"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 arse 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." "South-east-east?" "And another point."

"Ah, gods." Locke 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.

"I was not aware," said Locke the next morning, "that I had joined your navy. I thought the whole idea was to run away from it." "A means to an end, Master Kosta."

The Archon had been waiting for them in their private bay within the Sword Marina. One of his personal boats (Locke remembered it from the glass caverns beneath the Mon Magisteria) was tied up behind their dinghy. Merrain and half a dozen Eyes had been in attendance. Now Merrain was helping Locke try on the uniform of a Verrari naval officer.

The tunic and breeches were the same dark blue as the doublets of the Eyes. The coat, however, was brownish-red, with stiff black leather sewn along the forearms in approximation of bracers. The single neckcloth was dark blue, and gleaming brass devices in the shape of roses over crossed swords were pinned to his upper arms just below the shoulders.

"I don't have many fair-haired officers in my service," said Stragos, "but the uniform is a good fit. I'll have two more made by the end of the week." Stragos reached out and adjusted some of Locke's details — tightening his neck-cloth, shifting the hang of the empty scabbard at his belt. "After that, you'll wear it for a few hours each day. Get used to it. One of my Eyes will instruct you in how to carry yourself, and the courtesies and salutes we use." "I still don't understand why—"

"I know." Stragos turned to Caldris, who, in his master's presence, has lost his customary vulgar impishness. "How are they doing in their training, Sailing Master?"

"The Protector is already well aware," said Caldris slowly, "of my general opinion concerning this here mission." "That's not what I asked."

"They are… less hopeless than they were, Protector. Somewhat less hopeless."

"That will do, then. You still have nearly three weeks to mould them. I daresay they already look better acquainted with hard work under the sun." "Where's our ship, Stragos?" asked Locke. "Waiting." "And where's our crew?" "In hand." "And why the hell am I wearing this uniform?"

"Because it pleases me to make you a captain in my navy. That's what's meant by the twin roses-over-swords. You'll be a captain for one night only. Learn to look comfortable in the uniform. Then learn to be patient waiting for your orders."

Locke scowled, then placed his right hand on his scabbard and crossed his left arm, with a clenched fist, across his chest. He bowed from the waist at the precise angle he'd seen Stragos's Eyes use on several occasions. "Gods defend the Archon of Tal Verrar."

"Very good," said Stragos. "But you're an officer, not a common soldier or sailor. You bow at a shallower angle."

He turned and walked toward his boat. The Eyes formed ranks and marched after him, and Merrain began pulling the uniform hurriedly off Locke.

"I return you gentlemen to Caldris's care," said the Archon as he stepped down into the boat. "Use your days well."

"And just when in the name of the gods do we get to learn how this all fits together?" "All in good time, Kosta."

Two mornings later, when the gates swung wide to admit Merrain's boat to the private bay in the Sword Marina, Locke and Jean were surprised to discover that their dinghy had been joined during the night by an actual ship.

A soft, warm rain was falling, not a proper squall from the Sea of Brass but an annoyance blowing in from the mainland. Caldris waited on the stone plaza in a light oilcloak, with rivulets of water streaming from his unprotected hair and beard. He grinned when the boat delivered Locke and Jean, lightly clad and bootless.

"Look you both," Caldris yelled. "Here she is in person. The ship we're damn likely to die on!" He clapped Locke on the back and laughed. "She's styled the Red Messenger."

"Is she now?" The vessel was quiet and still, sails furled, lamps unlit. There was something unfathomably melancholy about a ship in such a condition, Locke thought. "One of the Archon's, I presume?"

"No. It seems the gods have favoured the Protector with a chance to be bloody economical with this mission. You know what stiletto wasps are?" "Only too well"

"Some idiot tried to put into port with a hive in his hold, not too long ago. Gods know what he was planning with it. That got him executed, and the ship was ruled droits of the Archonate. That nest of little monsters got burned."

"Oh," said Locke, sniggering. "I'm very sure it was. Thorough and incorruptible, the fine customs officers of Tal Verrar."

"Archon had it careened," continued Caldris. "Needed new sails, some shoring-up, fresh lines, bit of caulking. All the insides got smoked with brimstone, and she's been renamed and rechristened. Still plenty cheap, compared to offering up one of his own." "How old is she?"

"Twenty years, near as I can tell. Hard years, likely, but she'll hold for a few more. Assuming we bring her back. Now show me what you" ve learned. What do you think she is?"

Locke studied the vessel, which had two masts, a very slightly raised stern deck and a single boat stored upside-down at its waist. "Is she a caulotteV "No," said Caldris, "she's more properly a vestrel, what you" d also call a brig, a very wee one. I can see why you" d say caulotte. But let me tell you why you're off on the particulars…"

Caldris launched into a number of highly technical explanations, pointing out things about leeward main braces and cross-jacks, which Locke only half-understood in the manner of a visitor to a foreign city listening to eager directions from a fast native talker.

"… She's eighty-eight feet stem to stern, not counting the bowsprit, of course," finished Caldris.

"I hadn't truly realized before now," said Locke. "Gods, I'm actually to command this ship."

"Ha! No. You are to feign command of this ship. Don't get blurry-eyed on me, now. All you do is tell the crew what my proper orders are. Now hurry aboard."

Caldris led them up a ramp and onto the deck of the Red Messenger, and while Locke gazed around, absorbing every visible detail, a gnawing unease was growing in his stomach. He" d taken all the minutiae of shipboard life for granted on his single previous (and bed-ridden) voyage, but now every knot and ring-bolt, every block and tackle, every shroud and line and pin and mechanism might hold the key to saving his life… or foiling his impersonation utterly.

"Damn," he muttered to Jean. "Maybe ten years ago I might have been dumb enough to think this was going to be easy."

"It's not getting any easier," said Jean, squeezing Locke on his uninjured shoulder. "But we're not yet out of time to learn."