"Any of you not familiar with this ship nonetheless comfortable up above?"
Four more men stepped forward, and Locke nodded. "Good lads. You know where you'll be, then." He grabbed one of the non-topmen by the shoulder and steered him toward the bow. "For" ard watch. Let me know if anything untoward pops up in front of us." He grabbed another man and pointed to the mainmast. "Get a glass from Caldris; you'll be masthead watch for now. Don't look at me like that — you won't be fucking with the rigging. Just sit still and stay awake.
"Master Caldris," he bellowed, noting that the sailing master was back on deck, "south-east by east through the reef passage called Underglass!"
"Aye, sir, Underglass. I know the very one." Caldris, naturally, had plotted their course through the glass reefs in advance and carefully instructed Locke in the orders to give until they were out of sight of Tal Verrar. "South-east by east."
Jean gestured at the eleven men who'd volunteered for duty up on the heights of the yardarms, where the furled sails waited, hanging in the moonlight like the thin cocoons of vast insects. "Hands aloft to loose topsails and t" gallants! On the word, mind you!"
"Master Caldris," shouted Locke, unable to disguise his mirth, "now we shall see if you know your business!"
The Red Messenger moved south under topsails and topgallants, making fair use of the stiff breeze blowing west off the mainland. Her bow sliced smoothly through the calm, dark waters, and the deck beneath their feet heeled only the tiniest bit to starboard. It was a good start, thought Locke — a good start to a mad venture. When he had settled most of his crew in temporary positions, he stole a few minutes at the taffrail, watching the reflections of two moons in the gentle ripple of their wake.
"You're enjoying the hell out of yourself, Captain Ravelle." Jean stepped up to the taffrail beside him. The two thieves shook hands and grinned at one another.
"I suppose I am," Locke whispered. "I suppose this is the most lunatic thing we've ever done, and so we're entitled to bloody well enjoy ourselves." "Crew seems to have bought the act for now."
"Well, they're still fresh from the vault. Tired, underfed, excited. We'll see how sharp they are when they" ve had a few days of food and exercise. Gods, at least I didn't call anything by the wrong name." "Hard to believe we're actually doing this."
"I know. Barely feels real yet. Captain Ravelle. First Mate Valora. Hell, you" ve got it easy. I" ve got to get used to people calling me "Orrin". You get to stay a "Jerome"."
"I saw little sense in making things harder for myself. I" ve got you to do that for me." "Careful, now. I can order you whipped at the rail."
"Ha! A navy captain could, maybe. A pirate first mate doesn't have to stand for that." Jean sighed. "You think we'll ever see land again?"
"I damn well mean to," said Locke. "We've got pirates to piss off, a happy return to arrange, Stragos to humble, antidotes to find and Requin to rob blind. Two months at sea and I may even begin to have the faintest notion how."
They stared for a while at Tal Verrar sliding away behind them, at the aura of the Golden Steps and the torch-glow of the Sinspire slowly vanishing behind the darker mass of the city's south-western crescent. Then they were passing through the navigational channel in the glass reefs, away to the Sea of Brass, away to danger and piracy. Away to find war and bring it back for the Archon's convenience.
12
"Sail ahoy! Sail two points off the larboard bow!"
The cry filtered down from above on the third morning of their voyage south. Locke sat in his cabin, regarding his blurry reflection in the dented little mirror he'd packed in his chest. Before departure, he'd used a bit of alchemy from his disguise kit to restore his hair to its, natural colour, and now a fine shadow in much the same shade was appearing on his cheeks. He wasn't yet sure if he'd shave it, but with the shout from above his concern for his beard vanished. In a moment he was out of the cabin, up the awkward steps of the dim companionway and into the bright light of morning on the quarterdeck.
A haze of high white clouds veiled the blue sky, like wisps of tobacco smoke that had drifted far from the pipes of their progenitors. Thed'r had the wind on their larboard beam since reaching open sea, and the Red Messenger was heeled over slightly to starboard. The constant swaying and creaking and deck-slanting were utterly alien to Locke, who'd been confined to a cabin by infirmity on his last — and only previous — sea voyage. He flattered himself that the trained agility of a thief went some way toward feigning sea legs, but he avoided scampering around too much, just in case. At least he appeared to be immune to seasickness this time out, and for that he thanked the Crooked Warden fervently. Many aboard had not been so lucky. "What passes, Master Caldris?"
"Compliments of a fine morning, Captain, and the masthead watch says we got white canvas two points off the larboard bow."
Caldris had the wheel to himself that morning, and he drew light puffs from a cheap sheaf of cut-rate tobacco, which stank like sulphur. Locke wrinkled his nose.
Sighing inwardly and stepping with as much care as he could manage, Locke brought out his seeing-glass and hurried forward, up the forecastle and to the rail on the larboard bow. Yes, there it was — hull down, a minute speck of white, barely visible above the dark blue of the distant horizon. When he returned to the quarterdeck, Jabril and several other sailors were lounging around, waiting for his verdict.
"Do we give her the eyeball, Captain?" Jabril sounded merely expectant, but the men behind him looked downright eager.
"Looking for an early taste of those equal shares, eh?" Locke feigned deep consideration, turning toward Caldris long enough to catch the sailing master's private signal for an emphatic "no". As Locke had expected — and he could give legitimate reasons without prompting.
"Can't do it, lads. You know better than that. We've not yet begun to set our own ship to rights; little sense in taking a fight to someone else's. A quarter of us are still unfit for work, let alone battle. We've got fresh food, a clean ship and all the time in the world. Better chances will come. Hold course, Master Caldris." "Hold course, aye."
Jabril accepted this; Locke was discovering that the man had a solid core of sense and a fair knowledge of nearly every aspect of shipboard life, which made him Locke's superior in that wise. He was a fine mate, another bit of good fortune to be grateful for. The men behind Jabril, now… Locke instinctively knew they needed some occupying task to help mitigate their disappointment. "Streva," he said to the youngest, "heave the log aft. Mai, you mind the minute-glass. Report to Master Caldris. Jabril, you know how to use a recurved bow?" "Aye, Captain. Shortbow, recurved, longbow. Decent aim with any."
"I" ve got ten of them in a locker down in the aft hold. Should be easy to find. Couple hundred arrows, too. Rig up some archery butts with canvas and straw. Mount them at the bow so nobody gets an unpleasant surprise in the arse. Start sharpening up the lads in groups, every day when the weather allows. Time comes to finally pay a visit to another ship, I'll want good archers in the tops." "Fine idea, Captain."
That, at least, appeared to restore excitement to the sailors who were still milling near the quarterdeck. Most of them followed Jabril down a hatchway to the main deck. Their interest in the matter gave Locke a further thought. "Master Valora!"
Jean was with Mirlon, their cook, scrutinizing sometliing at the little brick firebox abutting the forecastle. He waved in acknowledgement of Locke's shout.