by Rj Barker
The coldness of the water was a comfort.
The coldness of the water.
The coldness.
Cold.
He awoke to the window at the back of the great cabin banging against the frame. Cold air blowing through and around him in the early morning light. He tumbled from his hammock to close the window before the glass smashed. The catch had come loose and he fought with it, being thwarted again and again as it refused to stay in place. Eventually he pulled a ribbon from the braids of his hair and tied the window shut, swearing and cursing the Hag for this small misfortune.
Then he saw the ships, triangles of white wingcloth, noticeably larger than the day before; he could pick them both out easily with the naked eye. He wanted to run up on deck, set the crew to once more throwing all they could over the side.
He did not.
Panic would not help. He imagined how Meas would react before wrapping the black scarf around his face, then called for Hedre. “More must go over,” he said to the purseholder, who nodded sadly. Then he called Mevans, had water brought. Removed the mask. Washed and let Cwell shave him, sitting still and trying not to think while she moved the blade carefully around the growing red and white sores on the dark skin of his chin and cheeks. Never mentioning them, never speaking to him about them. Clothed himself and walked up onto the deck. Found Farys at the rear, Barlay on the steering oar and made as if it were a day like any other.
“The weather is fine again, Farys,” he said. “The wind cold but brisk.”
“Ey, D’keeper, could not be finer for flying if’n it tried.”
He turned and lifted the nearglass to his eye.
“I do believe those ships have gained a little overnight; well, we are still experimenting, are we not?” he said, his voice as light and as conversational as he could make it. “Kindly consult with Mevans and Hedre as to what comes next on their list. Tide Child is the fastest ship on the water in the right circumstances, we must concentrate on making them more to his liking.” He raised the nearglass once more. “Then we’ll see those fellows behind shrinking fast, no doubt.”
“Ey, no doubt,” said Farys and she sounded a fair bit surer than Joron felt as the orders were given. Then the deckchilder ran down the ramps and set up the cranes to once more start bringing cargo and stores up from the hold. Mevans came to stand by him.
“We still have some spars, and board, D’keeper,” he said.
“I gave orders for them to go, Mevans.”
“Ey, but Hedre is more of the rock than he is of the sea, was hiding away the valuable stuff and I had to explain some things are worth more to a boneship than coin. So we had a little re-jigging of his list.”
“Very well.” He stepped closer, so none but Mevans could hear his whisper. “It is dealt with?” Mevans nodded.
“No need for you to mention it, I reckon.”
“Good,” said Joron. He leaned in a little closer. “Do you think we will outrun those ships today?”
“I dare say, D’keeper, we’ll have to put a lot more over the side afore we are quicker than those ships. They fly them well, and I bet they are clean out of harbour.”
“Ey, said Joron. “That is what I thought.” He raised the nearglass once more and stared at the towers of wingcloth in the circle, seeing the wink of light on lens as someone on the larger ship stared right back at him.
11
The Weight
Time and distance passed in that deliberate way time and distance will when you become aware that neither are well disposed toward you. As if in solidarity, the weather also turned against them. The air became colder, the sea became greyer, the waves higher until Tide Child was lurching forward, a steady rhythm of rising and falling punctuated by sprays of freezing water breaking over the beak.
Tide Child’s precious supplies and stores continued to go over the side.
The ships behind them continued to increase in size. First they had been specks, only identifiable through the nearglass. A week later they were ships, their details only distinguishable through the nearglass. Now they were fleet for all to see and to count the corpselights bobbing above them. When Joron lifted the nearglass to his eye he could see the individual crew, officers and deckchilder. See the shipwife – a man, which surprised him; he thought his depredations upon the Hundred Isles would have earned him more respect from Thirteenbern Gilbryn than to have her send a man after him.
He could even make out the ships’ names now. The smaller called Keyshanpike, the larger called Beakwyrm’s Rage. As the ships had grown so the atmosphere on the deck of Tide Child had changed, as he knew it would, it became tighter, no slip in discipline, not in the least, and pride swelled within him at that. But he knew worry was setting in, noticed how when the deckchilder worked they would glance behind at those ships, look them up and down. Heard talk in low voices of how heavy the jointweight of shot they may be able to launch would be. But always behind it was the simple and constant belief that the d’keeper would get them out of this, for he was the child of Lucky Meas, and how could he fail?
How could he fail?
How?
It had seemed, for a time, that Tide Child gained; indeed, he had watched the ships shrink against the paint on the spine that he placed there to measure them. He had felt his crew’s spirit lift. Then watched, dismayed, as the ships followed his lead in another way, and started to throw cargo over the side. Once more creeping up on Tide Child and his crew, and the pressure aboard ratcheted up once more.
If it was just one ship this would have been so much more simple, he thought, and had thought day after day after day. If it had just been the big four-ribber he would have turned and taken his chances, confident in his crew and their ability, their ferocity. But that was no longer an option. Four days ago they had put all of the wingshot over the side and thoughts of taking on that ship had sunk to the Hag at the bottom of the ocean, along with the lovingly carved ammunition. Still, he thought, he had plenty of long bolts left, and if he could weather a few rounds of loosing from them and get his ship in near enough to board, well… His crew would make short work of them, it’d be bloody work, and no mercy given.
