She made it to the larboard rail and with one last convulsive effort, as much back and legs as what was left of her arms, she heaved the shipbane sphere across the gap to the Dread Sovereign. It grew in
.1
brightness even as it flew, a molten-metal comet, and Rodanov's crew-folk recoiled from it as it landed on their deck.
You couldn't touch such a thing, she'd said - well, clearly you could. But Locke knew you couldn't touch it and live. The arrow that took her in the stomach an eyeblink later was too late to beat her throw, and too late to do any real work. She fell to the deck, trailing smoke, and then all hell broke loose for the last time that day.
'Rodanov,' yelled Drakasha, 'Rodanov!'
There was an eruption of light and fire at the waist of the Dread Sovereign; the incandescent globe, rolling to and fro, had at last burst. White-hot alchemy rained down hatches, caught sails, engulfed crew-folk and nearly bisected the ship in seconds.
'If they would burn the Sovereign' shouted Rodanov, 'all hands take the OrchidV
'Fend off,' cried Drakasha, 'fend off and repel boarders! Helm hard a-larboard, Mum! Hard a-larboard!'
Locke could feel a growing new heat against his right cheek; the Sovereign was already doomed, and if the Orchid didn't disentangle from her shrouds and bowsprit and assorted debris, the fire would take both ships for a meal. Jean crawled slowly toward Ezri's body. Locke heard the sounds of new fighting breaking out behind them, and thought briefly of paying attention to it, but then realized that if he left Jean now he would never forgive himself. Or deserve forgiveness.
'Dear gods,' he whispered when he saw her, 'please, no. Oh, gods.'
Jean moaned, sobbing, his hands held out above her. Locke didn't know where he would have touched her, either. There was so little her left - skin and clothing and hair burned into one awful texture. And still she moved, trying feebly to rise. Still she fought for something resembling breath.
'Valora,' said Scholar Treganne, hobbling toward them, 'Valora don't, don't touch?
Jean pounded the deck and screamed. Treganne knelt beside what was left of Ezri, pulling a dagger from her belt sheath. Locke was startled to see tears trailing down her cheeks.
'Valora,' she said, 'take this. She's dead already. She needs you, for the gods' sakes.'
'No,' sobbed Jean. 'No, no, no?
'Valora, look at her, gods damn it. She is beyond all help. Every second is an hour to her and she is praying for this knife.'
Jean snatched the knife from Treganne's hand, wiped a tunic sleeve across his eyes and shuddered. Gasping deep breaths despite the terrible smell of burning that lingered in the air, he moved the knife toward her, jerking in time with his sobs like a man with palsy. Treganne placed her hands over his to steady them, and Locke closed his eyes.
Then it was over.
'I'm sorry,' said Treganne. 'Forgive me, Valora, I didn't know - I didn't know what that thing was, what Utgar had. Forgive me.'
Jean said nothing. Locke opened his eyes again and saw Jean rising as though in a trance, his sobs all but stifled, the dagger still held loosely in his hand. He moved, as though he saw nothing of the battle still raging behind him, across the deck toward Utgar.
Ten more Orchids fell at the bow saving them, following Zamira's orders, shoving with all their might against the Sovereign with spears and boathooks and halberds. Shoving to get her bowsprit and rigging clear of the Orchid, while Rodanov's survivors at the bow fought like demons to escape. But they did it, with Mumchance's help, and the two battered ships tore apart at last.
'All hands,' shouted Zamira, dazed by the effort it suddenly required, 'All hands! Tacks and braces! Put us west before the wind! Fire party to main hold! Get the wounded aft to Treganne!' Assuming Treganne was alive, assuming... much. Sorrow later. More hardship now.
Rodanov hadn't joined the final fight to board the Orchid; Zamira had last seen him running aft, fighting his way through the blaze and headed for the wheel. Whether in a last hopeless effort to save his ship or destroy hers, he'd failed.
18
'Help,' Utgar whispered, 'help, get it out, I can't reach it.'
His movements were faint, and his eyes were going glassy. Jean knelt beside him, stared at him and then brought the dagger down overhand into his back. Utgar took a shocked breath; Jean brought the knife down again and again while Locke watched; until Utgar was most certainly dead, until his back was covered in wounds, until Locke finally reached over and grabbed him by the wrist.
