Locke hauled himself up against the fine-grained black wood of the hull, wet and naked and fuming. Rough hands grasped him at the rail and heaved him aboard. He found himself looking at a pair of weathered leather boots, and he sat up. "I hope that was amusing," he said, "because I'm going to—"
One of those boots struck him in the chest and shoved him back down to the deck. Wincing, he thought better of standing and instead studied the boot's owner. The woman was not merely short — she was petite, even from the perspective of someone literally beneath her heel. She wore a frayed sky-blue tunic over a loose black leather vest decorated with slashes that had more to do with near-misses than high fashion. Her dark hair, which piled curl upon curl, was tightly bound behind her neck, and the belt at her waist carried a minor arsenal of fighting knives and sabres. There was obvious muscle on her shoulders and arms, an impression of strength that made Locke quickly stifle his anger. "Going to what}" "Lie here on the deck," he said, "and enjoy the fine afternoon sun."
The woman laughed; a second later Jean was pulled up over the side and thrown down beside Locke. His black hair was plastered to his skull and water streamed from the bristles of his beard.
"Oh my," said the woman. "Big one and a little one. Big one looks like he can handle himself a bit. You must be Master Valora." "If you say so, madam, I suppose I must be."
"Madam? Madam's a shore word. Out here to the likes of you, it's lieutenant." "You're not the captain of this ship, then?"
The woman eased her boot off Locke's chest and allowed him to sit. "Not even hardly," she said.
"Ezri's my first," said a voice behind Locke. He turned, slowly and carefully, to regard the speaker.
This woman was taller than the one called Ezri, and broader across her shoulders. She was dark, with skin just a few shades lighter than the hull of her ship, and she was striking, but not young. There were lines about her eyes and mouth that proclaimed her somewhere near forty. Those eyes were cold and that mouth was hard — clearly she didn't share Ezri's sense of mischief about the two unclothed prisoners dripping water on her deck.
Her night-coloured braids, threaded with red and silver ribbons, hung in a mane beneath a wide four-cornered cap, and despite the heat she wore a weather-stained brown frock coat, lined along the insides with brilliant gold silk. Most astonishingly, an Elderglass mosaic vest hung unbuckled beneath her coat. That sort of armour was rarely seen outside of royal hands — each little slat of Elderglass had to be joined by a latticework of metal, since humans knew no arts to meld the glass to itself. The vest glittered with reflected sunlight, more intricate than a stained-glass window — a thousand fingernail-sized chips of gleaming glory outlined in silver. "Orrin Ravelle," she said. "I" ve never heard of you."
"Nor should you have," said Locke. "May we have the pleasure of your acquaintance?"
"Del," she said, turning away from Locke and Jean to look at Ezri, "get that boat in. Give their clothes the eye, take anything interesting and get them dressed again."
"Your will, Captain." Ezri turned and began giving instructions to the sailors around her.
"As for you two," the captain said, returning her gaze to the two drenched thieves, "my name is Zamira Drakasha. My ship's the Poison Orchid. And once you're dressed, someone will be along to haul you below and throw you in the bilge hold."
CHAPTER NINE
The Poison Orchid
1
Their prison was at the very bottom of the Poison Orchid, on what was ironically the tallest deck on the ship, a good ten feet from lower deck to ceiling. However, the pile of barrels and oilcloth sacks crammed into the compartment left nothing but a coffin-dark crawlspace above their uneven surface. Locke and Jean sat atop this uncomfortable mass of goods with their heads against the ceiling. The lightless room stank of muck-soaked orlop ropes, of mouldering canvas, of stale food and ineffective alchemical preservatives.
This was technically the forward cargo stowage; the bilge proper was sealed behind a bulkhead roughly ten feet to their left. Not twenty feet in the opposite direction, the curved black bow of the ship met wind and water. The soft waves they could hear were lapping against the ship's sides three or four feet above their heads.
"Nothing but the friendliest people and the finest accommodations on the Sea of Brass," said Locke.
"At least I don't feel too disadvantaged by the darkness," said Jean. "Lost my bloody optics when I took that tumble into the water."
"Thusfar today we've lost a ship, a small fortune, your hatchets, and now your optics."
"At least our setbacks are getting progressively smaller."Jean cracked his knuckles and the sound echoed strangely in the darkness. "How long do you suppose we've been down here?"
"Hour, maybe?" Locke sighed, pushed himself away from the starboard bulkhead and began the laborious process of finding a vaguely comfortable niche to slide into, amidst barrel-tops and sacks of hard, lumpy objects. If he was going to be bored, he might as well be bored lying down. "But I'd be surprised if they mean to keep us here for good. I think they're just… marinating us. For whatever comes next." "You making yourself comfortable?"
"I'm fighting the good fight." Locke shoved a sack out of the way and at last had enough space to rest in. "That's better."
A few seconds later, there came the creaking tread of many pairs of feet just overhead, followed by a scraping noise. The grating to the deck above (which had been wrapped in oilcloth to seal them in darkness) was being raised. A wan fight intruded into the blackness, and Locke squinted. "Doesn't that just figure," he muttered.
"Cargo inspection," came a familiar voice from above. "We're looking for anything out of place. You two qualify."
Jean crawled over to the pale square of fight and looked up. "Lieutenant Ezri?"
"Delmastro," she said. "Ezri Delmastro, hence Lieutenant Delma-stro." "My apologies. Lieutenant Delmastro." " "That's the spirit. How do you like your cabin?"
"Could smell worse," said Locke, "but I think I'd have to spend a few days pissing on everything to get there."
"Stay alive until our supplies start to run low," said Delmastro, "and you'll drink some things that'll make this stench a happy memory. Now, usually I'd drop a ladder, but it's only three feet. I think you can manage. Come up slow; Captain Drakasha's got a sudden eagerness to have a word with you." "Does that offer include dinner?" "You're lucky it includes clothes, Ravelle. Get up here. Smallest first."
Locke crawled past Jean and heaved himself up through the hatch into the moderately less stifling air of the orlop deck. Lieutenant Delmastro waited with eight of her crewfolk, all armed and armoured. Locke was seized from behind by a burly woman as he stood up in the passageway. A moment later Jean was helped up and held by three sailors.
"Right." Delmastro seized Jean's wrists and snapped a pair of black-ened-steel manacles around them. It was Locke's turn next; she fitted the cold restraints and fastened them without gentleness. Locke gave the manacles a quick professional appraisal. They were oiled and rust-free, and too tight to wiggle out of even if he had time to make some painful adjustments to his thumbs.
"Captain's finally had a chance to talk to some of your old crew at length," said Delmastro. "Mighty curious, is what I'd call her."
"Ah, that's wonderful," said Locke. "Another fine chance to explain myself to someone. How I do so love explaining myself."