A dark speck appeared in mid-air above her stern. It moved upward, expanded and burst apart into a huge fluttering flag — a banner of solid crimson, bright as fresh-spilled blood. "Oh, gods," cried Locke. "You have to be fucking kidding!"
The newcomer raced on, foam-capped water surging at her bow, closing the gap with the Red Messenger with every passing second. Low white shapes appeared from behind her — boats crammed with the dark specks of sailors. The new ship swung round to the Messenger's lee like a hungry beast cutting off her prey's escape; meanwhile, her boats knifed across the gleaming water to launch their attack from windward. Whatever Jabril and his crew did to try to foil their entrapment, it wasn't enough; chorus after chorus of belligerent cheers echoed faintly across the water, and little black specks were soon swarming up the Messenger's sides.
"No!" Locke was unaware that he'd leapt to his feet until Jean pulled him back down hastily. "Oh, you bastards! You rotten, miserable, skulking bastards! You can't take my fucking ship—" "Which was already taken," said Jean.
"I come a thousand miles to shake your bloody hands," Locke screamed, "and you show up two hours after they put us overboard!" "Not even half that," said Jean. "Bloody fucking limp-cocked witless laggard piratesV
"Thieves prosper," said Jean, biting his knuckles as he snorted with laughter.
The battle, if it could be called that, didn't last five minutes. Someone on the quarterdeck brought the Messenger around, luffing straight into the wind, killing what little speed she'd had. All her sails were taken in and she soon drifted gently with one of the marauder's boats tied up at her side. Another boat hurried back to the ship that had birthed it. That vessel, under a far lazier press of sail than it had set out to snatch up the Messenger, then came round on a starboard tack and began to bear down in the general direction of Locke and Jean — an ominous monster toying with its next tiny meal.
"I think this might be one of those "good news, bad news" situations," said Jean, cracking his knuckles. "We may need to ready ourselves to repel boarders."
"With what? One stiletto and hurtful insinuations about their mothers?" Locke clenched his fists; his anger had become excitement. "Jean, if we get aboard that ship and talk our way into her crew, we're back in the game, by the gods!" "They might just mean to kill us and take the boat."
"We'll see," said Locke. "We'll see. First we'll exchange courtesies. Have ourselves some diplomatic interaction."
The pirate vessel came on slowly as the sun sank toward the west, and the colour of sky and water alike gradually deepened by a shade. She was indeed black-hulled — witchwood — and larger than the Red Messenger even at a glance. Sailors crowded her yardarms and deck railings; Locke felt a pang of envy to see such a large and active crew. She sliced majestically through the water, then luffed-up as orders were shouted from the quarterdeck. Sails were reefed with precise and rapid movements; she slowed to a crawl, blocked their view of the Red Messenger and presented her larboard side at a distance of about twenty yards.
"Ahoy the boat," cried a woman at the rail. She was rather short, Locke could see — dark-haired, partially armoured, backed up by at least a dozen armed and keenly interested sailors. Locke felt his skin crawl under their scrutiny, and he donned a cheerful mask. "Ahoy the brig," he shouted. "Fine weather, isn't it?" "What do you two have to say for yourselves?"
Locke rapidly considered the potential advantages of the pleading, cautious and cocky approaches, and decided that cocky was the best chance they had of making a memorable impression. "Avast," he cried, standing up and hoisting his stiletto over his head, "you must perceive we hold the weather gauge, and you are luffed-up with no hope of escape! Your ship is ours, and you are all our prisoners! We are prepared to be gracious, but don't test us."
There was an outbreak of laughter on the deck of the ship, and Locke felt his hopes rise. Laughter was good; laughter like that rarely preceded bloody slaughter, at least in his experience. "You're Captain Ravelle," shouted the woman, "aren't you?" "I, ah, see my reputation precedes me!" "Previous crew of your previous ship might have mentioned you." "Shit," Locke muttered. "Would you two care to be rescued?"
"Yes, actually," said Locke. "That would be a damn polite thing for you to do."
"Right, then. Have your friend stand up. Both of you get all your clothes off." "What?"
An arrow hissed through the air, several feet above their heads, and Locke flinched.
"Clothes off! You want charity, you entertain us first! Get your big friend up and get naked, both of you!" "I don't believe this," said Jean, rising to his feet.
"Look," shouted Locke as he began to slip out of his tunic, "can we just drop them in the bottom of the boat? You don't want us to throw them overboard, right?"
"No," said the woman. "We'll keep "em plus the boat, even if we don't keep you. Breeches off, gentlemen! That's the way!"
Moments later Locke and Jean stood, precariously balanced in the wobbling boat, stark naked with the rising evening breeze plainly felt against their backsides.
"Gentlemen," yelled the woman, "what's this? I expected to see some sabres, and instead you bring out your stilettos!"
The crew behind her roared with laughter. Crooked Warden! Locke realized others had come up along the larboard rail. There were more sailors just standing there pointing and howling at him and Jean than there were in the entire crew of the Red Messenger.
"What's the matter, boys? Thoughts of rescue not enticing enough? What's it take to get a rise out of you down there?"
Locke responded with a two-handed gesture he'd learned as a boy, one guaranteed to start fights in any city-state in the Therin world. The crowd of pirates returned it, with many creative variations.
"Right, then," cried the woman. "Stand on one leg. Both of you! Up on one!" "What?" Locke put his hands on his hips. "Which one?" "Just pick one of two, like your friend's doing," she replied.
Locke lifted his left foot just above the rowing bench, putting his arms out for balance, which was becoming steadily harder to keep. Jean did the same thing beside him, and Locke was absolutely sure that from any distance they looked a perfect pair of idiots. "Higher," said the woman. "That's sad. You can do better than that!"
Locke hitched his knee up half a foot more, staring defiantly up at her. He could feel the vibrations of fatigue and the unstable boat alike in his right leg; he and Jean were seconds away from capping embarrassment with embarrassment. "Fine work," the woman shouted. "Make "em dance!"
Locke saw the dark blurs of the arrows flash across his vision before he heard the flat snaps of their release. He dived to his right as they thudded into the middle of the boat, realizing half a second too late that thed'r not been aimed at flesh and blood. The sea swallowed him in an instant; he hit unprepared and upside-down, and when he kicked back to the surface he gasped and sputtered at the unpleasant sensation of salt water up his nose.
Locke heard rather than saw Jean spit a gout of water as he came up on the other side of the boat. The pirates were roaring now, falling over themselves, holding their sides. The short woman kicked something and a knotted rope fell through an entry port in the ship's rail. "Swim over," she yelled, "and pull the boat with you."
By clinging to the gunwales and paddling awkwardly, Locke and Jean managed to push the little boat over to the ship, where they fell into shadow beneath her side. The end of the knotted rope floated there, and Jean gave Locke a firm shove toward it, as though afraid they might yank it up at any second.