'Jean?
'It doesn't help,' said Jean, in a disbelieving voice. 'Gods, it doesn't help.'
'I know,' said Locke. 'I know.'
'Why didn't you stop her ?' Jean launched himself at Locke, pinning him to the deck, one hand around his throat. Locke gagged and fought back, and it did him about as much good as he expected. 'Why didn't you stop her?'
'I tried,' said Locke. 'She pushed you into me. She knew what we'd do, Jean. She knew. Please?
Jean released him and sat back as quickly as he had attacked. He looked down at his hands and shook his head. 'Oh, gods, forgive me. Forgive me, Locke.'
'Always,' said Locke. 'Jean, I am so, so sorry -1 wouldn't, I wouldn't have had it happen for the world. For the world, do you hear me?'
'I do,' he said quietly. He buried his face in his hands and said nothing more.
To the south-east, the fire aboard the Dread Sovereign turned the sea red; it roared up the masts and sails, rained charred canvas like volcanic ash upon the waves, devoured the hull and at last subsided into a billowing mountain of smoke and steam as the ship's blackened hulk slipped beneath the waters.
'Ravelle,' said Drakasha, placing a hand on Locke's shoulder and interrupting his reverie, 'if you can help, I?
'I'm fine,' said Locke, stumbling to his feet. 'I can help. Just maybe ... leave Jerome?
'Yes,' she said. 'Ravelle, we need?
'Zamira, enough. Enough Ravelle this, Kosta that. Around the crew, sure. But my friends call me Locke.'
'Locke,' she said.
'Locke Lamora. Don't, ah?Ahhh, who the hell would you tell anyway?' He reached up to set a hand on hers, and in a moment they had drawn one another into a hug. 'I'm sorry,' he whispered, 'Ezri, Nasreen, Malakasri, Gwillem?
'Gwillem?'
'Yeah, he?One of Rodanov's archers, I'm sorry.'
'Gods,' she said. 'Gwillem was with the Orchid when I stole her. Last of the original crew. Ra?Locke, Mum has the wheel and we're safe for the moment. I need ... I need to go down and see my children.
And I need ... I need you to look after Ezri. They can't see her like that.'
'I'll take care of it,' he said. 'Look, go down. I'll take care of things on deck. We'll get the rest of the wounded back to Treganne. We'll get all the bodies covered up.'
'Very good,' said Zamira quietly. 'You have the deck, Master Lamora. I'll return shortly.'
/ have the deck, thought Locke, staring around at the shambles left by the battle: swaying rigging, damaged shrouds, splintered railings, arrows embedded damn near everywhere. Bodies crowded every corner of the waist and forecastle; survivors moved through them like ghosts, many of them hobbling on spears and bows for makeshift canes.
Gods. So this is what a command is. Staring consequences in the eye and pretending not to flinch.
'Jean,' he whispered, crouching over the bigger man where he sat on the deck, 'Jean, stay here. Stay as long as you like. I'll be close. I just need to take care of things, all right?'
Jean nodded, faintly.
'Right,' said Locke, glancing around again, this time looking for the least injured. 'Konar,' he yelled, 'Big Konar! Get a pump rigged, the first one you can find that works. Run a hose to this cargo hatch and give the main-deck hold a good soak. We can't have anything smouldering down there. Oscarl! Come here! Get me sail canvas and knives. We've got to do something about all these ... all these people.'
All the crewfolk dead upon the deck. We've got to do something about them here, Locke thought. And then I'm going to do something about them in Tal Verrar. Once and for all.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Settling Accounts
i
'Crooked Warden, Silent Thirteenth, your servant calls. Place your eyes upon the passing of this woman, Ezri Delmastro, Iono's servant and yours. Beloved of a man who is beloved by you.' Locke's voice broke, and he struggled for self-control. 'Beloved of a man who is my brother. We ... we grudge you this one, Lord, and I don't mind saying so.'
