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

Zamira Drakasha stood at the starboard quarterdeck rail, taking a break from the smoke. She studied the approaching flute through her glass; there was elaborate ornamentation on the stubby forepeak, and a somewhat whimsical gold and black paint scheme along her tall sides. That was agreeable; if she was well maintained she was likely to be carrying a respectable cargo and a bit of coin.

A pair of officers stood at the bow, studying her ship through their own glasses. She waved in what she hoped was an encouraging fashion, but received no response.

‘Well, fine,’ she muttered. ‘You’ll be rendering your courtesies soon enough.’

The small, dark shapes of crew rushed about on the flute, now just a quarter-mile distant. Her sails were shuddering, her hull elongating in Zamira’s view - were they running? No, just killing momentum, turning a point or two to starboard, aiming to get close but not too close. She could see a pump-and-hose team at work amidships, shooting a stream of water upward to wet the flute’s lower sails. Very sensible, when coming anywhere near a fire at sea.

‘Signal party,’ she said, ‘stand ready.’

‘Aye, Captain,’ came a chorus of voices from within the smoke-shrouded portion of the quarterdeck.

Her own boats were cutting the waves between the two ships. There was Ravelle in the lead with his parasol, looking a bit like a thin silver mushroom with a soft white cap. And there was Valora, and there was Ezri ... damn it. Ezri’s request had given her little choice but to acquiesce or look foolish in front of the scrub watch. There’d be words for that little woman ... if the gods blessed Zamira enough to send her lieutenant back alive.

She studied the flute’s officers, who’d moved from the bow to the larboard rail. Wide fellows, it seemed, a bit overdressed for the heat. Her eyes were not what they’d been twenty-five years ago ... Were they prodding one another, looking more intently through their glasses?

‘Captain?’ asked a member of the signal party.

‘Hold,’ she said, ‘hold ...’ Every second closed the gap between the Orchid and her victim. They’d slowed and turned, but leeway would bring them closer still . . . closer still. One of the flute’s officers pointed, then grabbed the other by the shoulder and pointed again. Their glasses flew up in unison.

‘Ha!’ Zamira cried. Not a chance they could slip away now. She felt new zeal lending strength to her every step and motion; she felt half her years fall from her shoulders. Gods, the moment they realized just how fucked they were was always sweet. She slammed her spyglass shut, snatched her speaking trumpet from the deck and hollered across the length of the ship.

‘Archers ready at the tops! All hands on deck! All hands on deck and man the starboard rail! Stifle smoke-barrels!’

The Poison Orchid shuddered; seven dozen hands were pounding up the ladders, surging out of the hatchways, armed and armoured, screaming as they came. Archers stepped out from behind the masts, knelt on their fighting platforms and nocked arrows to their gleaming bows.

Zamira didn’t need her glass to see the shapes of officers and crew running about frantically on the flute’s deck.

‘Let’s give ’em something that’ll really make ’em piss their breeches,’ she shouted, not bothering with the speaking trumpet. ‘HOIST OUR CRIMSON!’

The three yellow pennants streaming above the quarterdeck shuddered, then plummeted straight down into the grey haze. From out of the last of the black and boiling smoke rose a broad red banner, bright as the morning sun looming above a storm.