by R J Barker
“You have told him nothing of what we do, Meas?” Karrad said this with a sneer on his beautiful face.
“I did not know how much you would reveal of us and our cause, or how much I should. Or even if he could be trusted.” Her words like a knife in him, even though he was not sure in this moment that he could be trusted either. “But as it seems you are happy to share everything, you may as well fill him in.”
“Very well.” Karrad nodded at her. “How long have we fought the Gaunt Islanders, Twiner?”
“For ever.”
“And why?”
“Why?” He had no answer. It was what Hundred Islanders did. What they had always done. Eventually he said, “They steal our children.”
“Why?”
“To sacrifice to their ships.”
“Why?”
“To light the corpselights and give them good fortune in the fight against us.”
“And, in turn, we steal their children for the same, and when neither side can steal children we sacrifice our own. And all for what?”
“I . . .” Joron found himself lost. Karrad was talking as if everything he knew, had been raised with, was somehow wrong. “It is what we do,” he said.
“We steal children to keep fighting each other so we may steal more children. In turn we attack them and they attack us to avenge the children taken. And so it goes – round and round and round. But what if there is no need to steal children? Eh, Joron Twiner? What if killing each other is not the only way?”
“But without the fleet what would we do?”
“We do not know,” said Meas quietly. “But maybe it would be good if we could find out.”
“The Gaunt Islanders will never accept peace,” said Joron. “They hate us and love war.”
“And they say the same of us,” said Meas quietly. “But they love their children also. Such things bind us all together.”
“You work with them? They are our enemy, and—”
“Many of them are our enemy, yes,” said Meas, “but not all. There are those who feel as Indyl and I do. That war is futile, a waste of what we have. Not a lot of them, and there are not a lot of us. But those who think that war must end grow.”
“An arakeesian though,” said Karrad. “That will put a stop to any chance of peace. The war will start again, worse then ever.”
“Why?”
“We have less and less bone for ships every season, Joron,” said Meas. “Fewer ships, smaller ships. And as people begin to realise what a waste it is to throw our people at the sea for war they come to us.”
“But the Sea Hag,” said Joron. “She demands war. She—”
“Have you ever met the Sea Hag, Twiner?” said Karrad.
“I hope not to.”
“No one has,” said Karrad, “though I would be glad to send you on your way to her if you are truly curious. It is women and men that decide what the Sea Hag says. The hagpriests speak for her, but I have never heard of one who speaks to her. It has always been so. And Thirteenbern Gilbryn is tied to war and tradition – give her the bones of an arakeesian and she will build warships. The same is true of the Gaunt Islands’ rulers. It is all they know, all they want. Fear is how they stay in power.”
“But if the Hundred Isles gets the arakeesian bones,” said Joron, “then our advantage will be overwhelming.”
“It does not work like that, Joron,” said Meas, sitting back in her chair. “It never has. Bones are stolen and smuggled and sold by the greedy. Raids are made. Traitors betray ships to the other side for money. One arakeesian will fuel war for a generation, if not longer.”
“So,” said Karrad, “the beast must be protected until it reaches the Northstorm.”
“That is a long distance. You expect us to fight all the way?” said Meas.
“You are a ship of the dead,” snapped Karrad. “It is your duty.”
“Duty is good, but to give us an impossible task helps no one.”
Karrad paused, as if gathering himself for a last charge. “The timing of this is good for us, Meas.” He leaned forward. “The tension in the south has drawn many of the ships of both sides. Even now, out there, our greatest ships get ready for a show of strength in the south. Trade has slowed as the brownbones and their shipwives are wary of sending their cargoes across the sea with such tension, and the lack of boneships makes raiders braver. The keyshan has already passed where the ships mass and it seems no one saw it. The main routes south go nowhere near where the keyshan should swim. You will not face too great a challenge.”
“Even if we succeed,” said Meas, “what of next year, when it returns?”
