Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"Captain!" The mainmast lookouts were shouting down once more. "She's turned to cut our path and she's adding sail!"

"Funny how tender-hearted they get as soon as they see that signal," said Drakasha. "Utgar!"

A fairly young Vadran, the skin of his shaved head red-baked over a braided black beard, appeared just beside Lieutenant Delmastro.

"Hide Paolo and Cosetta on the orlop deck," said Zamira. "We're about to cause an argument." "Aye," he said, and hurried up the quarterdeck stairs.

"As for you," said Drakasha, returning her attention to the scrub watch, "hatchets and sabres are set out at the foremast. Take your choice and wait to help send the boats down." "Captain Drakasha!" "What is it, Ravelle?""

Locke cleared his throat and offered a silent prayer to the Nameless Thirteenth that he knew what he was doing. The time for a gesture was now; if he didn't do something to restore a bit of prestige to Ravelle, he'd end up as just another member of the crew, shunned for his past failure. He needed to be respected if he expected to achieve any part of his mission. That meant a grand act of foolishness.

"It's my fault that these men nearly died aboard the Messenger. They were my crew, and I should have looked after them better. I'd like the chance to do that now. I want… the first seat on the lead boat." "You expect me to let you command the attack?"

"Not command," said Locke, "just go up the side first. Whatever's there to bleed us, let it bleed me first. Maybe I can spare whoever comes up next."

"That means me as well," said Jean, placing a hand on Locke's shoulder, somewhat protectively. "I go where he goes." Gods bless you, Jean, thought Locke.

"If it's your ambition to stop a crossbow bolt," said Drakasha, "I won't say no." She looked a bit taken aback, however, and she gave the tiniest fraction of an approving nod to Locke as the crowd began to break up and head forward for their weapons.

"Captain!" Lieutenant Delmastro stepped forward, her hands and forearms covered in soot from the smoke-barrels. She glanced at Locke and Jean as she spoke. "Just who is leading the cutting-out boats anyway?"

"Free-for-all, Del. I'm sending one Orchid per boat to hold them; what the scrub watch does after they climb the sides is their business." "I want the boats."

Drakasha stared at her for several seconds, and said nothing. She was wreathed in grey smoke from the waist down.

"I had nothing to do when we took the Messenger, Captain," Delma-stro said hastily. "In fact, I haven't had any real fun with a prize for weeks."

Drakasha flicked her gaze over Jean and frowned. "You crave an indulgence." "Aye. But a useful one."

Drakasha sighed. "You have the boats, Del. Mind you, Ravelle gets his wish."

Translation: if he takes an arrow for anyone, make sure its you, thought Locke.

"You won't regret it, Captain. Scrub watch! Arm yourselves and meet me at the waist!" Delmastro dashed up the quarterdeck stairs, past Utgar, who was leading the Drakasha children along with one clinging tightly to either hand.

"You're a bold and stupid fellow, Ravelle," said Jabril. "I think I almost like you again."

"… at least he can fight, we know that much," Locke heard one of the other men saying. "You should" ve seen him take care of the guard the night we got the Messenger. Pow! One little punch folded him right up. He'll show us a thing or two this morning. You wait."

Locke was suddenly very glad he'd already pissed everything he had to piss.

At the waist, an older crew-woman stood watch over small barrels packed full of the promised hatchets and sabres. Jean drew out a pair of hatchets, hefted them and frowned as Locke hesitated before the barrels. "You have any idea what you're doing?" he whispered. "None whatsoever," said Locke. "Take a sabre and try to look comfortable." Locke drew a sabre and gazed at it as though immensely satisfied.

"Anyone with a belt," shouted Jean, "grab a second weapon and tuck it in. You never know when you or someone else might need it."

As half a dozen men took his advice, he sidled up to Locke and whispered again: "Stay right beside me. Just… keep up with me and stand tall. Maybe they won't have bows."

Lieutenant Delmastro returned to their midst, wearing her black leather vest and bracers, as well as her knife-packed weapon belt. Locke noticed that the curved handguards of her sabres were studded with what looked like jagged chips of Elderglass.

"Here, Valora." She tossed a leather fighting collar to Jean and held her tightly tailed hair up to leave her neck fully exposed. "Help a girl out."

Jean placed the collar around her neck and clasped it behind her head. She tugged it once, nodded and put up her arms. "Listen! Until we make an unfriendly move, you're wealthy passengers and land-sucking snobs, sent out in the boats to save your precious skins."

A pair of crewmen was making the rounds of the scrub watch, handing out fine hats, brocaded jackets and other fripperies. Delmastro seized a silk parasol and shoved it into Locke's hands. "There you go, Ravelle. That might deflect some harm."

Locke shook the folded parasol over his head with exaggerated belligerence, and got some nervous laughter in exchange.

"Like the captain said, it'll be one Orchid per boat, to make sure they come back even if you don't," said Delmastro. "I'll take Ravelle and Valora with me, in the little boat you donated from the Messenger. Plus you and you." She pointed to Streva and Jabril. "Whatever else happens, we're first to the side and first up."

Oscarl, the boatswain, appeared with a small party of assistants carrying lines and blocks to begin rigging hoisting gear.

"One thing more," said Delmastro. "If they ask for quarter, give it. If they drop their weapons, respect it. If they carry on fighting, slaughter them where they fucking stand. And if you start to feel sorry for them, just remember what signal we had to fly to get them to lend aid to a ship on fire."

From the water, the illusion of that fire looked complete to Locke's eyes. All the smoke-barrels were going now; the ship trailed a black and grey cloud that all but enveloped its quarterdeck. The figure of Zamira appeared now and again, her spyglass briefly catching the sun before she vanished back into the darkness. A team of crewmen had rigged small pumps and canvas hoses amidships (at the rail, where they could best be seen), and they were directing streams of water at the cloud of smoke, though actually doing nothing but washing the deck.

Locke sat at the bow of the little boat, feeling vaguely ridiculous with his parasol in hand and a cloth-of-silver jacket draped over his shoulders like a cape. Jean and Jabril shared the forward rowing bench, Streva and Lieutenant Delmastro were behind them, and a very small crewman named Vitorre — little more than a boy — crouched in the stern to take over from them when they boarded the flute.

That ship, her curiously round and wallowing hull-curves now plainly visible, was angled somewhat away from them to the north. Locke estimated that she would cross paths with the Poison Orchid, or very nearly so, in about ten minutes.

"Let's start rowing for her," said Delmastro. "They'll expect it by now."

Their boat and the two larger ones had been keeping station about a hundred yards south-east of the Orchid. As the four rowers in the lead boat began to pull north, Locke saw the others catch their cue and follow.

They bobbed and slipped across the foot-high waves. The sun was up and its heat was building; it had been half-past the seventh hour of the morning when thed'r left the ship. The oars creaked rhythmically in their locks; now they were abreast with the Orchid, and the newcomer was about half a mile to their north-east. If the flute caught wind of the trap and tried to flee to the north, the ship would loose canvas to fly after her. If she tried to flee south, however, it would be up to the boats to slip into her path.