But it was not just one ship. It was two, and they both better supplied and in better condition, and if he turned to confront them, to release that constant pressure of knowing they were there, that constant feeling of them at his back even when he stared into the clear sea before Tide Child, then he felt sure his ship and his crew would be chewed up between them.
“What I would give for a sea mist,” said Joron, folding the nearglass away and placing it into his jacket, feeling foolish, for this must be the third or fourth or fifth time he had said as much.
“I’d ask the Mother,” said Solemn Muffaz, “though I doubt she would listen to one such as me.” And Joron had no answer to that, as Solemn Muffaz had murdered his wife and few in the Hundred Isles were as cursed as a man who murders a woman, no matter how much they may be haunted by regret. “Though if the Mother don’t look upon us well, D’keeper,” continued Solemn Muffaz, “then maybe the Maiden or the Hag ’as something in store for us.” Joron turned to look out over the side of the ship. Far in the west were the first signs of a growing storm. It had, of course, been promised to him by Aelerin, two weeks ago now. Joron both dreaded and welcomed such a thing. The danger in a storm was ever present, and Tide Child no longer carried enough spares should their wings or spars be damaged, as all but the great gallowbows and the lesser bows and their bolts had gone over the side. But a storm, thought Joron. A storm could be just what he needed, for whatever danger was there for him was also there for those following, and he knew from experience how hard it was for two or more ships to stay in convoy when foul weather hit. If they were fools they may stay close and more likely than not one ship would ram the other. But they had given no sign of being foolish, so he was sure they would keep their distance and more like than not find themselves separated. And, if that were to happen, who kne
w, maybe his crew would get their red day after all.
But not today. Today they would fly on and fly on and eke every bit of speed out of Tide Child that they could get from the ship and, as if feeling Joron’s need, he seemed to heel over just a bit further, cut the waves just a little cleaner, smash through them just a little more fiercely. Joron put out a hand, touched the rumpspine and said a silent prayer of thanks to the Mother and to Meas for giving him charge of such a sturdy and speedy vessel, for he was sure that any other craft would already have been caught by those well-flown boneships behind him.
“Magnificent, really.” He turned to find Jennil staring at the ships. “The big four-ribber, I mean.”
“Ey, a beautiful ship, and he would be a fair sight more beautiful if he were not chasing us.” Jennil nodded and Joron raised his nearglass to watch some commotion on the deck of the smaller ship. “The crew of Keyshanpike are throwing over more cargo to keep up with Beakwyrm’s Rage; a rough sea always favours a heavier ship.” Beakwyrm’s Rage loosed more wing, the cloth billowing out as it caught the wind and as the larger ship smashed its way through the waves in a spray of white water Joron found himself nodding to the enemy shipwife. You slow to or speed to keep convoy with your consort, he thought, you are careful and do not take chances. He turned from the rail, wishing it were any other shipwife chasing. Careful shipwives were the best to work with, and the last he wanted to face in a fight.
“Jennil,” he said, “tell Mevans to unload the next items on Hedre’s list and put them over the side.” He stared at the gathering storm, the slowly growing towers of black cloud on the western horizon. “Have him also move some of our heavier stores into the bilges, when the storm hits I’ll have Tide Child be as stable as possible. I want our weight held as low as we can get it.”
“Ey, D’keeper,” she said and started to turn away.
“Jennil, have Mevans put aside some barrels and plenty of rope.”
“You have a plan, D’keeper?”
“Maybe, though not much of one.”
“It’ll work,” she said, as if the simple act of him having thought of something was enough to settle her.
As the day went on the contents of the hold went over the side, and word that the D’keeper had a plan must have spread as he noticed a lessening of the tension, fewer glances to the rump of the ship, a generally more happier demeanour among the deckchilder and he wondered at this small miracle.
Time passed, the air continued to get colder, the three ships raced toward the ice islands of the south as a storm gathered around them. Sometimes Tide Child had the advantage and made better speed, and sometimes Keyshanpike and Beakwyrm’s Rage were the faster. More often than not it was their pursuers that had the upper hand. They continued to grow and Joron began to wish the storm would hurry and close around them. A cold rain had started, a thin rain, enough to make a woman or man close their eyes against the thin icy slivers of water, but not enough to cloud the vision of the pursuing ships.
Thunder rumbled, the voice of the Weststorm uttering its threat, giving fair warning to those who flew the sea of what was to come.
“It is a way off yet.” He turned to find Aelerin. The courser leaned in close as the wind set the rigging to whistling. “It will hit us just as night falls, I believe,” said the courser. Joron glanced behind them. Had they been friendly those two Hundred Isles ships were now near enough to give the appearance of travelling in convoy. He could see deckchilder, busy on the front of Beakwyrm’s Rage. They were raising a frame and women and men in the white bandages of the bonewrights directed the construction.
“What are they about, D’keeper?” asked Aelerin.
