The Bone Ship's Wake

by Rj Barker

  “And that is all?”

  “I think there may have been blood on his decks and down the hull, but could have been dirt, hard to tell without going closer.”

  “You did not go aboard.”

  “You ordered not, so…” He grinned. “But I can go back?”

  “Not alone.” Joron shook his head, called Farys and Jennil over. “Keyshanpike sits at staystone just over there,” he pointed. “To all intents and purposes he seems abandoned. If so, all we put over the side we could reclaim from him, stores, gallowbows, everything.”

  “Could be a trap, D’keeper,” said Jennil.

  “Ey, that it could. I cannot think why they would do it in such a way though. There was no guarantee we would see them as we passed. The mist could have obscured them.” He stared out into the fog. “I think we must chance it,” he said. “Refitting Tide Child in the Gaunt Islands will take every coin we have; if we can do it for free here, all the better. If it is a trap, well, crew on crew, even tired, I back us over them,” he said this with a piratical gleam in his eye. Though within he quailed at the thought of a trap, for his women and men were thin and worn now from too many days at sea without proper rest and food. But he could not for the life of him work out the other shipwife’s thinking. If it was a trap it relied entirely on luck. It needed the topboys of Tide Child to see Keyshanpike in the mist, and for Joron to feel the need to investigate. “Set the wings, bring up whichever gullaime have any strength left,” he said, “we’ll take Tide Child over there and drop the staystone opposite. I’ll lead a boat over myself to have a look around.”

  “Should we not simply come up alongside?” said Jennil, as Joron stared out into the mists. “If there is trouble then it is easier for us to get across the rail to help.”

  “Easier for them too,” said Mevans. Joron looked from one to the other, two experienced deckchilder; both had been on boneships longer than he had, far longer. Yet he was expected to decide, to know.

  “Ey, we’ll do that. come up alongside,” he said eventually. “Easier to take across what we need and we won’t be running. If it’s a trap then we’ll have to fight anyway, may as well make it as easy as possible on us. We’ll use grapples to tie on and keep the staystone up, but have deckchilder ready with axes in case we need them to cut us free. We’ll come up on Keyshanpike from behind, only tie on the beak of Tide Child to their rump, that way we’ll never pass their bows, just in case they have them ready for us. Solemn Muffaz!” shouted Joron. “Get us under way!” As the orders were given and women and men ran to the great bone windlass to bring up the ship’s staystone, Joron had a second thought on an earlier order. “Keep the wings furled. Tie on the flukeboat and put rowers in it. We’d need gullaime wind to move anyway, better to make our way slow and steady. Get pikes up front and keep measuring the depth, I don’t want the bottom ripped out of Tide Child. Mevans, you already know the way, you can pilot us in.”

  “Ey, D’keeper,” said in unison, and the action on the slate doubled. Ropes were tied, rowing crews readied and once more Tide Child moved off, creeping through the fog. Moving forward no faster than a sick man would walk to the hagbower for surgery that would most definitely be painful, and likely end his life.

  But still, he went.

  Moving through fog, the flukeboat’s rowers calling back measurements to the ship, their voices seeming dislocated from the world around them. The fog thickening once more, and it looked as if the taut rope at the beak of Tide Child vanished into the air; if not for the voices calling out the stroke it would have been easy to believe in the ghosts so many of the crew believed in.

  Joron paced, he wanted to run, to run around the deck, to hear the slap of his boot and the tap of his spur and within him a madness arose. He was shipwife, he could do what he wanted, he could run and keep running, away from the fear and the pain and the anger and the things he had done, the things he would do. The things he must do, if he wanted to bring Meas back. Then it passed, like a moment of giddiness passed when he looked down from the top of a spine to the swaying world below.

  He found he was by the mainspine, leaning his head against it, willing away the sudden weakness running through him.

  “Caller,” he turned, found Garriya, staring up at them. “Stop that.”

