Red Seas Under Red Skies: The Gentleman Bastard Sequence, Book Two (Gentleman Bastards 2)

‘An officer of Archon and Council,’ said Locke with ritual formality. ‘This man is my boatswain. These are my orders and papers.’

He passed a set of documents rolled into a tight tube to the woman behind the door. She slid the panel closed over her watch-hole, and Locke and Jean waited in silence for several minutes, listening to the rushing passage of surf over the nearby reefs. Two moons were just coming up, gilding the southern horizon with silver, and the stars dusted the cloudless sky like confectioner’s sugar thrown against a black canvas.

Finally, there was a metallic clatter and the heavy doors swung outward on creaking hinges. The guardswoman stepped out to meet them, saluting but not returning Locke’s papers.

‘My apologies for the delay, Captain Ravelle. Welcome to the Windward Rock.’

Locke and Jean followed her into the tower’s entrance hall, which was divided into two halves by a wall of black iron bars running from floor to ceiling across its breadth. On the far side of these bars, a man behind a wooden desk had control of whatever mechanism closed the gates - they clattered shut behind Locke and Jean after a few seconds.

The man, like the woman, wore the Archon’s blue under ribbed black leather armour: bracers, vest and neck-guard. He was clean-shaven and handsome, and he waited behind the bars as the female guard approached to pass him Locke’s papers.

‘Captain Orrin Ravelle,’ she said. ‘And boatswain. Here with orders from the Archon.’

The man studied Locke’s papers at length before nodding and passing them back through the bars. ‘Of course. Good evening, Captain Ravelle. This man is your boatswain, Jerome Valora?’

‘Yes, Lieutenant.’

‘You’re to view the prisoners in the second vault? Anyone in particular?’

‘Just a general viewing, Lieutenant.’

‘As you will.’ The man slid a key from around his neck, opened the only gate set into the wall of iron bars and stepped out toward them, smiling. ‘We’re pleased to render any aid the Protector requires, sir.’

‘I very much doubt that,’ said Locke, letting a stiletto slip into his left hand. He reached out and gave the female guard a slash behind her right ear, across the unprotected skin between her leather neck-guard and her tightly coiffed hair. She cried out, whirled and had her blackened-steel sabre out of its scabbard in an instant.

Jean was tackling the male guard before her blade was even out; the man uttered a surprised choking noise as Jean slammed him against the bars and gave him a sharp chop to the neck with the edge of his right hand. The leather armour robbed the blow of its lethal possibilities without dulling the shock of impact. Gasping, the guard was easily pinned from behind by Jean, who immobilized his arms and held him in a grip like iron.

Locke darted backwards out of the female guard’s reach as she slashed with her blade. Her first attack was swift and nearly accurate. Her second was a bit slower, and Locke had no trouble avoiding it. She readied a third swing and misstepped, tripping over her own feet. Her mouth hung open in confusion.

‘You . . . fucker . . .’ she muttered. ‘Poi . . . poi . . . son.’

Locke winced as she toppled face-first to the stone floor; he’d meant to catch her, but the stuff on the blade had acted faster than he’d expected.

‘You bastard,’ coughed the lieutenant, straining uselessly in Jean’s hold, ‘you killed her!’

‘Of course I didn’t kill her, you twit. Honestly, you people . . . pull a blade anywhere around here and everyone assumes straight away that you’ve killed someone.’ Locke stepped up before the guard and showed him the stiletto. ‘Stuff on the edge is called Witfrost. You have a good, hard sleep all night, wake up around noon. At which time you’ll feel like hell. Apologies. So do you want it in the neck or in the palm of your hand?’

‘You . . . you gods-damned traitor!’

‘Neck it is.’ Locke gave the man his own shallow cut just behind his left ear and barely counted to eight before he was hanging in Jean’s arms, limper than wet silk. Jean set the lieutenant down gently and plucked a small ring of iron keys from his belt.

‘Right,’ said Locke. ‘Let’s pay a visit to the second vault.’