Call of the Bone Ships

by Rj Barker

  Drip. Drip.

  He touched the bone knife at his waist and walked around Cwell.

  Drip.

  “You do not deserve to live,” he said. He drew the knife. “But it is fitting you give your life in Anzir’s place.” Then he knelt down and cut the ropes binding her hands and whispered into her ear. “Betray me, and I will hang you myself.” Then he stood, making his voice as sure as sure could be while he felt nothing but confusion. “Now take your place at my back.”

  Drip.

  Then he returned to the rump, Meas watching him before turning back to the mutineers.

  Drip.

  “There may be those of you, in among the prisoners, who plan revenge on Cwell for bringing you low.” Her fierce gaze roaming among them. “Well, she has just bought all your lives, so you will not go anywhere near her.” She raised her eyes, looking past the mutineers and at her loyal crew. “And there may be those among you who plan revenge on Cwell. You will do nothing to her because I order you not to. Now, all those knelt before me, you are on punishment duties, manning the pumps and cleaning the bilges until I decide you are worthy of something better. The rest of you must have some work to do I am sure.” She gave them a nod. “This matter is done with. Now, return to your duties.”

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Later, he went to Meas’s cabin. He left Cwell on the slate, still uncomfortable with the idea of her at his back, through the decision had been made and he could not undo it.

  “Come,” said Meas when he knocked.

  “How did you know, Shipwife?” he said. “How did you know Cwell would do that?”

  Meas grinned at him. “No one, Joron, was more surprised than I at what happened on deck. I planned to get right to the point of stringing up the conspirators before I let you interrupt and then I would decide to maroon them on some island.” She laughed. “Life is full of surprises, ey?”

  She laughed but he could not.

  “Why did she do it, Shipwife?”

  Meas’s laughter died away. She sat straighter.

  “Why?” She closed her book. “I suspect there is not one answer.” She moved the book, squaring its edge with the desk. “You beat her, I think is the feet of it. She had all the advantages, and you beat her. Then you offered her a way out that meant she didn’t lose face, kept her pride and her life.” Meas touched her book, very lightly, then smiled. “And, of course, if she was marooned with the rest of the mutineers I doubt she would last long. When food ran low they would eat her first.” Joron searched Meas’s face for some hint of a joke. Found nothing.

  “How can I ever trust her?”

  Meas shrugged, tapped on her desk. Moved the rock she kept on it.

  “Look in the mirror when you return to your cabin. Ask yourself if people can change, ask yourself if people can surprise you.”

  “And if this is just a ruse on her part?”

  “Then I am sure Solemn Muffaz will be all too happy to throw her overboard.”

  30

  A Change of Plans

  The next morran Meas called her officers to her room.

  “It has occurred to me, while we sit here becalmed, that we are unlikely to catch Hassith’s Spear. It was well over the horizon, and we have no way of knowing if it is just barely out of our sight and becalmed, or far away on a strong wind. And when it comes to it, I have decided that freeing our people from whatever fate awaits them at the end of the brownbone’s journey is more important than preventing my mother from knowing what I am doing. With that, I must let you all know what no doubt you already surmise. Whatever message may have been left by Karrad we could not retrieve. Ships were waiting for us. We must presume that Karrad’s organisation is compromised somehow.”

  “Or he betrayed you,” said Joron.

  Just for the shortest moment her face changed – pain, like Joron had driven a knife into her back. But despite that he continued with his thought: “Why could he not just give me or Mevans the message in Bernshulme?”

  There was quiet in the cabin, before Meas spoke.

  “If he gave you or anyone else the message and they were caught, my mother would get it from them. It may sound overly cautious but it is how he has survived so long. Few outside our circle knew of our island.”

  “So he betrayed you?”

  Again, the silence. Then she spoke again.

  “Not in the way you mean,” she said quietly. “If he walked up to my mother and came clean, offered me and all I have up to her, he would never leave the room. She has no stomach or pity for betrayal.”

  “So,” said Dinyl, “if your mother knew about the meeting, she must know about Karrad. We have lost our only ally in Bernshulme.”

