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

by Scott Lynch

“I would want anything, beg pardon, before I would want a puppet.”

“Crooked Warden,” Locke muttered under his breath, speaking quickly. “A glass poured on the ground for a stranger without friends. Lord of gallants and fools, ease this man’s passage to the Lady of the Long Silence. This was a hell of a way to die. Do this for me and I’ll try not to ask for anything for a while. I really do mean that this time.”

“Still, every priesthood has what we call mandates: laws handed down by the gods themselves to those who serve them. In most temples, these are complex, messy, annoying things. In the priesthood of the Benefactor, things are easy. We only have two. The first one is thieves prosper. Simple as that. We’re ordered to aid one another, hide one another, make peace whenever possible, and see to it that our kind flourishes, by hook or by crook. Barsavi’s got that mandate covered, never doubt that. “But the second mandate,” said Chains, lowering his voice and glancing around into the fog to make doubly sure that they were not overheard, “is this—the rich remember.” “Remember what?” “That they’re not invincible. That locks can be picked and treasures can be stolen. Nara, Mistress of Ubiquitous Maladies, may Her hand be stayed, sends disease among men so that men will never forget that they are not gods. We’re sort of like that, for the rich and powerful. We’re the stone in their shoe, the thorn in their side, a little bit of reciprocity this side of divine judgment. That’s our second mandate, and it’s as important as the first.” “And … the Secret Peace protects the nobles, and so you don’t like it?” “It’s not that I don’t like it.” Chains mulled his next few words over before he let them out. “Barsavi’s not a priest of the Thirteenth. He’s not sworn to the mandates like I am; he’s got to be practical. And while I can accept that, I can’t just let it go. It’s my divine duty to see t...

“Send us out to sea. Has your brain swelled against the inside of your skull? How the screaming fucking hell do you expect the two of us to

“You’re a wretch,” cried Locke. “A cringing dog, a scrub, damned not just for avarice but for cowardice! The gods spit on those without honor, you know! It’ll be a cold hell, and a dark one, for you!”

Ain’t no right and left at sea. Right is starboard, left is larboard.

Archaic "port"

“I could sleep for about three days, I think,” said Locke. “Let’s order a big dinner when we get back, and some baths to take the knots out. After that, I’ll race you to unconsciousness.”

Jean was paging through a tattered copy of Indrovo Lencallis’ Wise Mariner’s Practical Lexicon, with Numerous Enlightening Examples from Honest History. “Come on, you’re the captain of the ship. I’m just your skull-cracker.” “I know. Give me another.” Locke’s own copy of the book was currently resting underneath his knives and his glass of brandy. “Hmmm.” Jean flipped pages. “Caldris says to put us on a beam reach. What the hell’s he talking about?” “Wind coming in perpendicular to the keel,” muttered Locke. “Hitting us straight on the side.” “And now he wants a broad reach.” “Right.” Locke paused to sip his brandy. “Wind neither blowing right up our ass nor straight on the side. Coming from one of the rear quarters, at forty-five degrees or so to the keel.” “Good enough.” Jean flipped pages again. “Box the compass. What’s the sixth point?” “Hard east. Gods, this is just like dinner with Chains back home.” “Right on both counts. South a point.” “Um, east by south.” “Right. South another point.” “Southeast east?” “And another point.” “Ah, gods.” Locke grabbed his glass and downed the rest of his brandy in one gulp. “Southeast by go-fuck-yourself. That’s enough for tonight.” “But—” “I am the captain of the bloody ship,” said Locke, rolling over onto his stomach. “My orders are to drink your brandy and go to bed.” He reached out, pulled a pillow completely over his head, and was fast asleep in moments. Even in his dreams he was tying knots, bracing sails, and finding latitudes.

Gods, yes. I swear, Je … Jerome, the next person who tells me something like, ‘Squiggle-fuck the rightwise cock-swatter with a starboard jib’ is going to get a knife in the throat.