“I do not intend to let that happen.”
“How?” said Joron.
“At the edge of the Northstorm, where the currents are fast and strong, you will kill it. No one will be able to salvage the corpse; the storm is too fierce.”
“One ship against a sea dragon?” said Meas, incredulous. “You are not the only one who has read the old accounts, Indyl. It is impossible.”
“It is not impossible,” said Karrad. “I have been reading deep on hunting arakeesians. They can be killed with one shot.” Meas snorted. “You would be surprised what we have forgotten.” Karrad leaned over his map. “The arakeesian’s route is mostly deep water. From here” – he pointed at where it had been spotted – “to here” – he pointed at an area far to the west of it – “the keyshan is safe, and the waters empty for fear of ice, so no one will see it. There are only really three or four places where it can be hunted. Though I suspect every island it passes will send out flukeboats to try their luck, they can mostly be ignored or they will run when they see a fleet ship. To hurt the keyshan only big gallowbows will work, the type mounted on the harbour moles or a ship’s maindeck. It is almost conceivable that you can travel the whole route without ever being seen or having to fight.”
“Almost?” said Meas.
“Few of the old keyshan towers remain; stone is valuable, also many have been dismantled. But here” – he tapped the map where a thin line of blue ran between an island and the basalt slabs of Skearith’s Spine, the mountain range that divided the Archipelago – “this is Arkannis Isle. There are still towers either side of the channel. One on the island, one on the spine itself. They have long been held by raiders who take a toll for passage – it has never been worth our while fighting them. And the towers have giant gallowbows, big enough to damage the keyshan, maybe even kill it if they are quick with their loosing, though who knows how many bolts it takes. Anyway, you must take those towers.”
“You make it sound so simple, Indyl,” said Meas.
He ignored her.
“Then there is Berringhulme Sound in the far north. It is deep enough for a big ship to come in, shallow enough to retrieve the corpse. If news reaches Bernshulme quickly, they could get a ship up there.” He talked as if the prospect of another ship was a slight thing. “But as you see, Meas, you need not fight all the way, just accompany the creature. One fight, maybe two at the most. It is not an impossible task I set you.”
“Not impossible in the unlikely event it goes perfectly,” said Meas.
“I have arranged help too. You will be joined in the south by some of our friends. Keep the beast safe until the Northstorm and then finish it. That is imperative if we wish to ever end our wars.”
“How do we finish it, Indyl? Arakeesians used to rip apart five-ribbers with ease. Tide Child is only four, and small for it.”
“I have three hiylbolts,” said Karrad.
“But they are a myth,” Meas protested.
“Well, I have three, so plainly they are not.”
“What are they?” said Joron.
“Hiyl was a poison that could kill a keyshan within minutes if you hit the beast in the eye, Joron,” said Meas. “But I have only ever heard of it in tales. How do you know it is real, Indyl?”
“It was hidden away. I found talk of the hiylbolts in papers and tracked down where they
should be, found only an empty room. But I had seen mention, somewhere, about a room used to hide treasures in case Bernshulme itself was raided. These papers were ancient, Meas,” he said, tapping a finger on the desk. “But I found the room and the bolts, behind a collapsed wall in a dark corner of the Grand Bothy, with some other papers and unimportant objects. I have no reason to doubt the bolts are what I believe. The room had been undisturbed for generations.”
“How do we know this poison works?” said Joron.
“Well” – a wry smile crossed Karrad’s face – “there is only one way to find that out.”
“Do you seek to send me to my death, Indyl?” said Meas.
He shook his head.
“No. Never.” And strangely, Joron believed that. “I have the bolts. We have them. They will kill the beast with one hit.”
“You hope,” said Meas.
“I am sure,” said Karrad. “You only need to get your ship out of the way once the bolt has been loosed in case its thrashing smashes your ship.” Meas and Karrad stared at each other over the desk, as intent as lovers. Then she gave a small nod. “Good,” said Karrad. “Good! Load them on to Tide Child just before you leave. I will put them in my warehouse.”
