Call of the Bone Ships

by Rj Barker

  “Jor-on Twiner,” it snapped into the air.

  “I am glad to see you, Gullaime,” he said, barely able to raise his voice above a whisper. The gullaime reached down with its beak, snuffling about in its long robes, also now painted more brightly with long streaks of pink and blue, like Meas’s hair. It took something from its robes with its beak and then hopped forward, placing the object on Joron’s chest. A shell, a spiral of white calcite, veined with green and blue as it tightened toward the centre.

  “A shell,” said Joron.

  “Good shell,” said the gullaime. It preened a feather on its shoulder, pulling it from its plumage and Joron became fascinated by the play of light on it. What looked like white was nothing of the sort; it was a hundred colours, all different, all beautiful.

  “Ship woman sent you away.”

  “It was my duty, Gullaime.”

  “Should sent me.” It yarked, filling the room with harsh sound.

  “I do not think they would have spoken to you, Gullaime.”

  “Kill them,” it said. “Hurt Joron.”

  “They did, but if you had killed them we would not have the information.”

  “Bad things.” It scratched a line on the bone floor of the cabin with its foot. “Bad things,” it said again.

  “Yes, and Meas will stop them.”

  “And Joron! And Gullaime!”

  “Yes.”

  “And Farys, and Mevans and Solemn Muffaz and Anzir and . . .” The gullaime went on, joyfully naming the crew and Joron felt sure if he had not interrupted it the creature would have carried on until it had named everyone aboard the ship.

  “Yes. All of us.”

  It hopped closer, its mask staring down into Joron’s face.

  “Even save windshorn?”

  “Yes,” he said, and the tiredness was starting to tell, his voice was retreating further. The gullaime continued to study him.

  “Hmm,” it said, cocked its head. “Hmmm.”

  “They took my singing voice, Gullaime,” he said, and then he cracked, a single tear running down his face. “I used to sing with my father, and you and I, we sang the keyshan to us, sang a creature up to save us. But they took my voice.”

  The gullaime continued to stare down and then it reached out with its wingclaws, pushing the mask from its face and exposing the huge, glowing white eyes hidden beneath, their shared secret. And once more Joron saw the arakeesians flying through his mind, but not as dark, scrimshaw patterns; these were glorious, glowing things, creatures of magic and legend.

  “Song not in voice, Joron Twiner,” and though the gullaime said the words it was not quite its voice he heard, “song in here,” and he felt the gullaime’s wingclaws touch his chest. “Song in here.” Then it lowered its mask again. “Sleep, Joron Twiner,” it coughed out. “Joron Twiner tired.” And it left, and as if commanded Joron slept, but this time it was a comfortable sleep, no longer haunted by nightmares of confinement.

  The days passed quickly. Sleeping and eating. The ship creaking and groaning around him. Visits from the gullaime and the crew and Meas. Garriya brought him foul-tasting concoctions which, though the taste lingered like hate, he did have to admit made him feel better. Sometimes he heard Dinyl’s voice, shouting orders on deck but he never saw him, the deckholder never visited. Some wounds could not be healed with medicine. When Meas finally brought Joron back on deck to reclaim his two-tailed hat, Dinyl clearly could not hide his resentment and turned from Joron to face the sea.

  It was a beautiful day otherwise, cold but bright, and the sky as blue as Joron had ever seen it. Tide Child’s topwings were down and the wind was brisk, more than enough to push them through the waves at a good speed. The larger of the two flukeboats was tied alongside and the crew Meas had picked – twenty in all, including Coughlin, Mevans, Gavith and ten of the seaguard – were loading enough food for a journey of ten days.

  “Seven beakwyrms ride before us, Deckkeeper,” said Meas.

  “Ey,” he said, “it feels like we make good speed.” She nodded, stepped forward and spoke more quietly, for him alone.

  “Look after my ship, Deckkeeper.”

  “I will, Shipwife.”

  “I know,” she said. “Aelerin knows where to meet me. Ten days from now.”

  He wanted to say, And if you do not arrive? But he did not. He would not bring the Hag’s gaze down on her.

  “And when you have the information, Shipwife?” he asked.

  “We will go and find our people.”

  He nodded. She made it all sound so simple.

