by Rj Barker
“It should not be you,” said Coult. “Send any other of us, with a force of arms. You are needed.”
“I understand why you do not wish me to go,” said Joron. “But it must be me. If Meas has been mistreated then it must be a face she knows that comes for her. And I will take Mevans with me, he knows the island well, and I will take a couple of others who I trust and Meas knows.” A babble of voices once more, raised and arguing across him. Telling him his place, his responsibility, what they needed, what was best for their fleet.
“He is right,” said Brekir, smashing her hand down on the table and standing. “The deckkeeper is right!” she said again, looking round the table, meeting every eye.
“Even if he is right,” said Turrimore, “and I will take you at your word for it, Brekir, as we have flown together many a year, it seems a terrible risk. He is the Black Pirate,” she said. “He is us.”
“He is us, it is true. But,” Brekir looked down at Joron, “and forgive what I say here, Deckkeeper – he may be our leader, but we are bound together by Meas. By her name, and more, by the legend we have made her into.” Her eyes scanned those gathered, meeting every face, a nod for each at the table. “Every woman and man has her name on their lips when they work and when they fight. They ask her protection as often as they ask it of the Mother. They swear vengeance in her name as if she were the Hag. She is more than a person now, she is a figurehead.”
“She may not even be alive,” said Coult. “And I say that with no pleasure for I respect her as much as any.”
“No,” said Joron, “she may not. But I believe she is. I believe they keep her for what they believe she can do.”
“If news of Spantonnis Bank reaches them though…” said Adrantchi.
“Yes, and that is another reason for us to act quickly,” said Joron. “For me to act quickly.”
“Meas knows me, you know,” said Coult. “I could go. She would recognise my face.”
“Ey,” said Brekir, “but who wants the first friendly face they see to be yours?” Gentle laughter at that. “More seriously, how long would a man with the accent of the Southern Gaunts last in Bernshulme?”
“I could keep my mouth shut,” said Coult. “Besides, the deckkeeper is hardly likely to walk the streets of Bernshulme unrecognised.”
“It has to be me,” said Joron, quietly. “It is not just about who she will know, it is about the myth of it, Coult. The idea of it.” Now he met every eye around the table. “We have a people, and Meas bade us look after them, they are ours. And all we have done is in service to her. But lives such as ours? They are not long lives and we all know that. Many have fallen.”
“Too many,” said Brekir quietly.
“Ey,” said Coult, “we have dipped paint for too many, and will dip paint for many more.”
“That is just it,” said Joron. “What Meas is, what I have become, as Brekir said, it is something more than a commander. Joron Twiner is not the Black Pirate, and you all know that. I am just a man. But to so many of those we protect, the Black Pirate is more than human. And… and…” His words faltered. He closed his eyes. Then he lifted his head. “And there is this,” he said, removing his scarf and revealing the marks of the rot on his face. He did not know what he had expected from them. Fear? Revulsion? But he saw none of it. And he saw no pity, which warmed him inside for it was pity that he had feared the most.
“I am sorry, Joron,” said Brekir.
“Do not be,” he said, then replaced the material over his mouth and nose. “I have known I would die from the moment I set my feet on the slate of the Tide Child. Truthfully, I have lived far longer than I expected. But I do not want to go down to the keyshan’s rot. Those on Tide Child saw how it took Coxward, saw his decline. You have seen it in others.” He tapped his fingernails on the table and when he spoke next he spoke quietly, staring down at the table. He watched the liquid in the glasses of those gathered as it gently moved with the motion of the ship at its staystone. “I know you all believe Meas is dead. I know it is likely true, though I refuse to believe it myself.” He looked up, “But it does not matter. Meas ties us together, as does the Black Pirate. All we have is names and the stories we have created, that is all. We make myths for our people to bind them together. But if the Black Pirate dies of keyshan’s rot, raving and screaming the way Coxward did, then what kind of story is that? All the victories, the last-minute escapes, they will be forgotten.”
“Much of what have we done should be forgotten,” said Adrantchi.
