by Rj Barker
Berhof nodded. “Aye, Deckkeeper,” he said. “We’ll hold it, no fear of that. I’ve no wish to die aboard a ship.”
“Go, then, Berhof, take Barlay.” He nodded and called out two more names, and the four of them pushed their way through the sweaty throng of deckchilder behind Joron. He watched, then waited quietly, though not silently, not really – such a large group of women and men could not be truly silent. He heard breathing, the brush of cloth on skin. The tap of feet as people moved their weight from one foot to the other. Over that, laughter from behind the door to the armoury.
Then he used his hand to signal for everyone to get as low as they could. Namd and Fogle, with the last of the curnows Dinyl had brought, flattened themselves on either side of the door. Then Joron looked to Dinyl and nodded at him.
The deckholder opened the door.
“Have you come for more weapons, D’older?” There was no mistaking the sarcasm in the speaker’s voice when Dinyl’s rank was said, and Joron was sure it was Invar, one of Coughlin’s men.
“Ey, Invar, I have.”
In the dim glow of the wanelights Joron could make out Dinyl stood before the man, and three other deckchilder sat around a table. Behind them, the banded door of the armoury itself. Joron willed them not to look past Dinyl at the open doorway.
“A one-handed man like you, Dinyl, should be making gloves, not on a ship of war.” Laughter. “What do you need all these blades for anyway?”
“What does a deckchild usually need a blade for?” said Dinyl, and his voice remained jocular as he unhooked the curnow at his waist. “Killing, of course.” He ran the blade through Invar’s chest. Before the other three could react Namd and Fogle ran into the small room. Blades rose and fell and the walls were covered with blood the way the base of the mainspine was spattered with paint. A roar went up from those behind them. Joron wanted to scream at them for quiet but knew it was no use. That bird had flown. He heard a shout from above.
“The prisoners are out! The prisoners are out!” On deck the bell started ringing, fast, strident and urgent.
“Weapons!” shouted Joron. “They will be on us quickly and those at the rear are not armed!” Inwardly he cursed himself, why had he not thought of this? If Barlay and Berhof did not hold the hatch above those at the rear would be first to fall. He looked around for Aelerin – he had feared they would be at the rear, easy prey to Cwell’s raiders, but found the Courser in the thick of the scrum. Armfuls of curnows and wyrmpikes were being passed along. Joron pushed his way through the crowd to join those at the rear just as the first blades were being handed out among them.
Excitement in the air.
He heard voices raised in anger.
“Come!” shouted Joron to those around him. “Berhof and Barlay will need us on the underdeck.” Then he was pushing through the tight corridors of the hold. Through the deckchilder. Up the ladder, all the time the sound of fighting getting louder where Berhof, Barlay, Jant and Fellin held the trapdoor. As Joron scaled the ladder to join them, going from the almost dark of the lower underdeck to the almost dark of the underdeck, he marvelled at Barlay and Berhof. Not all the mutineers were here, they had not had long enough to organise, but there were ten or more. Fellin, one of their own, was down, sat on the deck, hand around his middle, blood on the floor. And Barlay, Berhof and Gulbry were holding off the rest of them – though it was mostly Barlay and Berhof. Both held keyshanpikes, the largest and heaviest of the many pikes held on a boneship, once used to hook the bodies of dead arakeesians, now mostly employed to push the ship away from the dock.
Barlay and the seaguard were swinging the huge and heavy pikes around themselves, creating space for Joron to climb into, helped up by Gulbry. As Barlay swung the gaff she roared, screamed at the mutineers around her to stop being cowards, while in counterpoint Berhof was silent. A woman rushed forward, brandishing a hand axe and Barlay’s gaff came around, catching her in the midriff and spilling her entrails onto the deck – she screamed but it had no effect on Barlay who span the gaff again, shouting out her challenges.
The loyalists of Meas’s crew boiled up through the trapdoor. Someone among Cwell’s crew was screaming for bows to be brought, but the bows were kept in the armoury. Now they were in the hands of Joron’s people, and as more of them appeared through the trapdoor Joron organised those armed with bows and crossbows into a line behind Barlay and Berhof. The archers strung their weapons, and as women and men started to come down the steps from above arrows and bolts drove them back. Those without bows stood waiting, blades in hands. Joron let loose a roar.
