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

by Scott Lynch

“Jean,” he said between bites, “did you hear what she said to me, just now?” “I’m afraid I heard nothing but the death cry of this unfortunate pear. Listen closely: ‘Noooo, don’t eat me, please, nooo.…’ ” Jean had already reduced his first pear to its core; as Locke watched, he popped this into his mouth, crunched it loudly, and swallowed it all but for the stem, which he flicked away.

Jean showed him the title and Locke feigned choking. “Lucarno? Why is it always Lucarno? You drag him everywhere we go, his damn romances. Your brains will go soft with that mush. You’ll end up more fit for tending flower gardens than for running confidence games.” “Well,” said Jean, “I shall be sure to criticize your reading habits, Master Kosta, should I ever see you develop any.” “I’ve read quite a bit!” “History and biography, mostly what Chains prescribed for you.” “What could possibly be wrong with those subjects?” “As for history, we are living in its ruins. And as for biographies, we are living with the consequences of all the decisions ever made in them. I tend not to read them for pleasure. It’s not unlike carefully scrutinizing the map when one has already reached the destination.” “But romances aren’t real, and surely never were. Doesn’t that take away some of the savor?” “What an interesting choice of words. ‘Not real, and never were.’ Could there be any more appropriate literature for men of our profession? Why are you always so averse to fiction, when we’ve made it our meal ticket?”

“Gods damn it!” Locke yelled. “Let us out. You’ve made your point!” “What point,” rasped Jean, “could that possibly be?” “I don’t know.” Locke coughed. “I don’t care. Whatever it is, they’ve damn well made it, don’t you think?”

At the top of the avenue he dodged away from a slim young woman in a four-cornered hat and sun veil walking a valcona on a reinforced leather leash. Valcona were flightless attack birds, larger than hunting hounds. With their vestigial wings folded back along their stout bodies, they hopped about on claws that could tear out fist-sized chunks of human flesh. They bonded like affectionate babies to one person and were perfectly happy to kill anyone else in the entire world, at any time. “Good killer bird,” muttered Jean. “Pretty threat to life and limb. What a lovely little girl or boy or thing you are.”

“Now then,” he said. “Seems a fine day for abseiling. Care to do the honors before we kiss solid earth farewell?” “Crooked Warden,” said Locke, “men are stupid. Protect us from ourselves. If you can’t, let it be quick and painless.”

He undid the cover, reached in, and removed a live kitten. “Hello, you monstrous little necessity.” “Mrrrrwwwwww,” said the monstrous little necessity.

“When you go to sea, there’s two necessities, for luck. First, you’re courting an awful fate if you take a ship to sea without at least one woman officer. It’s the law of the Lord of the Grasping Waters. His mandate. He’s got a fixation for the daughters of the land; he’ll smash any ship that puts to sea without at least one aboard. Plus, it’s plain common sense. They’re good officers. Decent plain sailors, but finer officers than you or I. Just the way the gods made ’em.

This woman was taller than the one called Ezri, and broader across her shoulders. She was dark, with skin just a few shades lighter than the hull of her ship, and she was striking, but not young. There were lines about her eyes and mouth that proclaimed her somewhere near forty. Those eyes were cold and that mouth was hard—clearly, she didn’t share Ezri’s sense of mischief about the two unclothed prisoners dripping water on her deck.

“WHAT THE—,” said a portly, well-dressed servant who had the misfortune to walk around the corner, past the alcove containing the fourth-floor window Locke and Jean had just crawled in through. “Hey,” said Locke. “Congratulations! We’re reverse burglars, here to give you fifty gold solari!” He tossed his coin purse at the servant, who caught it in one hand and gaped at its weight. In the next second and a half the man spent not raising an alarm, Jean coshed him.