Thirty-eight left standing; fifty they'd put over the side, and the rest had been lost during the battle. Locke and Zarnira shared the funeral duties. Locke's recitations had grown more numb with each one, but now, at this last ritual of the night, he found himself cursing the day he'd been chosen as a priest of the Crooked Warden. His presumed thirteenth birthday, under the Orphan's Moon. What power and what magic it had seemed back then. The power and the magic to give funeral orations. He scowled, buried his cynical thoughts for Ezri's sake and continued:
'This is the woman who saved us all. This is the woman who beat Jaffrim Rodanov. We deliver her, body and spirit, to the realm of your brother Iono, mighty Lord of the Sea. Lend her aid. Carry her soul to She who weighs us all. This we pray with hopeful hearts.'
Jean knelt over the canvas shroud, and on it he placed a lock of dark-brown hair. 'My flesh,' he whispered. He pricked his finger with a dagger and let a red drop fall. 'My blood.' He leaned down to the unmoving head beneath the canvas and left a lingering kiss. 'My breath, and my love.'
'These things bind your promise,' said Locke.
'My promise,' said Jean, rising to his feet. 'A death-offering, Ezri. Gods help me to make it worthy. I don't know if I can, but gods help me.'
Zamira, standing nearby, stepped up to take one side of the wooden plank holding Ezri's canvas-wrapped body. Locke took the other; Jean,
as he'd warned Locke before the ceremony, was unable to help. He wrung his hands and looked away. In a moment it was over - Locke and Zamira tipped the plank and the sailcloth shroud slid out through the entry port, into the dark waves below. It was an hour past sunset, and at long last they were truly done.
The wordless circle of tired, mostly wounded crewfolk began to disperse, back to Treganne's fussing or their bare-bones watches. Rask had replaced Ezri, Nasreen and Utgar alike for the time being; with his head swaddled in a thick linen bandage, he began grabbing the more able-bodied survivors and pointing out chores for their attention.
'And now?' asked Locke
'Now we limp, with the wind mostly against us, back to Tal Verrar.' Zamira's voice was tired but her gaze was level. 'We had an understanding, before this. I've lost more than I bargained for, friends and crew both. We lack the strength to take so much as a fishing vessel now, so I'm afraid what remains is up to you.'
'As we promised,' said Locke. 'Stragos. Yeah. Get us there, and I'll ... think of something.'
'You won't have to,' said Jean. 'Just put in and send me off.' He looked down at his feet. 'Then leave.'
'No,' said Locke, 'I won't just stay here while?
'Only takes one for what I've got in mind.'
'You just promised a death-offering?
'She gets it. Even if it's me, she gets it.'
'You think Stragos won't be suspicious to see just one of us?'
'I'll tell him you're dead. Tell him we had a fight at sea; that part's honest enough. He'll see me then.'
'I won't let you go alone.'
'And I won't let you come with me. What do you think you can do, fight me?'
'Shut up, the pair of you,' said Zamira. 'Gods. Just this morning, Jerome, your friend here tried to convince me to let him do exactly what you're planning right now.'
'What?' Jean glared at Locke and ground his teeth together. 'You miserable little sneak, how could you?
'What? How dare I contemplate doing what you're now planning to do to me? You self-righteous strutting cock, I'll?
'What?' shouted Jean.
'桰'll throw myself at you, and you'll beat the shit out of me,' said
Locke. 'And then you'll feel awful! How about that, huh?'
'I already feel awful,' said Jean. 'Gods, why can't you just let me do this? Why can't you give me this much? At least you'll be alive; you can try to find another alchemist, another poisoner. It's a better chance than I'll have.'
'Like hell,' said Locke. 'That's not how we work, and if you wanted it otherwise, you should have left me bleeding to death in Camorr. I seem to recall being pretty set on it at the time.'
'Yeah, but?
'It's different when it's you, isn't it?'
'I?
'Gentlemen,' said Zamira, 'or whatever you are. All other considerations aside, I gave my little boat to Basryn this afternoon so the bastard could die on the waves instead of on my ship. You'll have a hell of a time getting one of the other boats into Tal Verrar by yourself, Jerome. Unless you propose to fly, for I'm not taking the Orchid more than a bowshot past the breakwater reefs.'
'I'll swim if I bloody well have to?
'Don't be stupid in your anger, Jerome.' Drakasha grabbed him by the shoulders. 'Be cold. Cold's the only thing that's going to work, if you're going to give me anything back for what's been done to my crew. For my first mate.'
'Shit,'Jean muttered.