  The crew lined the slate of the deck and the pipes played as Meas went over the side. They watched the flukeboat raise its wing and catch the wind, becoming a smaller and smaller dot in the vastness of the ocean. When Meas was gone, swallowed up by the horizon, he gave the orders, crew went aloft, more wings were set, ropes were tied off and Tide Child creaked and moaned as he caught the wind and heeled over, slowly picking up speed.

  “I think he’ll fair fly today, Deckkeeper. Should pick us up a couple more beakwyrms,” said Solemn Muffaz from his place before the mainspine.

  “I think he fair will, Deckmother,” said Joron in reply and he struggled to keep the grin from his face, for it seemed an age since he had stood here, the speed of Tide Child’s passage plucking at his hair. He had missed it. Behind Solemn Muffaz, vicious, cruel Cwell sneered at him as she pulled a rope tight. He had not missed her.

  The days passed and Tide Child flew, his passage across the water unceasing, and Joron even began to worry that they may make their rendezvous with Meas too early, and that idea took hold and he filled his idle time on the rump of the ship with thoughts of the small things he could do for the crew, of the slacktime he could give them for work well done. Days passed in a haze of good winds and salt spray and not even the baleful looks from Dinyl and the cadre of ne’er do wells like Cwell, Sprackin and the rest of her clique could bring him down. His body was healing, his mind was healing. If only his voice would also.

  Like all good things, it was not to last.

  The storm came from the north, as the worst of them always do in the Hundred Isles. A slow gathering of cloud menaced the horizon, lines of rain as dark streaks against the sky.

  “The Hag furrows her brow,” said Solemn Muffaz to Dinyl, and the deckholder stared across the sea.

  “Ey,” he said, “and blood follows.”

  Joron stood on the rump and watched. When Skearith’s Eye was at its highest the waves were swelling, pushing Tide Child up, then down into troughs that hid the world and turned all to churning water. Wind whistled through the rigging and Joron had the mainwings brought down. Still the clouds gathered; a short rain began to fall, icy needles that bit through clothing, that stung the skin while the crew worked. And they did work, as the higher the wind, the rougher the wave, the more must be done. Tide Child needed constant little adjustments, to the rigging here, to the wings there. Walking across the slate of the deck became an effort, sometimes like climbing a steep hill, sometimes like stumbling down a precipitous slope.

  By night the storm had truly hit and all but the topwings were brought in. The wind howled and water washed over the ship in great plumes. Joron was constantly shouting, merely to make himself heard over the screaming gale, and he was constantly wet, his clothing soaked through. Worse of all for Joron, his wounds and his illness were showing and he knew it. He was not as fast, not as strong and not as hardy. He doubted himself, found himself giving orders and wanting to take them back a moment later. The shouting was taking a toll on his damaged throat; the rawness which had almost left after days of rest was coming back.

  “Deckkeeper,” shouted Dinyl over the howling wind.

  “Ey?” he said, and had to strain his throat for even that one word to be heard.

  “You have been on your feet all day, Deckkeeper,” shouted Dinyl, water running down his face from the driving rain. “Maybe a couple of hours’ rest may be a good idea? I
can handle the ship for now.”

  His first instinct was to say no. But that was to feed the darkness between them, and he knew Dinyl was right. He was a capable officer who had weathered many storms, and Joron knew it was only a matter of time before his own tired body gave way. He nodded.

  “Ey,” he said again. Then he turned for his cabin. Once on his hammock, despite the wild motions of Tide Child and the screaming of the wind and the coldness of his damp clothes, like any seasoned deckchilder he fell asleep straight away.

  A different kind of screaming woke him. At first he thought the storm still had them in its grasp, such was the commotion – and with the added fog of sleep it took him moments to realise the ship no longer bucked and heaved below him. He heard bangs and thuds and crashes and then more screams. What was this? Some attack? A banging on his door, a voice.

  “Deckkeeper! Deckkeeper!” Anzir, and desperate sounding at that. He slid from the hammock. Pulled open the door. Found Anzir and he could make no sense of it, her face was slashed, blood ran down her cheek.

  “Anzir?”

