by Rj Barker
“A lot of floating ice out there, Solemn Muffaz,” he said.
“Ey, and it will only get worse as we go further south. I worry about the speed we carry.”
“Well,” said Joron, and now he glanced back at the white ship chasing them, “I worry also, but I am disinclined to slow any and, right now, would add more speed if we could.” He smiled and Solemn Muffaz almost did the same, almost breaking his countenance. “However, I would keep our women and men as safe as we can. Two hour watches from now on, I think. And I want some sort of rota so all get time in the galley where it is warm, and order them to share beds for warmth, but not with their shipfriends; I want them rested not tiring themselves out.”
“They will moan, D’keeper, a deckchilder fair loves their own hammock.”
“Let them moan, Solemn Muffaz, let them moan. I am sure that will stop when they wrap themselves in another’s body heat.” The big man nodded and made his way along the deck to roar out his orders, and Joron made his way to the rump of the ship to study Keyshanpike.
Aelerin appeared at his side.
“He catches us,” they said.
“Ey, and I do not have to be a courser to know it.” He coughed, to rid his voice of harshness and worry. “How far to Spantonnis Bank, Aelerin? I reckon we can be there by nightfall, but I also reckon that he’ll catch us before then.” He let out a sigh. “I am all out of barrels and all out of tricks. No storm to stop him boarding or ramming us, though he’d be a fool to board when he can stand off and throw wingbolts at us as we have no real answer.”
“At our current rate, D’keeper, he’ll catch us before twilight.”
“Not even the veil of night to hide within,” he said quietly. “Very well. We have ten gullaime aboard, although they are tired; even our gullaime tires though it will not acknowledge it. We will have to ask them to push.”
“No doubt Keyshanpike’s shipwife will have gullaime too, D’keeper,” said Aelerin, “and he will push them more cruelly than you ever will.”
“Ey, but we have to try.” He took a step forward. “Bring up the Gullaime. Bring me Mevans and Hedre too.” With that the call went back and down into the bowels of the ship. “We just need to get into the mist before him, that is all, Aelerin. If we get into the mist we have a fighting chance to either lose him or, if we must, get close and board him and fight it out. He may even balk at entering the bank if his crew are as scared of ghosts as ours were.”
“No crew knows less fear than yours, D’keeper, or fights as hard,” said Aelerin. Joron looked up into the rigging, saw his women and men hard at work chipping away ice, knew they had been at it for long, long hours while he slept. That they had journeyed for long, long months without rest.
“Ey, Aelerin, but no crew is as tired either.”
“D’keeper,” said Mevans. Joron turned; behind Mevans was Hedre, and behind him the Gullaime was studying the frozen paint pot at the base of the mainspine, accompanied by a slinking Madorra.
“Ey, Mevans, I must know what we have left that can go over the side.”
“Little, D’keeper,” said Hedre.
“True,” said Mevans, “we’ve been throwing over what we could all day and there is little more we can spare unless you wish to gamble on rain and throw over our water.” Joron turned, glanced down the deck at the great bows, trussed and silent on either side of the deck, and the thin line of mist in the distance that promised, if not safety, at least the chance of it.
“Gullaime,” he called. The windtalker’s masked head shot round to look at him and the predatory beak opened.
“Jo-ron Twi-ner,” it said and hopped over, closely followed by Madorra who regarded Joron suspiciously from its one good eye.
“I need an answer from you, and a truthful one, not a boastful one.”
“Not lie!” squawked the Gullaime and it shook its whole body, the brightly coloured feathers on its head rising and falling. “Not lie!”
“I do not say you lie, Gullaime,” said Joron, keeping his voice low and calm, “only that on occasion you may get a little excited.”
“Excited,” it said, and the feathers on its head slowly flattened as its outrage subsided.
“How much strength is left in you and the other gullaime? That ship,” he pointed over the rump, “is catching us, and we need a burst of speed.” The Gullaime fixed on him with its masked eyes and clacked its beak slowly. “How long can you give us wind for?” The windtalker nodded its head.
