Call of the Bone Ships

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Call of the Bone Ships Page 43

by Rj Barker


  “Be calm, Caller, be calm.”

  It did not take long before they were installed in a small room within the hagbower. The priest who escorted them was a young-looking Bern and though she was quietly insistent she “see the shipwife’s wounds”, she was quickly seen off by the old woman’s sharp words and talismanic use of the Tinner name. Though Garriya was also forced to make concessions, and both Mevans and Farys had to agree to leave. Farys went first, turning the wrong way out of the door and hurrying away as fast as she could further into the building, quickly followed by the hagpriest.

  “Deckkeeper,” the priest called after Farys, “that is not the way! Deckkeeper!” But Farys paid no attention. Once they had gone Mevans turned to Joron and gave him a grin.

  “I better go have a look around,” he said, and vanished, back the way they had come to explore the building.

  “While they are gone,” said Garriya, “I will clean the ulcers on your stump.” She removed the kivelly carcass and his dressings and began to treat where his spur had rubbed his stump. He hissed with pain as she applied one of her salves. “If you had looked after it properly, Caller, then it would not be hurting, aye?”

  “Ey,” he nodded. “I cannot argue—” And then his words were cut off by a lance of pain so severe it was bite down or scream out, and he was a shipwife now, even if only a temporary one, and if there was one thing Meas had taught him it was that shipwives do not scream.

  At one point the hagpriest looked in and Garriya snapped at her, in a voice that carried all her foul temper: “Out! Can you not see I work on the Shipwife? If you would be useful bring me food.”

  When the wound was clean and covered and the bird’s corpse reapplied, Garriya turned, pulling over a stool and taking a piece of bread from the basket the hagpriest had eventually delivered. “Now you wait, eh Shipwife? And then you plan.”

  “Yes,” he said, his nerves still jangling with pain.

  “Best be a good plan too, aye? No keyshans to come save you here. All you have is all you have.”

  “I know,” he said. “Maybe that is a good thing. I would not want to . . .”

  “Bring down another isle?”

  “No,” he said, but he was not sure he meant it, as when he closed his eyes he once more saw that fiery projectile arcing overhead, Dinyl falling inexorably into the deep. And he wondered, would it be so bad if he could raise a keyshan from under this place? Bring the black basalt crashing down on all?

  “Meas believes your people are somewhere here, Caller,” said Garriya, interrupting his thoughts.

  “Ey,” he said. Sat up a little. “And we must find them.”

  “Many will be dead,” she said.

  “You know this how?”

  She stared at him, and the eyes within her face seemed infinitely sad.

  “Because,” she said, “it is always so.”

  Before he could ask what she meant, the merry face of Mevans appeared at the door.

  “Shipwife, Garriya,” he said. “The hagpriest will only let one extra in at a time now. Coughlin is here and also waits to speak to you.”

  “What did you find, Mevans?” Joron levered himself up so Mevans could come closer and speak more quietly.

  “They are lax,” he said. “No more than ten guards for this whole tower. Most of our crew are in the town now, though we are not allowed to leave it. The island is much bigger than it looks. The place goes right back into the rock, but the mines are out of bounds.”

  “How many troops are in the town?”

  Mevans usual smile vanished. “I reckon a lot, but best ask Coughlin. A true estimate of strengths is more his arena, Shipwife.”

  “Then why did you not simply send him?” he said, then realised how tetchy he sounded, and knew that Mevans did not deserve that. But the hatkeep seemed more amused than offended by his outburst.

  “Ey, you are right, Shipwife, foolish of me to waste your time.” And that familiar grin slipped back onto his face once more. “Best I send in him in, ey?” he said as he left the room.

  A moment later Coughlin appeared. “Shipwife,” he said.

  “How is it in the town?” said Joron.