“Why not now?” said Joron.
“Because,” said Meas, “he cannot be sure no one else knows of them.”
Karrad nodded.
“No one has ever died from being too careful.”
“That,” said Meas, “may be the most truthful thing you have ever said.” She tapped the desk as Karrad relaxed back into his chair. “How many of these ‘friends’ will there be?”
“A pair of Gaunt Islands two-ribbers will join you. Black ships like your own.”
“There are other things I will need, Indyl, or I will fail before I even start.”
Karrad nodded, his oiled chest shining in the weak light, a smile on his face.
“Tell me, and if I can help I will.”
“Tide Child’s keel is cracked. It must be fixed and the mainspine rebuilt before I can fly the sea.”
“The ship is already out of the water and with the bonewrights. They work on him as we speak.”
“And no slapdash job simply because he is a ship of the dead. I know what they think of black ships.”
“I have taken steps to ensure the ship will be well cared for.”
“I need provisioning for at least four months.”
“It is unlikely to take so long, two months at most.”
“The provisions are also for ballast. Tide Child could be a fast ship if he is weighted right.”
“Very well.”
“I need bolts, shot, wingbolts, cutters and hagspit oil. And decent weapons for my crew.”
“Not a problem. Weapons we have.”
“I need more crew too, not only deckchilder. A ship should have seaguard, and if we must fight on land, as you say, we will need them.”
“I have access to criminals only; the seaguard answer to Thirteenbern Gilbryn and she says they harbour only the best of us, so, of course, the seaguard commit no crimes.”
Meas let out a snort.
“Even those seaguard that brought us here?”
“They risk a lot for me, Meas. Do not mock them.”
She looked away from him.
“Very well. Give me more crew than I need, and I will train twenty as soldiers. I’ll need arms and armour for them.”
“Is that is all?”
“No. I need a gullaime.”
“I have heard you have one.”
“Not one that is any use. It will not obey.”
“How else do you think a gullaime ends up on a ship of the dead, Meas? You are lucky to have one at all.”
Meas leaned forward, her lips peeling away from her teeth like those of a furious animal.
“What use is the creature if it will not obey, Indyl? It is like no other gullaime I have met, it does not know its place. What if it simply decides to wreck us?”
“Look upon it as part of the ballast you require.”
Meas made to stand.
“Keyshan’s rot take you and your mission, Indyl Karrad. I need a gullaime or—”
“A long time ago, Meas,” he said softly, and she paused, “you told me you were the best, and I said surely it was your crew that made you the best. Do you remember what your answer was?”
She did not look away, was not in the least cowed, and no one would have believed that this was a meeting of one of the most powerful men of the Hundred Isles and a condemned criminal.
“Yes,” she said through gritted teeth.
“You told me a shipwife makes their crew, not the other way around. So, Shipwife, make your crew.”
“I did not talk of a crew of criminals and a mad windtalker.”
“You will have to work with what you have,” he said to her. “And now I think we are done.” He glanced at Joron. “Kindly get that murderer out of my rooms.”
Meas did not reply, only stood and turned her back on him.
“Come, Joron.”
He followed her out of the carved door and down through the building. She stopped before the street door as if she wanted to speak to him, but before she spoke, he did.
“You knew.”
“Knew what?” She did not turn, did not give him the courtesy of her full attention.
“What I did. Why they put me on the black ship. You knew I killed his son.”
“It never hurts to have your enemy wrong-footed.”
“I thought he was your friend.”
She laughed then.
“Oh my deckkeeper, you have so much to learn. I am Lucky Meas, greatest shipwife the Hundred Isles has ever known.” Now she turned, little visible of her in the dim light but the gleam of her eyes. “People like me, Joron Twiner, we have no friends.”
