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

They sat on the sterndeck, legs folded, with a small table between them. They each pretended to be absorbed in their bread and chicken, in their shark fins and vinegar, in their grapes and black olives. Regal attempted to make war on their meal several times, and only accepted an honourable peace after Locke bribed him with a chicken wing nearly the size of his body.

They went through a bottle of wine, a nondescript Camorri white, the sort of thing that smooths a meal along without becoming its centrepiece. Locke tossed the empty bottle overboard and they started another, more slowly.

‘It’s time,’ Jean said at last, when the sun had moved so low in the west that it seemed to be sinking into the starboard gunwale. It was a red moment, all the world from sea to sky the colour of a darkening rose petal, of a drop of blood not yet dry. The sea was calm and the air was still; they were without interruptions, without responsibilities, without a plan or an appointment anywhere in the world.

Locke sighed, removed a glass vial of clear liquid from his inner coat pocket and set it on the table.

‘We discussed splitting it,’ he said.

‘We did,’ said Jean. ‘But that’s not what we’re doing.’

‘Oh?’

‘You’re going to drink it.’ Jean set both of his hands on the table, palms down. ‘All of it.’

‘No,’ said Locke.

‘You don’t have a choice,’ said Jean.

‘Who the hell do you think you are?’

‘We can’t take the chance of splitting it,’ said Jean, his voice reasonable and controlled in just the fashion that told Locke he was ready for instant action. ‘Better that one of us be cured for certain than for both of us to linger on and . . . die like that.’

‘I’ll take my chances with lingering on,’ said Locke.

‘I won’t,’ said Jean. ‘Please drink it, Locke.’

‘Or what?’

‘Or you know what,’ said Jean. ‘You can’t overpower me. The reverse is definitely not true.’

‘So you’ll—’

‘Awake or unconscious,’ said Jean, ‘it’s yours. I don’t care. Drink the fucking antidote, for the Crooked Warden’s sake.’

‘I can’t,’ said Locke.

‘Then you force me to—’

‘You don’t understand,’ said Locke. ‘I didn’t say “won’t”. I can’t.’

‘What—’

‘That’s just water in a vial I picked up in town.’ Locke reached once more into his pocket, withdrew an empty glass vial and slowly set it down beside the fake. ‘I have to say, knowing me the way you do, I’m surprised you agreed to let me pour your wine.’