by Rj Barker
“And ask Garriya for something to help you sleep,” he said.
“Do not fuss, Joron.” She stood and walked toward the door, making him move out of the way.
“But you will ask,” he said. “Or I will tell her you are having trouble sleeping, and then you will have to answer to her.” A trace of a smile on Meas’s face as she turned to consider him.
“Very well,” she said. “I will ask or you will have her chasing me round the deck with bottles and pills.”
She left him standing in the great cabin and he went to the desk, tidied up her charts and under them he found her journal, laying open beneath them. He remembered seeing this book many times, wondering what was in it. At first, because he wanted to use those things against her, then, from curiosity. He knew it was written in code, and he knew how to decipher that code as she had supplied him with the cipher, long ago in Sleighthulme when she thought she went to her death and he would need to read her orders. Day after day he had looked at her journal in its place within the desk, and it had become a talisman to him. He had believed that if he opened it, read it, then it was as good as admitting she was gone so there had been little temptation to do so. It was a thing put away and forgotten about. But now he was worried about her. He knew her most private thoughts would be in that journal. Maybe that violation of her space was the right thing to do; it was his job, after all, to ensure the shipwife was making good decisions.
He shut the book.
If she worried, she would tell him. If she doubted, she would share those doubts. Eventually.
He left the great cabin, only to be intercepted by the Gullaime as soon as he entered the gloomy underdeck. She let out a loud squawk, span on the spot and chanted his name over and over again.
“Joron Twiner! Joron Twiner!” Interspersing the chants and fluttering and dancing with yarks and calls and whistles.
“Calm down, Gullaime,” he said, “what has happened? What is the problem?”
“Time, Joron Twiner!” she squawked. “Come! Come!” Then she hopped away from him toward her nest cabin while Joron stood, bemused for a moment. “Come!” she said again, then evidently finding his lack of movement displeasing she hopped back, grabbed his sleeve with her beak and pulled him forward.
“Your egg!” he said, realising what the windtalker must mean. “I am coming. Gullaime, let go or you will ruin my jacket, by the Hag.” But he was filled with excitement and the Gullaime was the same, no fear here, not like with Farys. The windtalker seemed not to be at all worried. Though worry fell on Joron enough for both of them, like clouds over Skearith’s Eye. He wanted, as he walked to the nest-cabin, to tell the Gullaime she must stay quiet, that if the chick did not survive the crew must not know. For as much as Farys the Gullaime was loved, and the death of her chick would ripple through the crew. And where Farys would have borne up if she lost the child, would have held her misery and pain in, the Gullaime was not a creature that could dissemble. Everything she felt was immediately passed through her body and either came from her beak or was shown in her actions. He dreaded to think of the effect the Gullaime, sloping around the decks in abject misery of grief, would have on the crew.
“Come! Come!” shouted the Gullaime, and he did. Put aside his thoughts and went into the nest cabin. Watched as the windtalker scuttled in between the threads of rope and string and myriad jingling, jangling, glinting and shining trinkets to the nest. There to sit before the egg, shining eyes focused on it. Her head flicked to Joron. Then back to the egg. And back to Joron and again and again and again. “Listen listen,” she said.
Joron did. At first he heard nothing, then, behind the normal noises of the ship he heard a very faint, very high-pitched chirping.
“That is it?” he said softly. The Gullaime nodded its head, two quick nods.
“Windtalker,” she said. Joron approached, coming as close as he could.
“Should we help it get out?” He reached out his hand and the Gullaime snapped at him.
“No,” she said. “Make own way. You listen. Listen.”
“Very well,” he said, and he did. But not only with his ears, he listened to the song within him, the twisting, looping curling song of the isles. He could make out the song of the keyshans, all very far away but slowly growing in volume, and his song and the Gullaime’s song and something else. Something new. So quiet and soft to be barely there but so very bright. A new song, full of yearning, but also full of hope and excitement. It was similar to the melodies he heard from the Gullaime when she chirped and sang to herself, but very definitely different. A melody that had never been heard before in the whole archipelago, and it filled him with wonder.
