Red Seas Under Red Skies (Gentleman Bastard, #2)

by Scott Lynch

“Is it done, then? Am I successfully betrayed?” “Quite betrayed. Absolutely sold out. A dead man walking.” “Wonderful! And his attitude?”

“Anything …,” said Locke. “The Bondsmagi of Karthain. I have credible reports that they do have means to halt poisonings that we alchemists cannot. For those who can afford their fees, of course.” “… except that,” muttered Locke.

and a long leather apron with at least six visible pockets on the front. Most of them held tools; one held a gray kitten, with only its little head visible.

One could argue, the most important tool.

“I’m getting a bit annoyed,” said Locke, “with those who praise our previous escapades as an excuse for forcing us into even riskier ones.

What you just witnessed,” said Stragos, “required sixty men and women to achieve. Spotters watching for my signals. Alchemists to tend the smoke-pots, and hidden crews to work the bellows and fans that produce the wind.

Sounds like a waste of time, effort, and talent.

I’d lay even odds that between the people following us and the people hunting us, we’ve become this city’s principal means of employment. Tal Verrar’s entire economy is now based on fucking with us.”

Just simple arithmetic. Drink plus drinker equals drunk. Join me. Just for an hour or two. You know you could use it.”

The stall woman asked which of her melons I wished cut, the one on the left or the right. I replied, ‘The larboard!’ My own throat has turned traitorously nautical on me.”

“Captain,” Jabril hollered straight into his face, “we are like to broach!” Oh good, thought Locke, at least I know what that means.

“Well, damn,” said Locke. “You must have gotten into the weapon lockers, then. I suppose I was hoping we could have one of those pleasant dancing mutinies, or maybe a singing-and-card-games mutiny, you know?”

“Please, Ravelle. As if there could be any other reasonable explanation.” Gods, what a temptation, Locke thought. A mark actually inviting me to step into her own misconception, free and clear.

“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.

“Gods,” whispered Locke, “whatever’s out there knows my real name.” “Mine as well,” said Jean.

Well, we know why this is from Jean's point of view.

“Captain,” said Gwillem, “why is Orrin Ravelle alive and a member of the crew and asking you for money?” “Del!” hollered Drakasha. “Right here,” she said, appearing a moment later. “Del, take Gwillem aside and explain to him why Orrin Ravelle is alive and a member of the crew.”

Sitting only made people more inclined to waste time. Discomfort stripped sentiment from everyone’s words and brought them to the heart of their problems with haste.

“Well,” said Locke, “for safety’s sake, given our past history … perhaps you’d let us consider borrowing one of your ship’s cats?”