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"So what we've just done will fester," said Zamira. "It will cause comment, speculation and a great deal of aggravation to Stragos, but it won't cause a panic, or have the Verrari rioting in the streets for his intercession. In a way, as our first bit of piracy on his behalf, it's a bit of a botch job." "You wound our professional pride," said Jean.
"And my own! But consider this… perhaps what we need is a string of similarly botched jobs."
"This sounds like it's going to have a very entertaining explanation," said Locke.
"Del told me this afternoon that you two are pi
"That's true enough," said Locke. "It's one of the aspects of last night's visit to the Mon Magisteria that didn't go very well."
"So obviously what we need to do," said Drakasha, "is give you another chance to make this alchemist's acquaintance. Another plausible reason to visit the Mon Magisteria, soon. Good little servants, eager to hear their master's opinion on how their work is progressing."
"Ahhh," said Locke. "And if he's looking to shout at us, we can be sure he'll at least let us in for a chat." "Exactly. So. What we need to do… is something colourful. Some— thing striking, something that is undeniably a sincere example of our best efforts on Stragos's behalf. But… it can't threaten Tal Verrar directly. Not to the point that Stragos would feel it a useful step in his intended direction."
"Hmmm," said Jean. "Striking. Colourful. Non-threatening. I'm not entirely sure these concepts blend well with the piratical life."
"Kosta," said Drakasha, "you're staring at me very strangely. Do you have an idea, or did I leave you out in the sun for too long today?"
"Striking, colourful and not threatening Tal Verrar directly* Locke whispered. "Gods! Captain Drakasha, you would so honour me if you would consent to one humble suggestion …"
7
Mount Azar was quiet this morning, the twenty-fifth of Aurim, and the sky above Salon Corbeau was blue as a river's depths, unmarked by the old volcano's grey smoke. It was another mild winter on the northern Brass Coast, in a climate more reliable than Verrari clockwork.
"New swells coming in," said Zoran, chief dock attendant of the morning watch.
"I don't see any more waves than what we already got." Giatti, his more junior counterpart, stared earnestly across the harbour.
"Not swells, you idiot, swells. Gentlefolk. The landed and larded class." Zoran adjusted his olive-green tabard and brushed it clean, wishing that he didn't have to wear Lady Saljesca's damned felt hat. It made him look taller, but it generated sweat without keeping it out of his eyes.
Beyond the natural rock walls of Salon Corbeau's harbour, a stately brig, a two-master with a dark witchwood hull, had just joined the two Lashani feluccas at anchor in the gentle sea. A longboat was coming in from the new arrival: four or five of the quality rowed by a dozen oarsmen.
As the longboat pulled up alongside the dock, Giatti bent down and began uncoiling a rope from one of the dock pilings. When the bow of the boat was secure, Zoran stepped to its side, bowed and extended his hand to the first young woman to rise from her seat.
"Welcome to Salon Corbeau," he said. "How are you styled, and how must you be a
"Forgive me, madam, but I must know whom I'm a
"Heavily armed pirates, party of ninety-eight," the woman said. "Scream or fight back and you're going to be one surprised eunuch."
8
"Stay calm," said Delmastro as Locke led Jean, Streva, Jabril and Big Konar up onto the dock. "We're all friends here. Just a wealthy family coming up for a visit to your lovely little village. City. Thing." She kept her knife between herself and the older dock attendant so that there was no chance of anyone seeing it from more than a few feet away. Konar took the younger dock attendant, placing one arm around his shoulder as though they knew each other, and muttered something into his ear that made the colour drain from the poor fellow's face.
Slowly, carefully, the Orchids all made their way onto the dock. At the heart of the group, those wearing layers of fine clothing tried not to make too much noise, laden down as they were with an arsenal of clattering weapons beneath their cloaks and skirts. It had been too much to suppose that the dock attendants wouldn't notice sabres and hatchets in the belts of the rowers. "Here we are, then," said Locke. "Looks like a nice place," said Jean.
"Looks are most assuredly deceiving. Now we just wait for the captain to get things started."
9
"Excuse me? Excuse me, sir?"
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 inappropriate1. 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.