  “What?” he said, and as he said he knew what she talked of, for the ship was vibrating with song; all around him his crew were singing in low voices, from below he could hear the gullaime’s discordant chants twisting around the melody and he knew he had been lost, joining in without even knowing. His mouth moving. His heart beating. His blood whistling through his veins.

  “You know,” she said.

  “Yes,” he replied, “I know.”

  She stepped closer, almost half his height, as ragged as he was proper in his black uniform. “Guard your dreams, D’keeper, I have felt the movements in the deep. I have felt ancient minds turn their eyes toward the surface.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Guard your dreams,” she said again, then stepped back. “I have to go deal with those you’ve put under my care. Send no more today.”

  “I will try,” he said.

  “You’ve proved mighty bad at that so far.” She chuckled, spat on the deck and walked away. Leaving him confused, his mind a turmoil and he knew that all he could do to clear it was work. Was put his mind to the ship and the movement through the fog. To check on those sounding out depths and watch, brow furrowed in worry, as women and men used keyshanpikes to push chunks of ice away from the hull, and all around was the constant tapping of ice being removed from the ropes and the bonework. A hot drink was pushed into his hands and he sipped it thankfully as the burn of the cold was chased from his fingers.

  Eventually, there came a shout from the front and the mist around them began to thin. He saw the corpselights first, all the blue of firstlight, slowly drifting through the tops of the ship. Keyshanpike was rump-on to them at a slight angle and through the thinning mist Joron could see his four landward gallowbows. All were untrussed and ready to loose, just as Mevans had said. And, just as he had also said, the ship appeared quiet as death.

  “Jennil,” said Joron, “have the flukeboat detach and the crew come around the rear. We’ll coast in the rest of the way.” She nodded and walked down the ship to give his instruction. “Gavith!” he shouted, and the man appeared, shifty looking as if he did not want to be called. “Get to the beak with your grapple, you have always been the best with it.”

  “Ey, D’keeper,” he said.

  “And gather those you know throw well. I want to bring Tide Child to a stop with our beak against the rear, and if we overshoot Solemn Muffaz will cord the lot of you,” said Joron, and he meant it as light-hearted but Gavith did not seem to hear that and nodded his head seriously.

  “I expect he would,” said Gavith and Joron turned away for the business of war beckoned, and he must give it his all.

  18

  A Mystery Resolved in Blood

  It was a nerve-wracking business, tying Tide Child on to Keyshanpike. Every moment expecting an attack; either women and men boiling up from belowdecks, or flukeboats coming out of the mist. Wary-eyed deckchilder stood by the ropes holding axes, flexing their hands around the hafts in readiness should the black ship need cutting free. Sand passed through the glass and the crew stood still and silent, straining every sense, always expecting to hear something. Anything. And time passed, as time does, Joron, and Farys, and Jennil, and Mevans, and Solemn Muffaz and every member of the crew began to feel more certain they would hear nothing.

  “Ain’t natural this,” Joron heard from a deckchild behind him, made no comment. Let them talk if it eased their mind a little.

  “’Tis the ghosts, just as we knew.”

  “Truss that talk!” he shouted. Ey, let them talk, but not too much. “There’ll be no ghosts here, you mark it. For those who doubt it, well, I shall lead us onto Keyshanpike and any ghost that awaits us will answer
to my blade.” He thought of drawing it, did not. Was sure if he did his hand would shake, and so he stood still, unmoving apart from his eyes, which roved along the deck; and in turn, the crew saw that lack of movement as bravery, as surety, as not shrinking in fear, as not even needing a weapon and they took some comfort from him, for was he not Meas’s son? And was she not the greatest shipwife who had ever been?

  “Shall we all go, D’keeper?” said Farys. He stared at the white ship, so perfect, the sort of ship Meas should have been on. Quick and strong and unmarred, unshamed. It was so perfectly white he could pick out the splatters of paint at the base of the spines and around the gallowbows, and he wondered what prayers to the Hag had been made as the paint had been thrown.

  Whatever they had been, they had clearly gone unanswered.

