“Don’t,” said one of the sailors, waving for one of his companions to go on deck. “Don’t touch anything. We’ll get it for you.”

Locke put his hands up and took several careful steps back.

“I’d call for more wine,” said Jean, hoisting his own glass teasingly, “but it’s possible you’ve had enough.”

“That was the motion of the ship,” said Locke.

The missing guard returned with a brush and a metal pan. He quickly swept up all the fragments.

“We’ll scrub the deck when we give the cabin a turn tomorrow, sir,” said one of the sailors.

“At least it smells nice,” said Locke.

The guards didn’t search him. Locke admired the deepening darkness through the cabin window and allowed himself the luxury of a faint smirk.

When the remains of dinner were cleared (every knife and fork and spoon accounted for) and the cabin was his and Jean’s again, Locke carefully drew out the shard of glass and set it on the table.

“Doesn’t look like much,” said Jean.

“It needs some binding,” said Locke. “And I know just where to get it.”

While Jean leaned against the cabin door, Locke used the glass shard to carefully worry the inside front cover of the copy of The Republic of Thieves. After a few minutes of slicing and peeling, he produced an irregular patch of the binding leather and a quantity of the cord that had gone into the spine of the volume. He nestled the glass fragment inside the leather and wrapped it tightly around the edges, creating something like a tiny handsaw. The leather-bound side could be safely nestled against the palm of a hand, and the cutting edge of the shard could be worked against whatever needed slicing.

“Now,” said Locke softly, holding his handiwork up to the lantern-light and examining it with a mixture of pride and trepidation, “shall we take a turn on deck and enjoy the weather?”

The weather had worsened agreeably to a hard-driving autumn rain. The Amathel was whipped up to waves of six or seven feet, and lightning flashed behind the ever-moving clouds.

Locke and Jean, both wearing oilcloaks, settled down against the inner side of the jolly boat lashed upside-down to the main deck. It was about fifteen feet long, of the sort usually hung at a ship’s stern. Locke supposed that the urgent need to put the iron bars around the windows of the great cabin had forced the crew to shift the boat. It was secured to the deck via lines and ring-bolts; nothing that a crew of sailors couldn’t deal with in just a few minutes, but if he and Jean tried to free the boat conventionally it would take far too long to escape notice. Cutting was the answer—weaken the critical lines, wait for a fortuitous roll of the ship, heave the jolly boat loose, and then somehow join it after it pitched over the side.

Jean sat placidly while Locke worked with the all-important glass shard—five minutes, ten minutes, twenty minutes. Locke’s oilcloak was a blessing, making it possible to conceal the activity, but the need to hold the arm and shoulder still put all the burden on wrist and forearm. Locke worked until he ached, then carefully passed the shard to Jean.

“You two seem strangely heedless of the weather,” shouted Volantyne, moving past with a lantern. He studied them, his eyes flicking here and there for anything out of place. Eventually he relaxed, and Locke’s heart resumed its usual duties.

“We’re still warm from dinner, Captain,” said Jean. “And we’ve lived through storms on the Sea of Brass. This is a fine diversion from the monotony of our cabin.”

“Monotony, perhaps, but also security. You may remain for now, so long as you continue to stay out of the way. We’ll have business with the sails soon enough. If we find ourselves much closer to shore, I shall require you to go below.”

“Having problems?” said Locke.

“Damned nuisance of a wind from the north and the northwest—seems to veer however’s least convenient. We’re five miles off the beach where we should be ten.”

“We are your most loyal and devoted articles of ballast, Captain,” said Locke. “Let us digest a bit longer and maybe we’ll scuttle back inside.”

As soon as Volantyne stepped away, Locke felt Jean get back to work.

“We don’t have much time,” muttered Jean. “And one or two uncut lines are as good as twenty; some things don’t break for any man’s strength.”

“I’ve done some real damage to my side,” said Locke. “All we can do is keep it up as long as possible.”

The minutes passed; sailors came and went on deck, checking for faults everywhere but directly behind the two men working desperately to cause one. The ship rolled steadily from side to side, lightning flared on every horizon, and Locke found himself growing more and more tense as the minutes passed. If this failed, he had no doubt that Volantyne’s threat to seal them up in one of the holds would be carried out immediately.

“Oh, hells,” muttered Jean. “Feel that?”

“Feel what? Oh, damn.” The ship had tilted to starboard, and the weight of the jolly boat was pressing more firmly against Locke’s back and shoulders. The lines holding it down were starting to give way sooner than he’d expected. “What the hell do we do now?”

“Hold on,” muttered Jean. The ship tilted to larboard, and there was the faintest scraping noise against the deck. Locke prayed that the tumult of the weather would drown it out for anyone not sitting directly against the boat.

Like a pendulum, the ship swung to starboard again, and this time the scraping noise rose to a screech. The press against Locke’s back became ominous, and something snapped loudly just behind him.

“Shit,” whispered Jean, “up and over!”

The two Gentlemen Bastards turned and scrambled over the back of the jolly boat at the moment its restraints completely gave way. Locke and Jean rolled off the boat with an embarrassing want of smoothness, landed hard, and the jolly boat took off across the deck, screeching and sliding toward the starboard rail.

“Ha-ha!” Locke yelled, unable to contain himself. “We’re off!”

The jolly boat slammed against the starboard rail and came to a dead stop.

“Balls,” said Locke, not quite as loudly. An instant later, the ship heeled to larboard, and Locke realized that he and Jean were directly in the only path the jolly boat could take when it slid back down the tilting deck. He gave Jean a hard shove to the left, and rolled clear the other way. A moment later the boat scraped and scudded across the deck between them, gathering momentum as it went. Locke turned, certain that it should go over the side this time—

With a creaking thump, the boat landed hard against the larboard rail. Although the rail bent, it didn’t give way completely, and the upside-down boat remained very much out of the water.

“Perelandro’s dangling cock!” Locke yelled, lurching to his feet.

“What the hells do you two think you’re doing?”Solus Volantyne came leaping adroitly across the main deck, lantern still in hand.

“Your boat’s come free! Help us!” yelled Jean. A moment later he seemed to think better of subterfuge, walloped Volantyne across the jaw with a right hook, and grabbed the lantern as the captain went down.

“Jean! Behind you!” Locke yelled, dodging the boat for a second time as the deck tilted yet again.

A crewman had come up behind Jean with a belaying pin in hand. Jean sidestepped the man’s first attack and cracked the lantern across the top of his head. Glass shattered, and glowing white alchemical slime sprayed across the poor fellow from forehead to waist. It was generally harmless stuff, but nothing you wanted in your eyes. Moaning and glowing like a ghost out of some fairy story, the man fell against the foremast.

In front of Locke, the jolly boat slid to starboard, hit the rail at speed, crashed through with a terrible splintering noise, and went over the side.