"Was a minute ago. Saw him and Lieutenant Delmastro fighting on the quarterdeck."
Locke nodded, then gestured aft with his spear. "Stern cabin," he said. "Follow me. Let's finish this."
He led them down the length of the flute's main deck at a run, shoving unarmed, cowering crewfolk out of the way as he passed. The armoured door to the stern cabin was shut, and behind it Locke could hear the sound of frantic activity. He pounded on the door.
"We know you're in there," he yelled, and then turned to Jabril with a tired grin. "This seems awfully familiar, doesn't it?" "You won't get through that door," came a muffled shout from within. "Give it some shoulder," said Jabril.
"Let me try being terribly clever first," said Locke. Then, raising his voice: "First point, this door may be armoured, but your stern windows are glass. Second point, open this fucking door by the count of ten or I'll have every surviving crewman and — woman put to death on the quarterdeck. You can listen while you're doing whatever it is you're doing in there."
A pause; Locke opened his mouth to begin counting. Suddenly, with the ratcheting clack of heavy clockwork, the door creaked open and a short, middle-aged man in a long black jacket appeared.
"Please don't," he said. "I surrender. I would have done it sooner, but the Redeemers wouldn't have it. I locked myself in after they chased me down here. Kill me if you like, but spare my crew."
"Don't be stupid," said Locke. "We don't kill anyone who doesn't fight back. Though I suppose it's nice to know you're not a complete arsehole. Ship's master, I presume?" "Antoro Nera, at your service." Locke grabbed him by his lapels and began dragging him toward the companionway. "Let's go on deck, Master Nera. I think we've dealt with your Redeemers. What the hell were they doing aboard, anyway? Passengers?" "Security," muttered Nera. Locke stopped in his tracks.
"Are you so fucking dim-witted that you didn't know thed'r go berserk the first time someone dangled a fight in front of their noses?"
"I didn't want them! The owners insisted. Redeemers work for nothing but food and passage. Owners thought… perhaps thed'r scare off anyone looking for trouble."
"A fine theory. Only works if you advertise their presence, though. We didn't know they were aboard until they were charging us in a fucking phalanx."
Locke went up the companionway, dragging Nera behind him, followed by Jabril and the others. They emerged into the bright light of morning on the quarterdeck. One of the men was hauling down the flute's colours, and he was knee-deep in bodies.
There were at least a dozen of them. Redeemers, mostly, with their green head-cloths fluttering and their expressions strangely satisfied. But here and there were unfortunate crewfolk, and at the head of the stairs a familiar face — Aspel, the front of his chest a bloody ruin.
Locke glanced around frantically and sighed when he saw Jean, apparently untouched, crouched near the starboard rail. Lieutenant Delmastro was at his feet, her hair unbound, blood running down her right arm. As Locke watched, Jean tore a strip of cloth from the bottom of his own tunic and began binding one of her wounds.
Locke felt a pang that was half-relief and half-melancholy; usually it was him that Jean was picking up in bloody pieces at the end of a fight. Ducking away from Jean had been a matter of split-second necessity in the heat of the struggle. He realized that he was strangely disquieted that Jean hadn't followed him, relentlessly at his heels, looking after him as always. Don't be an ass, he thought. Jean had his own bloody problems. "Jerome," he said.
Jean's head darted around, and his lips nearly formed an "L"-sound before he got himself under control. "Orrin! You're a mess! Gods, are you all right?"
A mess? Locke looked down and discovered that nearly every inch of his clothing was soaked in blood. He ran a hand over his face. What he'd taken for sweat or beer came away red on his palm. "None of it's mine," he said. "I think."
"I was about to come looking for you," said Jean. "Ezri… Lieutenant Delmastro…"
"I'll be fine," she groaned. "Bastard tried to hit me with a mizzenmast. Just knocked the wind out of me."
Locke spotted one of the huge brass-studded clubs lying on the deck near her, and just beyond it, a dead Redeemer with one of Delmastro's characteristic sabres planted in his throat.
"Lieutenant Delmastro," said Locke, "I" ve brought the ship's master. Allow me to introduce Antoro Nera."
Delmastro pushed Jean's hands away and crawled past him for a better view. Lines of blood ran from cuts on her lip and forehead.
"Master Nera. Well met. I represent the side that's still standing. Appearances to the contrary." She grinned and wiped at the blood above her eyes. "I'll be responsible for arranging larceny once we've secured your ship, so don't piss me off. Speaking of which, what ship is this?" "Kingfisher," said Nera. "Cargo and destination?" "Tal Verrar, with spices, wine, turpentine and fine woods."
"That and a fat load of Jeremite Redeemers. No, shut up. You can explain later. Gods, Ravelle, you have been busy."
"Too fucking right," said Jabril, slapping him on the back. "He killed four of them himself in the hold. Rode a beer-cask down on one and must" ve fought the other three straight up."Jabril snapped his fingers. "Like that."
Locke sighed and felt his cheeks warming. He reached up and put a bit of the blood back where he'd found it.
"Well," said Delmastro, "I won't say that I'm not surprised, but I am pleased. You're not fit to tend so much as a fishing boat, Ravelle, but you can lead boarding parties whenever you like. I think we just redeemed about half of Jerem." "You're too kind," said Locke.
"Can you get this ship into order for me? Clear the decks of crewfolk and put them all under guard at the forecastle?" "I can. Will she be all right, Jerome?" "She's been smacked around and cut up a bit, but—"
"I" ve had worse," she said. "I" ve had worse, and I" ve certainly given it back You can go with Ravelle if you like." "I-" "Don't make me hit you. I'll be fine."
Jean stood up and came over to Locke, who shoved Nera gently toward Jabril.
"Jabril, would you escort our new friend to the forecastle while Jerome and I scrape up the rest of his crew?" "Aye, be pleased to."
Locke led Jean down the quarterdeck stairs, into the tangle of bodies amidships. More Redeemers, more crewfolk… and five or six of the men he'd pulled out of the Windward Rock three weeks before. He was uncomfortably aware that the survivors all seemed to be staring at him. He caught snatches of their conversation: "… laughing, he was…" "Saw it as I came up the side. Charged them all by himself…"
"Never seen the like." That was Streva, whose left arm looked broken. "Laughed and laughed. Fucking fearless."
"… "The gods send your doom, motherfuckers". That's what he told them. I heard it…"
"They" re right, you know," whispered Jean. "I" ve seen you do some brave and crazy shit, but that was… that was—"
"It was all crazy and none brave. I was out of my fucking head, get it? I was so scared shitless I didn't know what I was doing." "But in the hold below—"
"I dropped a cask on one," said Locke. "Two more got their throats slit while they were still dumb. The last was kind enough to slip in beer and make it easy. Same as always, Jean. I'm no bloody warrior." "But now they think you are. You pulled it off."
They found Mai, slumped against the mainmast, unmoving. His hands were curled around the sword buried in his stomach, as though he was trying to keep it safe. Locke sighed.
"I have what you might call mixed feelings about that right now," he said.