“Do you think I do not know that?” bit out Joron. “Do you think I glory in anything we did? The raids, the deaths?”
“No,” said Adrantchi, and looked away. “Of course not. I spoke out of turn.”
“And I do not resent you for it, Adrantchi, you have lost much, we all have.”
“Ey,” said Brekir. “Throw paint on that for truth.”
“The worst of what was done will be forgotten, my friends. It will die with me. It will be blamed on me, and that is right. But if I die going to rescue Meas… If I simply vanish?” He looked to Brekir, for understanding.
“Then you leave your people with a legend.”
“Our people,” said Joron.
“Ey, our people,” she said. “And what better legend to give them? That Meas’s son died going against impossible odds to save her?” There was silence then. Coult picked up his drink and took a sip.
“I can think of a better one,” he said. All eyes to him. “That he brings the shipwife back.” There was a moment of silence.
“Well,” said Joron, “I must admit that is my preferred option.”
Gentle laughter around the table.
“What of us, Deckkeeper?” said Turrimore. “Do we parade our fleet out there for nothing? If you do not come back, what of your people then?”
Brekir laughed to herself.
“You are a clever one, Joron.”
“What have I missed here?” said Coult.
“Joron is a threat to the Tenbern, our fleet under him is a threat to her. But without him, we are just a bunch of criminals. She cannot give him what he wants, but she can take pity on his lost people, I reckon. Give us an island, somewhere harsh, no doubt. Unfriendly. Probably demand we give all our ships to her.”
“We become Gaunt Islanders once more,” said Coult.
“Those that can bear it, ey,” said Joron. “It is not what I wished for us. But it is more than the Hundred Isles would offer. Brekir can arrange it, she is still on good terms with the Bern of the Gaunt Islands.”
Coult shook his head. “I came here to plan war, and it has turned into a wake.” He took a drink.
“All Meas ever wanted was peace,” said Brekir into the silence.
“And a poor job I have done of that,” said Joron.
“Enough pity,” said Coult. “You have done what you must and we have still not answered the biggest question. If you are determined to sacrifice yourself so that we may scrape out a life somewhere arid and lifeless, how do we get you into the Hundred Isles?”
“Trade,” said Joron, glad to be away from the subject of his choices.
“Trade?” said Adrantchi.
“Ey,” said Joron. “Mulvan Cahanny’s organisation controls all crime in Bernshulme. With the Hundred Isles under such pressure, from both us and from the Gaunt Islanders, smuggling will be rampant and profitable.”
“So what, we raid a smugglers’ lair and steal their ships?” said Coult.
“Won’t work,” said Brekir, “there’ll be all manner of code and signals pre-arranged to get ships through. We need to take a code book as well, that’s if they have one. A lot of them just memorise what they need to know. So we’ll have to take someone important alive and persuade them to tell us what we need.”
“That will be hard,” said Turrimore, “most of Cahanny’s people would rather die than betray him and face the consequences of it.”
“There is another way,” said Joron.
>
“Ey?”
“Tenbern Aileen knows all that happens on her islands. She gave me the locations of the islands black-market goods are run to Bernshulme from months ago, in hope I raid them.”
“And?” said Brekir.
“We find Cahanny’s people and ask them to smuggle me in.”
“And you think that likely, that smugglers can be trusted?” said Brekir. “You are the most wanted man in the whole Hundred Isles. They’ll betray you in a loosing and live like fifteenbern on the ransom.”
“Oh, I know that,” said Joron. “So Joron Twiner will not be going. Someone far more important will be, someone they will be more than happy to give passage to, along with her servant.”
“And who is that?” said Adrantchi. He looked genuinely puzzled.
“My shadow, Cwell,” he said. “She is Mulvan Cahanny’s niece.” Then there were smiles around the table, and drinks were raised at this clever and fleetlike idea.
“Well,” said Brekir, “in that case, let us drink to successful family reunions.”