  Meas shook her head, a lock of grey hair with fading red dye through it stuck to the material of her uniform jacket.

  “In all my life I have never met a man with a talent for survival like Indyl Karrad. My guess is he found himself in a position where he must give my mother something or be revealed himself.”

  “So he did betray you?” said Joron. Anger burned within him.

  “He played the long game, gambled on my skill to get me away.” She lifted a hand. “Before you get righteous, Joron, I would have done the same in his position.”

  “And what of the message?” said Mevans.

  “He either never sent it, or had someone on one of those ships find and destroy it.” She shrugged and the lock of hair was pulled free. “It makes little difference to us – the upshot is we do not have it.”

  “Where now then?” said Coxward.

  “Joron visited Mulvan Cahanny while in Bernshulme,” said Meas. “Now, he did not find out much. Only that a pirate isle that had once been trading in slaves suddenly cut off all contact. I know the place, it is named McLean’s Rock – and breaking off contact is not strange in and of itself, but Cahanny picked up reports that gullaime were seen on the island. He thought they were being sold, but I am not so sure. I reckon either fleet ships are stopping there for some reason or it is more of these windshorn.”

  “Hate them!” screeched the gullaime.

  “Thank you for your input, Gullaime,” said Meas. And the gullaime preened the feathers sticking out of its robe. Joron made a mental note to explain to it, at a more convenient moment, that this was not actually praise. “So with that in mind we will go explore this pirate island, and if we are lucky enough to run into Hassith’s Spear on the way then we will deal with him too. But that shall be our course, and we will call in at Leasthaven to pick up more crew, if they are there, and also Shipwife Brekir and Snarltooth. Even if McLean’s Rock holds only pirates, it is still likely to offer resistance. Whatever we find, it will be better to go in mob-handed.” She stood. “Well, I have told you what we are about, so get to it. Joron, Aelerin and the gullaime, stay a moment.”

  The three of them waited until the rest had left and they could hear the happy bustle of the ship working around them. “Aelerin, what chance of this calm lifting?” asked Meas.

  “Little today,” they replied. “Little tomorrow. But the winds are coming.”

  Meas nodded, then turned to the windtalker. Its masked face was lifted, as if it studied the ceiling. “Gullaime,” she said. “It would do us well to leave this calm as soon as possible, but I would not leave you empty and in pain for only our comfort and speed.”

  “Plenty speed,” it said, still looking up. “Plenty wind.”

  “Yes, but what about tomorrow and the next day? Can you tell how much of the magic is left to you? I do not know, even after all these years of dealing with your kind, how you work. And I would know. How can we tell if you are near to running out?”

  Its masked face snapped back to Meas. “Cannot,” it squawked. “I tell.” Then it almost purred. “I feel.”

  “Well,” said Meas, “I want you to keep plenty back. There is no windspire on Leasthaven but I have been past this pirate isle before and there is one there. We will need
your skills more for battle than travel.”

  The gullaime nodded, yarked and bit at the air. “Can speed boat, ship woman,” it said.

  “I know, but you do not need to impress me or push yourself. Tell Joron when you have had enough.” The gullaime nodded, and kept nodding as if lost in the motion. Then it spun around and headed for the cabin door.

  “Done now,” it said. “Done now. Move ship.”

  Meas watched it leave. Shook her head. “Courser, bring me your charts. Deckkeeper, go keep an eye on the gullaime and my ship.”

  On deck the gullaime crouched in the centre of the slate and brought the wind. Joron felt the familiar pressure in his ears and the heat across the deck and the song in his mind. His throat burned as Tide Child came about and he opened his mouth to shout, finding only a croak at first. Had to cough and clear his throat before the orders escaped his mouth and deckchilder were scurrying to get the ship under way. Once they were, he felt better and he walked among them, listening as they pulled on ropes and chanted songs. Was it his imagination, or had the song of the windspire somehow become part of this ship? Were those odd melodies winding through the shanties and chants of the crew? He felt sure they were, and wished more than anything to join them, but it was not appropriate for an officer to join the crew’s shanties. Worse, he dared not as he did not believe his voice was there; it had been stolen by Gueste and a garotte back in Bernshulme. She may not have held the rope, but she gave the order, shouldered the responsibility. His hand twitched – he owed Gueste for that. Just as he owed a shipwife called Barnt and Cwell for a lost sword.

