by Rj Barker
They wound along the pathway up into the forest proper, making their gradual way in snaking single file. Joron inwardly cursed the constant soft noise of the dripping jungle, as it made good cover for hidden footsteps, or rustling bushes.
They broke into another clearing, this one with more large huts. Joron counted ten in all, though three were on the point of falling down, and four were not truly huts, only roofs over the bars of cured varisk making up their sides.
“The slave pens,” said Coughlin.
“You have been here before?” said Joron. The big soldier nodded.
“Aye, Cahanny had more than a few dealings with these people. I had little appetite for it myself. Probably why he sent me. It hurts none to have your negotiator surly.”
“He told me he had little appetite for slavery,” said Joron.
“Of course he did, he knew what you wanted to hear,” said Coughlin. “The middle cabin, Meas,” he shouted. “That was where the headwoman lived. Calla, she was called. Hard as a bag of rocks, uglier too. If there is anything to find it will be in there.”
“Set two thirds of our number in a circle around these buildings,” she said. “I’ll not have anyone sneak up on us.”
“As you say,” he said, and orders were quickly given. That done Meas gave Coughlin a nod and together with him, Berhof and Narza, she went into the main hut. Joron waited, listening to the slow breathing of the gullaime on his back and twice having to bat away the windshorn, who was trying to reach up and fuss over it.
“Leave it alone.”
“Is uncomfortable.”
“It is asleep, Shorn, leave it.”
“Is uncomfortable.”
“Leave it, Shorn.” The smaller gullaime hissed at him and hopped back a few paces as Meas emerged from the main hut, looking as dejected as he had ever seen her. When she came within a few steps of him he heard her sigh.
“There is nothing there, Joron, the place has been cleared out.” She raised her voice to the deckchilder around her. “Rip this place apart! Find me something.” Women and men stood about staring at her. “Get on with you, I’ll have no slatelayers. Work, or I’ll have Solemn Muffaz cord the lot of you when we return to Tide Child!” Joron was about to speak, to reassure her they would find something when she bit out, “And you. I do not give you permission to stand about either. Find me something that points to our people!”
“Ey, Shipwife,” he said, stunned by her sudden bad temper, though he understood it. Since Safeharbour had been lost it seemed like the world was set against them.
As the nearest huts were already being ripped apart, Joron headed for those furthest away, still wearing the gullaime on his back and followed by the windshorn, Farys and Cwell. Something in him thought it was not sensible to head to the loneliest place with Cwell – he could not and did not trust her yet and no doubt she knew it. She kept her face straight, gave nothing away, but his wariness around her must be evident. Their relationship was as uncomfortable as it was new. So he kept his distance from her as they made their way around the farthest hut and comforted himself with the thought there were guards near, in the skirts of the forest. The building they approached was falling apart, one corner smashed by a fallen gion trunk, now slowly turning to slimy brown liquid and leaving a faecal smear down the side of the wall. Inside nothing but more mess, old blankets where women and men had slept, food so rotten and hard that even the vermin had decided not to bother with it. No sign of paper, no hint of charts. He turned to find Cwell stood in the doorway, a dark figure against the light. He flinched. Silently cursed himself for it and walked out. Wordlessly, she moved aside to let him pass and he headed to the next hut.
Out of the corner of his eye.
A flash of white.
“Did you see that?”
“What?” said Cwell. As much a challenge as a reply. Did she stay monosyllabic because she saw him as this nervy stonebound man, unworthy of more of her words?
“I saw something white, it went under the hut we just left.”
“Animal?” said Cwell.
“I don’t know.”
She stared at him, gave a small nod and walked back toward the hut, four steps backwards, keeping his eye before she turned. Walked away, stopped by the front of the hut. Slowly she leaned over to one side, putting a hand on the crumbling wall to steady herself.
Something exploded from underneath the hut, knocking Cwell on her back and making a noise like nothing Joron had ever heard. He brought his curnow up – heart racing, breath rasping. The white thing, a ball of feather, mud and fury swerved away from him and toward the gap between the broken hut and its neighbour. The windshorn was there, behind it Farys, running toward them. The windshorn brought its wings up under its cloak, hissing and screeching and the thing turned around, finding Cwell on its other side. Then and only then did Joron realise that the filthy creature and the windshorn were making exactly the same noise, using exactly the same postures to make themselves bigger. But where the windshorn wore a robe and had its face hidden behind a mask, this gullaime did not. All it wore was a piece of dirty wingcloth wrapped around the tops of its thighs, exposing the dark scales of its lower legs, the huge fighting claws, a sparsely feathered, barrel chest and the stubby wings it held out from its body to try and make itself look bigger. It bobbed from side to side, snapping at the air, screeching and crowing. Joron was sure it was windshorn as it had eyes – or rather it had one; the other was a raw wound, bisected by a slash that had opened the creature’s face to the bone and leaked a clear liquid that had left a yellow stain on the remaining feathers of its chest.
