"Listen well," he said when the launch was tied up below the dock and surrounded by his would-be crew. He was pleasantly surprised at how quickly thed'r settled down to the business at hand. Of course, that made sense — they were the crews of impounded ships, not hardcases imprisoned for individual crimes. It didn't make saints of them, but it was nice to have something unforeseen working in his favour for once.

"Able hands take the oars. Don't be shy if you're less than able for the time being; I know some of you have been down there too damn long. Just sit in the middle of the launch and take it easy. You can recover yourselves on the voyage out. We've plenty to eat."

That lent them some cheer. Once at sea, Locke knew, the state of their rations might easily approach that of the prison slop they were leaving behind, but for a fair few days thed'r have a supply of fresh meat and vegetables to look forward to.

In good order the former prisoners clambered aboard the launch; soon the gunwales were lined with those claiming to be able-bodied and oars were being slipped into their locks. Jabril took the bow, waving up at Locke and Caldris when all was in readiness.

"Right," said Locke. "The Messenger is anchored south of the Sword Marina on the seaward side, wanting nothing save her crew. One guard stands watch for the night, and I'll deal with him. Just follow us and go aboard once I" ve done that; the nets are lowered over the side and the defences are stowed."

Locke took the bow of the small boat and struck what he hoped was an appropriately regal posture. Jean and Caldris took the oars, and the last two prisoners sat at the stern, one of them holding Caldris's lantern.

"Say farewell to the Windward Rock, boys," said Locke. "And bid fuck-you to the Archon of Tal Verrar. We're bound for sea."

A shadow within shadows watched the two boats depart.

Merrain moved out of her position beside the tower and gave a small wave as the low, grey shapes diminished into the south. She loosed the black silk scarf that had covered her lower face and pushed back the hood of her black jacket; she had lain in the shadows beside the tower for nearly two hours, waiting patiently for Kosta and de Ferra to finish their business. Her own boat was stashed beneath a rocky overhang on the east side of the island, little more than a cockleshell of treated leather over a wood frame. Even in moonlight, it was all but invisible on the water. She padded quietly into the entrance hall of the prison, finding the two guards much where she expected, carelessly strewn about in the grip of Witfrost sleep. True to the Archon's wishes, Kosta and de Ferra had prevented anyone from harming them.

"Alas for that," she whispered, kneeling over the lieutenant and running a gloved finger across his cheeks. "You're a handsome one."

She sighed, slipped a knife from its sheath within her jacket and cut the man's throat with one quick slash. Moving back to avoid the growing pool of blood, she wiped the blade on the guard's breeches and contemplated the woman lying across the entrance hall.

The two atop the tower could live; it wouldn't be plausible for anyone to have climbed the stairs and gone for them. But she could do the one on the dock, the two here and the one who was supposed to be downstairs.

That would be enough, she reckoned — it wasn't that she desired Kosta and de Ferra to fail. But if they did return successful in their mission, what was to stop Stragos from assigning them another task? His poison made tools of them indefinitely. And if they could return victorious, well… men like that were better off dead if they couldn't be put to use on behalf of the interests she served.

Resolved, she set about finishing the job. The thought that for once it would be entirely painless was a comfort in her work.

"Captain Ravelle!"

The soldier was one of those hand-picked by the Archon to be in on some part of the deception. He feigned surprise as Locke appeared on the Red Messenger's deck, followed by Jean, Caldris and the two ex-prisoners. The launch full of men was just butting up against the ship's starboard side. "I didn't expect you back this evening, sir… Sir, what's going on?"

"I have reached a decision," said.Locke, approaching the soldier. "This ship is too fine a thing for the Archon to have. So I am relieving him of its care and taking it to sea." "Now hold on… hold on, sir, that's not funny."

"Depends on where you're standing," said Locke. He stepped up and delivered a feigned punch to the soldier's stomach. "Depends on if you're standing." By arrangement, the man did a very credible impression of having received a devastating blow and fell backwards to the deck, writhing. Locke grinned. Let his new crew whisper of that among themselves.

The crew in question had just started to come up the boarding nets on the starboard side. Locke relieved the soldier of his sword, buckler and knives, then joined Jean and Caldris at the rail to help the men up.

"What's to be done with the launch, Captain?" Jabril spoke as he came over the side.

"It's too damn big to carry with us on this little bitch," said Locke. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the "subdued" guard. "We'll set him adrift in it. Jerome!" "Aye, sir," said Jean.

"Get everyone up and muster all hands at the waist. Master Caldris! You know the vessel best for now; give us light."

Caldris fetched alchemical lamps from a locker near the wheel, and with Locke's help he hung them about the deck until they had more than enough soft, golden light to work by. Jean produced his little whistle and blew three short blasts. In moments, he had the crew herded into the middle of the ship's waist, before the mainmast. Before them all, Locke stood, stripped off his Verrari officer's coat and pitched it over the side. They applauded.

"Now we must have haste without carelessness," he said. "Those of you who do not believe yourselves fit for work, hands up! No shame, lads."

Locke counted nine hands. Most of the men who raised them were visibly aged or far too slender for good health, and Locke nodded. "We hold no grudge for your honesty. You'll take up your share of work once you're fit again. For now, find a spot on the main deck below, or beneath the forecastle. There's mats and canvas in the main hold. You may sleep or watch the fun as you see fit. Now, can anyone among you claim to be any sort of cook?" One of the men standing behind Jabril raised a hand.

"Good. When the anchor's up, get below and have a look at the stores. We've a brick firebox at the forecastle, plus an alchemical stone and a cauldron. We'll want a hell of a meal once we're out past the glass reefs, so show some initiative. And tap a cask of ale."

The men began cheering at that, and Jean blew his whistle to quiet them down.

"Come, now!" Locke pointed to the darkness of the Elderglass island looming behind them. "The Sword Marina's just the other side of that island, and we're not away yet. Jerome! Capstan bars and stand by to haul up anchor. Jabril! Fetch rope from Caldris and help me with this fellow."

Together, Locke and Jabril hoisted the "incapacitated" soldier to his feet. Locke tied a loose but very convincing knot around his hands with a scrap of rope provided by Caldris; once they were gone, the man could work himself free in minutes. "Don't kill me, Captain, please," the soldier muttered.

"I would never," said Locke. "I need you to carry a message to the Archon on my behalf. Tell him that he may kiss Orrin Ravelle's arse, that my commission is herewith resigned and that the only flag his pretty ship will fly from now on is red."

Locke and Jabril hoisted the man over the side of the entry port and dropped him the nine feet into the bottom of the launch. He yelped in (no doubt genuine) pain and rolled over, but seemed otherwise okay.