Call of the Bone Ships

by Rj Barker

  In Meas’s cabin they stood while she stared at the ledger. On her desk was a loose assortment of scraps of parchment, each scribbled over in her beautiful hand, and as they entered she gathered them together, twisted them into a taper which she lit from one of the wanelights on the back wall. When the parchment was burning good and well she opened one of the rear windows and let it fall, lost forever in the great waters of the Scattered Archipelago, and that probably for the best if those scraps were what Joron thought they must be: lists of who she considered loyal and who she considered not – and maybe her plans on how to deal with them.

  “Gullaime,” said Meas.

  “Shipwife,” said the gullaime, and it moved its head down, so it appraised her from just above the height of her desk, its head low and tilted to one side.

  “You said we should kill the other gullaime?”

  “Windshorn.” It snapped the word out, its predatory beak clacking open and shut three times after it said the word.

  “You said we should kill these” – Meas paused – ”windshorn. Why?”

  The gullaime made an odd sound, part snort, part outrush of breath through its nostrils and it spun around on the spot twice in a whirl of shining feathers and brightly coloured robes.

  “Traitors! Egg snatchers! Tale tellers!” It stopped, stood utterly still. “Hated by great bird.” It angled its head at Meas. “Kill all.”

  Meas stared at it, taking the time to consider the wind-talker’s words.

  “I will take this under advisement. You may return to your cabin if you wish.”

  The gullaime let out a squawk and bustled out of the great cabin holding its head beak-up, like it was a creature of great distinction, too important for the shipwife and her foolish ways. Meas waited for it to leave then sat back in her chair.

  “And what of you, Joron Twiner? Would you condemn these creatures on the word of your friend?”

  He waited, thinking. “Once, maybe,” he said, and sat in the chair opposite Meas. “But once I would have cast the gullaime adrift upon a bell buoy to escape my fear of it.”

  “You think it is afraid of them?” A flash in her eye. She had her own ideas already; of course she did, she always did. He was her sounding board, something to catch her ideas and throw them back so she could consider them from different angles, see them anew as if they were some strange and new creature brought up from the depths.

  “Maybe it is not afraid, but it is uncomfortable, definitely,” he said. “It is twitchy when it talks of them.”

  “It is twitchy all the time.”

  “There is a difference.”

  A silence while she thought, while she moved ideas around in her mind. She stood.

  “Come with me to the Maiden’s Bounty. We will talk with these windshorn, you can tell me what you think of them. See if you think they are also” – a smile breezed across her face – “twitchy.”

  They were rowed across, the journey too short to bother with the boat’s wing – Mevans in the rump, calling the rowers’ beat, Narza at the rump with Anzir by her. Joron stood next to Meas in the beak of the wingfluke and they watched the brown sides of the merchanter grow.

  “Have you decided what to do with it, yet?” he asked. She shook her head.

  “I have sent Coxward aboard to look it over properly. It is a big ship, useful if it can be kept afloat, but if it cannot then it is weight only.”

  “The bonemaster is the best judge of ships we have.”

  “Ey, part of me hopes it is sinking and we can leave the thing here. Then there will be no need for me to split our crew.”

  “Why not just say it is?”

  She stared at the ship as it moved gently on the waves, thinking on that.

  “Because we need it. The Hundred Isles, the Gaunt Islands, they have hundreds of ships to fight their war and our little movement for peace floats between them, ill equipped and ill prepared for when they chance upon us.” She grinned at him, then grabbed the ladder thrown over the side of the Maiden’s Bounty and nimbly made her way up it. He followed, more slowly and carefully.

  At the top of the ladder the bonemaster, Coxward, waited for them. He too was wrapped in a thick stinker coat against the cold, and Joron knew that below it his body was wrapped in bandages to cover the lesions and sores of the keyshan’s rot that slowly consumed him, the fate of all bonewrights and those that had once worked the vast bodies of the sea dragons.

