by Rj Barker
“I am no better than your mother, or Karrad, happy to ship the dying to feed into vats in the hope of power.”
“No.” A sudden seriousness in her voice. She turned him so he looked at her. “That is wrong, Joron. Do not let them make you believe otherwise. You made a decision in battle, in war, in the moment. A cruel one, a hard one right enough. What was done by my mother, and Karrad, that was cold, and that was calculated.” She held up a hand, showed him how twisted her fingers were, how not all the nails had grown back. “Crush my hand in battle, I will curse you, but understand. Even torture me for answers needed in the moment, I may even understand that too. The doing of this though?” She rotated her hand, so she was looking at her palm and twisted fingers. “This was cold, Joron, done well past when it could help. They had taken all they could from me and still they did not stop.” She let her hand fall. “What is done in desperation can be terrible; what is done from cold calculation, well, that is evil. Or so I count it.”
“I am not sure those I took to the gallows would agree,” he said.
“Or those I raided for my mother, and whose children I stole,” she said quietly. “But we must make our case with the Hag for them, and hope for forgiveness by the fire from those we wronged. Terrible acts, Joron, they are often unthinking. We learn, and we get better. It is those who do not learn, or simply embrace and become inured to the terrible things we do that must be feared, and must be stopped.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I think Karrad is one of those people now, and he surrounds himself with those like him.” She looked at Joron. “I cannot change what I was, what I did cannot be made less wrong. But I can give all I have to stop those things happening again, and the world can ask no more of me.”
“Your mother…” he began.
“It hurts, Joron. I feel like I had only just begun to see the truth of her.” She bowed her head. Took a deep breath. Then looked up. “But make no mistake, Joron, for what she did? For the deaths of all those people who could not help themselves? If I had taken Bernshulme I would have led her to the gallows myself.” She turned and walked away before he could say any more.
In the morning they headed down the hill, fighting their way through the forest once more until they reached the bustling makeshift port they had originally arrived at. They were met by a phalanx of seaguard, all armoured and armed, who escorted them roughly through the crowds coming on shore and down to the beach where flukeboats waited. Gueste ushered them aboard one.
“I travel in consort with Karrad, escorting his flagship in my own command, Painful Loss. He has no wish to see you every day so I may see you another time, Twiner,” she said. “But do not worry, the shipwife you will travel with is an old friend of yours.” She smiled and turned away.
“Where are the gullaime?” said Joron, a sudden sense of panic rising, for any hope they had of escape rested on them. Gueste turned back.
“Do not worry, they are already loaded and you will travel amid their stink as you seem to like it so much.” Then she nodded to the flukeboat’s crew who pushed it up to the water and Joron and Meas were taken across to a waiting boneship, a two-ribber, named Wyrm Sither. As they climbed on board the shipwife was there to meet them, along with Tasser. It took a moment for Joron to place the man stood before him. When he did it was with a sinking feeling.
“Barnt,” he said.
“I am gratified you remember me,” he said, then he drew the straightsword he wore so Joron could see it. Something inside him tightened. That was his sword, the one he had been forced to kill Mevans with. Cwell had given it to Barnt a long time ago, to spite Joron. Then taken it back for him while an island disintegrated around them, to prove herself. “Kept Karrad had your belongings sent over, and in among them I found this. I must say, I am glad to have it back, it is far too good a weapon for someone who was dragged up from the docks to have.”
“I must admit,” said Joron, “I am surprised you survived the destruction of McLean’s Rock, Shipwife Barnt.”
“I am very much a survivor,” he said.
“Well,” said Joron, “I intend to have my sword back.”
“Over my corpse you will,” said Barnt, “and I doubt you are capable of besting me in an honourable fight.” He smiled and Joron thought there was something unbearably smug about the man. “But maybe if you prove yourself to Karrad you will earn your own weapon.” Joron, for just a second, considered launching himself at the man, but it was clear that was what Barnt wanted. Tassar too, so Joron took a deep breath instead. Let it out. Barnt looked at Meas, small and bent and hurt, dismissed her with sneer and then he saw Cwell. “You,” he said, and he pointed the tip of the sword at her. “You gave me this on McLean’s Rock.” He touched the scar on his face. Cwell nodded. “You and I have unfinished business.”