  At that he glanced back. Cwell was there, silent behind him. Maybe that was all the vengeance he would ever have for the lost sword, that she served him now. Would he ever feel comfortable with that? He did not know, despite having searched his reflection in the polished metal he had used to shave his face that morran. Of course, he had changed, Meas was right. But Cwell? He turned to her.

  “I could do with some water.”

  There was a pause, a brief stiffening of her entire body. Then she bowed her head and walked past him to the paint-spattered mainspine and the barrel below it. Filled the cup hooked to the side and brought it to him.

  “Here,” she said. And she held out the cup. He took it and she waited while he drank, then took the cup back from him and returned it to the hook and came to stand behind him once more. Skearith’s Eye moved across the sky.

  After three days the wind returned and the gullaime rested, seemingly untouched by its time driving the ship. It returned to its cabin, biting and sniping and cursing at its shadow. Soon after it had left Meas came onto the deck.

  “We steer south,” she said. “Aelerin says we’ll find stronger currents and winds, and then we can turn for Cassin’s Isle and Leasthaven to meet up with Brekir. From there we go to McLean’s Rock, at worst to clean out some slavers. At best to find where our people are taken.”

  As the courser had promised, the winds picked up the further south they went, and though Joron could tell by the way Meas shouted into the tops that she was full of hope, they saw no sign of Hassith’s Spear and it seemed that unluckily named ship was lost to them. From there it was only routine and the monotony of shipboard life as they flew the ocean, broken by occasional fights between those who had been mutineers and those who had been loyal, and whatever their position now it spared neither of them the bite of the cord at the hand of Solemn Muffaz. But, with time and tide and the gentle swell of an ocean so friendly even Berhof could not moan about it, the crew of Tide Child once more began to pull together. Resentments were not forgotten, but they were put aside in the service of the ship, and when the call came up – “Cassin’s Isle rising!” – all the deckchilder hopped to their duties, eager that their ship should arrive in fine style, even though they must have known it would be many hours before they reached land. All the while, Joron worried with Fogle over lists of the crew and supplies Tide Child sorely needed before setting out for McLean’s Rock, and the hope of finding something, anything to help them track down the remainder of Safeharbour’s people.

  The last true port Joron had seen was Bernshulme, and it would be true to say that Leasthaven on Cassin’s Isle was a sad excuse for a dock compared to that, for it was not really a dock at all. The island shared the crescent shape of other islands, a slow slope rising from a long beach, eventually stopping with death-dealing finality at high cliffs which attracted skeers by the thousand to nest, fight and squawk. It was the long beach and deep bay before it that made it a good place for the small fleet – ships could drop staystones in the deep water and find some protection from the elements in the curve of the island. Joron counted five ships currently at rest, three black ships and two small brownbones.

  Leasthaven town, barely worth the name, had no dry dock like the great ports, no cranes and cradles, but the long beach and lack of tides at this latitude meant ships could be pulled from the water and careened, lying lazily on their sides while weed was scraped from their bones and repairs were made. Two of the three black ships currently slouched on the pink sand, surrounded by crowds of women and men working on them. The dying season had come to Cassin’s Isle, and the gion forest was brown, wilting and dripping to reveal the shanties and bothies of Leasthaven that had been built to store their meagre supplies. Had a ship come past these structures would have been seen straight away, but Cassin’s Isle had its steep-sided back to the open water, and was one of many small isles of little interest to anyone passing. Meas brought Tide Child to a halt in the bay and dropped the staystone.

  “I go ashore to see what supplies and crew we have available to us,” she said. “I would love to have Tide Child’s bottom cleared of weed but I fear we do not have time. Joron, prepare my boat and accompany me. Dinyl, could you have Mevans ensure my cabin is prepared to receive Shipwife Brekir and her deckkeeper?”