  She opened her mouth, got as far as “Mut—” and then a sword blade thrust through her chest and her words turned into a grunt. Such confusion crossed her face, as if she could not understand how or where her death had come from. Then she raised her head and looked at Joron. “Sorry,” she said, and fell to her knees. Behind her stood Sprackin, who had once been purseholder, small and angry and looking very pleased with himself.

  “Told her I’d be avenged for that cording,” he said, looking down at her, his face twisted in vicious glee. Joron took a step back, looking about for his own weapon, but before he moved more deckchilder appeared behind Sprackin, and every one of them Joron knew as slatelayer or troublemaker and every one held a weapon. Sprackin smiled at Joron. “I’d not move if I were you, the ship is ours now, Twiner,” He put his foot on Anzir’s still body and pulled his blade free. “And a new shipwife walks the slate.” For a moment Joron could not speak. Overwhelmed. Anzir, huge, strong, always there for him and now gone. And Sprackin, so pleased with himself, but Joron found his voice. His confusion and the fear behind it masked with proper speech, fleet talk, polite as could be. Though why he could not fathom.

  “And what is this shipwife’s name?” he said. Forcing himself to sound calm, hoping his throat would not betray him.

  “Cwell,” said Sprackin with grin, “and she’ll be wanting a word with you.”

  Joron stared at the man, taking in his glee, the sparkle in his eyes and thought to himself, Well, I am sentenced to death long ago. Now it seems my time has finally come.

  23

  Before the Shipwife

  Joron was tied, hands bound behind his back. The knots as unyielding as the bone of Tide Child’s hull, for if there was a thing a deckchild could do well it was to tie a knot. He was led through Tide Child and he had not seen the ship, his ship – Meas’s ship – in such disarray since a time long ago, before the shipwife had come aboard. A time when he had, laughably, been called its commander.

  This disarray was worse. He had simply been neglectful, this was the remnants of violence. The mutineers had taken Meas’s loyal crew utterly by surprise. There were fewer bodies than he would have expected, and this filled him with hope – had most of the crew survived? – and fear – had most of the crew turned against him? Signs of violence were everywhere, smears of blood, stores and tools and ropes thrown about, and still being thrown about. Mutineers cackling with glee as they destroyed the ship’s good order. Sprackin pulled him aside to allow four laughing deckchilder to roll a cask of good anhir past. Then he forced Joron up the stair and onto the deck.

  Here he found his crew, tied and knelt before the mutineers’ leaders, who stood on the rump of the deck. Cwell, he saw, and would have expected even had Sprackin not told him of her. By her stood Dinyl, and though he felt he should not be surprised, he could not pretend he was not disappointed. He had looked up to Dinyl, once, loved him even, once. Loved him for his talk of duty, for his devotion to it. A devotion that, at the last, he had evidently thrown aside. Once he had stood against Joron, Meas and the entire crew of Tide Child for what he believed was right and that had cost him his hand, hewn from his arm by Joron’s blade. Other mutineers stood around the deck and he took in their faces; mostly those he knew had disliked him, who disliked the new regime Meas had brought to Tide Child, or those who simply loved to hate and had found an excuse for it in Cwell’s words. Before them all knelt Solemn Muffaz, singled out, bound and on his knees, and it was to kneel by Solemn Muffaz that Joron was brought. He glanced at the deckmother, his face a mass of bruises.

  “I failed you, Deckkeeper,” he said miserably.

  Joron shook his head. “We did not know this—”

  “Quiet before your shipwife!” shouted Cwell. And there was laughter at that. “Who are you to speak on my rump without permission?”

  “You are no shipwife,” said Joron. And Cwell lashed out with her boot, catching Joron on the chest and sending him toppling backwards, the back of his head slamming into the slate, causing another round of laughter.

  “Do not laugh!” shouted Cwell, and the laughter died down. “Do not laugh at our deckkeeper,” she paced back and forth, “for he is an officer!” More laughter. “And besides, I would have him hear my judgement of the deckmother before he in turn is judged himself.” Rough hands picked up Joron, righted him so he was looking at Dinyl and Cwell. Cwell had fashioned her own two-tailed hat, a thing of rag and bright colour. A deckchild appeared with Joron’s one-tail, looted from his quarters, and gave it to Dinyl. He looked at it, but did not put it on, only held it. “Now, Deckmother,” said Cwell to Muffaz, “the charges against you are that you have enforced the cruel and disloyal regime of the traitor shipwife, Meas Gilbryn. That you have visited cruel punishments upon the crew, and with much enjoyment, in her name.”

