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

From the water, the illusion of that fire looked complete to Locke’s eyes. All the smoke-barrels were going now; the ship trailed a black and grey cloud that all but enveloped its quarterdeck. The figure of Zamira appeared now and again, her spyglass briefly catching the sun before she vanished back into the darkness. A team of crewmen had rigged small pumps and canvas hoses amidships (at the rail, where they could best be seen), and they were directing streams of water at the cloud of smoke, though actually doing nothing but washing the deck.

Locke sat at the bow of the little boat, feeling vaguely ridiculous with his parasol in hand and a cloth-of-silver jacket draped over his shoulders like a cape. Jean and Jabril shared the forward rowing bench, Streva and Lieutenant Delmastro were behind them, and a very small crewman named Vitorre - little more than a boy - crouched in the stern to take over from them when they boarded the flute.

That ship, her curiously round and wallowing hull-curves now plainly visible, was angled somewhat away from them to the north. Locke estimated that she would cross paths with the Poison Orchid, or very nearly so, in about ten minutes.

‘Let’s start rowing for her,’ said Delmastro. ‘They’ll expect it by now.’

Their boat and the two larger ones had been keeping station about a hundred yards south-east of the Orchid. As the four rowers in the lead boat began to pull north, Locke saw the others catch their cue and follow.

They bobbed and slipped across the foot-high waves. The sun was up and its heat was building; it had been half-past the seventh hour of the morning when they’d left the ship. The oars creaked rhythmically in their locks; now they were abreast with the Orchid, and the newcomer was about half a mile to their north-east. If the flute caught wind of the trap and tried to flee to the north, the ship would loose canvas to fly after her. If she tried to flee south, however, it would be up to the boats to slip into her path.

‘Ravelle,’ said Delmastro, ‘at your feet, the breaching shears. You see them?’

Locke looked down. Tucked away beneath his seat was an ugly-looking hinged device with a pair of wooden handles. These handles worked a metal jaw.

‘I think so.’

‘Bows aren’t our biggest problem. The most trouble they can give us is if they rig razor-nets against boarding - we’ll slash ourselves to pieces trying to climb on deck. If those nets are rigged, you must use those shears to cut a slit for us.’

‘Or die trying,’ he said. ‘I think I get it.’

‘But the good news is, rigging razor-nets is a pain in the arse. And they won’t be up at all if they’re expecting to send out boats and receive passengers. If we can just get close enough before we tip our hand, they won’t have time to use them.’

‘What’s the signal to tip our hand?’

‘You won’t miss it. Trust me.’