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

Struck by a sudden foggy memory of Scholar Treganne’s spider, he gasped in horror and rolled over, clutching at whatever was clinging to him. He blinked several times to clear the veil of slumber from his eyes and found himself struggling not with a spider but with a kitten, narrow-faced and black-furred.

‘The hell?’ Locke muttered.

‘Mew,’ the kitten retorted, locking gazes with him. It had the expression common to all kittens, that of a tyrant in the becoming. I was comfortable, and you dared to move, those jade eyes said. For that you must die. When it became apparent to the cat that its two or three pounds of mass were insufficient to break Locke’s neck with one mighty snap, it put its paws on his shoulders and began sharing its drool-covered nose with his lips. He recoiled.

‘That’s Regal,’ said someone to Locke’s left.

‘Regal? No, it’s ridiculous.’ Locke tucked the kitten under his arm like a dangerous alchemical device. Its fur was thin and silky, and it began to purr noisily. The man who’d spoken was Jabril; Locke raised his eyebrows when he saw that Jabril was lying on his back, stark naked.

‘His name,’ said Jabril. ‘Regal. He’s got that white spot on his throat. And a wet nose, right?’

‘The very one.’

‘Regal. You been adopted, Ravelle. Ain’t that ironic?’

‘My life’s ambition realized at last.’ Locke glanced around the half-empty undercastle. Several of the new Orchids were snoring loudly; one or two were crawling to their feet and at least one was sleeping contentedly in a pool of his own vomit. Or so Locke assumed it was his own. Jean was nowhere to be seen.

‘And how was your evening, Ravelle?’ Jabril pushed himself up on both elbows.

‘Virtuous, I think.’

‘My condolences.’ Jabril smiled. ‘You ever met Malakasti from the Blue Watch? Got the sorta red hair and the daggers tattooed on her knuckles? Gods, I don’t think she’s human.’

‘You vanished early from the party, I’ll say that.’

‘Yeah. She had some demands. And some friends.’ Jabril massaged his temples with his right hand. ‘That boatswain from Red Watch, fellow with no fingers on his left hand. Had no idea they taught gods-fearing Ashmiri lads them sorts of trick. Whew.’

‘Lads? I didn’t know you, ah, stalked that particular quarry.’

‘Yeah, well, seems I’ll try anything once.’ Jabril grinned. ‘Or five or six times, as it turns out.’ He scratched his belly and appeared to become aware of his lack of clothes for the first time. ‘Hell. I remember owning breeches as recently as yesterday . . .’

Locke emerged into sunlight a few minutes later with Regal still tucked under his arm. As Locke stretched and yawned, the cat did the same, attempting to wriggle out of Locke’s grasp and presumably climb back atop his head. Locke held the tiny fellow up and stared at him.

‘I’m not getting attached to you,’ he said. ‘Find someone else to share your drool with.’ Well aware that any mistreatment of the little fellow might get him thrown over the side, he set the kitten down and nudged him with a bare foot.

‘You sure you’re authorized to give orders to that cat?’ Locke turned to see Jean standing on the forecastle steps, just finishing pulling a tunic on. ‘Gotta be careful. He might be a watch-mate.’

‘If he acknowledges any rank, I think he puts himself somewhere between Drakasha and the Twelve.’ Locke stared up at Jean for several seconds. ‘Hi.’

‘Hello . . .’

‘Look, there’s a lot of tedious “I was an ass” sort of conversation to stumble through, and I’m still feeling a bit victimized by that blue wine, so let’s just assume—’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Jean.

‘No, that’s my job.’

‘I meant . . . we really found our jagged edges again, didn’t we?’

‘If there’s one thing a battle isn’t, it’s calming on the nerves. I don’t blame you for . . . what you said.’

‘We can think of something,’ said Jean, quietly and urgently. ‘Something together. I know you’re not . . . I didn’t mean to insult your—’

‘I deserved it. And you were right. I spoke to Drakasha last night.’

‘You did?’

‘I told her . . .’ Locke grimaced, stretched again, used the motion to cover a series of hand signals. Jean followed, his eyebrows rising.

‘Really?’ said Jean.

‘Yes.’ Locke stared down at the deck. ‘I said you were right.’

‘And how did she—’

Locke mimed a roll of the dice and shrugged. ‘We’re for Port Prodigal before anything else happens,’ he said. ‘Chores to do. Then she said . . . she’ll let us know.’

‘I see. And so—’

‘Did you have a good night?’

‘Gods, yes.’

‘Good. About, ah, what I said yesterday—’

‘You don’t need—’

‘I do. It was the dumbest of all the things I said yesterday. Dumbest and least fair. I know I’ve been . . . hopeless for so long I wear it like armour. I don’t begrudge you anything you have. Savour it.’

‘I do,’ said Jean. ‘Believe me, I do.’

‘Good. I’m no one you want to learn from.’

‘Uh, so—’

‘All’s well, Master Valora.’ Locke smiled, pleased to feel the corners of his mouth creeping up of their own volition. ‘But that wine I was talking about—’

‘Wine? Did you—’

‘Craplines, Jerome. I need to piss before my innards explode. You’re blocking the stairs.’

‘Ah.’ Jean stepped down and slapped Locke on the back. ‘My apologies. Free yourself, brother.’