  “It’ll fly the sea, Shipwife,” said Coxward; he did not look happy about it. “But this ship” – he stamped his foot hard twice on the cracked slate of the deck – “it is not a happy ship. Would be better sent to the Hag, as it will ever harbour the stink of misery.”

  “You’ll find no argument from me there, Coxward, but the ship is needed. Can you make it bearable?”

  “Well,” he took a deep breath, “we have removed the shelves from the seaward side. It still stinks like a keyshan’s guts and it always will. My crew have made a start on the landward shelves.” His face was downcast.

  “They’ll be rewarded for this,” said Meas. “I know it must be hard work.”

  “There’s more corpse than ship down there, Shipwife,” he said quietly. She nodded, reached out and touched Coxward’s arm. “We are stowing the corpses in the lower hold,” he said quietly. “We began to throw ’em over but so many dead are like as not to attract something big in these seas, something we’d rather not see, I reckon.”

  Meas nodded. “Where is Garriya?”

  “She has made the shipwife’s cabin into a hagbower. We are taking people to her for” – he looked away, uncomfortable – “for treatment.”

  “I will speak to her,” said Meas. “Carry on with your work, Coxward, and know you have my thanks.”

  From there they went to the cabin. Meas knocked, heard Garriya croak: “Enter, Shipwife. Enter, Caller.” Inside the small cabin had been transformed, most of the furniture removed, the brazier burned hot in the centre. Garriya, small and gnarled, squatted by the brazier and before her a young man, a boy, slumped in the shipwife’s chair, his eyes barely focused.

  “Garriya,” began Meas, and the old woman held up a hand to quiet her. Had any other done this then Meas would have been furious, raised her voice for Solemn Muffaz to take out his cord, but here she acquiesced. Garriya had the boy leaning against her, the rags that clothed his bones did not hide the sores that marred his flesh. Joron noticed the old woman was chewing. She took what she chewed, a pellet of leaves, from her mouth and placed it in the boy’s. Then she dipped a cup in the bowl of water by her and helped the boy drink, rubbing his throat to get the pellet and the water down his gullet. Once she had worked the pellet down his throat she began to gently rock him backwards and forwards, singing a wordless tune with her eyes closed. Within that tune was something that Joron almost knew, and just as he was on the edge of recognising it the boy’s eyes shot open. He coughed, started taking great wheezing breaths. His weak muscles worked, trying to fight or run, but Garriya held him tight, crooning into his ear.

  “Fret not, child, fret not. The Mother is waiting. The Maiden will welcome you. The Hag ensures your passage will be swift, the pain short, fear not.” She repeated the words, over and over again as the boy’s breathing became less laboured, his coughing slowed and his weak muscles gave up the fight until, eventually, he was still. The old woman’s mouth moved, somewhere between a smile and a grimace and she reached over and closed his eyes. “Sleep well, child,” she said, and gently laid the body on the floor.

  “He could not be saved?” said Meas. Garriya bent over and swilled her hands in a water bowl, then took a rag from her pocket to dry them.

  “On land, with plenty of food? Aye, I could have saved him, given him years of life before the rot truly took him. On the sea, in the cold and on deckchilder rations? No, he could not be saved.”

  Meas nodded. “Can any be saved?”

  “They had four hundred aboard, Shipwife, that were still alive anywa
y,” said Garriya. Then she chuckled to herself. “Aye, old Garriya can count, Shipwife, do not look so surprised. Old Garriya can do many things. But save all these wretches?” She pointed at the corpse of the boy. “Not here. There are maybe forty, out of all of them, who will be strong enough to pull through. It is a strange thing, this, Shipwife.”

  “Why?”

  “Many of those aboard were not far along in the rot. Had they been treated more kindly there was years of work in ’em.”

  “They all have the rot?” said Joron. Garriya nodded. “Is there any clue as to where they are from?” Garriya shook her head.

  “Even the strongest are barely conscious,” she said. “It will be days at best before we hear anything from most of them. The few that can speak, well . . .”