“Ey,” she said, “it is true. Should have killed you back on McLean’s Rock, but I were pressed for time. But that is the past now, I work with Karrad and our business will have to wait.”
“Take them below,” said Barnt, and Joron could not help being amused at the shipwife’s face when the seaguard took hold of him and Meas, but left Cwell on the deck.
38
A Deal Struck
Wyrm Sither left the makeshift port for Kluff Island, his hold full of squabbling gullaime and his slate decks full of deckchilder and seaguard. In the deckkeeper’s cabin sat Joron and Meas, both lost in their own worlds, both planning a terrible future for those above them. Occasionally he heard the voice of the shipwife giving orders. Often he thought of Gueste, and what he would do if he were ever alone with her and had a blade in his hand. During the march down the hill to the waiting flukeboats of Wyrm Sither Joron had only grown to hate her more. She was casually cruel to those under her command, just as when they had begun their journey she had been casually cruel to those in the makeshift market outside Bernshulme: her hard boots kicking out at soft bodies to make way, those beggars either too deformed or hurt to move quickly suffering the worst of it, the harshest words, the hardest blows.
For Meas, he was sure it was different. Sometimes he watched her, staring at her ruined hands, touching the bandages over her eye, and though he could never truly know what was going through her mind, he was sure he could guess. Thoughts of betrayal, all that time in a cell, time being tortured and she had thought it was her mother, only to find that she had been betrayed by one of the few people she had trusted. No doubt her mind now drifted through the tides of memory, considering every pain, every insult done to her, physical. And mental. And how she could lay them at the feet of a man she had once loved. No doubt she also thought of her mother, a woman more complex and committed to her than either of them had known. A woman she would never get to know.
He stood. Walked across to the bowpeek and pushed it open. Leaned out, the wind catching his braids and twisting them around behind his head. For’ard he saw the wide sea, an island rising to seaward of them that was thick with wild pinks and purples. Behind him the island of Shipshulme, gradually receding, and a line of ships, all heeled over as they caught the same wind Wyrm Sither rode. Six ships at the moment, in the middle of them the massive Arakeesian Dread. Four decks of gallowbows and power, eighteen corpselights dancing above him. Joron wondered if Karrad was truly aboard that ship, then was certain he must be. Karrad was not the type of man to trust his underlings, he would be here. But he was also not the kind of man to get too close to the sharp end of the wyrmpike so a place on the largest and safest ship made sense.
“They follow us, Shipwife,” he said. When there was no reply, he turned, found her sat and staring at her hands. Her mouth moving silently. “Shipwife!” He said it sharp, like a command when the deckchilder were slacking. She sat up straight, eye focused on him.
“Deckkeeper?”
“I said Karrad’s ships are following us, we draw them after us like longthresh following blood.” She stood, walked over and leaned out of the bowpeek with him, her hair blowing into his face, smelling of gr
ease and dirt.
“I count six,” she said, “one of them the Dread. My bet is he’s bringing everything he has to spare for when we meet with our fleet.” She leaned out further, staring and blinking at the ships silhouetted by Skearith’s Eye, the glare turning them into a line of black squares reflected in the ocean, a funeral procession of ships. On the highest mast of the Dread something red flared. “They have sent up a signal flare, Joron.” Something cold within him. “How many ships do you think he can bring and still leave some to defend the home isles?” she said.
“Twenty decent ships,” said Joron, “maybe thirty.” She nodded.
“And our fleet?”
“Twelve fighting ships.” She nodded to herself. “And two brownbones, but they hold all of our people.”
