheat me." "But—"

"I'll expect your written tally when we rendezvous in Port Prodigal. We both know there was hardly any loot to sling over and count today. Get over there and earn your share." "Your will, Captain."

"My quartermaster," Zamira said when Gwillem had trudged away, swearing. "Not bad, really. Just prefers to let work sort of elude him whenever possible."

At the bow of the ship was the forecastle deck, raised perhaps four and a half feet above the weather deck, with broad stairs on either side. In between those stairs a wide, uncovered opening led to a dark area that was half-compartment and half-crawlspace beneath the forecastle. It was seven or eight yards long by Locke's estimate.

The forecastle deck and stairs were crowded with most of the Red Messenger's men, under the casual guard of half a dozen of Zamira's armed crewfolk. Jabril, sitting next to Aspel at the front of the crowd, looked deeply amused to see Locke and Jean again. The men behind him began to mutter.

"Shut up," said Ezri, taking a position between Zamira and the newcomers. Locke, not quite knowing what to do, stood off to one side with Jean and waited for instructions. Drakasha cleared her throat.

"Some of us haven't met. I'm Zamira Drakasha, captain of the Poison Orchid. Lend an ear. Jabril told me that you took ship in Tal Verrar thinking you were to be pirates. Anyone having second thoughts?"

Most of the Messenger's men shook their heads or quietly muttered denials.

"Good. I am what your friend Ravelle pretended to be," Drakasha said, reaching over and putting one of her arms around Locke's shoulders. She smiled theatrically, and several of the Messenger's less-battered men chuckled. "I have no lords or masters. I fly the red flag when I'm hungry and a false flag when I'm not. I have one port of call, Port Prodigal in the Ghostwinds. Nowhere else will have me. Nowhere else is safe. You live on this deck, you share that peril. I know some of you don't understand. Think of the world. Think of everywhere in the world that isn't this ship, save one rotten little speck of misery in the blackest arsehole of nowhere. That's what you're renouncing. Everything. Everyone. Everywhere."

She released Locke, noting the sombre expressions of the Messenger's crew with approval. She pointed at Ezri. "My first mate, Ezri Delmastro. We call her "lieutenant" and so do you. She says it, I back it. Never presume otherwise.

"You" ve met our ship's physiker. Scholar Treganne tells me you could be worse and you could be better. There'll be rest for those that need it. I can't use you if you're in no condition to work."

"Are we being invited to join your crew, Captain Draksaha?" asked Jabril.

"You're being offered a chance," said Ezri. "That's all. After this, you're not prisoners, but you're not free men. You're what we call the scrub watch. You sleep here, in what we call the undercastle. Worst place on the ship, more or less. If there's a filthy shit job to be had, you'll do it. If we're short blankets or clothes, you'll go without. You're last for meals and drinks."

"Every member of my crew can give you an order," said Drakasha, picking up as Ezri finished. Locke had a notion that thed'r honed this routine together over time. "And every one of them will expect to be obeyed. We've no formal defaults; cop wise or slack off and someone will just beat the hell out of you. Raise enough fuss that I have to notice and I'll throw you over the side. Think I'm kidding? Ask someone who's been here awhile."

"How long do we have to be on the scrub watch?" asked one of the younger men near the back of the crowd.

"Until you prove yourselves," said Drakasha. "We raise anchor in a few minutes and sail for Port Prodigal. Anyone who wants to leave when we get there, be gone. You won't be sold; this isn't a slaving ship. But you'll get no pay save drink and rations. You'll walk away with empty pockets, and in Prodigal, slavery might be kinder. At least someone would give a shit that you lived or died.