"By sunset I want to be certain that every man aboard knows where all the weapons lockers are. Make sure of it yourself."
Jean nodded and returned to whatever he was doing. By Locke's reckoning, the idea that Captain Ravelle wanted every man to be comfortable with the ship's weapons — aside from the bows, there were hatchets, sabres, clubs and a few polearms — would be far better for morale than the thought that he would prefer keeping them locked up or hidden. "Well done," said Caldris quietly.
Mai watched the last few grains in the minute-glass bolted to the mainmast run out, then turned aft and shouted, "Hold the line!" "Seven and a half knots," Streva hollered a moment later.
"Seven and a half," said Caldris. "Very well. We've been making that more or less steady since we left Verrar. A good run."
Locke snuck a glance at the pegs sunk into the holes on Caldris's navigational board, and the compass in the binnacle, which showed them on a heading just a hair's breadth west of due south.
"A fine pace if it holds," muttered Caldris around his cigar. "Puts us in the Ghostwinds maybe two weeks from today. Don't know about the captain, but getting a few days ahead of schedule makes me very bloody comfortable."
"And will it hold?" Locke spoke as softly as he could without whispering into the sailing master's ear.
"Good question. Summer's end's an odd time on the Sea of Brass; we got storms out there somewhere. I can feel it in my bones. They" re a ways off, but they're waiting." "Oh, splendid."
"We'll make do, Captain." Caldris briefly removed his cigar, spat something brown at the deck and replaced it between his teeth. "Fact is, we're doing just fine, thank the Lord of the Grasping Waters." "Kill "im, Jabril! Get "im right in the fuckin" "eart!"
Jabril stood amidships, facing a frock coat (donated from Locke's chest) nailed to a wide board and propped up against the mainmast, about thirty feet away. Both of his feet touched a crudely chalked line on the deck planks. In his right hand was a throwing knife, and in his left was a full wine bottle, by the rules of the game.
The sailor who'd been shouting encouragement burped loudly and started stomping the deck. The circle of men around Jabril picked up the rhythm and began clapping and chanting, slowly at first, then faster and faster: "Don't spill a drop! Don't spill a drop! Don't spill a drop] Don't spill a drop] Don't spill a drop!""
Jabril flexed for the crowd, wound up and flung the knife. It struck the coat dead centre, and up went a cheer that quickly turned to howls. Jabril had sloshed some of the wine out of the bottle. "Dammit!" he cried.
" "Wine-waster" shouted one of the men gathered around him, with the fervour of a priest decrying the worst sort of blasphemy. "Pay the penalty and put it where it belongs!"
"Hey, at least I hit the coat," said Jabril with a grin. "You nearly killed someone on the quarterdeck with your throw." "Pay the price! Pay the price! Pay the price!" chanted the crowd.
Jabril put the bottle to his lips, tipped it all the way up and began to guzzle it in one go. The chanting rose in volume and tempo as the amount of wine in the bottle sank. JabriFs neck and jaw muscles strained mightily, and he raised his free hand high into the air as he sucked the last of the dark-red stuff down. The crowd applauded. Jabril pulled the bottle from his lips, lowered! his head and sprayed a mouthful of wine all over the man closest to him. "Oh no," he cried, "I spilled a drop! Ah ha ha ha ha!"
"My turn," said the drenched sailor. "I'm gonna lose on purpose and spill a drop right back, mate!"
Locke and Caldris watched from the starboard rail of the quarterdeck. Caldris was taking a rare break from the wheel; Jean currently had it. They were sailing along in a calm, muggy dusk just pleasant enough for Caldris to separate himself from the ship's precious helm by half a dozen paces. "This was a good idea," said Locke.
"Poor bastards have been under the boot for so long, they deserve a good debauch." Caldris was smoking a pale-blue ceramic pipe, the finest and most delicate thing Locke had ever seen in his hands, and his face was lit by the soft glow of embers.
At Caldris's suggestion, Locke had had large quantities of wine and beer (the Red Messenger was amply provisioned with both, and for a crew twice this size) hauled up on deck, and he'd offered a choice of indulgences to every man on board. A double-ration of fresh roasted pork — courtesy of the small but well-larded pig thed'r brought with them — for those who would stay sober and on watch, and a drunken party for those who wouldn't. Caldris, Jean and Locke were sober, of course, along with four hands who'd chosen the pork.
"It's things like this that make a ship feel like home," said Caldris. "Help you forget what a load of tedious old shit life out here can be." "It's not so bad," said Locke, a bit wistfully.
"Aye, says the captain of the fuckin" ship, on a night sent by the gods." He drew smoke and blew it out over the rail. "Well, if we can arrange a few more nights like this, it'll be bloody grand. Quiet moments are worth more than whips and manacles for discipline, mark my words."
Locke gazed out across the black waves and was startled to see a pale white-green shape, glowing like an alchemical lantern, leap up from the waves and splash back down a few seconds later. The arc of its passage left an iridescent after-image when he blinked. "Gods," he said, "what the hell is that}"
There was a fountain of the things now, about a hundred yards from the ship. They flew silently after one another, appearing and disappearing above the surf, casting their ghostly light on black water that returned it like a mirror. "You really are new to these waters," said Caldris. "Those are flit-wraiths, Kosta. South of Tal Verrar, you see "em all about. Sometimes in great schools, or arches leapin" over the water. Over ships. They" ve been known to follow us about. But only after dark, mind you." "Are they some kind offish?"
"Nobody rightly knows," said Caldris. "Flit-wraiths can't be caught. They can't be touched, as I hear it. They fly right through nets, like they was ghosts. Maybe they are." "Eerie," said Locke.
"You get used to "em after a few years," said Caldris. He drew smoke from his pipe and the orange glow strengthened momentarily. "The Sea of Brass is a damned strange place, Kosta. Some say it's haunted by the Eldren. Most say it's just plain haunted. I" ve seen things. Saint Corella's Fire, burnin" blue and red up on the yardarms, scaring the piss outta the top-watch. I sailed over seas like glass and seen… a city, once. Down below, not kidding. Walls and towers, white stone. Plain as day, right beneath our hull. In waters that our charts put at a thousand fathoms. Real as my nose, it was, then gone."
"Heh," said Locke, smiling. "You're pretty good at this. You don't have to toy with me, Caldris."
"I'm not toying with you one bit, Kosta." Caldris frowned, and his face took on a sinister cast in the pipe-light. "I'm telling you what to expect. Flit-wraiths is just the beginning. Hell, flit-wraiths is almost friendly. There's things out there even I have trouble believing. And there's places no sensible ship's master will ever go. Places that are… wrong, somehow. Places that wait for you."
"Ah," said Locke, recalling his desperate early years in the old and rotten places of Camorr and a thousand looming, broken buildings that had seemed to wait in darkness to swallow small children. "Now there I grasp your meaning."
"The Ghostwind Isles," said Caldris, "well, they're the worst of all. In fact, there's only eight or nine islands human beings have actually set foot on and come back to tell about it. But gods know how many more are hiding down there, under the fogs, or what the fuck's on "em." He paused before continuing, "You ever hear of the three settlements of the Ghostwinds?" "I don't think so," said Locke.