“How long, long, long,” it sang. Then span in a circle, its bright robe brushing the deck. “Other gullaime weak, foolish. Hours maybe. All push together.” Then it screeched, stretching out its neck and pushing the harsh noise out through its open beak. Loud enough to attract the attention of all those about them, though they quickly turned away again, for it was only the Gullaime being the Gullaime, and what else could a deckchilder expect of it?
“Give longer,” croaked Madorra, moving forward, its one good eye blinking. “Other gullaime will work to death for Windseer.” At the mention of “Windseer” a few heads turned, a little notice was taken and Joron bit back his anger. The windshorn had become less and less careful of talking about the prophecy it believed the Gullaime was part of – a prophecy that promised death and destruction for all, and not one Joron wanted spread about his ship.
“None die for me,” hissed the Gullaime at Madorra, “none die.”
“All who die reborn,” croaked Madorra, and before it could continue Joron interrupted.
“The Gullaime is right, I’ll not run its people into death for this,” said Joron, and what of the many of his own he had run to death, ey? What of that? But he shut those thoughts down and let them be carried away on the winds that pushed Tide Child through the sea. “Now, Gullaime, you know the strength of those with you better than I do. Bring them on deck, set a rota that’ll keep wind in our wings and push us forward, we just need to make the mist before Keyshanpike does.” Then he leaned in close. “And save your own strength if you can, Gullaime, for I’ll need wind to manoeuvre on the bank to avoid ice, and maybe to avoid that ship. I trust none to bring it as accurate and fast as you.” At that the Gullaime cocked its head and purred a little, then, as Madorra approached it snapped at the one-eyed windshorn and bustled off to go below and bring its fellows.
“Aelerin,” said Joron.
“Ey, D’keeper?”
“That thing you did, where you read the currents in the storm to send the barrel traps over the side?”
“Ey?” Beneath the cowl bright and inquisitive eyes considered him.
“Do you reckon you could do the same with floating ice?”
“I don’t understand,” they said.
“Well, the ice must affect the currents, the way a rock or island does, ey?”
“Possibly, if it is big enough.”
Joron smiled, and pointed at one of the huge floating ice islands in the distance.
“What I want, Aelerin, is to go into the mist at full speed, as sure as I can be that I will not run us straight into an ice island.” The courser stared at him, he saw their tongue come out, run along lips, the saliva left behind freezing into a silvery rime.
“That is all you want?”
“Ey.”
“Well, I can try, D’keeper.”
“And I can ask no more.” He waited for the courser to move away but they stayed. “You have more to say?”
“The gullaime, it will not be enough,” said Aelerin quietly, and they nodded at the ship behind them. Joron turned, saw what the courser had seen. The shipwife of Keyshanpike was bringing up his own gullaime.
“So,” he said, “it is to be a straight race.”
“And there is nothing left for us to put over,” said Aelerin. “He will catch us, I think.” Joron stared for a moment, a war going on within him.
“There is something else to put over, though it saddens me more than I can say,” he said, then turned and shouted, “Solemn Muffaz!”
“Ey, D’keeper?” came the reply.
“Call up the bonewrights, Solemn Muffaz, it is a sad time, but a needy one. Put the gallowbows over the side. Both the great and the lesser for we need the speed.” At that moment, the hull of Tide Child creaked alarmingly, as if the ship itself felt the pain within Joron, within Solemn Muffaz, within Aelerin and Farys and Mevans and Jennil and every other member of the crew at pulling the black warship’s teeth. “It must be done,” whispered Joron, putting his hand on the hard black surface of the rumpspine. “I am sorry, Tide Child, but it must be done.”
16
The Ghosts in the Fog
Skearith’s Eye dipped toward the horizon, turning the mist of Spantonnis Bank a deep red shot through with streamers of gold.
Tide Child had run before a gullaime-assisted wind all day, the windtalkers coming up in pairs and standing before the mainspine until they began to shake and Joron, despite Madorra’s cursing and dancing and calling them weak, sent them down before they became windsick. There was little point running them to death when Aelerin had done the calculations. With the bows gone they had enough gullaime to run before the wind without killing them doing it.
