"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.
The swimmers were alongside a minute later. Zamira helped them out of the water and sent them forward to man one of the sets of oars. She then pulled the pins to release the yacht's anchor chains; no sense in wasting time hoisting it up. With her two sailors rowing and Zamira manning the rudder, it took just a few minutes to shift the yacht behind the Poison Orchid.
Her crew began to come quietly down onto the yacht, armed and armoured, looking completely incongruous as they squeezed themselves onto the fragile, scrollwork-covered vessel. Zamira counted forty-two before she felt the boat could take no more; crewfolk were crouched on deck, stuffed into the cabin and manning all the oars. This would do: nearly two-thirds of her crew on shore to handle the main attack, and the other third on the Orchid to hit the vessels in the harbour.
She waved at Utgar, who would be in charge of that last duty. He grinned and left the entry port to begin his final preparations.
Zamira's rowers brought the yacht out and around the Orchid; they turned to larboard just past her stern and pointed themselves straight toward the beach. Beyond that the buildings and tiered gardens of the rich little valley could be seen, laid out neat as food before a banquet. "Who brought the finishing touch?" Zamira asked.
One of her crewmen unfolded a red silk banner and began securing it to the ensign-halyard dangling from the yacht's mast.
"Right, then." Zamira knelt at the bow of the yacht and gave her sword-belt a habitual adjustment. "Oars, with a will! Put us on that beach!"
As the yacht surged forward across the temporarily calm waters of the bay, Zamira noticed a few small figures atop the nearby cliffs finally taking alarm. One or two of them ran toward the city; it looked as though thed'r arrive about the same time Zamira expected to feel the sand of the beach beneath her boots. "That's it," she shouted, "send up the red and let's have some music!"
As the scarlet banner shot up the halyard and caught the wind, every Orchid on the yacht let loose with a wild, wordless howl. Their yells echoed throughout the harbour, the disguised Orchids at the dock began seizing weapons, every visible person on the cliffs was now fleeing for the city and Zamira's sabres flashed in the sunlight as she drew them for action. It was the very definition of a beautiful morning.
10
"Was it absolutely necessary to sack Salon Corbeau so thoroughly?" said Stragos.
Locke and Jean were seated in the Archon's office, surrounded by the faint, shadowy flutterings of his thousand mechanical insects. It might just have been a trick of the low-lit room, but it looked to Locke as if the lines on Stragos's face had deepened in the days since he'd last seen him.
"It was loads of fun. You have some particular attachment to the place?"
"Not for my own sake, Lamora — it's just that I had the clear impression that you were going to focus your activities on shipping in the vicinity of Tal Verrar." "Salon Corbeau is generally considered to be in the vicinity of—" "Is it a ship, Lamora?" "There were ships in the harbour—"
"I have the gods-damned numbers here, from my agents," said Stragos. He stabbed at a piece of parchment with two fingers. "Two feluccas sunk. Forty-six yachts, pleasure-barges and smaller craft burned or sunk. One hundred and eighteen slaves stolen. Nineteen of Countess Saljesca's private guard slain, sixteen wounded. The vast majority of Salon Corbeau's residences and guest villas burned, the gardens all but destroyed. Her replica stadium gutted. Miscellaneous damages and losses exceeding ninety-five thousand solari at a first estimate. About the only things you missed were a few shops and Lady Saljesca's residence itself!"
Locke smirked. That had been by design; after Saljesca's most important guests had fled to her fortress-like manor and barricaded themselves inside with her remaining soldiers, attacking the manor would have been fruitless; the Orchids would have been slaughtered beneath the walls. But with their only opposition bottled up atop the valley, Drakasha's crew had been free to run amok for more than an hour, looting and burning the valley at leisure. Thed'r lost only four crewfolk in the attack.
As for the shops, well — Locke had specifically requested that the area surrounding the Baumondain family business be left alone.
"We didn't have time to hit everything," he said. "And now that Salon Corbeau's more or less ruined, some of those artisans might see fit to settle in Tal Verrar. Safer down here, with you and your military around, right?"
"How can you spend your time executing a raid like that so efficiently," said Stragos, "when your efforts toward my primary design are so perfunctory?" "I object—"
"One attack by Orrin Ravelle — thank you for that, by the way — the night of the Festa, against an Iridani ketch hired by a mad eccentric. Two more reported attacks, both in the vicinity of Salon Corbeau, one by Ravelle and one by the unknown "Captain de la Mastron". Does Drakasha fear to take credit for her own work?"
"We're trying to create the impression of multiple pirates at work—"
"What you are trying is my patience. You have stolen no major cargoes, burned no ships at sea, nor even murdered any crewfolk. You content yourselves with money and portable valuables, you humiliate and frighten your prisoners, you do little more than vandalize their vessels and then you vanish."
"We can't weigh ourselves down with heavier cargo; we've got a lot of roaming to do."
"It seems to me that you have a fair bit of killing to do," said Stragos. "The city is more bemused now than concerned; I continue to suffer in the public eye for the Ravelle affair, but few fear that this spree of… hooliganism truly bodes ill for Verrari trade.
"Even the sack of Salon Corbeau has failed to arouse anxiety. Your recent attacks give the impression that you now fear to approach the city again; that these waters remain safe." Stragos glared before continuing. "Were I purchasing goods from a tradesman, at the moment I would not be well pleased with their quality." "The difference, of course," said Locke, "is that when I get fitted for, say, new jackets, I don't poison my tailor until he has the length of the sleeves right—"