“Into them!”
And those few of Cwell’s rebels left on the underdeck could not stand against the ferocity of Tide Child’s rightful crew. Just like the crew, that ferocity had been bottled up too long, and just like the crew it was thirsting for blood.
“The underdeck is ours!” shouted Joron, lofting his curnow and smashing the point into the overbones. “Now let us take back the slate!” Then they were running, Joron leading them, up and out of the underdeck and into the pale light of Skearith’s Blind Eye. Before him, maybe thirty, maybe forty women and men, poorly armed, but arranged in a line by Cwell, her harsh voice shouting commands.
“Hold! Hold or die!”
But they could not hold against Barlay and her keyshanpike when she saw Sprackin among Cwell’s troops. She roared, charged their line swinging the gaff, and the line broke before her. One of Coughlin’s seaguard, probably the strongest of Cwell’s rebels, tried to block a swing of Barlay’s weapon and she nearly cut him in two. Another of the renegade seaguard tried to bring a curnow down on her and Berhof stepped in, running his pike through the man. Shouting, “Traitor!” and heaving on the pike, sending the attacker over the rail and into the sea. Cwell’s mutineer’s discipline fell apart and the fighting became vicious, little knots of deckchilder against deckchilder.
Joron swung about him with his curnow, no elegant straightsword work for him, and that thanks to Cwell. His world a nightmarish mix of faces. He swung at those he knew were with Cwell. He helped those he knew were on his side and avoided any he was unsure about. His fear of Cwell had gone. Where was she? Anger burning, a blade nicked his calf and he swung back, feeling the jarring in his wrist as his curnow hit bone. Where was she? His blade buried itself deep in another’s gut.
Where was she?
Sudden quiet. Women and men standing about, confusion on their faces, blood on their hands.
Was it over?
Corpses on the deck.
He hoped it was over.
Was it over?
Where was she?
Not over.
Many lay dead. More wounded.
Cwell, still alive and bleeding from her face. She had retreated with the last of her mutineers. Joron thought them between fifteen and twenty. They had a line across the rump of the ship. Had pulled wingcloth and spars into a barricade. It could not save them. Joron knew it. They must know it too. But it would provide them some cover, stop Barlay and Berhof getting near enough to use their vicious weapons as easily.
Some of Cwell’s people had bows. Slowly, as they got their breath back, Tide Child’s crew were approaching the rump. Members of Cwell’s group were leaning on their weapons as they too got their breath back. He saw Cwell’s mutineers ready themselves. Knew every woman and man among his crew was gathering for the final push. He marked Cwell for himself. Looked about. Farys with him. Barlay with him. Dinyl with him. Berhof with him. The crew with him.
Cwell would die here. On his curnow.
He wanted that.
There would be a cost.
Wanted her dead.
At any cost?
Dead.
So many dead.
Deep breath.
Lower the curnow.
You are an officer, Joron Twiner. He heard it as if Meas was here, talking to him. Knew he had duty to his ship. They barely had enough hands as it was, every deckchild lost here would be
sorely felt. And in Bernshulme he had given his word to Cahanny. Hag curse this life, he was no deckchilder who could take his vengeance as he wished. He really was an officer and bound by duty.
Joron walked up the slate to stand by the mainspine. Knowing himself an easy target should any of Cwell’s archers decide to loose on him.
“Cwell!” he shouted. “Cwell, you have lost. Tide Child is mine once more. You cannot win and you know it. But there need not be any more death tonight.”
“Why put it off?” Cwell shouted back. “At least this way I get a crack at you, and the traitor behind you, before I die.” He looked over his shoulder and saw Dinyl, his face spattered with blood, a curnow in his one hand.
Joron hated Cwell. He had hated her since the moment he came aboard, and he had no doubt that she felt the same about him. But Tide Child needed crew, needed as many as possible. Corpses covered the deck. His need to get up there to her, to release his anger among the mutineers, was great. But he was not a free man, he served the ship. He served Meas. He was her officer and he had a duty to her before himself. He breathed in. Let go of the anger.