They just didn’t have enough speed to make escape a surety, and killing the gullaime with work would make little difference.
Now they were in a straight race, and unlike the bigger ship that had chased them before, Keyshanpike had not moved a gallowbow to its beak. An error, Joron thought as he watched the shipwife on the beak of the ship, who in turn watched him. Or maybe they were just supremely confident that her ship would overtake him. He could not blame them. They must have felt a little leap of joy when they watched Tide Child’s great bows splash into the sea.
Well, he thought, folding up the nearglass and putting it in his jacket, I think you are overconfident. Let us hope I am right. He turned, staring at Spantonnis Bank; the glowing mist filled him with trepidation and he well understood Farys’s talk of ghosts. Well understood the strange mood among the crew of Tide Child as they flew through the sea toward the fog. “Aelerin,” he shouted, and already the sound seemed strange to him, as if the deadening effect of the fog was reaching out of the bank.
“D’keeper,” said Aelerin, but they were not looking at him, they stared back at the four-ribber as it sped after them. “It will catch us before the bank,” they said. “She drives her gullaime harder than you will.”
“It will not catch us,” said Joron. “I will enter the bank at full speed. We will not slow as they expect us to, and we shall see who blinks first. I am sure it will be them.”
“But D’keeper,” said Farys, and she wrapped her hands around herself, “there could be an ice island right behind the mist. We could…”
“Calm, Farys. Aelerin can read the currents of the sea, they know where is safe to enter the bank.”
“And if they are wrong?” said Farys, glancing at the courser.
“Then we will not have to worry about being caught for long, Farys. But I trust Aelerin.” Farys turned away, to stare at the golden fog once more.
“What is to stop them following us in at full speed?” said Jennil.
“Fear, Jennil. Fear of ghosts, fear of bad luck. They have already lost a topspar in the storm and their shipwife does not move her gallowbows for’ard as Beakwyrm’s Rage’s did. I think she is inexperienced. I think she will choose safety. I think she will blink.” Jennil stared at him, then looked back to the pursuing ship, the metal prow of its beak lifting from the waves, and she nodded.
“If you say it, D’keeper.”
“The work starts in the icefield, Jennil.” He glanced for’ard, the mist growing by the moment, and then behind him, where Keyshanpike also grew. “When we enter the mist, Aelerin says we go hard to one side, then come to an almost full stop. From then it will be little more than walking speed through the ice fields. I’ll not escape this ship behind us just to run into an ice island and sink.”
“What if they—”
“If they follow us in then they will do the same and it will be a game of cat and mouse. I want you and Solemn Muffaz to ensure the crew are silent, every single one of them. If any of ’em so much as breathe loud I’ll have the skin corded from their backs, you understand?”
“Ey, D’keeper.”
“Then get the crew ready, we’ll be making a hard turn before the next bell rings.”
Then back to watching as the ship behind them grew and grew. The deckchilder lining its rails. The gaggle of gullaime huddled at its mainspine. The white wings billowing with wind. Back to watching as the mist bank towered over them, racing nearer and nearer. Watching Aelerin at the beak, the subtle raising of their hands as they guided Tide Child forward, relaying those orders quietly to Barlay, massive and calm at the steering oar. Knowing, moment by moment, that if he was wrong about Aelerin’s ability to read currents they may smash into a towering ice island at full speed, and then all would be over, Meas would be lost to whatever fate awaited her and he would have failed. And if he was wrong about Keyshanpike’s shipwife then the other ship would overhaul them before they made the fog, and without gallowbows there was nothing he could do.