  “I have fair and foul weather to report. The fair is that these people are fools who are too sure of themselves.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean they are fools,” he said again. “They are so sure they are safe they have become lazy. They pile their hagspit around the base of the mangonel so it is easy for them to get to. One spark and the machine is gone.”

  “Good, I will be glad to see it fall. But what is the foul weather you speak of?”

  “They have a fair-sized garrison around the thing.”

  “Enough to hold off our crew?”

  “Not forever, but they have more soldiers in the mines they can call on, and I imagine they could hold us off long enough for them to come to their aid. The square has multiple entrances and there’s no way we can block them all without being seen.”

  Joron nodded, wondered what Meas would do.

  “But I have an idea.” said Coughlin.

  “Tell me.”

  “When you take this place and the tower, let all our crew in, but either let a defender escape or make such noise it will draw attention. That should bring the garrison from the mangonel. I will hide in the town with some of my seaguard, and when the guard around the catapult is gone, we will attack it.”

  “But you may end up trapped, Coughlin.”

  “No plan is perfect, Shipwife.”

  “You may die.”

  “I will do my best not to.”

  Joron felt sure that if Meas were here she would have thought of some clever way out of this. But she was not here, he was. And he had no clever answers.

  “Stay alive, Coughlin,” he said, “I have lost one good friend today, I would not lose another.”

  The seaguard paused, for the smallest of moments. Then nodded. He was about to stand when a voice, imperious and used to being obeyed, spoke outside the room:

  “Who is it that denies my priests their Hag-given right to tend the ill? I shall not stand for it.”

  Well, thought Joron. Now it begins.

  50

  The Taking of the Gate

  Garriya eyed up the taller woman, swaying from side to side as she did, like a bird guarding its nest, puffing up her layers of ragged clothes.

  “I have dressed the wound, and done good work. To disturb it will not help the shipwife. What he needs is rest.”

  The new hagpriest pushed back the hood of her robe. Joron almost gasped, a tide of shock washing over him. She had Meas’s face – oh, not as scarred by sun and wind and age, but the same face nonetheless.

  “I am a hagmother of this island, old woman,” she said and now he had seen her face he heard echoes of Meas in her voice. “And though it may seem to be nothing but a cold and lonely rock, it is a place of high honour, higher than you know. I do not change dirty bandages or look over deckchilder’s wounds, there are others here for that, though you saw fit to send her away. But worry not, I will have your work checked as all know the work of ship’s hagshand leaves much to be desired. For now, I only wish to talk to your shipwife.”

  “He is sleepy with drugs, and—”

  “Did I ask your opinion?” said the hagmother. She had the same quality of voice as Meas, commanding, powerful. Garriya bowed her head, turned to Joron and leaned over him.

  “Take care,” she said, and he felt her hand slide under the covers and push the familiar shape of a bone knife against his thigh. Then she stood, gave the hagmother a glance, a sneer, shrugged and muttered something Joron did not catch, before leaving the room.

  Beneath the thin cover Joron wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the knife.

  “Shipwife Tinner,” the hagmother said, and pulled over a seat so she could sit by him, folding her hands in her lap.

  “Hagmother, you have a look of Meas Gilbryn.”

  So
mething cold passed across the her face.

  “I saw her once at a parade,” Joron said.

  “I do not talk of the coward, Meas, nor claim any kinship.” Her voice had all the icy chill of the Northstorm “But I am of the Thirteenbern, and the stamp of her strength is on the faces of all her daughters. You are honoured to be in my presence.”

  “Indeed,” he said. The bone hilt warmed in his grip.

  “Though of course,” she said, “I call you Shipwife only as a courtesy, for we both know that is your position no longer.” She pointed at the space beneath the covers where his lower leg should be.

  “Then to what do I owe this honour, Hagmother?”

  “Well,” she leaned forward, “yours is an old and powerful family, Shipwife Tinner. They, and you, have given much honour to the Hundred Isles. I would have you think about your position.”

  “My position?” he said.