He heard a second noise, overlooked at first. The same gentle tapping he had heard before, but louder and quicker and more insistent. The Gullaime focused on the egg and Joron saw lines appear on the purple surface, one, then two, then more and a tiny bit of the shell fell away, the chirping from within rising in volume and the Gullaime, without moving at all, appeared to double her focus on the egg. Joron found he was holding his breath.
Tap
Tap
Tap
As constant and rhythmic as sand falling through a glass, and with every tap a little more of the shell fell away until, eventually, the top of the egg collapsed and something within squeaked in outrage, shook itself, sending bits of eggshell flying, and raised its head.
So small.
So incredibly ugly.
And yet so wonderful.
Huge eyes, not yet open, but glowing beneath the closed lids. The sharp beak, like the Gullaime’s in miniature, but tipped with a small horn for breaking the egg. Her skin pink, covered with thin, yet-to-be feathers that were black, soaked through with the liquid of the egg. Then one eye opened, bright and glowing just like her mother’s, then the other. She looked about the cabin, taking it all in, tiny wings flapping uselessly. Her gaze found the Gullaime, recognised something in her and made a soft sound. A high-pitched “ah-rarr?” The Gullaime answered with the same noise and the chick tried to climb out of the egg using her wingclaws, fell backwards, small clawed feet beating uselessly at the air while she squeaked and chirped to herself until she was righted. Then once more she set to climbing, this time making it out of the egg, out of the nest, falling over again, struggling to right herself. When she finally did she squatted before the Gullaime, managing to look oddly bad tempered. The Guilliame fished about within her robes, finding a morsel of food which she dropped into the chick’s mouth.
“She is wonderful,” said Joron. Wondering at this creature, no bigger than Farys’s babe but already far more able.
“Yes yes,” said the Gullaime gently, “wonderful.” She picked the chick up, placing it within her robe. A moment later the chick’s tiny, ugly head stuck out of the feathers at the Gullaime’s shoulder, studying Joron.
“What will you call her?” he asked.
The Gullaime let out a short song. Then yarked to herself, scaring the chick which vanished into its mother’s feathers and the Gullaime had to coo and coax it to come out. When it finally did, the gullaime turned to Joron. “That gullaime name,” she said, calling out the short song again. “Give human name too.” The Gullaime used her beak to pluck the chick from her shoulder, then passed it over. Joron quickly put out his hands and the chick was dropped into them. She was warm, so very warm. He held her close, cradling it against him and was filled with such joy as he had rarely known.
“And what name will that be?” said Joron softly, looking down at it.
“Shorn,” said the Gullaime. “Will call Shorn. After father.”
50
The Turn
Though the horizon to their rear was full of ships, their pursuers impossible to forget, the mood aboard Tide Child was buoyant. Farys’s child, and then the Gullaime’s chick, had raised the mood of those aboard. Meas being back on the rump helped, Joron was sure of that. She had slept, looked less worn, and if she was worried about the ships
behind them then she gave no sign of it. Three times a day she would bring Aelerin up and they would take measurements – of Skearith’s Eye, of the wind – mark their place against the vast and rising towers of Skearith’s Spine, and lastly, always lastly, mark the places of the pursuing fleet. Then the courser would scuttle down to the main cabin to place their measurements on their charts. Among the crew there were jokes and mocking of the Hundred Isles fleet as, though it pursued them, it did not seem to gain. This they blamed on poor skills and worse ships – “Not a one can touch Tide Child, ey D’keeper?” was a thing he heard from every other mouth. Though Joron was not so sure it was a simple as the crew believed.
He kept busy running the ship. Farys was not ready to take her place by him yet, and though she protested otherwise neither Meas nor Garriya would let her back on deck in an official capacity. Still, she regularly came up on deck with the tiny scrap of life that was Muffaz strapped to her and walked round with Joron. The crew took great delight in seeing her and these violent women and men became as gentle as the softest breeze when faced with her child.
