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

Zamira Drakasha, alone in the Orchid’s smallest boat, stared up at the bored-looking guard behind the ornamented gunwale of the yacht closest to her ship. That yacht, about fifteen yards long, had a single mast and banks of four oars per side. Those oars were locked upward now, poised like the wings of a stuffed and mounted bird. Just abaft the mast was a tent-like pavilion with faintly fluttering silk walls. This tent was between the guard and the mainland.

The guard peered down at her, squinting. Zamira was wearing a thick, shapeless yellow dress that was almost a robe. She’d left her hat in her cabin and pulled the bangles from her wrists and the ribbons from her hair.

‘What do you want?’

‘My mistress has left me to tend to chores on her ship, while she takes her pleasure ashore,’ said Zamira. ‘I have several heavy things to move, and I was wondering if I could beg for your help.’

‘You want me to come over there and be a mule for you?’

‘It would be so kind of you.’

‘And, ah, what are you prepared to do in exchange?’

‘Why, offer my heartfelt thanks to the gods for your goodness,’ said Zamira, ‘or perhaps I could brew you some tea?’

‘You have a cabin over there?’

‘Yes, by the kindness of my mistress—’

‘A few minutes alone with you and that mouth of yours, and I’d be happy to move your shit for you.’

‘How ... how inappropriate! My mistress will—’

‘Who’s your mistress, then?’

‘The Lady-in-Becoming Ezriane de la Mastron, of Nicora—’

‘Nicora? Ha! As if anyone would give a shit. Get lost.’ The guard turned away, chuckling to himself.

‘Ah,’ said Zamira. ‘So be it. I know when I’m not wanted.’

She reached forward and moved the dun-coloured tarpaulin on the bottom of the boat, just ahead of her feet. Beneath it was the heaviest crossbow in the Poison Orchid’s arsenal, carrying a barbed steel bolt the length of her upper arm.

‘And I simply do not care.’

The guard was no doubt flustered by the sudden emergence, two seconds later, of a crossbow quarrel’s point from his sternum. Zamira wondered if he had time to speculate on the location of the rest of the bolt before he collapsed, the upper and lower halves of his spine no longer on speaking terms.

Zamira pulled the yellow dress up and over her head, then tossed it into the stern of the boat. Beneath it she wore her Elderglass vest, light tunic and breeches, boots and a pair of slender leather bracers. Her sword-belt was at her waist, empty; she reached beneath her rowing bench, pulled out her sabres and slid them into their scabbards. She rowed her little boat up against the yacht’s side and waved to Nasreen, who stood at the Orchid’s bow. Two crewfolk climbed over the brig’s side and dived into the water.

The swimmers were alongside a minute later. Zamira helped them out of the water and sent them forward to man one of the sets of oars. She then pulled the pins to release the yacht’s anchor chains; no sense in wasting time hoisting it up. With her two sailors rowing and Zamira manning the rudder, it took just a few minutes to shift the yacht behind the Poison Orchid.

Her crew began to come quietly down onto the yacht, armed and armoured, looking completely incongruous as they squeezed themselves onto the fragile, scrollwork-covered vessel. Zamira counted forty-two before she felt the boat could take no more; crewfolk were crouched on deck, stuffed into the cabin and manning all the oars. This would do: nearly two-thirds of her crew on shore to handle the main attack, and the other third on the Orchid to hit the vessels in the harbour.

She waved at Utgar, who would be in charge of that last duty. He grinned and left the entry port to begin his final preparations.

Zamira’s rowers brought the yacht out and around the Orchid; they turned to larboard just past her stern and pointed themselves straight toward the beach. Beyond that the buildings and tiered gardens of the rich little valley could be seen, laid out neat as food before a banquet.

‘Who brought the finishing touch?’ Zamira asked.

One of her crewmen unfolded a red silk banner and began securing it to the ensign-halyard dangling from the yacht’s mast.

‘Right, then.’ Zamira knelt at the bow of the yacht and gave her sword-belt a habitual adjustment. ‘Oars, with a will! Put us on that beach!’

As the yacht surged forward across the temporarily calm waters of the bay, Zamira noticed a few small figures atop the nearby cliffs finally taking alarm. One or two of them ran toward the city; it looked as though they’d arrive about the same time Zamira expected to feel the sand of the beach beneath her boots.

‘That’s it,’ she shouted, ‘send up the red and let’s have some music!’

As the scarlet banner shot up the halyard and caught the wind, every Orchid on the yacht let loose with a wild, wordless howl. Their yells echoed throughout the harbour, the disguised Orchids at the dock began seizing weapons, every visible person on the cliffs was now fleeing for the city and Zamira’s sabres flashed in the sunlight as she drew them for action.

It was the very definition of a beautiful morning.