The Bone Ship's Wake

by Rj Barker

  “Ey,” she said quietly and he felt her disappointment. Not with him – with herself, for leaving Gavith in charge? Maybe, but just as likely for not pre-empting his decision to keep to their current course, as near as possible during the daylight hours.

  “And, Farys,” he said, “send me Bonemaster Colwulf. I have in mind a fine trick to play on our pursuers.”

  Colwulf had looked ill at Joron when she was told what must be built. And in the manner of bonemasters throughout the fleet she had moaned and complained, “’Tis a waste of good varisk, and all my best gion spars on this thing; for what use is it?” And when the bonemaster had finally stopped her complaining, then it was the turn of the wingwrights, who grudgingly gave up their tired cloth, worn by the winds and the seas and barely holding together, though they had assured Joron it would hold long enough for his purposes.

  And while the women and men of Tide Child put together the slowly growing construction on the slate deck, the ship himself had tacked back and forth as he moved north against the wind. A course of huge zigzags and hard work, though in such a currently pleasant climate it was no great task for this crew, this well-practised and fleet crew.

  “Arse!” shouted Black Orris from his perch on Joron’s shoulder. And Joron raised his nearglass once more, in an action that had become repetitive enough over the long hours he stood on the rump that it sparked an ache in his shoulder. One ship, there. Turn a little, find the other, slightly bigger ship. Both converging on him, both slowly gaining on him. He looked up at Skearith’s Eye, marking its slow progress across the blue sky, interrupted only by lines of thin and feathery cloud, and wished he could speed its passage a little.

  “Arse indeed, Black Orris,” he said, and ruffled the black feathers of the bird’s throat.

  “They catch us, ey?” said Jennil.

  “Indeed they do.” He walked to the rail and looked over the side, long streamers of green weed waved at the side of the ship as he cut through the water. “You were right all those weeks ago, Jennil, and I was wrong. We should have careened the ship and cleaned the hull when we last had chance.”

  “But then we would have not caught the Foolish Maiden before it hit Landhulme and many lives would have been lost. Or been in time to hit Windhearth before the southern ice started to move.”

  “True,” he said, and the weed waved and the water rushed by. “But now it may cost us.” He stood back, put the nearglass to his eye and watched the ships gaining in increments. What to do? He could make out a gullaime on the deck of each ship; that was where they got their speed, they did not need to tack the way he did. Should he bring up their own gullaime? He should, to not do that surely looked suspicious when he was running. But he may need them later and it had been too long since they had visited a windspire. The weaker ones he could push no more, the stronger he must hold in reserve. He saw a flash on the nearest ship, the larger four-ribber, and knew that across the water someone watched him as he watched them. Did they know what he built, were they near enough to see detail? He touched Black Orris’s feathers once more. “Jennil,” he said, “who is good with a paintbrush?”

  “Zarif and Azar-lis.”

  “Have them paint some of that spare wingcloth with the image of a gullaime. Then raise it as a shield to hide what we build. I would make it look like we have gullaime on deck.”

  “They are hardly of the standard to grace a Bern’s bedchamber, D’keeper,” said Jennil.

  “They need only create an impression to those looking from afar, get them to it.”

  With that he went back to watching the ships and their slow chase of him. He noticed that they were in no great hurry, no flyers out, and they did not drive their gullaime too hard, for which he was grateful. If they got too close he was sure they would not fall for his trick as he was sure they would recognise what he built, and though Zarif and Azar-lis had already set about painting Jennil was right about them, the Mother had blessed them with far more enthusiasm than skill.

  “They could catch us quicker,” said Farys, coming to stand by him, squinting against sunlight reflected back from the glass surface of the sea.

  “They do not have to, Farys.”

  “Why?”

  “They are like longthresh hunting a shoal of fish, they simply herd us toward a place where their fellows wait.”

  “And when we do not go the way they wish, D’keeper?” she said.

  “With any luck they will be far behind us, and we will be far away from them.” He wondered if she was also thinking, and if luck is not with us? But she did not voice it, and no deckchild ever would, so afeared were they of bringing bad luck down on the ship. He stepped a little closer.

