The word of all was another outburst of enthusiastic approval. Even Mazucca gave in and nodded. "Just a longer swim, in the end," said Locke. "Well," whispered Jean, "at least you talked them into that much."
7
The ship's boat was unlashed, hoisted out and plopped over the starboard side into the deep-blue waters of the Sea of Brass.
"They get oars, Jabril?" One of the sailors had been assigned the task of removing the water cask and rations from the boat, and he'd pulled out the oars as well.
"Think not," said Jabril. "Iono moves them if He wants them moved. We leave them to float; that was the word."
Parties of armed sailors lined up fore and aft to prod Locke and Jean toward the starboard entry port. Jabril followed close behind. When they reached the edge, Locke saw that the boat was tied up with one knotted line that would allow them to climb down.
"Ravelle," said Jabril quietly. "You really hold with the Thirteenth? You really one of his divines?"
"Yeah," said Locke. "It was the only honest blessing I could give for their sakes."
"I suppose that makes sense. Spies, things like that." Jabril slipped something cold beneath Locke's tunic, against the small of his back, sliding it precariously into the top of his breeches. Locke recognized the weight of one of the stilettos from his belt.
"Stormfather maybe takes you fast," whispered Jabril, "or maybe He lets you float. Long fuckin" time. Until you decide you just plain had enough… you know?"
"Jabril…" said Locke. "Thank you. I, ah, wish I could have been a better captain."
"I wish you" d been any kind" a captain at all. Now get over the fuckin" side and be gone." i So it was that Locke and Jean watched from the gently bobbing boat as the Red Messenger limped on, south-west by west under tattered sail, leaving them in the middle of nowhere under a mid-afternoon sun that Locke would have given ten thousand solari for just a day or two earlier.
One hundred yards, two hundred, three… their former ship slowly made way across the rippling sea, at first with what must have been half the crew gazing astern, watching. But soon enough they lost interest in the dead men in their wake. Soon enough they returned to the task of keeping their precious little wooden world from succumbing to its wounds.
Locke wondered who would inherit the stern cabin, Jean's hatchets, their unusual tools and the five hundred solari stashed at the bottom of his personal chest — a mixture of their last funds and Stragos's financing. Thieves prosper, he thought.
"Well, splendid," he said, stretching his legs as best he could. He and Jean faced each other from opposite rowing benches of a boat built for six. "Once again we've engineered a brilliant escape from immediate peril and stolen something of value to take with us. This boat must be worth two solari."
"I just hope that whoever ends up with the Wicked Sisters bloody well chokes," said Jean. "What, on the hatchets?"
"No, on anything. Whatever's convenient. I should" ve thrown them out the cabin window rather than let anyone else have them. Gods." "You know, Jabril slipped me a stiletto as I went off."
Jean pondered the implications of this for a moment, then shrugged. "When a smaller boat comes along, at least we'll have a weapon to board and carry her." "Are you, ah, comfortable back there in the stern cabin?"
"I am," said Jean. He got off the bench, slid sideways and crammed himself into the stern with his back against the starboard gunwale. "Bit tight, but luxurious trimmings."
"That's good," said Locke, pointing to the middle of the boat. "Hope it doesn't get more cramped when I install the hanging garden and the library right about there."
"Already took that into account." Jean leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "Hanging garden can go in on top of my bathhouse." "Which can double as a temple," said Locke. "You think that necessary?"
"I do," said Locke. "I daresay the two of us are going to be doing a hell of a lot of praying."
They floated in silence for many minutes. Locke also closed his eyes, breathed deeply of the tangy air and listened to the faint whisper of the waves. The sun was a warm and welcome pressure on the top of his head, and this above all conspired to lull him into a half-dozing state as he sat. He looked within for some hint of anguish and found only a hollow numbness; he seemed to have relaxed into relief at this final collapse of all his plans. Nobody else to fool, no more secrets to keep, no duties required of him or Jean as they drifted, merely drifted, waiting for the gods to make their next whim known.
Jean's voice recalled him to the present after some unguessable interval had passed, and he blinked as he re-opened his eyes to the bright gleam of sun on water.
"Locke," said Jean, evidently repeating himself, "sail ho, three points off the starboard bow!"
"Ha-ha, Jean. That would be the Red Messenger, sailing away from us for ever. Surely you remember her."
"No, said Jean, more insistently. "Fresh sail ho, three points off the starboard bow!"
Locke glanced over his right shoulder, squinting. The Red Messenger was still plainly visible, now about three-quarters of a mile distant. And there, off to the left of his former ship, difficult to see at first against the bright fusion of sea and sky — yes, a dusty white square just cresting the horizon.
"I'll be damned," said Locke. "Looks like our lads are going to have their first chance at some plunder." "If only it" d had the courtesy to show up yesterday!"
"I'll wager I would have screwed things up regardless. But… can you imagine those poor bastards grappling their prey, leaping over the rails, swords in hand, screaming, "Your cats! Give us all your gods-damned cats!""
Jean laughed. "What a bloody mess we've unleashed. At least we'll have some entertainment. This'll be damn awkward with the Messenger in such a state. Maybe they'll come back for us and beg us to lend a hand." "Thed'r beg you, maybe," said Locke. As Locke watched, the Messenger's forecourse shuddered into existence, an unfolding square of white. Straining, he could just see tiny figures dashing to and fro on the deck and in the rigging. His former ship put her bow a touch to larboard, bringing the wind onto her larboard quarter.
"She's limping like a horse with a broken ankle," said Jean. "Look, they won't trust the mainmast with any canvas. Can't say I blame them." Jean scrutinized the scene for a few moments more. "Their new friend's coming up north-north-west, I think. If our lads sneak west and look harmless enough, maybe… otherwise, that new ship's got plenty of room to run west or south. If she's in any decent shape at all, Messenger'll never catch her."
"Jean…" said Locke, very slowly, a bit hesitant to trust his own naval judgment. "I don't… I don't think escape is anywhere on their minds. Look, they're straight on for the Messenger."
The next few minutes confirmed this. Indeed, the newcomer's sails soon doubled in size, and Locke could see the faintest line of the hull beneath them. Whatever she was, she was angled well north of west, fit to cut straight across the path of the Red Messenger.
"And she's fast," said Jean, clearly fascinated. "Look at her come on! I'd bet my own liver the Messenger's not even making four knots. She's doing twice that or more."
"Maybe they just don't give a whit for the Messenger," said Locke. "Maybe they can see she's wounded and they're just going to fly right past." "A "kiss my arse and fare-thee-well"," said Jean. "Pity."
The newcomer grew steadily; blurry shapes became a sleek, dark hull, billowing sails, the thin lines of masts. "Two masts," said Jean. "Brig, flying loads of canvas."
Locke felt an unexpected surge of urgency; he tried to restrain his excitement as the Messenger plodded feebly to the south-west while the newcomer steadily gained on her. Now the strange vessel showed her starboard side to them. As Jean had said, she had two masts, as well as a swift low profile and a hull so black she gleamed.