“I suspect they move a gallowbow to the front of the ship. It is not a bad idea and I think they will be in range before the storm hits.” He stared over the rump, counting the beats of the wind against the wings. “Have Mevans come up here, and the Gullaime.”
“Ey, D’keeper,” they said and vanished belowdecks. For a moment he wished he could do the same. He was not wearing the right clothes for this weather, was still dressed for the morning which had been dry, though still cold, but to go below and put on heavier clothing would appear weak. He would order the deckchilder to change soon, then give it until the next ring of the bell before he allowed himself that luxury.
“D’keeper,” said Mevans, coming to stand by him, “you should be wearing a thicker coat so I brought one. Put it on, cannot have the deckkeeper getting a chill, not with those great luggers behind us.” Joron shook his head, affecting the air of a man much put upon while shrugging into the coat.
“Solemn Muffaz,” he shouted, “I cannot have Mevans force me into a wet weather coat and leave the crew shivering. Those who wish it may go below and put on stinkers.” And Solemn Muffaz gave the order that all on deck were to “dress for poor weather” and the crew, his good and fleetlike crew, organised themselves in such a way that small groups went below and the ship was never left without enough hands to cover each and every much-needed task that kept them heading toward the storm. Joron leaned in close to Mevans, raising his voice, aware that now it took just a little more effort to be heard than when he had talked with Aelerin only moments before, feeling it hard on his damaged vocal cords.
“Set the bonewrights to taking the windows out of the great cabin and boarding them over.”
“The board’ll not stop a bolt.”
“No, but it is better than glass flying everywhere, ey?”
“There is that.”
“Have them reinforce the rear as much as they can. Then get a team to set up an A-frame and move one of the rear gallowbows, Savage Arrin I think, to the rump. They intend to loose at us, it would be rude for us not to return the favour.”
“Ey, D’keeper,” grinned Mevans.
12
The Sea Hates a Thief
The underdeck had been cleared as if for battle, though every gallowbow remained trussed and every bowpeek shut against the rising seas. Joron staggered his way along the floor and down into the hold, his missing leg making already treacherous footing worse as Tide Child lurched, seaward to landward and beak to rump, in an uncomfortable corkscrewing motion as the storm grew. The crew who waited in the gloom for him moved with the motion of the ship, an unconscious movement of the knee and hip that they were barely aware of, this was simply part of their life, their world. The bone cases of their ships often moved in most disconcerting and unpleasant ways, and the cold and the damp that he felt through his clothes was simply the way it was.
“Getting in to blow,” said a shadow, and Joron squinted, saw Oast, one of the seaguard, standing by one the many of the barrels arrayed like soldiers behind him, grunting and groaning as they slid against the floor and rubbed against one another.
“It’ll blow worse yet, mark my words,” said Joron, and laughter from those gathered as they regarded this simple truth, as if he had said something witty at a Bern’s high table. Over the laughter he heard the percussion of the bonewrights’ hammers as the windows in his cabin came down and the A-frame was raised above. “Now, you must wonder what we are about, ey?”
“Ey, D’keeper,” came one reply from many mouths. Joron smiled beneath his mask and used his voice to convey his pleasure to the crew gathered in the gloaming.
“You all know I was a fisher once?” A mental image of his father’s face – and what have you become now my boy? – Nods and eys returned. “Well, a fisher’s life is a hard one, I reckon many of you know that as true.” More eys. “See, when I flew with my father, you know what he feared more than beakwyrms, or toothreaches, or even a fabled keyshan rising from the deep?” No reply. He had not expected one – those who knew would keep quiet to let him tell his story, and those who did not would not speak to the d’keeper without good reason. “Nets,” he said. He held up a hand to stop any questions, filled his voice with bonhomie. “I know, what strangeness, ey? A fisher afraid of his nets. But you listen to me well. A fisher needs speed,
for he steals from the ocean and the ocean hates a thief. So every beast of the sea is out to get a fisher, and he has no great gallowbows, no sharp curnows and no seaguard to protect him. Speed is his ally, speed is what he must rely on. But a net? Well that is there to catch the creatures of the sea, and if he is not careful, if the fisher turns too quickly upon himself, or crosses the net of one his fellows, then he is caught as much as any fish. The net will wrap around the keel or rudder of his ship, it’ll drag in the water and slow him as sure as any seastay, and then he is prey for whatever may choose to take him.”
“You want us to make a net?” said a confused voice from the back of the stacked barrels, the question almost lost in the sound of shifting varisk.
“No, we shall make a trap, but use the principle of the net. Take a length of rope, long as five women with their arms outstretched. Tie a barrel – secure, mind – on either end. Then do the same with three more barrels. Is Solemn Muffaz here?”
“Ey, D’keeper,” came the familiar deep voice from the back of the hold, “for someone must keep charge of this rabble.”
“How many barrels do we have, Solemn Muffaz?”
“Twenty-four, D’keeper.”
“Then make four strings of five barrels, and one of four, Muffaz. We’ll throw them over the rear once it’s dark and see if we can catch us a ship.”
“He’ll need to be near us to tangle him up, D’keeper,” came Solemn Muffaz’s voice.