Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

It was less like moving with a crowd than being squeezed from a tube. Locke found himself pushed on deck, and he curled his back and stretched. Jean did likewise, then stepped up beside Delmastro. Locke raised an eyebrow; the little lieutenant seemed to tolerate Jean's conversation to the same extent that she disdained his. So long as one of them was getting information from her, he supposed. "Do you really think we'll be running?" asked Jean.

"I'd prefer not." Delmastro squinted over the rail, but even from Locke's perspective the new ship couldn't be seen on deck just yet.

"You know," said Jean, "it's to be expected that you won't see anything from down there. You should let me put you on my shoulders."

"A short joke," said Delmastro. "How remarkably original. I" ve never heard the like in all my days. I'll have you know I'm the tallest of all my sisters." "Sisters," said Jean. "Interesting. A bit of your past for free?"

"Shit," she said, scowling. "Leave me alone, Valora. It's going to be a busy morning."

Men were returning from the craplines. Now that the press had lessened, Locke climbed the stairs and made his way forward to do his own business. He had sufficient unpleasant experience by now to elbow his way to the weather side — damned unfortunate things could happen to those on the lee craplines in any kind of wind — of the little wooden brace that crossed the bowsprit just a yard or two out from the forepeak. It had ratlines hanging beneath it like a miniature yardarm, and against these Locke braced his feet while he undid his breeches. Waves pounded white against the bow, and spray rose to splash the backs of his legs. "Gods," he said, "to think that pissing could be such an adventure."

"On deck, there," came the cry from the foremast a moment later. "She's a flute, she is. Round and fat. Holding course and sail as before." "What colours?" "None to be seen, Lieutenant."

A flute. Locke recognized the term — a round-sterned merchantman with a homely curved bow. Handy for cargo, but a brig like the Orchid could dance around it at will. No pirate or military expedition would make use of such a vessel. As soon as they could draw her in, thed'r likely have their fight. "Ha," he muttered, "and here I am, caught with my breeches down."

The sun rose molten behind their target, framing the low, black shape in a half-circle of crimson. Locke was on his knees at the starboard rail of the forecastle, trying to stay unobtrusive. He squinted and put a hand over his eyes to cut the glare. The eastern sky was a bonfire aura of pink and red; the sea like liquid ruby spreading in a stain from the climbing sun.

A dirty black smear of smoke a few yards wide rose from the lee side of the Poison Orchid's waist, an ominous intrusion into the clean dawn air. Lieutenant Delmastro was tending the smoke-barrels herself. The Orchid was making way under topsails with her main and forecourses furled; conveniently, it was both a logical plan of sail for this breeze and the first precaution they would have taken if the ship were really on fire.

"Come on, you miserable twits," said Jean, who was seated beside him. "Glance left, for Perelandro's sake."

"Maybe they do see us," said Locke. "Maybe they just don't give a damn." "They haven't changed a sail," said Jean, "or we would" ve heard about it from the lookouts. They must be the most incurious, myopic, dim-witted buggers that ever set canvas to mast."

"On deck there!" The foremast lookout sounded excited. "Send to the captain she's turning to larboard!"

"How far?" Delmastro stepped away from her smoke-barrels. "Is she coming about to head right for us?" "No, she's come about three points around."

"They want to have a closer look," said Jean, "but they're not hopping into the hammock with us just yet."

There was a shout from the quarterdeck, and a moment later Delmastro blew her whistle three times. "Scrub watch! Scrub watch to the quarterdeck!"

They hurried aft, past crewfolk removing well-oiled bows from canvas covers and stringing them. As Delmastro had promised, about half the usual watch was on deck; those involved in preparing weapons were crouched down or hiding behind the masts and the chicken coops. Drakasha was waiting for them at the quarterdeck rail, and she started speaking the moment they arrived.

"They still have time and room enough to put about. It's a flute, and I doubt they could run from us for ever in any weather, but they could make us work for the catch. My guess is six or seven hours, but who wants to be bored for that long? We'll pose as a charter brig on fire and see if we can't entice them to do the sociable thing.

"I offered you a chance to prove yourselves, so you're the teeth of the trap. You'll fight first. Good on you if you come back. If you don't want to fight, get under the forecastle and stay scrub watch until we're quits with you.

"As for me, I woke up hungry this morning. I mean to have that fat little prize. Who among you would fight for a place on my ship?"

Locke and Jean thrust their arms into the air, along with everyone nearby. Locke glanced quickly around and saw that nobody was declining their chance.

"Good," said Drakasha. "We've three boats, seating about thirty. You'll have them. Your task will be to look innocent at first; stay near the Orchid. At the signal, you'll dash out and attack from the south." "Captain," said Jabril, "what if we can't take her ourselves?"

"If numbers or circumstances are against you, hold fast to whatever scrap of deck you can. I'll bring the Orchid alongside and grapple to her. Nothing that ship carries can stand against a hundred fresh boarders."

A fine comfort that'll be to those of us already dead or dying, Locke thought. The reality of what they were about to do had only just come home to him, and he felt an anxious fluttering in his stomach.

"Captain!" One of the lookouts was hailing from the maintop. "She's sent up Talishani colours!"

"She might be lying," muttered Jabril. "Decent bluff. If you're going to fly a false flag, Talisham's got a bit of a navy. And nobody's at war with "em right now."

"Not too clever, though," said Jean. "If she had escorts in sight, why not fly it at all times? Only someone with cause to be worried hides their colours." "Aye. Them and pirates."Jabril grinned.

Captain Drakasha shouted across the crowd: "Del! Have one of your smoke-barrels sent over to the starboard rail. Just forward of the quarterdeck stairs." "You want smoke from the weather rail, Captain?"

"A good smudge right across the quarterdeck," said Drakasha. "If they want to chat with signal flags, we need an excuse to keep mum."

The lanky sailing master, holding the wheel a few feet behind Drakasha, cleared his throat loudly. She smiled, then seemed to have an idea. Turning to a sailor on her left, she said: "Get three signal pennants from the flag chest and let them fly from the stern. Yellow over yellow over yellow."

"All souls in peril? said Jean. "That's a come-hither look, and no fooling." "I thought it was just a distress signal," said Locke.

"Should" ve read the book more closely. Three yellow pennants says we're so hard up that we'll legally grant them salvage rights to anything we're not carrying on our persons. They save it, they own it."

Delmastro and her crew had moved a smoke-barrel into position at the starboard rail and lit it with a bit of twist-match. Grey tendrils of smoke began to snake up and over the quarterdeck, chasing the darker black cloud rising from the lee side. At the taffrail, a pair of sailors was sending up three fluttering yellow pennants.

"Extra lookouts aloft and at the rails to give Mumchance a hand," called Drakasha. "Archers up one at a time. Keep your weapons down in the tops; stay out of sight if you can and play meek until I give the signal."