On their way back to their stinking room in Fishmarket Meas had them stop off at a cobbler on Hoppity Lane, where, by tradition, those born with a leg or foot missing carried on the trade of shoe making. From there they went to Handy Alley, where by tradition those with an arm or hand missing carried on the tailoring trade. As they walked through, the left-armed catcalled the right-armed and vice versa, but Meas ignored them all in favour of a tailor she knew well. Then they went to claim what sleep they could before morning, which, as Meas warned him, was when the real work would begin.
But sleep would not come to Joron. He was angry. Meas’s use of his history as a tool to try and manipulate Indyl Karrad filled him with a fury he barely understood. She had treated the memory of his father as carelessly as Jion Karrad had treated his life. And twisted up within that anger was worry. The cobbler had measured him for boots, good ones, and the tailor for a fine jacket and trews, but he had no way of paying for either. All his iron had gone down his throat long ago. How would he tell her that when the time came?
Beneath it all another feeling struggled through the tide of resentment and apprehension: excitement. An arakeesian. No one in living memory had seen a living keyshan, and that he may be be one of the few that did filled him with awe. Oh, he had no doubts about the danger of their mission, none at all. But if a man was to die then what a thing to die for. A sea dragon.
And if somehow he could bring its bones back to Bernshulme? If anything could win him freedom from the black ship then it would be that. Maybe. Karrad and Meas had spoken of the long war ending, and maybe such a thing was a worthy, a grand dream, even. But it was a dream, and if life in the Hundred Isles taught you anything it was that dreams did not come true. The Hundred Islanders warred to defend themselves, and the Gaunt Islanders murdered for the joy of it. To even think that there could be peace with them was the sort of capricious trick the Maiden played on the unworldly.
Where did he stand here?
Where were his loyalties?
Imagine – to turn over two traitors and the body of a keyshan? Revenge on Indyl Karrad, and he would be respected. Be someone. Of course Meas would be finished but why
should he care?
It’s not about respect, boy; it’s about loyalty.
His father’s voice.
Whatever happened, he would see an arakeesian.
What he would have given to share such a sight with his father.
He tossed and turned in the damp bed in the high room of the Fishmarket half-bothy, impatient for the moment when Skearith’s Eye would peer in and Meas would start the day. So when it came – a shaft of blinding light, golden dust suspended within – he was not rested but he was filled with adrenalin. As Meas washed herself in a bowl of dirty water he paced backwards and forwards, the gion boards beneath his feet creaking in complaint.
“If you must walk, go to our door and find what is left outside it.”
He stopped, screwed up his brow.
“What?”
“Just do as I say.”
He opened the door. To one side he found a pair of boots – he had no idea how they had got there; maybe they had been there all night. How had he not heard them be delivered?
“My boots?”
“Did I not say a deckkeeper needed boots?”
“Yes, but I regret to say—”
“Payment is dealt with.” She waved a hand at him then lifted it, washing under her arm with her cloth. “Put them on then. They will hurt at first as you are not used to them. Your feet will blister, you must work through that. No need for you to wash today,” she added, “as your clothes will still stink no matter how clean the skin beneath, but more fitting clothes will arrive before we leave. Then you will stay clean, even if I have to throw you in the sea each day to ensure it. You are an officer now, you understand?”
He nodded, bewildered once more by this woman.
“Put them on then,” she said again, “then find us food. There should be a coin hidden beneath the turn-up of the boot, for that was what I agreed.”
Bernshulme was busy and it was not hard to find food. Though Skearith’s Eye had barely woken, vendors were already out, and the stink of rotten fish from the market mingled with baking bread and cooking flesh. If the food did not smell appetising, then at least it did not smell as bad as Fishmarket at night. Joron bought two helpings of fish in pastry from the cleanest-looking stallholder, a woman with a malformed jaw, and made his way back to the half-bothy. Meas emerged as he approached the door with his mouth full of pasty which, if mostly bone, was at least hot.