  “Let us not be delicate, for we are not a people of delicate places and do not live delicate lives.” She put her hand on his thigh, just above where his leg had been severed. From experience, Joron knew that had the wound been fresh, her touch would have been agonising. “A shipwife without a leg is not a shipwife, and as a Tinner you can hardly go back to Bernshulme and find work on Hoppity Lane making shoes, can you? It would not be fitting.”

  “No,” he said. “Of course not.”

  “And it must gall such a man as you that you cannot serve on a ship, and you will never be one of the Kept now either. So you must throw yourself on your family’s charity.” Her eyes searched his face. “I do not mean to be cruel. I only think it is best I am honest with you. Truly honest, as few people will be.” She leaned in closer. “But you have chosen a life of honour and service, Shipwife,” she said. “What if I were to tell you that you may continue to serve, that you may make a sacrifice? And though it may sound great, it is simply the same one you have already agreed to.”

  “What do you mean?” he said.

  “Death,” she replied.

  “You threaten me? I am a Tinner and—”

  She lifted a hand to stop him talking. “It is not a threat,” she said. “You are free to leave this island and return a cripple to live off your family, if that is what you wish.”

  “Why would I take your offer?” he said. “Death is a poor reward for service, and my family would find me a place.” He knew the reality was that there was no family and nowhere for him to go, but they felt like the things a man in his position would say. A proud man. A man with a heritage.

  “I am sure your family would,” she said, and sat back. “If a life in a corner being disregarded is what you wish for. I offer you a chance to do something that will resonate throughout the Hundred Isles for lifetimes.” He stared at her. She leaned further forward, gaze intense, burning into him. “I offer you a chance to change our world, to hand the entire archipelago to the Hundred Isles. To crush the Gaunt Islanders.”

  “How?” He said it in a whisper, and though he suspected what was coming, what she would say, he was entranced by her words. He felt the power of them, like she wove some strange magic about him, and he could not help thinking this was something she shared with her sither, Meas. This magnetism.

  “You have heard,” she said, “that the arakeesians have returned?” He nodded. “Small numbers. Only two have been seen so far. But whoever can hunt them will rule the Scattered Archipelago.”

  “Surely our ships are already out there?” he said. She nodded.

  “Oh aye, they are indeed. But hunting keyshans is not like hunting longthresh. You cannot simply fill them with harpoons. We have learned this to our cost.” She shuffled nearer, smiling. “But there is a way.”

  He knew, of course, but could not say it, played the fool.

  “You would have me hunt them?”

  “In a way.”

  “In a way?”

  “There are old secrets, buried within the records in Bernshulme that tell us how these creatures must be hunted. There is a poison that kills them quickly. Using it will save thousands of lives.”

  “And?”

  “Sacrifices are needed in the making of it.” She stopped, her mouth slightly open. He saw the tip of her tongue touch her front teeth. “It is not a kind process. We need help.” He recoiled – even though he already knew, he recoiled. It was not even the words, or the horror of it. It was that she did not feel it. That she was inured to it, seemed almost entranced by it. “Oh, I know how it sounds,” she cooed, like a mother with a babe. “I do know how it sounds. But if we do not do it, the Gaunt Islanders will, eventually.”

  “So I escape death on the sea, only to find it here,” he said.

  “The recipe we have found is old and incomplete. So we make batches of the poison, and even that uses up bodies faster than we can find them. Then we send out a ship to try it. And of course, they must first find the keyshan. Then a report must come back from the companion ship on whether it worked or not before we go into production. It is a lengthy process, Shipwife,” she said, then sat back.

  “You want me to help make this poison of yours, which uses people up so quickly?” he said.

  Her eyes widened. “Of course not. You are from an old and honoured family.” She leaned in a little closer. “But we need crews for those ships, see? Experienced crews. Oh, it is dangerous work, I will not lie. Often not even the companion ship makes it back. But when you are not at sea you will live here. In luxury. You will want for nothing. We will inform your family you died on your ship, and you will, in necessary secrecy, provide a service that will ensure the strength of the Hundred Isles for generations.” Her eyes searched his face, looking for understanding.