  “What? Speak up, old woman.”

  “One fellow croaked out a story. I reckon it is not helpful. Said they are the least wanted, the Berncast, picked up off the streets with promise of work, moved from ship to ship over weeks. Many on his ship were from Bernshulme though, the fellow said.”

  “Where is he? I would speak with him.” Garriya let out a chuckle.

  “With the Hag, Shipwife, gone to the depths with the rest of the dead.” Meas did not speak then, only stared at the hagshand, letting time pass while she thought through what had been said.

  “Very well,” said Meas. She glanced at the corpse of the boy. “Make them as comfortable as you can, Garriya.” The old woman nodded.

  They left the makeshift hagbower and made their way down into the stink belowdecks to see the windshorn.

  Within the ship, the sound of hammering filled the air as Coxward’s bonewrights worked, taking down the shelves of cured gion that had once harboured people. The doors to seaward and landward had been removed and light streamed in through the bowpeeks, though it did little to dissipate the stink. At the end of the hold Joron saw piles of what he thought at first was old varisk, but it was not. Bodies, wrapped in wingcloth, and many of them, so very many. Joron looked away, forged himself a little space to think by re-tying the cloth wrapped around his face. Meas opened the remaining door into the central hold.

  No light in here, only the faint glow of the wanelights that had been filled with oil and set burning. The windshorn waiting within for them, huddled together in a corner of the central space under the decks. They reminded him of the gullaime the first time he had seen it, sticks and bones beneath filthy and threadbare robes. As they approached he saw the windshorn existed in two groups – one, the larger, at the rear and a smaller group to the fore. Was it Joron’s imagination or were these gullaime smaller than he was used to? They were more timid definitely. He understood how much posture and attitude could affect appearance, but nonetheless he was sure they were smaller. As the first group of windshorn shuffled forward he noticed another difference: where his gullaime had a three-toed foot, each toe ending in a sharp claw, these gullaime’s feet had two outside toes the same, but the central one was truncated and ended in a much bigger, sharper, curved claw.

  “I am Shipwife Meas. It is I that has freed you from confinement.”

  The first of the small group came forward. It dragged one foot, approaching side on, keeping its head low and its masked face downcast. Only when it glanced up did Joron see that unlike most fleet gullaime it had its eyes – though they were not the burning orbs that hid behind the mask of the windtalker back on their ship. These were large black pupils in white eyes behind a mesh built into its mask; very human eyes.

  “How serve, o’seer?” Its voice was a scratch on the air and it was careful to avoid meeting Meas’s gaze. Joron noticed it was larger than most of the others

  “I wish to know how you came to be here.”

  A shudder ran through the creature. Joron heard low noises, chirps and cracks from the gullaime behind them but their leader silenced them with a hiss. They were strangely unmusical, these gullaime.

  “Lamyard o’seer say go ship. Gullaime go ship.” Meas stared. This gullaime had a following, three or four that stayed with it, close behind, while the others cowered back. Joron noticed the leading gullaime, despite the terrible conditions, had better clothes, was slightly cleaner and had more feathers on its neck.

  “Our windtalker,” said Meas, “says you are traitors and that you can’t be trusted. It says you should be put to death.”

  “No, no.” The windshorn came forward a step, cooing out the word. “Windshorn help. Windshorn help o’seers. Windshorn do good work.” Its voice dropped an octave, became full of threat. “Windtalker need cord. Need punishment.”

  “Only I can order the cord used on my ship.”

  “Yes, yes. Gullaime lie,” said the windshorn. “Not like us. Us better. Better than it. We know place. Windtalkers not know place without cord. Shipwife show place.”

  Joron wondered if the windshorn knew enough about human expression to decipher the look of contempt on Meas’s face.

  “Can you work?” she said.

  “Yes yes, Work hard. Keep windtalkers in place.”

  “Can you do other work?”

  It stared at her and he saw the eyelids come down, a slow blink behind the mesh in the mask.

  “Windshorn will do as told,” it said.

