Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

As he'd suspected… a mouthful or so of pale-brown liquor had spilled onto the tabletop from the goblet and fallen across a card. That card had dissolved into a puddle of soft, completely unmarked grey material.

"You took the cards out of my chest," he said. "The ones in the double-layered oilcloth parcel." "Yes."

"And you were drinking a fairly strong liquor with your meal. One of your children spilled it." "Caramel brandy, and I spilled it myself." She produced a dagger and poked at the grey material. Although it had a liquid sheen, it was hard and solid, and the tip of the dagger slid off it as though it were granite. "What the hell is this? It's like… alchemical cement."

"It is alchemical cement. You didn't notice that the cards smelled funny?"

"Why the hell would I smell playing cards?" She frowned. "Children, don't touch these anymore. In fact, go and sit on your bed until Mummy can wash your hands." "It's not dangerous," said Locke.

"I don't care," she said. "Paolo, Cosetta, put your hands in your laps and wait for Mummy."

"They" re not really cards," said Locke. "They" re alchemical resin wafers. Paper-thin and flexible. The card designs are actually painted on. You wouldn't believe how expensive they were." "Nor would I care. What the hell are they^r?"

"Isn't it obvious? Dip one in strong liquor and it dissolves in a few seconds. Suddenly you" ve got a little pat of alchemical cement. Mash up as many cards as you need. The stuff dries in about a minute, hard as steel."

"Hard as steel?" She eyed the grey splotch on her fine lacquered tabletop. "How does it come off?"

"Um… it doesn't. There's no solvent. At least not outside of an alchemist's lab." "What? Gods damn it, Ravelle—"

"Captain, you're being unfair. I didn't ask you to take those cards out and play with them. Nor did I spill liquor on them."

"You're right," said Drakasha with a sigh. She looked tired, Locke thought. The faint frown-lines around her mouth looked as though thed'r had a long recent workout. "Gather these up and throw them overboard."

"Captain, please. Please." Locke held his hands out toward her. "Not only are they expensive, thed'r be… damned difficult to duplicate. It" d take months. Let me just roll them back up in oilcloth and put them in the chest. Please think of them as part of my papers." "What do you use them for?"

"They" re just part of my little bag of tricks," he said. "All I have left of it, really. One last, important little trick. I swear to you, they're absolutely no threat to you or your ship… you have to spill booze on them, and even then they're just an annoyance. Look, if you save them for me, and find me some knives with scalpel-edges, I'll devote all my time to getting that shit off your table. Prying from the sides. Even if it takes all week. Please."

As it turned out, it took him ten hours, scraping away with infinite care atop the forecastle, as though he were performing surgery. He worked without rest, first by sunlight and then by the glow of multiple lanterns, until the devilishly hard stuff had been scraped off with nothing but a ghost upon the lacquer to show for it.

When he finally claimed his minuscule sleeping space, he knew his hands and forearms would ache well into the next day.

It was worth it, and had been worth every minute of work, to preserve the existence of that deck of cards.

On the twentieth, Drakasha gave up on the easterly course and put them west by north with the wind on the starboard beam. The weather held; they cooked by day and sweated by night, and the ship sailed beneath streams of flit-wraiths that hung over the water like arches of ghostly green light.

On the twenty-first, as the promise of dawn was just greying the eastern sky, they had their chance to prove themselves.

Locke was knocked out of a too-short sleep by an elbow to the ribs. He awoke to confusion; the men of the scrub watch were shifting, stumbling and muttering all around him. "Sail ho,"said Jean.

"Heard it from the masthead just a minute ago," said someone near the door. "Two points off the starboard quarter. That's well east and a little north of us, hull down.". "That's good," said Jabril, yawning. "The dawn glimpse."

"Dawn?" It still looked dark, and Locke rubbed his sleep-blurred eyes. "Dawn already? Since I no longer have to pretend to know what the hell I'm doing, what's a dawn glimpse?"

"Sun's coming up over the horizon, see?" Jabril appeared to relish the chance to lecture Locke. "Over in the east. We're still in shadow over here, to the west a" them. Hard to see us, but we got a good eye on them with that faint light behind their masts, savvy?" "Right," said Locke. "Sounds like a good thing." "We're for her," said Aspel. "We'll move in and take her. This ship is loaded with crew, and Drakasha's a bloody-handed bitch." "It's a fight for us," said Streva. "We'll go first."

"Aye, and prove ourselves," said Aspel. "Prove ourselves and be quits with this scrub watch shit."

"Don't be tying silver ribbons on your cock just yet," said Jabril. "We don't know her heading, or what speed she makes, or what her best point of sailing is. She might be a ship of war. Alight even be part of a squadron."

"Be fucked, Jabbi," said someone without real malice. "Don't you want to be gone from scrub watch?"

"Hey, time comes to board her, I'll row the boat naked and attack the bastards with my good fuckin" looks. Just wait and see if she's prey, is all I'm sayin"."

There was noise and commotion on deck; orders were shouted. The men at the entrance strained to hear and see everything.

"Delmastro's sending people up the lines," said one of them. "Looks like we're going to come north a few points. They" re doing it quicklike."

"Nothing's more suspicious than a sudden change of sail, if they see us," said Jabril. "She wants us to be nearer their course before we're spotted, so it looks natural."

Minutes passed; Locke blinked and settled back down against his familiar bulkhead. If action wasn't imminent, there was always time for a few more minutes of sleep. From the groaning and shuffling around him, he wasn't alone in that opinion.

He awoke a few minutes later — the sky visible through the ventilation hatch was lighter grey — to Lieutenant Delmastro's voice coming from the undercastle entrance.

"… where you are for now. Keep quiet and out of sight. It's about five minutes to the switchover from Red to Blue, but we're suspending regular watches for action. We'll be sending Red down in bits and pieces, and half of Blue will come up to replace them. We want to look like a merchant brig, not a prowler with a heavy crew."

Locke craned his neck to look out over the shadowy shapes around him. Just past Delmastro, in the predawn murk, he could see crewfolk at the waist wrestling several large barrels toward the ship's larboard rail. "Smoke-barrels on deck," called a woman.

"No open flames on deck," shouted Ezri. "No smoking. Alchemical lights only. Pass the word."

Minutes passed, and the light of dawn grew steadily. Locke nonetheless found his eyelids creeping back downward. He sighed relaxed, and-

"On deck there," came a shout from the foremast head, "send to the captain she's got three masts, and she's north-west by west. Topsails."

"Aye, three masts, north-west by west, topsails," shouted Ezri. "How does she bear?" "Broad on the starboard beam, aft a point, maybe." "Keep sharp. Is she still hull down?" "Aye."

"The moment she lifts her skirts over that horizon, you peek and tell us what's under them." Ezri returned to the undercastle and pounded loudly on the bulkhead beside the entrance. "Scrub watch, rouse up. Stretch your legs and use the craplines, then get back under here. Be quick. We'll be fighting or running soon enough. Best to have your innards in good order."