"Well." Caldris took another long puff on his pipe. "Originally there was three. Settlers out of Tal Verrar touched there about a hundred years ago. Founded Port Prodigal, Montierre and Hope-of-Silver. Port Prodigal's still there, of course. Only one left. Montierre was doing well until the war against the Free Armada. Prodigal's tucked well back in a fine defensive position; Montierre wasn't. After we did for their fleet, we paid a visit. Burned their fishing boats, poisoned their wells, sank their docks. Torched everything standing, then torched the ashes. Might as well have just rubbed the name "Montierre" off the map. Place ain't worth resettling." "And Hope-of-Silver?"
"Hope-of-Silver," said Caldris, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Fifty years ago, Hope-of-Silver was larger than Port Prodigal. On a different island, farther west. Thriving. That silver wasn't just a hope. Three hundred families, give or take. Whatever happened, happened in one night. Those three hundred families, just… gone." "Gone?"
"Gone. Vanished. Not a body to be found. Not a bone for birds to pick at. Something came down from those hills, out of that fog above the jungle, and gods know what it was, but it took "em all." "Merciful hells."
"If only," said Caldris. "A ship or two poked around after it happened. They found one ship from Hope-of-Silver itself, drifting offshore, like it" d put out in a real hurry. On it, they found the only bodies left from the whole mess. A few sailors. All the way up the masts, up at the very tops." Caldris sighed. "Thed'r lashed themselves there to escape whatever thed'r seen… and they were all found dead by their own weapons. Even where they were, they killed themselves rather than face whatever was comin" for "em.
"So pay attention to this, Master Kosta." Caldris gestured at the circle of relaxed and rowdy sailors, drinking and throwing knives by the light of alchemical globes. "You sail a sea where shit like that happens, you can see the value of making your ship a happy home." "Need a word, Captain Ravelle."
A day had passed. The air was still warm and the sun still beat down with palpable force when not behind the clouds, but the seas were higher and the wind stiffer. The Red Messenger lacked the mass to knife deep into the turbulent waves without shuddering, and so the deck beneath Locke's feet became even less of a friend.
Jabril — recovered from his close engagement with a wine bottle — and a pair of older sailors approached Locke as he stood by the starboard rail late in the afternoon, holding tight and trying to look casual. Locke recognized the older sailors as men who'd declared themselves unfit at the start of the voyage; days of rest and large portions had done them good. Locke, in light of the ship's understrength complement, had recently authorized extra rations at every meal. The notion was popular. "What do you need, Jabril?" "Cats, Captain."
The bottom fell out of Locke's stomach. With heroic effort, he managed to look merely puzzled. "What about them?"
"We been down on the main deck," said one of the older sailors. "Sleeping, mostly. Ain't seen no cats yet. Usually the little buggers are crawlin" around, doin" tricks, lookin" to curl up on us."
"I asked around," said Jabril. "Nobody" s seen even one. Not on the main deck, not up here, not on the orlop. Not even in the bilges. You keepin" "em in your cabin?"
"No," said Locke, picturing with perfect clarity the sight of eight cats (including Caldris's kitten) lounging contentedly in an empty armoury shack above their private bay back at the Sword Marina. Eight cats sparring and yowling over bowls of cream and plates of cold chicken.
Eight cats who were undoubtedly still lounging in that shack, right where he'd forgotten them, the night of the fateful assault on the Windward Rock. Five days and seven hundred miles behind them.
"Kittens," he said quickly. "I got a pack of kittens for this trip, Jabril. I reckoned a ship with a new name could do with new cats. And I can tell you they're a hell of a shy bunch -1 myself haven't seen one since I dumped them on the orlop. I expect they're just getting used to us. We'll see them soon enough."
"Aye, sir." Locke was surprised at the relief visible on the faces of the three sailors. "That's good to hear. Bad enough we got no women aboard until we get to the Ghostwinds; no cats would be plain awful."
"Couldn't tolerate no such offence," whispered one of the older sailors.
"We'll put out some meat every night," said Jabril. "We'll keep poking around the decks. I'll let you know soon as we find one." "By all means," said Locke.
Seasickness had nothing to do with his sudden urge to throw up over the side the moment they were gone. On the evening of their fifth day out from Tal Verrar, Caldris sat down for a private conversation in Locke's cabin with the door bolted.
"We're doing well," the sailing master said, though Locke could see dark circles like bruises under his eyes. The old man had slept barely four hours a day since thed'r reached the sea, unable to trust the wheel to Locke or Jean's care without supervision. He" d finally cultivated a fairly responsible master's mate, a man called Bald Mazucca, but even he was lacking in lore and could only be trained a little each day, with Caldris's attention so divided.
They continued to be blessed by the behaviour of the rest of the crew. The men were still fresh with vigour for any sort of work following their escape from prison. A half-arsed carpenter and a decent sailmaker had been found, and one of Jabril's friends had been optimistically voted quartermaster, in charge of counting and dividing plunder when it came. The infirm were gaining health with speed, and several had already joined watches. Lastly, the men no longer gathered to stare nervously across the ship's wake, looking for any hint of pursuit on the sea behind them. They seemed to think that they had evaded Stragos" retribution… and of course they could never be told that none would be forthcoming.
"This is your doing," said Locke, patting Caldris on the shoulder. He berated himself for not thinking beforehand of what a strain the voyage would put on the older man. Mazucca would have to be shaped more quickly, and he and Jean would need to pick up whatever slack they could in their inept fashion. "Even with a glassy sea and a fine breeze, there's no way in hell we" d have pulled this off so far without you."
"Strong weather coming, though," said Caldris. "Weather that will test us. Summer's end, like I said, shit blows up that's like to knock you halfway "round the world. Might spend days riding it out with bare poles, throwing up until there ain't a dry spot in the holds." The sailing master sighed, then gave Locke a curious look. "Speaking of holds, I heard the damnedest things the past day or two." "Oh?" Locke tried to sound nonchalant. "Ain't nobody seen a cat, not on any of the decks. Not a one has come up from wherever they are, not for anything, ale or milk or eggs or meat." Sudden suspicion clouded his brow. "There are cats down there… right?"
"Ah," said Locke. His sympathy for Caldris from a moment earlier remained like a weight on his heart. For once, he found himself completely unwilling to lie, and he massaged his eyes with his fingers as he spoke. "Ah. No, the cats are all safe and sound in their shack in the Sword Marina, right where I left them. Sorry."
"You fucking jest," said Caldris in a flat, dead voice. "Come now. Don't bloody lie to me about this."
"I'm not." Locke spread his palms before him and shrugged. "I know you told me it was important. I just… I had a hundred things to do that night. I meant to fetch them, honest."
"Important? I told you it was important} I told you it was fucking critical, is what I told you!" Caldris kept his voice at a whisper, but it was like the sound of water boiling against hot coals. Locke winced. "You have imperilled our souls, Master Kosta, our very gods-damned souls. We have no women and no cats and no proper captain, I remind you, and hard weather sits upon our course." "Sorry, honestly"