And the same with Shorn, though the gullaime chick was as different to the human babe as could be. Where Muffaz was helpless, Shorn was learning at a rate that Joron could barely believe. Only a couple of days old and barely up to his knee but she could already say a few words – though she displayed a worrying affinity for Black Orris and the words she had picked up were, maybe, not the ones Joron would have chosen for a child. She could walk too, and was just as curious as the Gullaime, though much smaller. Joron found himself either shouting at the Gullaime to keep her offspring under control or in a constant sense of heightened alertness as deckchilder moved around her, their bare feet which could easily break her delicate bones hammering on the deck. Though truthfully, the gullaime chick was in little danger, few people were as aware of their surroundings as deckchilder, and those that were maybe not as careful as they should be around Shorn quickly learned that though young, she could give a painful bite if she felt threatened. Once that bite was delivered she would scurry back to her mother and hide in her feathers, her small head peeking out of the Gullaime’s feathery shoulders, turning the windtalker into a strange, and quite foul-mouthed, two-headed creature.
Though Shorn’s presence was joy for the deckchilder, Joron had eventually banned the young gullaime from all but the quieter rump of the deck for his own sanity.
On the evening of the ninth day Meas requested Joron to her cabin, he handed control of the ship to Barlay and went below.
He found her standing before the window watching the Hundred Isles fleet. Her body stiff, as if she held every muscle in tension. Aelerin, to one side of her, gave Joron a nod and a smile but they looked every bit as tense as Meas.
“That fleet out there,” said Meas, “they do not catch us, and that bothers me.”
“It has played upon my mind as well, Shipwife,” he said.
“Is it not good,” said Aelerin softly, “that they cannot overtake us?”
“The Arakeesian Dread is not a fast ship,” said Meas, “but needless to say, even with that in mind, it is faster than the brownbones we fly with. They should be catching us.”
“But they do not,” said Joron.
“No,” said Meas. “Which begs the question, why?”
“You have said before, Shipwife,” said Joron, “that you believe he is a coward, afraid to bring us to the bow. Could it be that simple?”
“I think not,” she said. “He may indeed be a coward but he intends on being the first man to rule the Hundred Isles.” She turned away from the window to look at him. “He cannot afford to look weak in front of his shipwives, they would throw him overboard.”
“Maybe he just wishes us gone,” said Aelerin quietly. “Maybe he simply follows us to make sure we leave his waters and that will be that, we will never have to throw our ships into battle against him.”
“It seems unlikely,” said Meas. “The keyshans are rising, and if he believes, even for a second, that Joron may have any control over them, then he cannot risk him getting to the Gaunt Islanders.”
“Yes,” said Aelerin. “So in that case why not catch us, and force us to battle? It makes no sense. He has all the advantages.”
“Does he fear I will bring the keyshans down on him?” said Joron.
“He may,” said Meas.
“Surely then,” said Aelerin, “he should hasten to battle. Time passes, more keyshans will rise or we will be near islands with windspires.” Meas sat. Tapped her finger on her desk and as she did Joron remembered something said by Karrad back in Bernshulme. Something that sent a coldness through his body. A terrible feeling. A fear like few he had known.
“Karrad,” said Joron, “when we spoke in his rooms, said he was in touch with the Gaunt Islanders.” Meas stared at him, tapping her finger on the dark surface of the desk.
“You think he has some form of agreement with them?” she said. “He did not seem open to an alliance when we suggested it.”
“He need not be their ally,” said Joron. “It could be that they have decided among themselves that I am simply too dangerous. And as the keyshans are rising anyway, they do not need me.”
“You think they will move against us?” said Aelerin.
“That is an overt action,” said Meas, “with risks, if they believe Joron can bring keyshans to his call. Remember none really know what he can do.” She looked at the charts before her, “But it would not shock me if they simply closed Namwen’s Pass to us.”
“Then Karrad would have no need to hurry,” said Aelerin, coming to the same slow, horrible realisation that had crept down Joron’s spine moments ago. “He follows until it is too late for us to escape, and we find ourselves stuck between Skearith’s Spine and his fleet. Then he can destroy us at his leisure.” Meas nodded.
