"Our sole experience with ships," said Jean, "consists of getting on, getting seasick and getting off."
"I" ve thought of that," said Stragos. "The captain of a criminal crew must have, above all other things, charisma. Leadership skills. A sense of decision. Rogues must be ruled. I believe you can do that, Lamora… by faking it, if necessary. That makes you the best possible choice in some respects. You can fake confidence when a sincere man might be inclined to panic. And your friend Jean can enforce your leadership; a good infighter is someone to be respected on a ship."
"Sure, great," said Locke. "I'm charming, Jean's tough. That just leaves all the other things I named—"
"As for the nautical arts, I will provide you with an experienced sailing master. A man who can train you in the essentials and make the proper decisions for you once you're at sea, all the while pretending the orders come from you. Don't you see? All I'm doing is asking you to play a role… he'll provide the knowledge to make that role convincing."
"Sweet Venaportha," said Locke. "You really intend for us to go out there, and you genuinely wish us to succeed?" "Absolutely," said Stragos.
"And the poison," said Jean, "you'll just put enough antidote in our hands to allow us to roam the Sea of Brass, as we will?"
"Hardly. You'll need to call at Tal Verrar once every two months. My alchemist tells me that sixty-two to sixty-five days is really as far as you should push it."
"Now wait just a damn minute," said Locke. "It's not enough that we'll be clueless sailors masquerading as hardened pirates, trusting another man to make us look competent. Or that we're going to be out risking gods know what at sea, with our plans for Requin postponed. Now you expect us to be tied to mother's apron strings every two months?"
"It's two or three weeks to the Ghostwinds, and the same time back. You'll have ample time to do your business each trip, for however many months it takes. How closely you wish to shave your schedule is, of course, your own concern. Surely you see that it has to be this way" "No." Locke laughed. "Frankly, I don't!"
"I'll want progress reports. I may have new orders and information for you. You may have new requests or suggestions. It makes a great deal of sense to stay in regular contact."
"And what if we chance across one of those patches of… damn, Jean, what are they called? No wind whatsoever?" "Doldrums," said Jean.
"Exactly," said Locke. "Even we know that you can't presume a constant speed with wind and sails; you get what the gods send you. We could be stuck on a flat ocean fifty miles from Tal Verrar, on day sixty-three, dying for no reason at all."
"Remotely possible, but unlikely. I'm well aware that there's a great element of risk in the task I'm handing you; the possibility of a vast return compels me to play the odds. Now… speak no more of this for the time being. Here's what I" ve brought you out to see."
There was a golden ripple on the black water ahead, and faint golden lines that seemed to sway in the air above it. As they drew closer, Locke saw that a wide, dark shape covered the artificial river completely, from one bank to the other — a building of some sort… and the golden lines appeared to be cracks in curtains that hung down to the water. The boat reached this barrier and pushed through with little trouble; Locke shoved heavy, damp canvas away from his face, and as it fell aside the boat burst into broad daylight.
They were inside a walled and roofed garden, at least forty feet high, filled with willow, witchwood, olive, citrus and amberthorn trees. Black, brown and grey trunks stood in close-packed ranks, their vine-tangled branches reaching up in vast constellations of bright leaves that entwined above the river like a second roof.
As for the actual roof, it was scintillant, sky-blue and bright as noon, with wisps of white clouds drifting past half-visible between the branches. The sun burned painfully bright on Locke's right as he turned around to stare straight ahead, and it sent rays of golden light down through the silhouetted leaves… though surely it was still the middle of the night outside. "This is alchemy, or sorcery, or both," said Jean.
"Some alchemy," said Stragos in a soft, enthusiastic voice. "The ceiling is glass, the clouds are smoke, the sun is a burning vessel of alchemical oils and mirrors."
"Bright enough to keep this forest alive under a roof? Damn," said Locke.
"It may indeed be bright enough, Lamora," said the Archon, "but if you'll look closely, you'll see that nothing under this roof besides ourselves is alive?
As Locke and Jean glanced around in disbelief, Stragos steered the boat up against one of the garden's riverbanks. The waterway narrowed there to a mere ten feet, to allow room for the trees and vines and bushes on either side. Stragos reached out to grasp a trunk and halt the boat, and he pointed into the air as he spoke.
"A clockwork garden for my clockwork river. There's not a real plant in here. It's wood and clay and wire and silk; paint and dye and alchemy. All of it engineered to my design; it took the artificers and their assistants six years to construct it all. My little glen of mechanisms."
Incredulously, Locke realized that the Archon was telling the truth. Other than the movement of white smoke clouds far overhead, the place was unnaturally still, almost eerie. And the air in the enclosed garden was inert, smelling of stale water and canvas. It should have been bursting with forest scents, with the rich odours of dirt and flowering and decay.
"Do I still strike you as a man farting in an enclosed room, Lamora? In here, I do command the wind…"
Stragos raised his right arm high above his head and a rustling noise filled the artificial garden. A current of air plucked at Locke's scalp, and steadily rose until there was a firm breeze against his face. The leaves and branches around them swayed gently.
"And the rain," cried Stragos. His voice echoed off the water and was lost in the depths of the suddenly Uvely forest. A moment later a faint, warm mist began to descend, a ticklish haze of water that swirled in ghostly curves throughout the imaginary greenery and enveloped their boat. Then drops began to fall with a soft pitter-patter, rippling the surface of the clockwork river. Locke and Jean huddled beneath their coats as Stragos laughed.
"I can do more," said Stragos. "Perhaps I can even call up a storm!" A stronger breath of air began to beat the rain and mist against them; the little river churned as a counter-current surged from somewhere ahead of them. Little whitecaps burst beneath the boat as though the water was boiling; Stragos clung to his chosen tree-trunk with both hands as the boat rocked nauseatingly. The raindrops grew heavier and harder; Locke had to shield his eyes to see. Clouds of thick, dark mist boiled overhead, dimming the artificial sun. The forest had come to life, flailing at the misty air with branches and leaves as though the faux greenery was at war with unseen ghosts.
"But only after a fashion," said Stragos, and without any apparent further signals from him the rain faded away. Gradually, the flailing of the forest died down to a soft rustling, and then to stillness; the surging currents of the river beneath them subsided, and in minutes the mechanical garden was restored to relative peace. Fingers of fading mist swirled around the trees, the sun peeked out from behind the thinning "clouds" and the enclosure echoed with the not-unpleasant sound of water dripping from a thousand branches and fronds and trunks.
Locke shook himself and pushed his wet hair back out of his eyes. "It's… it's gods-damned singular, Archon. I'll give it that. I" ve never even imagined anything like this." "A bottled garden with bottled weather," mused Jean. "Why?" Locke asked the question for both of them.