  “Were you thinking, ‘what if our luck is bad’, Farys?”

  “No, I…”

  “You are an officer, now, Farys,” he said in a whisper, “and my job was always to question Meas when she needed those questions asked. That is your job now, for me. An officer has no need of luck, Farys, for we plan, we do not leave it to chance.” She nodded, slowly, the burns on her face stretching and he saw confusion in her eyes. When she spoke, the words came slow and hesitant like the first breeze coming to the becalmed.

  “So, D’keeper, if they do not fall for your trick?”

  “Then we run, and hope their gullaime tire before ours, and make sure we fly our ship sharper.” She stared at him.

  “Does that not, well, trust to luck, a little?” she said. Joron shrugged.

  “A little, maybe. Now, let the wings run a little ragged, Farys, I’d not have them think too much of us. Even though we have a reputation we’re still not fleet to them and it’s a hard idea for them to accept, that we could be their equals in any way. The sloppier they believe we are, the easier they will be to fool.”

  “Ey, D’keeper,” she said, and left him to contemplate the sea, and the ships and the weed that slowed Tide Child down, a green and living staystone.

  Skearith’s Eye closed and her blind eye rose as a crescent bowl of light, a shining smile against the scattered points of light that were the Skearith’s bones, the patterns that pointed out the paths of the sea to the coursers. Tide Child rode the waves, sliding through gentle rolling water that was as kind and warm as the seas of the Scattered Archipelago could ever be. All around the ship the gentle rituals of night were carried out. The bell rang out the passing time and deckchilder moved around the slate and the underdeck with tapers, lighting the softly glowing wanelights along the decks, and in the main cabin Mevans lit the brighter lights that allowed the study of charts late into the darkness, and stared out the great windows as that light was reflected back at him from the water below. From above he heard the rasp of saws and the thud of hammers as the bonewrights constructed a lifting rig, just as the deckkeeper had ordered. Mevans leaned out of the open rear windows to light the landward of the two large lanterns that hung from the rear of the ship and smiled to himself.

  “Clever as a hungry skeer,” he whispered into the sea air, “the shipwife would be proud.”

  In the night air above, Joron watched the lifting gear, a huge A-frame, as it was completed. He watched his deckchilder swarm over it; practised hands tied knots and soon a complex web of rope surrounded the A-frame. From the top of the frame another rope ran to the ship’s central windlass, around the buffers and bollards worn smooth by years of use and back to the ungainly looking construction the bonewrights had worked so hard to construct.

  From the central hatch came the Gullaime, followed by Madorra and a procession of its white-robed and feathered followers, until the ship’s Gullaime turned on the windshorn, hissing and spitting.

  ‘Away go! Away!’

  Madorra bowed low to the ground, looking subservient, though Joron did not believe it for a second. The windshorn had shown itself to be anything but, and although it rarely directly challenged the Gullaime it had a way of wearing the windtalker down.

  “Not go,” said Madorra, “not go. Help. Only help.” />
  “Enough! Enough!” squawked the Gullaime. Behind Madorra the heads of other gullaime rose above the deck like strange fungi, masked and yet still managing to orientate themselves on the confrontation. “Not slave! Not yours. Gullaime officer.” It raised itself to its full height, stretching out the wings beneath its colourful and ragged cloak and it let out a stream of high-pitched song, occasionally croaking and cawing as it fluttered and danced. Behind Madorra the acolytes drew back and Madorra shrank down before it. Giving a little nod of its head.

  “Away go, then,” it said, but Joron could not help thinking that if the windshorn had been human he would have seen a glint in its one good eye, like that of someone with a plan, and a plan he may not rightly like. “Madorra away go.” It backed away, staying low. “Go. Gullaime go. See friends. See humans.” Slowly the Gullaime came down from its threat posture, the colourful feathers that had raised in a ridge on its head smoothing down. Its head twitching from side to side as it studied Madorra, first from one side then the other. To all about in the world it would have looked as if the Gullaime regarded the windshorn with eyes hidden behind the mask. Of all the people in the small world that was Tide Child, only Madorra and Joron knew that it did, that unlike every other gullaime this one still had its eyes, and that they glowed with the same fire that a keyshan’s eyes had, and for that reason Madorra called the Gullaime Windseer. Joron shuddered, more familiar now with the prophecy of the Windseer that saw the Gullaime’s people freed in fire and death, and unsure of his place within it as the caller. Uncomfortable too, ey, that was true. And maybe he had not spent the time with the Gullaime he should have because of that.

