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

‘What do you mean, you haven’t been turning the glasses?’

‘Captain Ravelle, sir, beggin’ your double-fuckin’ pardon, but we ain’t had no time to turn the glasses nor mind the log since ... hell, I suppose I can’t say. Awhile now.’

Bald Mazucca and his mate looked more as if they were clinging to their wheel for dear life than steering the ship with it. Two teams of two had the wheels; the air was a frenzy of howling wind and stinging rain. The sea, cresting twenty feet or more, slammed past the bow again and again, washing the deck white and sluicing past Locke’s ankles. At long last they’d been forced to abandon a southerly course, and now they were dead west before the wind, pulled by one lonely storm forecourse. They scudded again and again through waves high as houses.

A bolt of yellow flitting past in the periphery of Locke’s vision was a storm-lantern flying free and vanishing over the side, soon to be a curiosity for the fish far below.

Locke hauled himself over to the binnacle and flipped through the damp pages of the master’s log; the last hasty entry read: Locke couldn’t remember when it had last felt like the third hour of the afternoon. The storm turned high noon as dark as the insides of a shark’s gullet, and the crackle of lightning gave uncanny illumination to what might have been deep evening. They were as unfixed in time as they were in place.

‘At least we know we’re somewhere on the Sea of Brass,’ he shouted above the din. ‘We’ll be through this mess soon enough, and then we’ll take sightings to fix our latitude.’

If only that was as easy done as said. Fear and exhaustion had set Locke’s senses reeling; the world was grey and whirling in every direction, and he’d thrown up his last cold meal at the taffrail ... gods knew when. Hours before, probably. If a Bondsmage of Karthain had appeared on deck at that moment and offered to use magic to steer the ship to safety, Locke might have kissed their boots.

There was a sudden terrible sound overhead: an explosive crack followed by the warbling hiss of a broken line lashing the air. Seconds later came a louder crash, and then a snap-snap-snap like the noise of a whip biting flesh.

‘’Ware above,’ cried Jabril from somewhere forward; Locke and the ship lurched as one from another hammering wave. It was this loss of footing that saved Locke’s life. A shadow swooped past his left shoulder as he slipped to the wet deck, sputtering. There was a splintering crash, screams and sudden blackness as something slick and yielding enshrouded him.

Sail canvas! Locke shoved at it, working his way out from beneath it. Strong hands grabbed his forearms and hauled him to his feet. They belonged to Jean, who was braced against the starboard quarterdeck rail. Locke had slid a few feet to his right with the fall. Muttering thanks, he turned to see exactly what he feared.

The main topgallant mast had torn away. Its stays must have been snapped by some trick of wind or the ship’s tumult. It had plunged forward and down, unfurling and trailing sail from its yard as it went, before a mess of tangled rigging had snapped it backward like a pendulum just above the deck. It covered the wheels, and the four men previously manning them were nowhere to be seen. Locke and Jean moved in unison, fighting across wet canvas and torn rope, while smaller pieces of debris continued to rain down around them. Already Locke could feel the ship moving in an unhealthy fashion beneath them. The wheels must be seized, the rudder put right instantly.

‘All hands,’ Locke cried with every ounce of conviction he possessed. ‘All hands on deck! All hands to save the ship!’

Jean heaved against the fallen topgallant spar, bracing himself against the mainmast, letting loose a howl of sheer exertion. Wood and canvas shifted, then crashed to the deck. Some of the handles of the two wheels had been reduced to splinters, but the wheels themselves were substantially intact. Locke could now see Bald Mazucca crawling slowly to his feet behind them; another man lay on deck with the top of his head plainly smashed in.

‘Seize the wheel,’ Locke cried, looking around for more help, ‘Seize the bloody wheel!’ He found himself tangled with Jabril.

‘Captain,’ Jabril hollered straight into his face, ‘we are like to broach!’

Oh good, thought Locke, at least I know what that means. He gave Jabril a shove toward the wheels and grabbed onto one beside Jean. ‘Helm a-larboard,’ Locke coughed, confident of that much. Groaning with strain, he and Jean fought to heave the wheel in the proper direction. The Red Messenger was slipping to lee at an angle, down into the troughs of the waves; in moments she’d be broadside to them and all but lost. A dark wave, impossibly heavy, surged over the starboard rail and doused them all, the merest foretaste of what awaited failure.

But the resistance of the wheel lessened as Jabril found his place behind them and heaved; in seconds he was joined by Mazucca, and inch by straining inch Locke felt the ship’s stern come round again to larboard, until her bow was knifing into the waves once more. They’d bought time to contemplate the disaster the toppling mast had made of the rigging.

Men boiled out of the deck hatches, inhuman shapes in the dancing light of storm-lanterns. Lightning scorched the darkness above them. Orders were issued, from Locke and Jean and Jabril, with no heed paid to whose was the higher authority. The minutes became hours, and the hours felt like days. They fought on together in an eternity of grey chaos, cold and exhausted and terrified, against the screaming winds above and the hammering waters below.