Their wary escort herded them along, and soon they were on deck in the very last light of dusk. The sun was just passing beneath the western horizon, a blood-red eye closing lazily under lids of faintly red cloud. Locke gulped the fresh air gratefully, and was again struck by the impression of population that hung about the Poison Orchid. She was crammed with crew, men and women alike, bustling about below or working on deck by the light of an increasing number of alchemical lanterns.
They had come up amidships. Something clucked and fluttered in a dark box just forward of the mainmast. A chicken coop — at least one bird was pecking the mesh of its cage in agitation. "I sympathize," whispered Locke.
The Orchid crewfolk led him to the stern a few steps ahead of Jean. On the quarterdeck, just above the companionway leading down to the stern cabins, a group of sailors once again restrained Jean at some signal from Delmastro.
"This invitation's for Ravelle only," she said. "Master Valora can wait up here until we see how this is to go." "Ah," said Locke. "Will you be comfortable up here, Jerome?"
" "Cold walls do not a prison make," " recited Jean with a smile, " "nor iron bands a bondsman.""
Lieutenant Delmastro looked at him strangely, and after a few seconds replied, " "Bold words from the tongues of the newly chained will fly — like sparks from flint, with as much real heat, and as long a life." " "You know The Ten Honest Turncoats" said Jean.
"As do you. Very interesting. And… completely beside the point." She gave Locke a gentle push toward the companionway. "Stay here, Valora. Lift a finger in an unfriendly fashion and you'll die where you stand." "My fingers will be on their best behaviour."
Down the companionway Locke stumbled, into a dark space nearly the twin of that on the Red Messenger, though larger. If Locke's quick estimate was correct, the Poison Orchid was half as long again as his former ship. There were little canvas-door cabins, two to a side, and a sturdy witchwood door to the stern cabin, currently closed tight. Ezri pushed Locke firmly aside and knocked on this door three times. "It's Ezri, with the question mark," she shouted.
A moment later the door was unbolted from within and Delmastro motioned for Locke to precede her.
Captain Drakasha's cabin, in contrast to "Ravelle's", showed every evidence of long, comfortable habitation. Richly lit by faceted alchemical jewel-lamps in gold frames, the space was piled with layers of tapestries and silk pillows. Several sea-chests supported a lacquered tabletop covered with empty dishes, folded maps and navigation instruments of obvious quality. Locke felt a pang when he saw his own chest, wide open on the floor beside Drakasha's chair.
The shutters had been drawn away from the stern windows. Drakasha sat before them, her coat and armour discarded, holding a girl of three or four on her knees. Through the windows, Locke could see the Red Messenger, shadowed in the growing darkness, crawling with the bobbing lights of what must be repair parties.
Locke glanced to his left to see who'd opened the door, then looked down and found himself meeting the gaze of a curly-haired boy who looked barely older than the girl held by Zamira. Both children had her coal-black hair, and something of her features, but their skin was somewhat lighter, like desert sand in shadow. Ezri tousled the boy's hair affectionately as she nudged Locke further into the cabin, and the boy stepped away shyly.
"There," said Zamira, ignoring the newcomers for the moment and pointing out through the stern windows. "Can you see that, Cosetta? Do you know what that is?" "Ship," said the little girl.
"That's right." Zamira smiled… no, Locke corrected himself, she positively smirked. "Mummy" s new ship. From which Mummy has taken a lovely little pile otgold." "Gold," said the little girl, clapping.
"Indeed. But look at the ship, love. Look at the ship. Can you tell Mummy what those tall things are? Those tall things that reach for the sky?" "They… urn… ha! No." "No, you don't know, or no, you are being mutinous?" "Moot nust!"
"Not on Mummy's ship, Cosetta. Look again. Mummy's told you what they are before, hasn't she? They reach for the sky, and they carry the sails, and they are the…"
"Mast," said the girl.
"Masts. But close enough. And how many are there? How many masts does Mummy's new little ship have? Count them for Mummy." "Two."
"How clever you are! Mummy's new ship has two masts, yes." Zamira leaned close to her daughter's face, so that they were touching noses, and Cosetta giggled. "Now," said Zamira, "find me something else that comes in two." "Urn "Here in the cabin, Cosetta. Find Mummy two of something" "Um…"
The girl looked around, sticking most of her left hand into her mouth as she did so, before seizing upon the pair of sabres that rested, in their scabbards, against the wall just beneath the stern window. "Sword," said Cosetta.
"That's right!" Zamira kissed her on the cheek. "Mummy has two swords. At least where you can see them, love. Now, will you be a good girl and go above with Ezri? Mummy needs to speak to this man alone for just a bit. Paolo will go, too."
Ezri moved across the cabin to take Cosetta into her arms, and the little girl clung to her with obvious pleasure. Paolo followed Ezri like a shadow, keeping the lieutenant between himself and Locke, peeking out from behind her legs when he dared to look at all. "You sure you want to be alone back here, Captain?" Til be fine, Del. Valora's the one I'd be worried about." "He's manacled, with eight hands standing by." "Good enough, I think. And the Red Messenger's men?" "All under the forecastle. Treganne's giving them the eyeball."
"Fine. I'll be along soon enough. Take Paolo and Cosetta off to Gwillem and let them sit on the quarterdeck. Nowhere near the rails, mind." "Aye."
"And tell Gwillem that if he tries to give them unwatered beer again I'll cut his heart out and piss in the hole." "I'll quote that in full, Captain."
"Off with the lot of you. If you give Ezri and Gwillem any trouble, loves, Mummy will not be pleased."
Lieutenant Delmastro withdrew from the cabin, taking the two children and closing the door behind her. Locke wondered how to approach this meeting. He knew next to nothing about Drakasha; no weak spots to exploit, no prejudices to twist. Coming clean about the various layers of deception he was working under would probably be a mistake. Best to act fully as Ravelle, for the time being.
Captain Drakasha picked up her sheathed sabres and turned her full regard upon Locke for the first time. He decided to speak first, in a friendly fashion: "Your children?"
"How little escapes the penetrating insight of the veteran intelligence officer." She slid one of her sabres out of its scabbard with a soft metallic hiss and gestured toward Locke with it. "Sit."
Locke complied. The only other chair in the cabin was next to the table, so he settled into it and folded his manacled hands in his lap. Zamira eased herself into her own chair, facing him, and set the drawn sabre across her knees.
"Where I come from," she said, "we have a custom concerning questions asked over a naked blade." She had a distinct, harmonious accent, one that Locke couldn't place. "Are you familiar with it?" "No," said Locke, "but I think the meaning is clear." "Good. Something is wrong with your story."
"Nearly everything is wrong with my story, Captain Drakasha. I had a ship and a crew and a pile of money. Now I find myself hugging a sack of potatoes in a bilge hold that smells like the bottom of an unwashed ale-cup."
"Don't hope for a lasting relationship with the potatoes. I just wanted you out of the way while I spoke to some of the Messenger's crewmen." "Ah. And how is my crew?" "We both know they're not your crew, Ravelle." "How is the crew, then?"