“We will not hurt you,” said Joron. The wild gullaime screamed at him, a wordless, noisy fury that twisted and twined around the ever-present song in his mind. The creature made a dart for Cwell, trying to pass but she was too fast. Her sword and knife out, dancing through the air. The wild gullaime hissed and looked past Joron, toward where the rest of the crew were running toward them, then toward the forest where the guards Coughlin had posted were emerging.
“Not go back,” it hissed, and made a dart toward Joron. He held his arms and curnow out, blocking. “Die first.”
“Shorn!” shouted Joron. “Tell it we will not hurt it.”
Shorn let out a stream of sound in the gullaime’s musical language. The wounded creature replied, a darker counterpoint.
“Thinks we take it. Thinks we kill it,” said Shorn. “Says make you eat sword.”
“No,” said Joron. He stepped back, his steps slow, his heart beating frantically. He spread his arms wide and slowly laid his curnow on the damp ground. All the time he kept eye contact with the wounded windshorn. He waited, let his heart slow. Took a step forward. The moment he did he knew it was a mistake. In his time on Tide Child he had come to understand the gullaime’s body language, to know what to expect from its positioning and speed of movement and he knew this wild windshorn thought him a fool. That the way it held its head to one side, beak slightly open, meant it thought itself cunning beyond compare. It had no interest in his attempt to make peace. The creature was about to launch itself at him, its scythe-like claw extended to rip him open. Behind it Cwell, realising what it intended and already moving.
He knew he was lost.
“What is happening here?” The voice a roar. Like storm waves breaking against a cliff. All the power of a shipwife, of years of straining to be heard above wind and rain and battle pushed out into the air. It stopped the one-eyed windshorn right on the point of launching itself at him. Stopped Cwell on the point of defending him. Meas marched forward, jostling Joron to one side. “What is happening here?”
The scarred windshorn hissed at her.
“It thinks we want to take it away,” said Joron.
“We do not,” she snapped the words out. “We have questions though. Did you come on a brownbone?” said Meas. “Did they bring you here with others like you, and sick women and men?” In reply she received only hisses. “We are not th
ose people. See who travels with us?” She pointed at Shorn, at the gullaime still sleeping on Joron’s back. Her gaze rested on the supine creature for a moment and then she turned back to the tatty windshorn, now held at bay in a circle of blades as more deckchilder and seaguard arrived.
“Not go back,” it hissed. “Die first.”
“No one needs to die,” said Meas. She reached up and took a feather from her sash, holding it out.
“I give you this gift, from me to you.”
It blinked its single eye. Then screeched and hissed, and danced about in a circle making a racket, pulling its own feathers out by the beakful.
“What want feathers? Have plenty feather? Plenty feather!”
Meas took a step back, shock on her face, but behind it there was also amusement.
“Well, if we know what you don’t want,” she said, “what do you want?”
And the dancing and the plucking and the screeching stopped.
“What Madorra want?”
“Yes. Is Madorra your name?”
“Name name name,” it said, and ran a long wing feather through its beak, pausing to bite at some itching creature on its skin. “Madorra want string.”
“Well, I am Shipwife Meas, and on my ship, Tide Child, I have plenty of—”
“Want string now!”
It seemed there was an impasse. But Meas was not to be beaten so easily and she knelt. Unlaced her boot and pulled the lace free, holding it out. Madorra snatched it with its beak.
“Mine!” it said.
“Will you speak with us now, Madorra?” said Meas. “Will you trust us now?”
“Speak. Yes.” The creature tucked the string away within its sparse breast feathers. “Trust, no.”
35
Women and Men of the Rock
Madorra was one of the windshorn, but as unlike the one Joron had christened Shorn as possible: a mirror image. Where Shorn shied from them, Madorra hissed and spat. One deckchild took a nasty cut to the leg for going too near the one-eyed gullaime before it was ready. Meas then had to clamp down on her crew to stop them attacking Madorra. The crew had decided a fair while back that windshorn were not subject to the same rules as a gullaime, who could control the wind, who were useful and ship-like creatures to be born with good humour.
It took Meas and Joron and Shorn hours to gain even a little trust from the creature that called itself Madorra, or Mad Orra as the deckchilder called it when they thought none listened. Though it had accepted string from Meas it still swore at her and cursed her. Only when Meas offered food, a bag of dried fish scraps and salted kivelly meat, did Madorra finally decide to let its feathers down a little and stop trying to bite anyone who came near. From there, Joron and Meas accompanied the creature to the biggest of the huts, gave it the bag of food which it placed on the table with its beak. It sat on a stool, in a most human and very un-gullaime-like way.
“Madorra,” said Meas quietly, standing in the open doorway of the hut with her arms behind her. “We need some information about the people who brought you here.”
“All die here.”
“Everyone is dead?”
“No, foolish ship woman. All gone.”
“Who will die then?”
“You.” It tossed a sliver of meat up into the air and caught it with a snap of its beak. “Them.” It used a wingclaw to motion toward the outside. “Him.” It turned its one eye on Joron and nodded. “All die. Only Madorra live. Madorra hide best.”
“We found you,” said Joron.
Madorra made a sound, blowing air through the nostrils on its beak without opening it. Joron had no doubt it was being rude to him.
“Let you,” said Madorra.