“Solemn Muffaz,” he said quietly. The deckmother turned from his place before the mainspine, walked up to the rump. “Watch Aelerin for me, relay their orders quietly, Barlay will keep us on course.” Solemn Muffaz nodded and Joron turned and took out his nearglass. His sores itched, his stump ached, his head throbbed. He watched Keyshanpike cutting through the water, gaining all the time and near enough that it seemed as if one of their deckchilder could, if properly motivated, run along the bowspine and jump the distance between the two ships. “Blink, Hag curse you,” he said. He felt Tide Child alter course slightly beneath him and looked back to Keyshanpike. Nearer and nearer. “Blink, curse you,” he said. Looked back, found the slate of Tide Child slowly filling. Every deckchilder coming on deck, some shivering as there were not enough cold weather clothes to go round. Garriya among them hunched over, bustling about and pushing those ill-clothed deckchilder to huddle together for warmth. The ship’s crew of gullaime, around the colourful figure of his Gullaime, all shepherded by a hissing Madorra. All here without being asked or ordered, as if they knew that this was the moment, that now it could all end and they had decided, without speech or coaxing, to face it together. In front of them the massive wall of fog, the sky darkening. Behind them the ship. “Blink, Maiden curse you,” he said. And they rushed toward the mist together. Rushed and rushed and rushed. Water hissing along hulls. Spray crowning their beaks. “Blink, Mother curse you!” And still they rushed on. “Blink!”
And as if in answer.
They blinked.
He heard the order go out on Keyshanpike’s deck, as clear as it if it had been on his own, when the shipwife’s nerve broke. “All slow! Hard to seaward!” Keyshanpike heeled over, a huge wave splashing up and over the rump of Tide Child, soaking Joron and the crew in freezing water as the ship changed course to run along the edge of the fog bank, wings bowing inward as its gullaime reversed the direction of the wind to slow the big warship. Before he could feel any triumph, any joy in calling his opponent correctly, the fog swallowed Tide Child. The world shrunk to little more than a few armlengths in any direction and all the everyday noises that he took for granted – the creak of the hull, the crack of the wings, the whistle of wind through rigging, the jingling of fittings – became stilled by clinging air.
“Landward!” shouted Aelerin.
“Now, Gullaime!” he shouted at the top of his voice. He felt a wave of heat pass over Tide Child, and his ears hurt with pressure as the Gullaime set to work. The ship heeled over as Barlay leaned into the oar and Joron grabbed the rearspine, hoped all those gathered on the slate had the sense grab on to something. A moment of dizziness, feeling like he would slide down the tilted deck and into the freezing sea. Then the ship straightened, a blast of freezing air howled around the ship and the spines creaked alarmingly.
He opened them. If any had noticed none said a thing. He looked to the front of the ship. The Gullaime’s blast of air had driven away the fog and he saw Aelerin. Gave them a nod and salute. To seaward of them was a huge mountain of ice; if they had gone into the fog just a little further along… If they had turned just a little less tightly then… But he could not think about that. He looked round, saw Jennil near him.
“Find out if any were lost overboard during the turn,” he whispered. “Get the flukeboat over the side and ready for towing, I do not doubt that Keyshanpike will follow us in eventually.”
“Ey,” said Jennil. Then she moved away to be lost in the encroaching fog.
“What now?” said Farys, her eyes wide with fear, no doubt at the thought of ghosts, though her voice did not betray her.
“Now, Farys,” he said, “we play a most dangerous game of hide and seek.”
As quietly as possible Tide Child’s remaining flukeboat was taken from the centre of the deck and put over the side. Then tied on to the front of the ship. That done, Barlay and seven of her strongest took to the oars and started to row, pulling the big ship slowly forward while Jennil stood in the front of the flukeboat with a line and weight to measure the depth of the water. By her stood two deckchilder with keyshanpikes, ready to fend off the smaller ice islands that floated about them and, though of no danger to Tide Child, would hole a flukeboat. Beneath them in the blue water the lethal tubes of beakwyrms, denied the bow wave of Tide Child to race, span angrily away before vanishing into the depths. Deeper, the vague shapes of longthresh waited for any accident that would bring them food. On the beak of Tide Child stood Joron and Aelerin, the deckkeeper squinting through the thick mist, the courser studying an unrolled chart.