Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

"Ravelle," said Delmastro, "at your feet, the breaching shears. You see them?"

Locke looked down. Tucked away beneath his seat was an ugly-looking hinged device with a pair of wooden handles. These handles worked a metal jaw. "I think so."

"Bows aren't our biggest problem. The most trouble they can give us is if they rig razor-nets against boarding — we'll slash ourselves to pieces trying to climb on deck. If those nets are rigged, you must use those shears to cut a slit for us." "Or die trying," he said. "I think I get it."

"But the good news is, rigging razor-nets is a pain in the arse. And they won't be up at all if they're expecting to send out boats and receive passengers. If we can just get close enough before we tip our hand, they won't have tune to use them." "What's the signal to tip our hand?" "You won't miss it. Trust me."

Zamira Drakasha stood at the starboard quarterdeck rail, taking a break from the smoke. She studied the approaching flute through her glass; there was elaborate ornamentation on the stubby forepeak, and a somewhat whimsical gold and black paint scheme along her tall sides. That was agreeable; if she was well maintained she was likely to be carrying a respectable cargo and a bit of coin.

A pair of officers stood at the bow, studying her ship through their own glasses. She waved in what she hoped was an encouraging fashion, but received no response.

"Well, fine," she muttered. "You'll be rendering your courtesies soon enough."

The small, dark shapes of crew rushed about on the flute, now just a quarter-mile distant. Her sails were shuddering, her hull elongating in Zamira's view — were they running? No, just killing momentum, turning a point or two to starboard, aiming to get close but not too close. She could see a pump-and-hose team at work amidships, shooting a stream of water upward to wet the flute's lower sails. Very sensible, when coming anywhere near a fire at sea. "Signal party," she said, "stand ready."

"Aye, Captain," came a chorus of voices from within the smoke-shrouded portion of the quarterdeck.

Her own boats were cutting the waves between the two ships. There was Ravelle in the lead with his parasol, looking a bit like a thin silver mushroom with a soft white cap. And there was Valora, and there was Ezri… damn it. Ezri's request had given her little choice but to acquiesce or look foolish in front of the scrub watch. There" d be words for that little woman… if the gods blessed Zamira enough to send her lieutenant back alive.

She studied the flute's officers, who'd moved from the bow to the larboard rail. Wide fellows, it seemed, a bit overdressed for the heat. Her eyes were not what thed'r been twenty-five years ago… Were they prodding one another, looking more intently through their glasses? "Captain?" asked a member of the signal party.

"Hold," she said, "hold…" Every second closed the gap between the Orchid and her victim. Thed'r slowed and turned, but leeway would bring them closer still… closer still. One of the flute's officers pointed, then grabbed the other by the shoulder and pointed again. Their glasses flew up in unison.

"Ha!" Zamira cried. Not a chance they could slip away now. She felt new zeal lending strength to her every step and motion; she felt half her years fall from her shoulders. Gods, the moment they realized just how fucked they were was always sweet. She slammed her spyglass shut, snatched her speaking trumpet from the deck and hollered across the length of the ship.

"Archers ready at the tops! All hands on deck! All hands on deck and man the starboard rail! Stifle smoke-barrels!"

The Poison Orchid shuddered; seven dozen hands were pounding up the ladders, surging out of the hatchways, armed and armoured, screaming as they came. Archers stepped out from behind the masts, knelt on their fighting platforms and nocked arrows to their gleaming bows.

Zamira didn't need her glass to see the shapes of officers and crew running about frantically on the flute's deck.

"Let's give "em something that'll really make "em piss their breeches," she shouted, not bothering with the speaking trumpet. "HOIST OUR CRIMSON!"

The three yellow pennants streaming above the quarterdeck shuddered, then plummeted straight down into the grey haze. From out of the last of the black and boiling smoke rose a broad red banner, bright as the morning sun looming above a storm.

"With a will," shouted Lieutenant Delmastro, "with a will!" As the blood-red flag rose to its full prominence above the stern of the Orchid and the first of the horde of maniacally cheering crewfolk began to crowd her starboard rail, the three boats surged across the waves.

Locke shed his parasol and jacket, tossing them overboard before remembering that they were worth quite a bit of money. He breathed in excited gasps, glancing over his shoulder at the fast-approaching side of the flute, a sheer wooden surface that loomed like a floating castle. Dear gods, he was going into battle. What the fuck was the matter with him?

He bit the insides of his cheeks for concentration and held on to the gunwales with white knuckles. Damn it, this was no grand gesture. He couldn't afford this. He breathed deep to steady himself.

Locke Lamora was small, but the Thorn of Camorr was larger than any of this. The Thorn couldn't be touched by blade or spell or scorn. Locke thought of the Falconer, bleeding at his feet. He thought of the Grey King, dead beneath his knife. He thought of the fortunes that had run through his fingers, and he smiled.

Steadily, carefully, he drew his sabre and began to wave it in the air. The three boats were nearly abreast now, slashing white triangles of wake on the sea, a minute from their target. Locke meant to hit it wearing the biggest lie of his life like a costume. He might be dead in a few moments, but until then, by the gods, he was the Thorn of Camorr. He was Captain Orrin fucking Ravelle.

"Orchids! Orchids!" He made a statue of himself at the bow of the boat, thrusting with his sabre as though he meant to ram the flute and punch a hole in her side all by himself. "Pull for the prize! Pull for yourselves! Follow me, Orchids! Richer and cleverer than everyone else!"

The Poison Orchid slipped ahead of the last of her smoke, streaming grey lines from her quarterdeck as though evading the grasp of some godlike ghostly hand. The teeming crewfolk at her rail cheered again and then fell silent together. The ship's sails began to flutter. Drakasha was tacking, with haste, to bring the ship sharply around to starboard. If she pulled it off she would snug up, on the larboard tack, right alongside the flute at knife-fighting distance.

The sudden silence of the Orchids allowed Locke to hear noises from the flute for the first time — orders, panic, arguments, consternation. And then, over everything else, a tinny and desperate voice shouting through a speaking trumpet:

"Save us! For the love of the gods, please… please get over here and save usP

"Shit. That's a little different from what we usually get," said Delma-stro.

Locke had no time to think; they were up to the flute's hull, bumping hard against the wall of wet planks on her lee side. The ship was slightly heeled over, creating the illusion that she was about to topple and crush them. Miraculously, there were shrouds and a boarding net within easy reach. Locke leapt for the net, sword-arm raised.

"Orchids," he cried as he climbed the rough, wet hemp in an exultation of fear, "Orchids! Follow me!"

The moment of truth: his left hand found the deck at the top of the boarding net. Gritting his teeth, he swept upward with his sabre, clumsily and viciously, in case anyone was waiting at the edge of the deck. Then he heaved himself up, rolled under the rail — he'd missed the entry port by a few yards — and stumbled to his feet, screaming like a madman.