“You did not,” said Joron.
“Did. Hungry. Smell food.”
“You were about to kill me.”
Madorra paused, a long slice of kivelly meat hanging from its beak. It slowly reeled it in a little at a time.
“Ship man smell like food.”
“It did not want to be found, Shipwife,” said Joron.
“It hardly matters now,” she said. “It is found.”
“Maybe not kill you,” said Madorra, “maybe kill that.” It nodded at Joron and for a moment he was confused by its meaning, until he realised it talked of the gullaime on his back.
“The windtalker?”
“Spoilt, cruel, windchild,” said Madorra, real venom in its voice.
“Enough,” said Meas. “You can come with us, or stay on the island. It does not matter to me, but I need information from you as Hag knows there seems to be nothing else on this island.” Madorra pitched its beak into the bag again and pulled out a whole dried fish, throwing back its head and swallowing it in a series of gulps. It turned its one good eye on Meas.
“Ask.”
“How did you get here?”
“Ship.”
“With other gullaime, and humans?”
“Stinking humans.”
“And they offloaded you here?”
“Madorra escape. Madorra kill.”
“So only you left the ship?”
“All left ship,” it screeched. “Put in cages. Madorra kill. Escape. No cage.”
“Very well,” said Meas. She walked forward, picked up one of the fallen stools and sat opposite it. “Do you know where they were taking you, after here?”
“Not told,” said Madorra, and stuck its head back in the bag. Meas closed her eyes, let out a breath. It was, to Joron, as if she breathed out disappointment, shrinking slightly as she did so.
“Madorra listen though.” Muffled words from the bag. Meas sat upright on the stool once more. The windshorn slowly removed its head from the bag, the one eye blinking. “Madorra always listen.”
“What did you hear?”
“Not matter,” it said.
Meas leaned over the table and her words came out in single, sibilant hisses: “What. Did. You. Hear?”
The windshorn blinked at Meas.
Once.
Twice.
It pulled a piece of meat from the bag and gulped it down.
“Humans. Gullaime. They go other place. Go to rock island.”
“‘Rock island’?” said Meas, sitting back down. “They never called it anything else?” The windshorn shook its head. “Joron, we will have to ask Aelerin” – disappointment rose in her voice – “but if it is truly called Rock Island, there are hundreds so named. Although they tend to be small, not big enough for the amount of people on even one brownbone. And we can be sure there is more than one transporting people. So that may narrow it . . .”
“What,” said Joron, whose understanding of the vagaries of gullaime speech was better than Meas’s, “if it is not a place named Rock Island, but the island where our rock comes from?”
Silence in the small cabin.
“Sleighthulme?” said Meas. The silence fell again while she thought it through. “Brownbones coming in and out of Sleighthulme would bring no attention. It would be perfect but . . .” She tapped her hand on the table. “You may be right, Joron, but I hope you are not. The stone mined there is valuable, Sleighthulme is a fortress.”
“Sleighthulme,” said Madorra. “Rock island. Same same. Not matter.”
“It does matter,” said Meas. “Did they use the name Sleighthulme?”
“What say? Rock island, Sleighthulme. Same,” snapped the windshorn. “Not matter.”
“But they did say Sleighthulme?” pushed Meas.
“Yes, yes! Not matter!” it spat back.
“Why doesn’t it matter, Madorra?” said Joron.
“Say.” It snapped at the air with its beak. “Madorra say. All die here.”
“No, they are taken somewhere else to die,” said Meas.
The windshorn let out a screech.
“Not there. Here.”
“They died here?” said Joron.
“No,” screeched the windshorn. “Stupid human!”
“You mean us?” sa
id Meas. “But there is no one here. How could we die?”
“Death in ground,” said Madorra. “Waiting for ship woman. All die.”
“I think the dead in their graves are past worrying about me, Madorra,” said Meas, and she began to stand.
“Stupid ship woman,” screeched the gullaime, then it put its head back into the food bag and continued to root around.
“Shipwife,” said Joron. Something cold ran down his spine. “What if it doesn’t mean the dead? Remember on Arkannis Isle, when we stormed the tower there? We went in underneath . . .”
“Through the caves,” said Meas. “Hag’s tits, Aelerin said this place was once named Sponge Island. I was not truly thinking. An island like a sponge, full of holes.” She turned back to Madorra. “Do you mean there are people here, now, in the caves?”
“What said.” It did not look up from its bag of food.
“Gah, bind me to the stone for a fool.” She took off her hat and rubbed her forehead with the back of her wrist. “Joron, gather everyone and head back to the flukeboats. Madorra, you can come with us or stay here, it is up to you.”
“What about the gullaime?” said Joron. “It needs the windspire.”
“We will find it another. If they are waiting for us below ground then we must get away. Little use taking it to the windspire if we all die here.” She put her hat back on her head. “Well? What are you waiting for?” Joron nodded, running from the hut to bring all the deckchilder together. As he left he heard Madorra cackling to itself.
“All die. All die.”
“Everyone,” shouted Joron. “Gather here, we return to the flukeboats. Be on your guard, we may not be alone.”