  “Ey, Shipwife.” Joron and Dinyl said it in unison then looked at each other and shared a smile. Then Joron picked a crew to row, making giant Berhof’s day by picking him and hearing him mutter, “Mother bless me, it will be good to have the world stop moving beneath my feet.”

  It seemed only moments before Joron was over the side and in the rear of the flukeboat while Meas stood at the front. Narza and Cwell sat opposite each other and joined the rowers and, though they never spoke, Joron felt that some understanding had grown between the two women – though he did not know whether that was something good or terrifying. Directly behind Meas, pulling on an oar with all his might, was the bonemaster Coxward; opposite him the wingwright Challin, behind them Berhof and Tarrin of the seaguard, and behind them Farys and three more Joron had favoured.

  On land he took a moment to let his legs get used to the strange way the ground seemed to move beneath him.

  “Hag’s breath,” said Berhof as he stumbled, “can I never escape the sea?”

  Coxward clapped him on the shoulder. “Tis a gift, Berhof. The sea follows us on shore, but it will pass.” Berhof nodded and grinned as Coxward turned from him. “But you’ll have to work through your seasickness again once you’re back on ship,” he said, and walked over to Meas, cackling.

  The shipwife dismissed the crew that had rowed them here, chosen from those who had been loyal to her when Cwell held her mutiny, with a harsh admonishment to remember they were her chosen and that any she found drunk on her return would be, as she put it, “a Hag’s sight less chosen.” From there they went up into the town, though town was hardly a word for Leasthaven. It was really only one street. Up close to the buildings he saw badly cured gion and varisk, cracks stuffed with dried mud and leaves. Coxward and Challin vanished up toward the warehouse while Meas headed for the largest building that was not a store house, the drinking hall.

  Inside it was almost full, women and men lining the benches, and Joron marvelled that, no matter how rudimentary their billet may be, deckchilder always managed to supply themselves with alcohol. The noise of the hall, even from ou
tside, was almost as loud as a battle. When Meas stepped through the door the noise stopped. Women and men held their breath as her gaze roved over them.

  “You all know me,” she said, with no need for her to shout. “Who here already serves on a black ship?” There were whoops and wails to that, drinks held up as if in toast. “Then kindly help me out, and go stand to seaward of me.” This was done in a reasonably fleet manner – those too drunk to find their own way were helped by their comrades over a landscape of benches and tables that had become an impossible maze to their fuddled senses. “I will stand each of you a drink,” she said. “For you are loyal and true and have given yourselves over to a new life and a better way, at much risk, and do not think I ignore that.” A roar of approval. Meas had to quiet them with a wave of her hands. “Wait, my girls and boys, just wait. For I have a tale to tell, one of betrayal and sadness. For I have had mutiny aboard my ship.” Gasps and whispers of “No!” “But do not worry – I had my good deckkeeper here,” she put a hand on Joron’s shoulder, “Joron Twiner. You all know him as a fair and kind man – maybe too kind I would say – but he put down those mutineers with such fierceness as I believe you have never seen.” Joron felt a warmth within his chest at this praise, even though he knew she exaggerated the truth. “Yet despite his quick actions, the mighty Tide Child, largest ship of our brave fleet, our fleet that believes in better, newer ways, is sadly short-handed. Ey, short-handed, and at just the time when we have discovered a darkness that threatens us all. Brownbones that steal our people away. Take the sick and old to die, for who knows what foul reason?” More disbelieving exclamations from the deckchilder to seaward, and on some of those faces Joron saw smiles, excitement, for they knew what was coming. “Now I’ll not force any woman or man to come to me. And I know,” she raised a hand to those to seaward of her, “every one of you would gladly serve me, but I also know you are a fierce and loyal bunch, who would never walk away from their own shipwife.” It was plain to Joron that this was not the case, but Meas’s words reminded those thinking of offering themselves that they already had a duty – and if they were a little disappointed, he knew it was better that than the strife that would be caused should Meas steal crew from the shipwife of a warship.