  “No,” said Joron, “not straight away. I want Jennil and some of her seaguard with me, and our best eyes ready with bows and crossbows. I’ll take a small party across first.”

  “You go yourself, D’keeper?” said Mevans. “But—”

  “Have I not already said I will? I’m near enough Tide Child for you to see me, Mevans, don’t fret.” He grinned beneath the mask. “I’ll add Gavith, Yerffoeg, Solemn Muffaz and Zafar to the seaguard, and Cwell will have my back. Enough bodies to get me back here if we have good cover from the bows. Now set a plank across to Keyshanpike. Let us be on our way. All this standing about in the cold is good for no one’s health.”

  Then they were making ready: bows and crossbows were brought up and strung, pots of arrows set out along the deck, though the supplies were measly, and a plank was run across from Tide Child’s beak to Keyshanpike’s rump and Joron, with a deep breath and a sure step, led the way for his small party onto the deck of Keyshanpike.

  What an odd feeling he had then, standing unopposed on the deck of a white ship. To feel the soft glow of the corpselights on his face. To not have a sword in his hand and hate in his heart. To step forward, sand crunching beneath his foot, without meeting resistance. To not smell blood and bodies.

  To be alone.

  “What first, D’keeper?” said Solemn Muffaz.

  Or alone as he ever was.

  “Forward,” he said. So they moved, spreading out across the deck.

  “Where are the flukeboats?” said Solemn Muffaz. Joron saw no boats stacked in the centre of the deck, had noticed no boats tied on behind either.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” said Joron, “you think they left their ship?”

  “Why leave a good ship out here in the mist and ice?” said Jennil.

  “Blood here,” said Gavith, pressing his hand against a patch of red ice.

  “And here,” said Yerffoeg. Joron walked to the nearest, Gavith, crouched near the mainspine holding up a hand to show red on his fingers.

  “Blood here too,” said Jennil from further down the deck.

  “Look!” said Oast of the seaguard and he bent over, coming up holding a shipwife’s two-tail hat.

  “Mutiny then,” said Solemn Muffaz. “The fear got to them.”

  “But where are the crew?” said Joron.

  “Hiding below maybe?”

  “We should go look,” said Joron. “They may join us.” They moved slowly along the deck, sand crunching underfoot and Joron saw how ice had been allowed to build up on rope and rail. Found more places where blood had been spilled to freeze upon the deck. Gavith pointed to seaward and Joron wondered what at, then he saw it, a curl of smoke rising from the galley’s chimney which stuck out the hull to the side. Joron nodded and then they headed down. The underdecks were brighter than on the black ship, all painted white with wanelights glowing along the sides. Flickering, dead eyes considering them. Light flooded in from open bowpeeks and all the hammocks were stowed away, as if for action. But the long table the crew ate at was up and even had food on it. Bone knives were scattered on the floor and the cabin walls that would usually be stripped down for action still stood. Joron’s little group picked their way through the underdeck, splitting up to examine the detritus strewn across it.

  “Whatever happened here,” said Jennil, “it happened fast. Time to strew the decks and untruss the bows, but not to clear for action.” Joron nodded, watching Solemn Muffaz pick up a knife from the floor.

  “Oast,” said Joron, “take the seaguard and go through the hold; Jennil, and Gavith, look to the hagbower and the armoury and all else on the lower deck. I want lists of anything useful to us. I will go check the shipwife’s cabin. Solemn Muffaz, check the other officers’ cabins and the gullaime nest.”

  A chorus of affirmatives greeted his orders and they parted. Joron could not suppress a shudder, there was something very wrong about this quiet, still ship in the mist. Farys’s talk of ghosts echoed loudly in his head as he entered the shipwife’s cabin. Found it neat, food on the desk and the shipwife’s logbook lying open on the floor, dropped but never picked up. The rear windows had been shattered and he reached out, saw blood on the glass. Beyond the broken windows Tide Child sat, his reflection shimmering upon the water. Farys stood on deck, saw Joron and gave him a nod; he nodded back before turning to look through the shipwife’s belongings. Nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary. Clothes he could take and have sewn to fit, a good sword – he would give that to Farys, she needed one. But all that was for later, for now he picked up the log book, written in code as he expected. He would have the cabin searched for books. The code may be breakable back in the Gaunt Islands.

