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

Jean was drilling a small group of sailors with swords and polearms at the ship’s waist, and Locke nodded knowingly, as though he caught every nuance of their practice and approved. He toured the deck of the Red Messenger, greeting sailors by name, and tried to ignore the feeling that Caldris’s gaze was burning holes in the back of his tunic.

‘A fine morning to you, Captain,’ muttered the sailing master when Locke approached the wheel. Caldris looked ghoulish in the bright sunlight: his hair and beard washed whiter, his eyes sunken in deeper shadow, every line on his face newly re-etched by the hand of whatever god claimed him.

‘Did you sleep last night, Master Caldris?’

‘I found myself strangely unable, Captain.’

‘You must rest sometime.’

‘Aye, and the ship must generally stay above the waves, or so I’ve heard it suggested.’

Locke sighed, faced the bow and studied the darkening southern sky. ‘A summer’s-end storm, I daresay. Been through enough of them in my time.’ He spoke loudly and casually.

‘Soon enough you’ll be in one more, Captain.’

Locke spent the afternoon counting stores in the main hold with Mal as his scribe, marking little lines on a wax tablet. They ducked and weaved through a forest of salted meat in treated cloth sacks, hung from the beams in the hold and swaying steadily with the increasing motion of the ship. The hold was danker already from constant occupation by the crew; those who had been inclined to sleep in the more open space beneath the forecastle had abandoned it as the promise of hard weather had loomed. Locke was certain he smelled piss; someone was either too lazy or too frightened to crawl out and use the craplines. That could get ugly.

The whole sky was a cataract of haze-grey by the fourth hour of the afternoon. Caldris, slumped against the mast for a brief respite while Bald Mazucca and another sailor held the wheel, ordered sails trimmed and lanterns passed around from the storm-lockers. Jean and Jabril led parties belowdecks to ensure that their cargo and equipment was all properly stowed. A weapons locker flying open, or a barrel tumbling around in a rocking ship, would send hapless sailors to meet the gods.

After dinner, at Caldris’s whispered insistence, Locke ordered those sailors who’d dipped into the ship’s store of tobacco to smoke their last until further notice. Open flames would no longer be tolerated anywhere; alchemical lanterns would provide all of their light and they would use the hearthslab or - more likely - take cold meals. Locke promised an extra half of a wine ration each night if that became necessary.

A premature darkness had infused the sky by the time Locke and Jean could sit down for a quiet drink in the stern cabin. Locke closed the shutters over his stern windows and the compartment felt smaller than ever. Locke regarded the dubious comforts of this symbol of Ravelle’s authority: a padded hammock against the larboard bulkhead, a pair of stools, his sword and knives hung on the wall by storm-clasps. Their ‘table’ was a flat wooden board atop Locke’s chest. Sad as it was, it was princely compared to the glorified closets claimed by Jean and Caldris, or the way the men burrowed in cargo and canvas matting on the main deck.

‘I’m so sorry about the cats,’ said Locke.

‘I could have remembered as well,’ said Jean. Unspoken was the obvious statement that he’d trusted Locke enough not to feel that he needed to concern himself. Jean might be doing his best to stay polite, but guilt twisted in Locke’s stomach more sharply for it.

‘No sharing this blame,’ said Locke, sipping his warm ale. ‘I’m the captain of the bloody ship.’

‘Don’t be grandiose.’ Jean scratched his belly, which had been reduced by his recent activity to a much less dramatic curve than it had once possessed. ‘We’ll think of something. Hell, if we spend a few days ploughing through a storm, the men won’t have time to worry about anything except when and how hard to piss their breeches.’

‘Hmmm. Storm. Fine opportunity for one of us to misstep and look a fool in front of the men. More likely to be me than you.’

‘Stop brooding.’ Jean grinned. ‘Caldris knows what he’s doing. He’ll haul us through somehow.’

There was a sudden heavy impact on the cabin door. Locke and Jean jumped up from their stools in unison and Locke darted for his weapons.

Jean shouted, ‘What passes?’

‘Kosta,’ came a faint voice, followed by a feeble rattling, as though someone was trying and failing to work the latch.

Jean pulled the door open just as Locke finished buckling on his sword-belt. Caldris stood at the bottom of the companionway, clutching the doorframe for support, swaying on his feet. The amber glow of Locke’s cabin-lamp revealed wretched details: Caldris’s eyes were bloodshot and rolling upward, his mouth hung open and his waxy skin was glazed with sweat.

‘Help, Kosta,’ he whispered, wheezing with a sound that was painful just to hear.

Jean grabbed him and held him up. ‘Damn,’ he muttered. ‘He’s not just tired, Leo- Captain. He needs a bloody physiker!’

‘Help me ... Kosta,’ moaned the sailing master. He clawed at his left upper arm with his right hand, and then at his left breast. He squeezed his eyes shut and winced.

‘Help you?’ Locke put a hand beneath Caldris’s chin; the man’s pulse was wild and erratic. ‘What do you mean, help you?’

‘No.’ Caldris grimaced with concentration, sucking in a harsh breath between each word. ‘Help. Me. Kosta!’

‘Lay him on the table,’ said Jean, and together he and Locke pressed the old man down onto his back.

‘Sweet gods,’ said Locke, ‘is it the poison? I don’t feel any different.’

‘Nor I,’ said Jean. ‘I think ... I think his heart is seizing up. I’ve seen it before. Shit. If we can calm him down, maybe get him to drink something—’

But Caldris moaned again, dug feebly at the left side of his chest with both hands and shuddered. His hands fell limp. One long, strangled exhalation escaped from his throat and Locke, in rising horror, felt frantically around the base of his neck with the fingers of both hands.

‘His pulse is gone,’ Locke whispered.

A soft rattle on the cabin roof, gentle at first but quickly rising in tempo, told them that the first drops of rain were beginning to fall on the ship. Caldris’s eyes, fixed on the ceiling, were lifeless as glass.

‘Oh, shit,’ said Jean.