  “What of my crew?”

  “We are always in need of soldiers and deckchilder. Though, of course, it is likely they will find out about what we do here. Some struggle with it. And I am afraid they cannot be allowed to leave. You understand. The Berncast may not understand.”

  “Of course,” he said. She smiled.

  “Well?”

  “May I have some time to think about it? It is a lot to take in,” he said.

  She stood. “I will give you an hour, then return for your answer.” Though of course, he knew what she did not say. That he was as doomed now as any Berncast, and that this hour was simply a courtesy.

  Once the hagmother had gone Garriya returned. “What did she want?”

  “My service,” he said. “Send word to Farys, Mevans, Coughlin and Cwell. We have an hour to prepare.”

  But they did not need an hour. Mevans and Farys and Coughlin and Cwell had long been ready: seaguard and deckchilder had been moved around the town until they were all in the places it was judged best they be. The majority of them in or around the tower and the infirmary. Coughlin and a few volunteers hidden within the town, as near to the great mangonel as they could get. So, when the time came and Garriya hissed at him, “Be ready, Caller. She comes,” he was entirely ready. It felt like every sinew and muscle in his body was wound tight, waiting for the moment. And when the hagmother once more came into his room, this time followed by the younger priest who had been first to attend him, his hand was around the warm hilt of the bone knife beneath his covers.

  “Shipwife Tinner,” said the hagmother. “Have you come to a decision?”

  He nodded. “I will take your offer,” he said as she sat down by him. “But tell me truth. Once you had told me of what you do here, I had joined those who would never leave, had I not?”

  She smiled at him, that mouth, so similar to Meas.

  “Yes,” she said and leaned in close. “It is good you chose to serve. You would not have enjoyed the alternative.”

  He nodded. Hand tightened on the blade.

  “Neither will you,” he said. With one hand he grabbed the back of her head, and with the other brought the knife up, still with the thin sheet wrapped around it. A white wave rising from the bed. That wave only to be crowned in red, slick and wet, as he drove the
blade beneath it into the side of her neck. Never giving her time to scream. Pulling the blade out. Thrusting it back into flesh. Never giving her time to shout. Pulling the blade out. Thrusting it back in. Never giving her any time at all. Behind her Garriya held the younger hagpriest, her sharp hagshand’s blade at the girl’s throat.

  “And this one, Caller?”

  She was young, terrified.

  The fiery projectile coming down on Dinyl’s ship.

  “No quarter, Garriya.”

  Garriya’s blade bit. The girl’s mouth opened in a perfect “o” as if she were simply surprised by the sudden turn of events, and as the sheet of blood spilled down the front of her white robe, Joron could almost believe it. Garriya’s blade was so sharp he thought the young hagpriest may not even have felt the blade bite home before life fled from her. He tried to believe it, as he had given the order which took her life. He tried to believe it as she looked so young.

  But he knew the pain of the blade.

  He knew you always felt it, eventually.

  “Come, Caller, you’ll need your leg and your sword.” She pulled them from his pack under the bed and started fixing the leg on to him. Practiced hands moved quickly as she clamped the leather and buckles around his thigh. He felt the familiar pain in the stump of his leg as he moved his weight off the bed. Then Garriya was buckling on his sword belt and he found himself staring at the bodies. The hagmother he felt nothing for, despite that her blood was drying, bright red to russet brown, on his hands, but he could not tear his eyes away from the girl’s body.

  “Feel no pity, Caller,” said Garriya, “what happens here is monstrous, and all who support it are monsters. We both know that.”

  He pulled his gaze from the dead girl.

  “Let us leave this place.”

  Outside he found Farys and Cwell waiting for him. And behind them almost the entire crew of Keyshantooth filled the corridor.

 

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