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

Dark water across the bow, water at the sides, water in the air, falling with the weight of lead pellets against Locke’s oilcloak. The rain seemed to come first from one side and then another, never content to fall straight down, as the Red Messenger rocked back and forth in the grey hands of the gale.

‘Master Valora!’ Locke held fast to the safety lines knotted around the mainmast (as they were knotted all around the deck) and bellowed down the main-deck hatch. ‘How much water in the well?’

Jean’s answer came up a few moments later: ‘Two feet!’

‘Very good, Master Valora!’

Locke caught a glimpse of Bald Mazucca staring at him and he suppressed a feeling of unease. He knew that Caldris’s sudden death the day before had been taken by the crew as an omen of the worst sort; they were openly muttering about women and cats, and the focal point of all their unkind attention was one Orrin Ravelle, whose status as captain and saviour was steadily fraying. Locke turned toward the helmsman and found him once again squinting ahead into the stinging rain, seemingly absorbed in his duty.

Two cloaked sailors stood at the second wheel behind Mazucca; in seas this strong, control of the rudder could easily fly free from the grip of a single man. Their faces were dark shadows within their hoods; they had nothing friendly to say to Locke, either.

The wind screamed through the lines and yards overhead, where most of the sails were tightly furled. They continued to push vaguely south-west under the press of nothing but close-reefed topsails. They were heeled over so far to starboard that Mazucca and his assistants were not merely standing in wait at their wheels. The crashing sea demanded their constant, tedious concentration to keep the ship stable, and still the sea was rising.

A rush of grey-green water ran over Locke’s bare toes and he sucked in breath; he’d abandoned his boots for the more certain footing of unprotected feet. Locke watched that water roll across the deck, unwelcome but constant guest, before it poured away down the scuppers and leaked past the edges of the storm-canvas laid beneath the hatch gratings. In truth the water was warm, but here in the sunless heart of the storm, with the wind like knives in the air, his imagination made it feel cold.

‘Captain Ravelle!’

Jabril was approaching along the larboard rail, storm-lantern in one night-black hand. ‘It might’ve been advisable to take down the fuckin’ topgallant masts a few hours ago,’ he shouted.

Since Locke had risen that morning, Jabril had offered at least half a dozen rebukes and reminders without prompting. Locke stared upward at the very tips of the main- and foremast, nearly lost in the swirling haze overhead. ‘I gave it some thought, Jabril, but it didn’t seem necessary.’ According to some of what Locke had read, even without sails flying from their yards, the topgallant masts might give unwanted leverage to deadly storm winds, or even be lost over the side as the vessel bucked and heaved. He’d been too busy to think of striking them down.

‘It’ll seem pretty gods-damned necessary if they come down and take more of the rigging with them!’

‘I might have them struck down in a while, Jabril, if I think it proper.’

‘If you think it proper?’ Jabril gaped at him. ‘Are you bereft of your bloody senses, Ravelle? The time to strike the bastards was hours ago; now the hands we have are in sore need elsewhere and the fuckin’ weather’s up! We might try it only were the ship in peril ... but damn me, she soon might be! Have you not been out this far on the Sea of Brass before, Captain?’

‘Aye, of course I have.’ Locke sweated within his oilcloak. Had he known the real extent of Jabril’s sea-wisdom he might have tasked the man with minding such details, but now it was too late, and some of his incompetence was laid bare. ‘Forgive me, Jabril. Caldris was a good friend. His loss has left me a bit off-kilter!’

‘Indeed! As the loss of the fuckin’ ship might leave us all more than a touch off-kilter, sir.’ Jabril turned and began making his way forward along the larboard rail, then after a few seconds whirled back to Locke. ‘You and I both know for a damn truth there’s not a single bloody cat on board, Ravelle!’

Locke hung his head and clung to the mainmast. It was too much to hope that Mazucca and the hands standing behind him hadn’t heard that. But of course, at his glance, they said nothing and betrayed nothing, staring fixedly ahead into the storm, as though trying to imagine he was not there at all.