  “Gullaime,” he said, “welcome to the deck.”

  “Yes, yes,” it said, hopping forward, the confrontation with Madorra seemingly forgotten. It stopped at the rail, beak pointing at the ocean, then up at Skearith’s Blind Eye before it turned on the spot in a whirl of colourful cloth and tinkling trinkets. Then it paced across the deck, stopping to squawk something at a deckchild who was polishing one of the handles on the windlass.

  “Ey, Gullaime,” she said, “I’ll be sure to do a good job, don’t you worry yourself,” and the Gullaime moved on while behind it the deckchild smiled to herself and thought of what an odd and wonderful ship she had found herself on, and thought on when she would eat next and if the good d’keeper would allow them an extra ration of shipwine this time after working so hard on whatever that Hag-forsaken thing they were building was. From there the Gullaime hopped over to another deckchild, watching them working their way up the wanelights and checking each had enough oil.

  “What do?” said the Gullaime and the deckchild – lost in thoughts of when the bell would ring and his watch would be over so he could go to the depths of the ship and meet up with Collun, for they were new shipfriends and much in the tides of passion – almost dropped his oil.

  “Filling the wanelights, Gullaime,” he said quietly. “So we can see what we do.”

  “Good, good,” said the Gullaime. “Good job is.” Then it hopped on towards a third deckchild who had paused momentarily in untangling a knot within the rigging where it attached to the side of the ship and was staring into the darkness, far over the sea where you could just make out two dim lights. And she knew they were the ships that pursued them, and the memories of earlier action were fresh in her head and her hands shook a little.

  “Good night is? Good night is?” said the Gullaime, and the deckchild turned.

  “Ey, good night it is,” she said and she took some comfort from the windtalker, for sure the battles may be dangerous but their Gullaime was more powerful than any other, and hadn’t it come to the d’keeper? And wasn’t the d’keeper the son of Lucky Meas herself? And wasn’t Meas the greatest shipwife who had ever lived and the favoured of the Hag? The Gullaime moved away and she returned to her work, if not entirely happy, then at least a little more at peace.

  “Keep it free, keep it free,” said the Gullaime to a deckchild who greased the gimbal on Savage Arrin, the rearmost seaward gallowbow, and was lost in his task, aware of little more than the pleasant feel of the grease on his fingers and the smell of it, which was not a million miles away from a stew, a stew gone a little rancid maybe but a deckchild ate what they could and maybe he should taste it?

  “I’ll keep it free, Gullaime, worry you not, don’t want old Savage Arrin locking up on us,” he laughed and the Gullaime moved off and he carried on with his task a little lighter of spirit. Lastly the Gullaime came to Joron, overseeing his construction as it was put into position beneath the A-frame.

  “What is this? What is this? Ey? Ey? What is? Looks right Hag’s arse. What is?” And Joron turned to the windtalker, a gleam in his eye and a smile beneath the mask that covered his face.

  “It is not good for an officer to use such belowdecks language, Gullaime,” he said. “But to answer your question, it is a decoy.”

  “What what what?”

  “A model of the ship, Gullaime, and I will lower it behind us and set its wings and let it float off, and hope those who chase us follow it, not us. We may need your wind soon, though in truth this blow currently favours us well.” But the Gullaime was not listening, it was moving around the model, brushing against it with its wingclaws, then it hauled itself up the side, crawling around and over it, inspecting and feeling it until it ended up on top, where it stood for a moment before leaning over at what appeared an impossible angle, its long neck extending so its head was above Joron’s and he had to look up into its face with its mask that, just like his own, hid a secret from those around them.