“Who leads it?” He pulled his head back in from the bowpeek, the air in the cabin feeling peculiarly still, and full of the smell of bodies now he was out of the fresh winds. Meas followed him, shutting the bowpeek and turning to him. “I asked a question, Deckkeeper.”
“Brekir,” he said.
“I am glad she still lives,” said Meas quietly. “She will know to keep the brownbones back when she is signalled for parlay.” She was utterly still for a moment. “How is he to find them?” She swore gently under her breath. “All these things I should know, should have discussed with you.” She turned away from him, he heard her breathing, a shudder of her shoulders. A fight within her. When she turned back there was the gleam of moisture beneath her eye. “But I will ask them now, no point in hiding from my mistakes.”
“I made arrangements with Brekir to leave someone on Kluff Island.”
“Will they stay if they see a white boneship coming?”
“Ey,” said Joron. “For ’tis just a fisher’s camp and nothing else to the unknowing.” Meas smiled at him. “From there we can get a message to Brekir.”
“It’s a fair bet that Karrad plans a trap, he is calling his fleet, he will try something.” Joron nodded.
“I do not doubt it. I will make sure the message I send…” He tailed off. “I act the shipwife, not the deckkeeper,” he said, and smiled. “Sorry, I forget I am in the presence of my shipwife.” He gave a bow of his head. She smiled in return, lifted her bandage and rubbed at the raw hollow beneath.
“It aches,” she said, “always feels like I have grit in it.”
“My missing leg aches constantly, it seems our minds refuse to believe what our bodies know.” She stared at him.
“Ey,” she said, her voice sounding very far away. “That is often the way.”
“What would you tell our fisher, Shipwife?”
“You know, Joron, you have been doing this for long on long without me.”
“But you are my shipwife,” he said, “and I follow your orders.” Rewarded with a smile. She pushed thick grey hair from her face.
“Very well. I would have Brekir hold back the brownbones, well over the horizon. And position our fleet near to the meeting in such a way they can use the prevailing winds. Send one ship only to the actual meeting, a fast one with plenty of gullaime aboard.” Joron nodded. Then Meas put her finger to her mouth, sucked on the knuckle. “You have been in contact with the Gaunt Islanders?” He nodded. “Trust them?”
“Not really,” he said.
“Trust them more than Karrad?”
“Their Bern is just as hungry for power as your mother ever was.” Meas looked up at the white overbones of the cabin.
“We should also send a ship to them,” she said, “tell them Karrad has the secret of raising keyshans. Tell them they’ll need every ship they have to stop him.” Joron nodded and Meas smiled. “You have thought of all this.” Joron shrugged, smiled back.
“There is another thing,” said Joron. “I am worried for the Gullaime. Madorra will kill it,” again, he caught himself, “will kill her, if he realises the Gullaime will never give him what he wants.” Meas nodded.
“I know. But that is a problem for when we are stood on Tide Child’s deck.” She held up a hand before Joron could speak. “The creature is dear to me as well. But we can do little from here. We must trust her to the Mother’s protection.” Joron nodded though he knew that the worry, that constant nagging awareness in the back of his mind, would not leave.
And so they flew on, all the time gathering more ships and hearing more feet on the slate deck above.
While they journeyed Meas’s health improved, if slowly. Some days he had his shipwife back, strong, sure and indomitable. Other days she was gone entirely. Would not look or speak to him, simply stared into the middle distance and her darkness was infectious. Joron felt it like a battering ram at the doors of his subconscious, pulling him down into the same dark maelstrom that subsumed Meas. On those days he let himself drift into the song of the sea. Where there had once been one song, now there were many. Those first songs had been quiet and slow, long, drawn-out notes that he had barely been aware of. But every day the songs became louder and, he was sure, faster. The notes not quite as long, not quite as drawn-out and there was a growing surety within him that the songs were running counterpoint to each other. That in these slow voices was a call and response. A grammar of music that he did not understand. He was also sure that there were many singers, far more than he could account for in the fifteen or so keyshans that had been reported so far. Hundreds of voices, and when he thought of what that meant then he felt a similar darkness within to that which must be consuming his shipwife. Because if the keyshans were waking, then they brought the destruction of the islands, fire and death, just like the prophecy of the Windseer had said.