“He herds us like kivelly to the slaughter,” said Aelerin.
“It is possible,” said Meas.
“Even if he herds us,” said Joron. “It does not mean we are definitely lost.” All eyes turned to him. “Tenbern Aileen is canny, and if she wants my power, what better way to ensure it gets to her than to have Indyl Karrad safely escort us all the way to her territory?”
“That does sound like the sort of thing Aileen would do,” said Meas. “Woman has plans within plans.” Meas stood, turned back to stand before her great windows, not speaking as the wake of Tide Child stretched out behind her. “We will know if this pass is closed, because Brekir will tell us,” she said.
“If her ship is not destroyed,” said Joron.
“Many have tried to end Brekir,” said Meas, “and none have succeeded. If anyone can outthink the Tenbern it is her.” Silence, then Aelerin added:
“Or you, Shipwife, of course.” He heard Meas give an amused grunt.
“Of course,” she replied. “First, though, we must know if we are being herded, or if it is just that Karrad is a very poor commander. I will signal Coult to take Last Light and Waveturner and steer as if they are making a break from our fleet. We will see how they react.”
“And if it turns out we are being herded to Namwen’s Pass?” said Aelerin.
“Then we must head that way still,” said Meas. “If we do not meet Brekir coming the other way then we know for sure this is a trap. Until then we must presume that the lure of Joron’s power is enough to bring Tenbern Aileen to our aid and hope we see Brekir making all speed for us with the Gaunt Islands fleet on our side.”
“If we do not,” said Aelerin, “what then?”
“We fly north, and Joron will raise every keyshan he can.”
“We fly the sea in hope then?” said Joron.
“Ey,” said Meas, “but has that not ever been our way?”
51
The Tying of the Knot
The next morning they watched Coult in his Sharp Sither with Last Light and Waveturner split from the fleet, heading westward to see if Karrad sent ships to head them off. Meas stood, sta
tue-still on the rising and falling deck of Tide Child, staring forward through her nearglass. The air was another couple of degrees colder, the seas rose and fell a little further, the waves were a little sharper crested. In the north, between squalls of freezing rain, Joron could see the Northstorm, the greatest and most furious of the walls of cloud that ringed the Scattered Archipelago. Only a line, a faraway line, the cloud so black it looked as if ink had been spilled across the sea, and below that a lighter line of long low islands.
Joron wrapped his stinker coat around himself, the sores on his arms, legs and face stung as saltwater found its way through his clothes and mask. He tried not to think, for since the meeting with Meas and Aelerin he only had one thought: if the Gaunt Islands had turned against them, where would they run to? The plan of heading further north was all well and good but what would happen if they did escape? What then? He hoped Meas had something, some idea she kept close to her chest – he knew it was often her way. Maybe she knew an island that was defensible and could supply enough crops to feed their people, they could not number over a thousand now. And if they escaped Karrad’s fleet, rising keyshans and the skirts of the Northstorm, he suspected they would number much less.
He racked his mind, trying to think of some place they could go, failing.
“I will do my rounds,” he shouted into the growing wind and Meas nodded. Still staring ahead. Then she pivoted on her foot to look behind at the pursuing fleet. It remained on station. Not falling behind, not catching up. Those ships were beginning to weigh on him. It was not the fight that was hard, as he had heard more than one old hand say, it was the waiting. The moments while you stood there under shot, the enemy raining destruction down on you and you not able to answer. This was like that, though the shot they rained down was not a physical threat, it was a draining, a shadow in the mind. He wondered if he should bring the Gullaime and Shorn up on deck, or ask Farys to bring up Muffaz, or maybe both would lighten his mood. He looked around, the flukeboat, neatly tied down over the central hatch. The great bone windlass was newly oiled. The shot was well stacked and secure. All was as it should be and he itched for some indiscretion or fault he could point out, something for him to do to make himself feel useful.