  What had happened here?

  “Deckkeeper!” Solemn Muffaz from outside. Joron left the great cabin, found the big man peering out of a seaward bowpeek.

  “Ey, Solemn Muffaz?”

  “Thought I saw a flukeboat out there.”

  “Where?” Joron took out his nearglass and crouched, looking out the bowpeek.

  “Straight ahead, but it is gone now.” Joron raised the nearglass, scanning the flat water, finding nothing. “Maybe it was just movement in the mist, ice or somesuch,” said Solemn Muffaz. Joron was about to lower the nearglass, when he too saw something.

  “No,” he said, “you were right.” He altered the focus. “Wreckage, flotsam, a few sheets of varisk, it looks like.”

  “You think it was the ice men?”

  “I do not know,” said Joron, “but I think we should get on deck and start loading Tide Child with supplies. I do not believe in ghosts, Solemn Muffaz, but I do not like this place either.” The big man nodded and they headed up.

  Threads of mist were invading the air above the slate. Silky feelers making their way onto the deck, unwelcome stowaways reaching out icy fingers. In the back of his mind something lay, some remembrance of his father, some words that he could not quite reach. He turned, saw his small party moving back toward Tide Child.

  “Farys!” he shouted. “This ship is empty, get a crane rigged and our people ready, we’ll take everything from Keyshanpike that we can, then take the ship in tow. It will fetch a fine price and we need the coin.”

  “Ey, D’keeper,” said Farys, almost lost in the thickening mist. He was uncomfortable; that memory hanging in the back of his mind remained unreachable, but only just. It felt like a simple nudge would take him to it. Felt like he should pay it more attention. Mist and ships and ice. What was there?

  “Deckkeeper.” He turned to find Jennil waiting. “This ship is well stocked, Deckkeeper, everything we need, from ammunition to food to stores.”

  “I thought they threw over half their hold while chasing us.”

  “They must have been stuffed to the gills, fresh out of a port.” He nodded. Wondered for a moment what it must be like to command a ship so secure it could fly for months without coming in to port or stealing what it needed.

  “Jennil,” he said, that stray thought still worrying at him, “does anything about this seem familiar to you, from stories?”

  “Plenty of stories of ghost ships, Deckkeeper, found drifting like this.”

  “Yes, but the mi
st, gone then returning. I find it familiar. I hear my father’s voice. He told me so many stories, but they fade like the memory of his voice.”

  Jennil shrugged. “We never had time for stories when I grew up,” she said. “My father was a tailor and had too many children for his job to feed. I went straight to the ships at eight, never even got a laying night.” He wanted to apologise to her for some reason, but could not. It was not done, and he knew that if he did apologise it would only serve to discomfort her. Her face twisted, he could see the thoughts breezing across it. “Though, when I were just a runner on the Howling North, I remember a story. Old woman call Aishline used to tell it, of mists gone and then returned in the cold places.” She paused.

  “That is what I remember, Jennil, the mist.”

  “Oh,” said Jennil, and her face changed – shock, fear? Realisation? “No.”

  Then she was gone.

  Not walked away. Not run off in fear. Not hidden by the mist. Just gone.

  His face above the mask felt wet. He reached up, confused more than afeared, touched the skin around his eyes and took his hand away. Fingers red. Blood? Like when a gallowbow bolt struck a deckchilder, and bodies were completely destroyed. But this was no gallowbow bolt. He would have heard it, felt it. There had been no noise, no disturbance of the air.

  “Jennil!” he shouted her name which brought his party running.

  “What happened?” said Solemn Muffaz. “D’keeper, you are bleeding.”