  “Is very bad,” it said quietly. “Not look like ship.”

  “No,” and Joron coughed, found himself laughing after what felt like a lifetime of dour feelings, bad news and cruel acts. “Not in the light, it does not, and not up close either, you are right.”

  “Why do?”

  “Because under Skearith’s Blind Eye, Gullaime, magic can be done.” And the bell rang, marking the centre of the night when Skearith’s Blind Eye was as high as it would get at this time of year, and Joron smiled to himself for now was the time. “Mevans!” he shouted. “Kindly put out the lights in the great cabin, for it is time I was asleep.”

  The shout came back of “Ey, D’keeper!” and Joron smiled to himself.

  “Now, Gullaime, I will carry out my trick, and win us some much needed time.” He did not add “hopefully”, though he thought it. Because, though he denied the title and would not take up the two-tail, he knew that to all on the deck he stood as shipwife of Tide Child, and a shipwife never said hopefully, a shipwife simply knew what was and what was to be. “I hope the Mother looks kindly on us, Meas,” he whispered under his breath, “and I will be freed to find you.” He turned, looked at the crew, and every one of them, on watch or not, was awake. And all those who did not have some job to do in the bowels of the ship were waiting for the d’keeper’s trick, for his magic. To see what his strange contraption was, for had he not been so very particular about it, ey? And had he not been so very “no this here and that there”, though all could see it looked like nothing more than a big square of varisk and gion with a clumsy wing. And this all built atop the ship’s smaller flukeboat and if any woman or man knew what he was about then none had spoken up. But he was the d’keeper, and he was the child of Meas and none doubted he knew what he was about.

  “Farys,” Joron said, and she was there, at his shoulder.

  “Ey, D’keeper?”

  “I’ll have every wanelight aboard the ship out if you will, leave only the rear lanterns.”

  “Ey, D’keeper,” she said and she was gone, into the quiet throng of deckchilder that stood behind him and he heard the order spread through them, a slow whisper, like a wave on a beach of shingle. He watched as the lights on the deck went out, and the familiar faces and bodies, twisted by the many hardships of the Hundred Isles, gradually vanished and, when his crew were no longer burnished by the light
and had become a huge, amorphous shadow, as much a part of Tide Child as the wings or the spines or the gallowbows, he turned back to the A-frame and the crew around it. Those he trusted most, Solemn Muffaz and Jennil each leading a small team of hand-picked women and men, and below them in the great cabin Mevans waited with his own people. And here he stood, Joron Twiner, every soul aboard waiting for him, waiting for this plan he had dreamed up to work. He lifted the nearglass to his eye, found the place where Skearith’s Bones washed across the sky and met the ocean. Drifted the circle along the line of darkness below the tiny colourful pinpricks, the wash of misty light. Found another light in the distance, a ship, blinking on and off as it rolled with the waves. He kept going along the horizon, nothing. Went the other way, that same ship again, then he found the other. No doubt watching him watching them. Catching him by increments.

  Now or never.

  “Lift,” he said.

  “Take the strain,” said Jennil. Ropes tightened.

  “Pull,” said Solemn Muffaz, and though all knew it unlikely the pursuing ships could hear, voices were quietened and soft singing began.

  My true love on a ship away.

  Ship away, ship away

  Left me all alone today.

  Ship away, ship away

  I’ll drink my sadness far away.

  Ship away, ship away

  And sink into the brine.

  As they sang they hoisted, pulling on the ropes and lifting the contraption from the deck of Tide Child, and more than anything Joron wished he could join in that song, for to sing had been his great joy. But a shipwife called Gueste had taken his voice with an order and a garotte, and what came out of his mouth now provided him no pleasure. But worse than that, twice he had sung and that had brought a keyshan and Joron was not fool enough to think he controlled such beasts, merely woke them somehow, got their attention at best.

  “It’s up, D’keeper,” said Jennil, little more than a tall shadow in the night.

  “Bring it forward then,” he said. And the ropes holding the A-frame were played out until the contraption was slowly spinning in the empty air over the rump of the ship.