“What if I allow you to live?”
“Why would you do that?” said Cwell, and laughed.
“For the ship.” He turned and used his curnow to cut Solemn Muffaz down from where he was tied to the spine. He expected, at any moment, to feel the searing agony of an arrow punching through him, to hear the whistle of the fletching cutting through the air. He did not. The only sound the groan from Solemn Muffaz as he slumped to the bloody deck. The only pain the deckmother’s.
“Death is always the punishment for a mutineer,” said Cwell. “Only the shipwife can defer it.”
“True,” said Joron, turning back to her. “But I give my word I will vouch for you, and tell her that, in the end, you chose to put down your weapons rather than kill more of her crew. I cannot promise she will let you live. As you say, it is her choice. But she may choose to let you off on an island or some such.”
Silence.
Waiting.
Then Cwell spoke, very softly.
“That is death in all but name.”
“It is your choice,” said Joron.
The sound of the sea lapping against the hull. The chime of metal in the rigging. The tap of rope against wingcloth. The creak of the hull’s bones.
“Put your weapons down,” said Cwell and threw her curnow to the slate. “We are lost. Any hope is better than no hope at all.”
“No!” This a roar from Barlay. “Many died, and died fighting, and that I understand. But Sprackin fair murdered Anzir, stabbed her in the back. And for that I claim blood as my right as her shipfriend.”
Silence.
Waiting.
Then Joron spoke, very softly.
“I can order Barlay to stand down, Cwell,” said Joron. “But I see Sprackin in among you. He took Barlay’s lover from behind, no honest blow, and I see now he is the only one not bloodied from the fight.” Cwell turned and looked at the man who, indeed, was not touched by a drop of blood. “What happens next is up to you.”
Cwell stared at Joron, a smile on her face, and he felt he almost understood her then – she was fierce, and orders and discipline made no sense to her. But vengeance, that she understood.
“I have no time for cowards, Deckkeeper,” she said, and for the first time he heard no sneer when she used his rank. She turned, grabbed Sprackin by the scruff of his neck and though he screamed for mercy she ignored him. Marched him forcibly forward and threw him over the barricade toward Barlay. Sprackin landed on his back, tried to rise. Barlay stopped him, stamping down with a meaty leg and smashing him to the deck. Then she raised her keyshanpike and silenced the screaming man, driving the blade through his chest.
“Good riddance,” she said.
“Ey,” said Joron. “Now bind the rest of them, lock them in the hold. And Deckholder . . .”
“Ey?” said Dinyl.
“Be good enough to make sure they are well guarded.”
26
A Ship as Fleet as Could Be
Joron felt despair: once the adrenalin had drained away, once the mutineers were locked below, once he was back on the rump of the ship. To see Tide Child in such disarray felt like he had travelled backwards through time and once more become the man he had been so long ago. This was his fault. Had he paid more attention, had he thought more, had he been more attentive then he would have stopped this happening. But he had not. He had let Meas down. Let the crew down. Let the ship down.
A hand on his back, a brief brush, the smallest breeze.
“It is not your fault, Joron.”
He turned to find Dinyl, stood behind him at a respectful distance, the touch gone and his arms behind his back.
“I am Deckkeeper, Dinyl. It was my job to be aware and—”
“You were hurt, Joron. Sorely hurt, and then sorely tried. Meas does not expect miracles from us . . .”
“She deserves them.”
“Well,” he smiled, “she definitely believes that, but we cannot undo what is, Joron. We must work with what we have.”
Joron took a deep breath. Surveyed the ship before him: the blood, the bodies, the badly stowed rigging, the gallowbows whose beautiful scrimshaw had been graffitied over by the mutineers, the bottles lazily rolling across the deck.
