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

One of the prisoners stepped up to the bars and clutched them; the depredations of the cell vault had yet to whittle away a build frighteningly close to that of the heroic statuary of old. Locke guessed he was a recent arrival; his muscles looked carved from witchwood. His skin and hair were black enough to shrug off the pale-green light, as though in disdain.

‘I’m the one responsible for moving you to this vault,’ said Locke. ‘I didn’t lock you up in the first place. I didn’t arrange for the treatment you’ve been receiving.’

‘Treatment’s a fancy fuckin’ word for it.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Jabril.’

‘Are you in charge?’

‘Of what?’ Some of the man’s anger seemed to ebb, transmuting to tired resignation. ‘Nobody’s in fuckin’ charge behind iron bars, Captain Ravelle. We piss where we sleep. We don’t keep bloody muster rolls or duty shifts.’

‘You men are all sailors,’ said Locke.

‘Was sailors,’ said Jabril.

‘I know what you are. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. Think about this - thieves get let out. They go to West Citadel, they work at hard labour, they slave until they rupture or get pardoned. But even they get to see the sky. Even their cells have windows. Debtors are free to go when their debts are paid. Prisoners of war go home when the war’s over. But you poor bastards . . . you’re penned up here against need. You’re cattle. If there’s a war, you’ll be chained to oars, and if there’s no war . . . well.’

‘There’s always war,’ said Jabril.

‘Seven years since the last one,’ said Locke. He stepped up to the bars just across from Jabril and looked him in the eyes. ‘Maybe seven years again. Maybe never. You really want to grow old in this vault, Jabril?’

‘What’s the bloody alternative . . . Captain?’

‘Some of you came from a ship impounded recently,’ said Locke. ‘Your captain tried to smuggle in a nest of stiletto wasps.’

‘The Fortunate Venture, aye,’ said Jabril. ‘We was promised high heaps of gold for that job.’

‘Fucking things killed eight men on the voyage,’ said another prisoner. ‘We thought we’d inherit their shares.’

‘Turns out they was lucky,’ said Jabril. ‘They didn’t have to take no share of this gods-damned place.’

‘The Fortunate Venture is riding at anchor in the Sword Marina,’ said Locke. ‘She’s been rechristened the Red Messenger. Refurbished, resupplied, careened and smoked. She’s been prettied up. The Archon means to take her into his service.’

‘Good for the bloody Archon.’

‘I’m to command her,’ said Locke. ‘She’s at my disposal. I have the keys, as it were.’

‘What the fuck do you want, then?’

‘It’s half-past midnight,’ said Locke, lowering his voice to a stage whisper that echoed dramatically to the back of the cell. ‘Morning relief won’t arrive for more than six hours. And every guard on the Windward Rock is . . . currently . . . unconscious.’

The entire cell was full of wide eyes. Men heaved themselves up from their sleeping pallets and pressed closer to the bars, forming an unruly but attentive crowd.

‘I am leaving Tal Verrar tonight,’ said Locke. ‘This is the last time I will ever wear this uniform. I am quits with the Archon and everything he stands for. I mean to take the Red Messenger, and for that I need a crew.’

The mass of prisoners exploded into a riot of shoving and jabbering. Hands thrust out at Locke through the bars and he stepped back.

‘I’m a topman,’ one of the prisoners yelled, ‘fine topman! Take me!’

‘Nine years at sea,’ hollered another, ‘ . . . do anything!’

Jean stepped up and pounded on the cell door again, bellowing: ‘QUIIIIETTTT!’

Locke held up the ring of keys Jean had taken from the lieutenant in the entrance hall.

‘I sail south on the Sea of Brass,’ he said. ‘I make for Port Prodigal. This is not subject to vote or negotiation. You sail with me, you sail under the red flag. You want off when we reach the Ghostwinds, you can have it. Until then, we’re on the watch for money and plunder. No room for shirkers. The word is equal shares.’

That would give them something to ponder, Locke thought. A freebooter captain more commonly took two to four shares from ten of any plunder got at sea. Just the thought of equal shares for all would quell a great many mutinous urges.

‘Equal shares,’ he repeated above another sudden outburst of babble. ‘But you make your decision here and now. Take oath to me as your captain and I will free you immediately. I have means to get you off this rock and over to the Red Messenger. We’ll have hours of darkness to clear the harbour and be well away. If you don’t want to come, fine. But no courtesies in that case. You’ll stay here when we’re gone. Maybe the morning relief will be impressed with your honesty . . . but I doubt it. Who among you will desist?

None of the prisoners said anything.

‘Who among you will go free, and join my crew?’

Locke winced at the eruption of shouts and cheers, then allowed himself a wide, genuine grin.

‘All gods as your witness!’ he shouted. ‘Upon your lips and upon your hearts.’

‘Our oath is made,’ said Jabril, while those around him nodded.

‘Then stand upon it or pray to die, and be damned and found wanting on the scales of the Lady of the Long Silence.’

‘So we stand,’ came a chorus of shouts.

Locke passed the ring of keys over to Jean. The prisoners watched in an ecstasy of disbelief as he found the proper key, slid it into the lock and gave it a hard turn to the right.