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

The cry filtered down from above on the third morning of their voyage south. Locke sat in his cabin, regarding his blurry reflection in the dented little mirror he’d packed in his chest. Before departure, he’d used a bit of alchemy from his disguise kit to restore his hair to its natural colour, and now a fine shadow in much the same shade was appearing on his cheeks. He wasn’t yet sure if he’d shave it, but with the shout from above his concern for his beard vanished. In a moment he was out of the cabin, up the awkward steps of the dim companionway and into the bright light of morning on the quarterdeck.

A haze of high white clouds veiled the blue sky, like wisps of tobacco smoke that had drifted far from the pipes of their progenitors. They’d had the wind on their larboard beam since reaching open sea, and the Red Messenger was heeled over slightly to starboard. The constant swaying and creaking and deck-slanting were utterly alien to Locke, who’d been confined to a cabin by infirmity on his last - and only previous - sea voyage. He flattered himself that the trained agility of a thief went some way toward feigning sea legs, but he avoided scampering around too much, just in case. At least he appeared to be immune to seasickness this time out, and for that he thanked the Crooked Warden fervently. Many aboard had not been so lucky.

‘What passes, Master Caldris?’

‘Compliments of a fine morning, Captain, and the masthead watch says we got white canvas two points off the larboard bow.’

Caldris had the wheel to himself that morning, and he drew light puffs from a cheap sheaf of cut-rate tobacco, which stank like sulphur. Locke wrinkled his nose.

Sighing inwardly and stepping with as much care as he could manage, Locke brought out his seeing-glass and hurried forward, up the forecastle and to the rail on the larboard bow. Yes, there it was - hull down, a minute speck of white, barely visible above the dark blue of the distant horizon. When he returned to the quarterdeck, Jabril and several other sailors were lounging around, waiting for his verdict.

‘Do we give her the eyeball, Captain?’ Jabril sounded merely expectant, but the men behind him looked downright eager.

‘Looking for an early taste of those equal shares, eh?’ Locke feigned deep consideration, turning toward Caldris long enough to catch the sailing master’s private signal for an emphatic ‘no’. As Locke had expected - and he could give legitimate reasons without prompting.

‘Can’t do it, lads. You know better than that. We’ve not yet begun to set our own ship to rights; little sense in taking a fight to someone else’s. A quarter of us are still unfit for work, let alone battle. We’ve got fresh food, a clean ship and all the time in the world. Better chances will come. Hold course, Master Caldris.’

‘Hold course, aye.’

Jabril accepted this; Locke was discovering that the man had a solid core of sense and a fair knowledge of nearly every aspect of shipboard life, which made him Locke’s superior in that wise. He was a fine mate, another bit of good fortune to be grateful for. The men behind Jabril, now ... Locke instinctively knew they needed some occupying task to help mitigate their disappointment.

‘Streva,’ he said to the youngest, ‘heave the log aft. Mal, you mind the minute-glass. Report to Master Caldris. Jabril, you know how to use a recurved bow?’

‘Aye, Captain. Shortbow, recurved, longbow. Decent aim with any.’

‘I’ve got ten of them in a locker down in the aft hold. Should be easy to find. Couple hundred arrows, too. Rig up some archery butts with canvas and straw. Mount them at the bow so nobody gets an unpleasant surprise in the arse. Start sharpening up the lads in groups, every day when the weather allows. Time comes to finally pay a visit to another ship, I’ll want good archers in the tops.’

‘Fine idea, Captain.’

That, at least, appeared to restore excitement to the sailors who were still milling near the quarterdeck. Most of them followed Jabril down a hatchway to the main deck. Their interest in the matter gave Locke a further thought.

‘Master Valora!’

Jean was with Mirlon, their cook, scrutinizing something at the little brick firebox abutting the forecastle. He waved in acknowledgement of Locke’s shout.

‘By sunset I want to be certain that every man aboard knows where all the weapons lockers are. Make sure of it yourself.’

Jean nodded and returned to whatever he was doing. By Locke’s reckoning, the idea that Captain Ravelle wanted every man to be comfortable with the ship’s weapons -aside from the bows, there were hatchets, sabres, clubs and a few polearms - would be far better for morale than the thought that he would prefer keeping them locked up or hidden.

‘Well done,’ said Caldris quietly.

Mal watched the last few grains in the minute-glass bolted to the mainmast run out, then turned aft and shouted, ‘Hold the line!’

‘Seven and a half knots,’ Streva hollered a moment later.

‘Seven and a half,’ said Caldris. ‘Very well. We’ve been making that more or less steady since we left Verrar. A good run.’

Locke snuck a glance at the pegs sunk into the holes on Caldris’s navigational board, and the compass in the binnacle, which showed them on a heading just a hair’s breadth west of due south.

‘A fine pace if it holds,’ muttered Caldris around his cigar. ‘Puts us in the Ghostwinds maybe two weeks from today. Don’t know about the captain, but getting a few days ahead of schedule makes me very bloody comfortable.’

‘And will it hold?’ Locke spoke as softly as he could without whispering into the sailing master’s ear.

‘Good question. Summer’s end’s an odd time on the Sea of Brass; we got storms out there somewhere. I can feel it in my bones. They’re a ways off, but they’re waiting.’

‘Oh, splendid.’

‘We’ll make do, Captain.’ Caldris briefly removed his cigar, spat something brown at the deck and replaced it between his teeth. ‘Fact is, we’re doing just fine, thank the Lord of the Grasping Waters.’