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

His movements were faint, and his eyes were going glassy. Jean knelt beside him, stared at him and then brought the dagger down overhand into his back. Utgar took a shocked breath; Jean brought the knife down again and again while Locke watched; until Utgar was most certainly dead, until his back was covered in wounds, until Locke finally reached over and grabbed him by the wrist.

‘Jean—’

‘It doesn’t help,’ said Jean, in a disbelieving voice. ‘Gods, it doesn’t help.’

‘I know,’ said Locke. ‘I know.’

‘Why didn’t you stop her?’ Jean launched himself at Locke, pinning him to the deck, one hand around his throat. Locke gagged and fought back, and it did him about as much good as he expected. ‘Why didn’t you stop her?’

‘I tried,’ said Locke. ‘She pushed you into me. She knew what we’d do, Jean. She knew. Please—’

Jean released him and sat back as quickly as he had attacked. He looked down at his hands and shook his head. ‘Oh, gods, forgive me. Forgive me, Locke.’

‘Always,’ said Locke. ‘Jean, I am so, so sorry - I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t have had it happen for the world. For the world, do you hear me?’

‘I do,’ he said quietly. He buried his face in his hands and said nothing more.

To the south-east, the fire aboard the Dread Sovereign turned the sea red; it roared up the masts and sails, rained charred canvas like volcanic ash upon the waves, devoured the hull and at last subsided into a billowing mountain of smoke and steam as the ship’s blackened hulk slipped beneath the waters.

‘Ravelle,’ said Drakasha, placing a hand on Locke’s shoulder and interrupting his reverie, ‘if you can help, I—’

‘I’m fine,’ said Locke, stumbling to his feet. ‘I can help. Just maybe ... leave Jerome—’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Ravelle, we need—’

‘Zamira, enough. Enough Ravelle this, Kosta that. Around the crew, sure. But my friends call me Locke.’

‘Locke,’ she said.

‘Locke Lamora. Don’t, ah—Ahhh, who the hell would you tell anyway?’ He reached up to set a hand on hers, and in a moment they had drawn one another into a hug. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, ‘Ezri, Nasreen, Malakasti, Gwillem—’

‘Gwillem?’

‘Yeah, he—One of Rodanov’s archers, I’m sorry.’

‘Gods,’ she said. ‘Gwillem was with the Orchid when I stole her. Last of the original crew. Ra—Locke, Mum has the wheel and we’re safe for the moment. I need ... I need to go down and see my children. And I need ... I need you to look after Ezri. They can’t see her like that.’

‘I’ll take care of it,’ he said. ‘Look, go down. I’ll take care of things on deck. We’ll get the rest of the wounded back to Treganne. We’ll get all the bodies covered up.’

‘Very good,’ said Zamira quietly. ‘You have the deck, Master Lamora. I’ll return shortly.’

I have the deck, thought Locke, staring around at the shambles left by the battle: swaying rigging, damaged shrouds, splintered railings, arrows embedded damn near everywhere. Bodies crowded every corner of the waist and forecastle; survivors moved through them like ghosts, many of them hobbling on spears and bows for makeshift canes.

‘Jean,’ he whispered, crouching over the bigger man where he sat on the deck, ‘Jean, stay here. Stay as long as you like. I’ll be close. I just need to take care of things, all right?’

Jean nodded, faintly.

‘Right,’ said Locke, glancing around again, this time looking for the least injured. ‘Konar,’ he yelled, ‘Big Konar! Get a pump rigged, the first one you can find that works. Run a hose to this cargo hatch and give the main-deck hold a good soak. We can’t have anything smouldering down there. Oscarl! Come here! Get me sail canvas and knives. We’ve got to do something about all these ... all these people.’

All the crewfolk dead upon the deck. We’ve got to do something about them here, Locke thought. And then I’m going to do something about them in Tal Verrar. Once and for all.