25
The Woman and the Servant
It was hard to leave Tide Child behind, hard to leave his people behind and hard to become a simple traveller on another shipwife’s ship. To walk the slate with Brekir and see a rope not wound just how he would have his deckchilder do it, a wing not furled just so, a gallowbow trussed in a way that was slightly unfamiliar to him, and yet he could not give voice to it or correct it. For the long weeks of the journey, guided by the fair hand of the east wind, he had bitten his lip beneath the mask. Though he knew Brekir a solid shipwife – one with far more experience than him – in truth, he felt she could drive her ship, small as it was, more quickly. Could raise more wing, could be more daring when the winds tore at it, could push harder during the night.
But he said nothing.
One morning, walking the deck through a soft mist, the water chuckling along the side of Snarltooth, he saw a loose flap on the material spread over the flukeboat in the centre of the deck. He almost spoke, ordered a nearby deckchilder to deal with it. But instead bit his lip, held his council and Brekir – at that moment passing – laughed quietly to herself.
“I do not mind if you give the order, Deckkeeper,” she said. “I do not even mind if you wish me to step aside so you may command. In truth, it may be easier than watching you fight with yourself every day.” He did not quite know what to say, embarrassment that he had been so transparent was foremost in his mind, then annoyance that Brekir had said nothing – because if she had noticed he was sure every other among her crew had. They had probably been laughing at him behind his back. Having a fair old joke. Maybe he should take her command? Maybe he could run this ship quicker and faster and harder and, and, and… Then he laughed to himself. Though a darker feeling lurked behind the humour. Was this sudden anger with someone he liked to think of as a friend the rot talking? The start of the dissolution of his mind into nothing but emotion? The wall in his mind between feeling and action being eroded the way the rot eroded the skin of his face? But he did not do anything, only shook his head and walked down the deck with her. He knew that Brekir was fleet, more fleet than he had ever been, and she had flown this ship throughout the archipelago, fought it, beaten bigger ships than Snarltooth, taken bigger ships than Snarltooth. If anyone knew how to fly this ship quickly and efficiently it was her.
Not him.
“No, Brekir, this command is nothing but yours and I am sorry for my ill spirits. The Hag dogs my every footstep lately.” She came to stand by him, gently leading him over to the rail so they could watch the water. Having to provide support for him as he no longer wore his bone spur, too much a symbol of the Black Pirate – now he had only a varisk peg and found balancing with it hard so was forced to practise.
“We run eight beakwyrms at the front.”
“A good speed, Brekir, I know that.”
“I am maybe gentler with my people than you,” she said.
“It is your ship.”
“Ey,” she said, “but I say again, I would rather have you comfortable and—”
“No, Brekir,” he said. “I must travel with Cwell to Bernshulme and if I am not to raise suspicion then I must learn not to act like I am used to ordering around all those within earshot.” Brekir turned to him, her long, dour face full of hidden amusement.
“I fear you must try a lot harder, Twiner,” she said. And he nearly bit at her, for not using his rank in front of the common deckchilder. Then laughed to himself.
“I fear I must, Shipwife,” he said, “you are right.”
“We will be there by tonight,” she said. “Jirton’s Isle will dock any ship that has trade, but it is riddled with spies and ne’er-do-wells.” Cwell came to join them at the rail.
“D’keeper,” she said, “I know it pains you, but you must no longer wear the mask.”
“It is common, for those afflicted to cover the sores,” he said.
“Ey, D’keeper,” she said, “it is. I will get you a headrag, to wear over your hair, it changes the look of someone, as does a different hat. But the sores on your face, D’keeper,” she said, “I know you hate them, but so do others.”
“It will draw attention,” he said.
“Ey,” she said, “but it will also deflect it, for none think the Black Pirate has the rot. They will think you some poor afflicted soul and want little to do with you. Faces will be turned from you. In the Hundred Isles, we like not those we think are sick.”
“She is right, Twiner,” said Brekir.
“It is hard,” he said. “I like not who I see below the mask I wear.”
“Few of us do,” said Brekir.
