But Caldris moaned again, dug feebly at the left side of his chest with both hands and shuddered. His hands fell limp. One long, strangled exhalation escaped from his throat and Locke, in rising horror, felt frantically around the base of his neck with the fingers of both hands. "His pulse is gone," Locke whispered.
A soft rattle on the cabin roof, gentle at first but quickly rising in tempo, told them that the first drops of rain were beginning to fall on the ship. Caldris's eyes, fixed on the ceiling, were lifeless as glass. "Oh, shit," said Jean.
BOOK II
CARDS UP THE SLEEVE
"Gamblers play just as lovers make love and drunkards drink — blindly and of necessity, under domination of an irresistible force."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Summer's End
1
Dark water across the bow, water at the sides, water in the air, falling with the weight of lead pellets against Locke's oilcloak. The rain seemed to come first from one side and then another, never content to fall straight down, as the Red Messenger rocked back and forth in the grey hands of the gale.
"Master Valora!" Locke held fast to the safety lines knotted around the mainmast (as they were knotted all around the deck) and bellowed down the main-deck hatch. "How much water in the well?" Jean's answer came up a few moments later: "Two feet!" "Very good, Master Valora!"
Locke caught a glimpse of Bald Mazucca staring at him and he suppressed a feeling of unease. He knew that Caldris's sudden death the day before had been taken by the crew as an omen of the worst sort; they were openly muttering about women and cats, and the focal point of all their unkind attention was one Orrin Ravelle, whose status as captain and saviour was steadily fraying. Locke turned toward the helmsman and found him once again squinting ahead into the stinging rain, seemingly absorbed in his duty.
Two cloaked sailors stood at the second wheel behind Mazucca; in seas this strong, control of the rudder could easily fly free from the grip of a single man. Their faces were dark shadows within their hoods; they had nothing friendly to say to Locke, either.
The wind screamed through the lines and yards overhead, where most of the sails were tightly furled. They continued to push vaguely south-west under the press of nothing but close-reefed topsails. They were heeled over so far to starboard that Mazucca and his assistants were not merely standing in wait at their wheels. The crashing sea demanded their constant, tedious concentration to keep the ship stable, and still the sea was rising. A rush of grey-green water ran over Locke's bare toes and he sucked in breath; he'd abandoned his boots for the more certain footing of unprotected feet. Locke watched that water roll across the deck, unwelcome but constant guest, before it poured away down the scuppers and leaked past the edges of the storm-canvas laid beneath the hatch gratings. In truth the water was warm, but here in the sunless heart of the storm, with the wind like knives in the air, his imagination made it feel cold. "Captain Ravelle!"
Jabril was approaching along the larboard rail, storm-lantern in one night-black hand. "It might" ve been advisable to take down the fuckin" topgallant masts a few hours ago," he shouted.
Since Locke had risen that morning, Jabril had offered at least half a dozen rebukes and reminders without prompting. Locke stared upward at the very tips of the main— and foremast, nearly lost in the swirling haze overhead. "I gave it some thought, Jabril, but it didn't seem necessary." According to some of what Locke had read, even without sails flying from their yards, the topgallant masts might give unwanted leverage to deadly storm winds, or even be lost over the side as the vessel bucked and heaved. He" d been too busy to think of striking them down.
"It'll seem pretty gods-damned necessary if they come down and take more of the rigging with them!" "I might have them struck down in a while, Jabril, if I think it proper."
"If you think it proper?" Jabril gaped at him. "Are you bereft of your bloody senses, Ravelle? The time to strike the bastards was hours ago; now the hands we have are in sore need elsewhere and the fuckin" weather's up! We might try it only were the ship in peril… but damn me, she soon might be! Have you not been out this far on die Sea of Brass before, Captain?"
"Aye, of course I have." Locke sweated within his oilcloak. Had he known the real extent of Jabril's sea-wisdom he might have tasked the man with minding such details, but now it was too late, and some of his incompetence was laid bare. "Forgive me, Jabril. Caldris was a good friend. His loss has left me a bit off-kilter!"
"Indeed! As the loss of the fuckin" ship might leave us all more than a touch off-kilter, sir."Jabril turned and began making his way forward along the larboard rail, then after a few seconds whirled back to Locke. "You and I both know for a damn truth there's not a single bloody cat on board, Ravelle!"
Locke hung his head and clung to the mainmast. It was too much to hope that Mazucca and the hands standing behind him hadn't heard that. But of course, at his glance, they said nothing and betrayed nothing, staring fixedly ahead into the storm, as though trying to imagine he was not there at all.
2
Belowdecks was a nightmare. At least on deck one had masts and crashing seas to offer some perspective on one's place. Down here, in the enveloping fug of sweat, urine and vomit, the shuddering walls themselves seemed to tilt and lurch at malicious whim. Streams of water poured down from hatchways and gratings despite the weather precautions the crew had taken. The main deck echoed with the muffled howling of the wind and the clanking sound of the pumps rose from the orlop below.
Those pumps were fine Verrari gear-work, capable of heaving water up and dashing it over the side at some speed, but they demanded eight-man shifts in seas like this, and the labour was back-breaking. Even a crew in good health would have found the job onerous; it was just plain bad luck for this bunch that so few of them had come out of prison at anything near their full strength.
"The water gains, Captain," said a sailor Locke couldn't recognize in the near-darkness. He" d popped his head up the hatchway from the orlop. "Three feet in the well. Aspel says we busted a seam somewhere; says he needs men for a repair party."
Aspel was their approximation of a ship's carpenter. "He'll have them," Locke said, though from where, he knew not. Ten doing important work on deck, eight at the pumps… damn near their time to be relieved, too. Six or seven still too bloody weak to be of any use save as ballast. A squad in the orlop hold with Jean, resecuring casks of food and water after three had come loose and broken open. Eight sleeping fitfully on the main deck just a few feet away, having been up all night. Two with broken bones, trying to dull the pain with an unauthorized ration of wine. Their rudimentary scheme of watches was unravelling in the face of the storm's demands, and Locke struggled to subsume a sharp pang of panic. "Fetch Master Valora from the orlop," he said at last. "Tell him he and his men can look to the stores again once they" ve given Aspel a hand." "Aye, sir." "Captain Ravelle!"
Another shout rose from below as the first sailor disappeared, and Locke stood over the hatchway to answer: "What passes?"
"Our time at the bloody pumps, sir! We can't keep up this gods-damned pace for ever. We need relief. And we need food!"
"You shall have them both," said Locke, "in but ten minutes." Though from where, again, he knew not; all his choices were sick, injured, exhausted or otherwise engaged. He turned to make his way back up to the deck. He could swap the deck-watch and the men at the pumps; it would bring joy to neither group, but it might serve to nudge the ship ahead of total disaster for a few more precious hours.