“Right, you slatelayers,” he tried to roar, his voice betrayed him. But still, he was heard. “I’ll not have the decks in this state for when we meet the shipwife, get you to work. Clean up the rubbish, swab the blood away. I’ll have no sign of Cwell and her scum left on my ship.” He glanced into the sky, at scudding clouds kissed bright red as Skearith’s Eye broke the horizon. “Bring me the courser and bring me the gullaime. Set me full wings; we have a rendezvous with the shipwife and I’ll be no later than I must be!” And immediately all was action, no complaint, no raised voices. There were smiles and activity and women and men doing as he ordered. He saw Farys collecting weapons and taking them down to the armoury, saw Karring bringing up mops and buckets and behind him came Aelerin, who had remained below while the fighting took place, as was proper for a courser. And behind Aelerin came the gullaime, yarking and snapping at the windshorn who followed meekly behind it.
“Deckkeeper,” said Aelerin, “you wanted me?”
“Ey, Courser,” he said and there was none of the curiosity, none of the discomfort he had felt around them before. “I require your expertise and I require it quick. Do you know where we are?”
“Not exactly, D’keeper.” Was there enthusiasm, buried deep in their quiet voice? “But I have a good idea.”
“And how long have we been under the sway of the mutineers?”
“Six days, D’keeper.”
“So long,” he said. “I did not know.” A pain ran through him, a twinge from his back that caused an involuntary shudder and sweat to start from his forehead. It felt as though Tide Child lurched beneath him, but the sky continued to change slowly from red to pink and the black wings of the ship remained slack and windless.
“D’keeper?” said Aelerin, and he felt Dinyl stand closer, take his arm. He shrugged him off.
“Not in front of the crew, D’older,” he said under his breath. Dinyl nodded, stood away and it was as if the coldest of winds wrapped themselves about him. “I am fine, Aelerin. How long for us to reach Meas? How late will we be if the winds are good?”
“Seven days at best, Deckkeeper,” they said, “but I confess I dream only slight winds for us, and little hope of anything else.”
Joron nodded, felt the short hairs on the back of his neck beneath the thick tangles of his hair stand up, as if caressed by an icy breeze.
“Gullaime,” he said.
“Jo-ron Twin-er.” That slow, door-opening creak of a voice. Then the gullaime span on the spot and snapped its beak at the windshorn who followed it, keeping so low to the deck as to be almost flat. “Not want! Not want!” The world felt as though it spun around Jo
ron, took on pastel colours and he took a step – one, two – so he could lean against the rearspine. “Joron Twiner?” said the gullaime softly. It took a step toward him. He held up a hand.
“I am well,” he said, but he was not well and he knew it. “Just tell me, how long can you keep us flying without hurting yourself?”
“Long on long,” it said, the noise of the words strident and loud, its head tilting from side to side as it spoke. It repeated, more quietly, “Long on long.”
“Good,” said Joron. “We must head toward the shipwife.” Was a storm coming? Was the world becoming darker? “We must meet her, she . . . She may need us.” A wave, a black wave that washed over the ship, blocking out the light, and when it passed and light returned he was on his knees.
“Joron,” said Dinyl, then he was shouting: “Farys! Barlay! Help me with the deckkeeper, call Garriya!”
Joron grabbed Dinyl’s arm. “Keep Tide Child on course.” Each word tore at his throat, his back burned, the sores on the tops of his arms itched. “Do not use all the gullaime has.”
“I hear your orders,” said Dinyl.
“Not orders,” said Joron, the darkness closing in. “A request of my friend,” he said. Then he knew nothing else.
“Caller?”
To move beneath the sea.
He dreamed unmoving beneath the sea.
Dreamed of a desperate want to glide through the water. Of frustration. Of being bound. He tried to fight, to punch his way free, to chew his way free, to escape the darkness which held him so tightly. Bound him so tightly. If sleep was the ocean he was drowning as surely as any deckchilder lost overboard in a storm.
“Caller!” A sharp sting against his cheek and the darkness receded, washed away like the tide down a beach, like water through pebbles. “Don’t you run from me, Caller,” said the voice. “I said events repeat themselves. Warned that you would find yourself here again. You have work to do, Caller, no running away for you.” The claustrophobia receded, the sound of waves washing against a beach became the sound of his breath, wheezing in and out of burning lungs.