“That is true, D’keeper,” said Cwell.
“Twinder,” said Joron.
“What?”
“You cannot call me D’keeper if I am your servant. So call me Twinder, it is near enough my name for me to answer without thinking.” Cwell stared at him.
“I cannot believe we had not thought of that,” said Brekir, “what fools we are.”
“Not fools,” said Cwell. “’Tis just the way of woman and man to inhabit the world they live in. Not to think about the one they shall inhabit tomorrow.”
“I have never taken you for a philosopher, Cwell,” said Brekir.
“I am not,” she said. “Merely a realist. And Twinder is too near, far too near. Too good as well,” she said. “For a woman of any means, which I am as Cahanny’s niece – well, you are either an old servant who I have liked and trusted and taken pity on now you have become sick, or I have fallen upon hard times, and a rot-kissed servant is all I can afford.”
“There is little pity in the Hundred Isles,” said Joron.
“True,” said Brekir.
“Then I will call you Servant,” she said and turned to walk away, stopping a few paces down the slate. “And you are dressed too well, Servant,” she said. “Your jacket cost more than everything I wear. Your sword is nothing a servant would wear, you should give it to me.” They stared at one another for a moment. A memory shared between them of when she had taken the sword from him once before. Then Joron unhooked the straightsword. Passed it to Cwell. “You are not worried I may steal it?” she said.
“Not after all the trouble it caused for you to bring it back the first time.” She nodded.
“Ey, that is true, Servant,” she said. “That is true.”
They made port at Jirton’s Isle just as night was falling and the gion and varisk jungle, now rampant over the islands, was painted as black as Brekir’s skin. The ship was quiet as it glided in toward the island, and Joron watched the merry lights of the port, heard the sounds of song and laughter drift across the bay toward them from the town. He stood watching, felt someone come to stand by him, glanced across to see Mevans.
“We are slowing, Mevans.”
“We cannot fly right in,” said Mevans. “Brekir says they have a chain set across the harbour mouth, will wreck the ship that
tries to force entry. So we must wait for their pilot to come out and guide Snarltooth in.”
“It is set up like a military harbour.”
“Cahanny runs this place and he is no fool,” said Mevans. He heard Cwell step up from behind him.
“Mevans is right. My uncle always had contacts within the Grand Bothy, and with the Hundred Isles squeezed by our actions he will have become more powerful, I imagine.”
“So,” said Mevans, “this place exists with the help of the Thirteenbern, you suspect?”
“It is likely,” said Cwell. “And maybe the Tenbern also, as we know, such places are useful.”
“They could just pull up the chain behind us, trap us in there,” said Joron.
“They will not.” He turned to find Brekir behind him. “I have been here many times before,” she said. “And Cahanny is, at heart, a smuggler. If he shows his hand once, locks us in, he loses the trust of all those who would trade with him outside the law, Hundred and Gaunt Islanders. I have no doubt he reports all our movements, but his lieutenant, Broom, will not trap us here if he wishes to carry on with his trade. There are always others who would host the smugglers.”
“And you are sure of this?”
“As sure as I can be, Servant.” She grinned at him.
“Something comes,” said Cwell, pointing towards the island.
“The red lantern, it is the pilot boat coming,” said Brekir. “She’ll ask us to come in by flukeboat, say there is no room in the harbour at Broomstown.” Joron squinted into the night.
“It does not look full.”
“It is not. She simply expects her palm to be filled with coin.” And so it was, greetings were exchanged. Much umming and ahhing over whether the harbour could fit in a ship of the size of Snarltooth, and whether they would indeed trust a ship of war, and a ship of the Black Pirate’s no less, in their small harbour. Then more talk was made, back and forth before a price was agreed on – one quite exorbitant to Joron’s thinking – and ropes were thrown over so Snarltooth could be slowly towed in through the gap between the moles of the harbour. As the ship passed the towers on the end of the harbour walls Joron saw they were tracked by two massive gallowbows, as big as any he had ever seen.