  “And do they agree?” said Meas, tilting her head at the other group, the larger collection of bedraggled and beaten-looking windshorn.

  “Will do as told,” said the leader.

  “Are traitors!” This call came from one of the windshorn at the back and immediately, as if the creature was fire and those around it made of straw, a gap grew about it as the other windshorn moved away, quick to disassociate themselves from this lone voice.

  “Quiet you!” came from the larger windshorn before them. It hopped over to the windshorn who had cried out, wings outstretched beneath its robe, and to all who grew up in the Hundred Isles and had a familiarity with birds, it was obvious it intended violence.

  “Stop this!” roared Meas and the larger windshorn did. On the spot, as if rooted there. Then it turned, shrinking back down.

  “Windshorn stop, windshorn do as Shipwife tells. Windshorn good worker.”

  “I want to speak to that one,” said Meas, pointing at the windshorn who had spoken, so evidently out of turn.

  The larger windshorn opened and closed its beak slowly, something Joron thought of as meaning a gullaime was either shrugging or thinking.

  “That one wrong,” it said. “Broken.”

  “You said you would do as you were told.”

  The windshorn lowered its head, then hopped to the side and Meas approached the other of the windshorn who stood, its body slack, beak pointed at the floor. Even though the gullaime were an alien, unfamiliar species it was difficult to read this creature’s body language as anything other than dejected.

  “Stealers,” it said quietly. “Takers. Chainers. Biters. Corders. Jailers. Killers,” it said softly. Some feeling ran through the gathered windshorn, like a cold breeze. They huddled together as if for protection from the words of their colleague.

  “So the windtalker is right. You are traitors to your kind.”

  “What choice?” it said. “What choice without wind?”

  Before Meas could answer there was a screech of fury and the larger windshorn flew at the smaller one, wings outstretched, running across the deck.

  “Trouble causer! Liar!” screeched the larger and Meas’s hand went to her crossbow but the attacking windshorn was too quick. It launched itself up, one clawed foot outstretched for the smaller windshorn, and as it came in the smaller gullaime dipped to the side, the claw passing over its head, scoring through the back of its robe, cutting into the body beneath. But the victim was not defenceless – it span before the hook of the claw got purchase in its flesh and it brought up its own clawed foot. As the larger windshorn landed, turning to face its opponent, the smaller windshorn’s leg was already coming around and the claw, curved sharp and cruel, cut straight through its attac
ker’s throat. The larger bird staggered back. Opened its beak to speak but no sound came out, only blood. It collapsed to the deck, quite dead. And the smaller windshorn walked over to it, a bright streak of blood on its dirty robe.

  “Traitors,” it said to the corpse. “Not lie.”

  There was a furore among the rest. Wings were spread, beaks opened to cry, battle lines swiftly drawn. Meas opened her mouth then. “You will be quiet!” she shouted.

  An instant cessation, as if obeying a human voice was a compulsion, a part of them.

  “I am Shipwife Meas and my word here is law. My rule is absolute. Should any of you wish to be kept separate from others in your group, then simply stand to landward of me.” She glanced around the hold. “Do you understand? Landward is this side,” she said, pointing. Nothing, no movement. “My ship and my rule are new starts for all,” she said. “That is what we are. That is what you may have with me.” She stood, imperious and sure. Then, with a small amount of hissing and posturing, the gullaime split into two groups, one to Meas’s landward and one to seaward.

  She pointed at the last windshorn before her, blood still on its robe.

  “You can fight,” she said.

  “They make us. Keep order. Sometimes amuse them. Can fight.”

  “Well, I will have Garriya look to your wound. I think I may have a job for you.”

  6

  What Ill Cargo Is Found Upon the Sea

  “Not want!” The screech was followed by a rock that rebounded off the bone wall behind Meas’s head as the gullaime backed into a corner of its nest room, wings spread beneath the robe as if to wall off that area and keep its precious possessions safe. “Not want!” it screeched again.