  “Never enjoyed it,” said Solemn Muffaz, “not a once, never enjoyed it.”

  “That is fine defence,” said Cwell, “a fine defence. And unlike the old shipwife, with her autocratic fleet ways” – she raised her voice when she used big words, as if to cow the crew around her with them – “I will not simply decide your guilt. No!” She raised her hands. “I am a fair shipwife, who will run a fair ship.” She looked around, smiling. “So, I will ask my loyal crew to judge you.” She turned and Joron looked over his shoulder; mutineers now filled the deck behind the kneeling and tied loyal crew. “Do you find the deckmother, Solemn Muffaz, guilty of the charges or not?”

  From the mutineers went up the shout of, “Guilty!”

  Cwell nodded her head, made herself look grave.

  “Well, there you have it, Solemn Muffaz. It gives me little pleasure to pass sentence but I must do it, and it must be a punishment fitting the crime.” She nodded to herself. “So, Solemn Muffaz, you will be tied to the mainspine, and every day, a member of the crew will give you ten lashes, until we have reached the amount of one thousand lashes.”

  “You will kill him,” said Joron.

  Cwell stared at him. “Well, that is the intent.” She smiled at him, as if he was a dullard, short of understanding. “But hush your impatient noise, Twiner, we will get to you in good time, but first, the matter in hand,” she gestured at the deckmother. “Now, my crew, who would give the first lashes to this sorry, wife-murdering man?” There was a commotion then, for not one of Cwell’s mutineers was without scars from Solemn Muffaz’s cord. But eventually the strongest of them put themself forward and Joron was forced to watch as Muffaz was dragged, with much jeering and shouting, to the mainmast, stripped of all his clothes and tied, face to the mast, arms around it. The cord was brought and the strikes were counted out, given with all the glee they had accused Solemn Muffaz of showing, though Joron had never seen a whit of evidence for it. Each cording cut deep, making a jagged map of blood on the deckmother’s back.

  When it was done drinks were passed around, jokes were told and Sole
mn Muffaz’s torment did not end; he was not taken down and Joron noticed more than one deckchild, in passing, lash out and kick him. But this gave him opportunity to count the mutineers. There were few of them. Maybe thirty in all. Three had come from Coughlin’s seaguard but Joron was glad he did not see Berhof, Coughlin’s second, among them. He hoped the man was not dead. With so few crew he knew the mutineers would struggle to work the ship and maybe, when Cwell had dealt with him, those still loyal to Meas would find a way to escape and take Tide Child back.

  Cwell wandered over to stand in front of Joron. Dinyl hung back, looking ashamed. As he rightly should.

  “She will find you,” said Joron to Cwell.

  “We will be very far away from here by the time she realises what has happened,” said Cwell.

  “She will never stop looking.”

  Did Cwell pale a little at that? It did not matter; she stepped away from him and raised her arms for quiet.

  “Now, my crew! We must deal with our next criminal – Joron Twiner, a fisherboy who styled himself as a deckkeeper, and before that, as a shipwife!” Laughter. “The worst shipwife we have ever seen, eh?”

  “The drunkest!” shouted one of the mutineers, immune to the irony in the fact they were liberally passing around shipwine.

  “Now,” said Cwell, “I have learned, from our dear Dinyl here . . .” She put her arm around his shoulders, and did Dinyl, up until this moment stoical and unfeeling, flinch at that? “I have learned many things, but most of all, I have learned that Joron Twiner did not even study at the bothies.” Quiet on the deck. “Oh, and some aboard knew that, but plenty of us did not, ey?” Joron felt himself judged, not just by Cwell and the mutineers but also by the rest of the crew, those loyal to Meas who were tied and silent behind him. “He is an imposter. And I move to say we do not even need a vote on this one, for we have all suffered because of him. So I say, let us throw him overboard for the longthresh.”

  The word No! wanted to leap into Joron’s mouth as he was grabbed by strong arms, but he held it back. He would not give them the satisfaction, he would not beg, he would not scream even as the longthresh ate him alive. Hag take every one of them.