“We’re slowing.”
“What?” he said, shaken from his reverie. The singing fading to the back of his mind taking all associated thoughts with it. He wondered if the Gullaime was still alive. A moment later a knock on the cabin door and Cwell walked in.
“Shipwife, Deckkeeper,” she whispered.
“I had thought you had forgotten about us,” said Joron.
“Ey, well, Barnt is hardly trusting of me, and does not know I am here now. But he is busy with the ship. Quickly, you must tell me what message you wish delivered to the island.”
“Why?” said Meas.
“I had planned to take it,” said Joron.
“They will not let you out of their sight, Deckkeeper,” said Cwell. “Barnt wants to send your message with his own people, but we may be able to convince him it is wiser to send me.” He looked to Meas. She looked to him. “We do not have much time, Deckkeeper, tell me now what you really wish said for they will be listening to anything said on deck when we approach the island,” said Cwell. He was about to ask why he should trust her, then stopped. He trusted her, she was his crew.
“Very well,” he said. “I will tell you our plan, what we have of one, in full.” She stooped to listen and, when it was done, the instructions committed to Cwell’s memory, she left, vanishing into the underdecks and he felt the ship coming to a full stop. When that action was finished, seastay dropped, wings furled, Tassar and two seaguard opened the door.
“You are wanted on deck,” he said. Joron and Meas stood. “Not her,” said Tasser.
“She needs air,” said Joron. “We have been stuck in this cabin far too long. There can be no exchange if she sickens and dies.” Tassar stated at him, then looked to Meas. “Where is she likely to run to?”
“Very well,” said Tassar, “but I will be watching.”
It was a relief to be out of the cabin, to stand on the slate and feel the salt breeze in his hair and against his face, where the mask did not cover it. To hear the crack of rope and the splash of sea against the hull.
“We are at your island,” said Barnt; he wore a full dress uniform, his jacket strung with feathers and crossbows.
“Then I will go,” said Joron.
“I think not,” said Barnt. “Give me your message. Tassar and I will deliver it.” Joron shook his head.
“A Hundred Isles ship
will have our contact on the island nervous already. If they see you going ashore they are likely to flee and all you will find is a deserted campsite.” Barnt looked him over, his gaze travelling to Joron’s missing foot.
“You are pitiable, Twiner,” he said, staring at the bone spur. “Truly pitiable. Do you think I cannot see through your transparent attempt to pass on messages that will aid your fellows? Very well, you go, and we will accompany you.”
“It will not work,” said Meas. “They will not trust whatever message is delivered with you there.”
“We are only delivering notice of a meeting place,” said Barnt, plainly frustrated.
“Our fleet will scatter if some attempt is not made to plan more than that,” said Meas.
“We have spent a year flying rings around you,” said Joron. “They will see it for a trap if some attempt is not made to deliver a secret message.” Barnt stared at him. Then Cwell stepped forward.
“I will take the message,” said Cwell.
“Betrayer,” hissed Meas. Barnt smiled at that.
“Is nothing personal,” said Cwell to her, “is just I have found I live longer if I try to stay on the winning side is all.”
“And what trick will you try and sell them?” said Barnt.
“I will tell them not to bring their fleet, and barely crew what ship they do send. To rob you of the trap you plan.”
“But we do not plan a trap,” said Barnt. “We do not need to, we hold all the cards.”
“Exactly,” said Cwell. Barnt thought about this for a moment, glanced at Tassar, who nodded.
“Very well,” he said. He took a packet from his jacket. “This is a map with where to meet on it. We will wait here until you return.” Cwell nodded and with that she went over the side and into a waiting flukeboat, and Joron and Meas were taken back to their cabin to wait.
39
The Meeting