by R J Barker
“I told you to serve well.”
“Ey, you did. And when I heard you were moved to a ship of the dead, well, seemed obvious that where you go, I should.”
“Mevans,” she said, “I should have you corded for disobeying me. You will die, that is all that awaits anyone on my ship.”
“Hag comes for us all, Shipwife,” he replied, his jollity not even touched by the reminder of mortality. “Besides, for what she did, Shipwife Kyrie needed a punch.”
“You’re a fool.”
“Oh aye, and not the only one. Cosst, Mebal, Tarnt – they’re all here too. Fair queueing up to punch your sither, they were.”
“Fools!” But Meas could not hide the smile on her face. She stood straighter and shouted, “Those here who were once my crew, stop hiding yourselves and step forward.” About fifteen women and men stepped out of the line further down, which made Joron wonder again what type of woman Meas was that so many would walk into certain death just to be with her.
“Well,” she said, a harshness coming back into her voice, “you may join my crew, but consider each and every one of you demoted to deckchild for such stupidity.” They walked over to join the small group bound for Tide Child, and if they felt sore about being demoted they managed to smile through it. Only Mevans stayed where he was, bobbing his head and grinning. “Is there a reason you remain here, Deckchild Mevans?” said Meas. “Do you disobey because you have changed your mind? For it strikes me as a bit late to do that.”
“No Shipwife, never. Where you go I go. ’Tis only . . .” His voice tailed off.
“Only?”
“The old woman, you must have seen her earlier. Seems a little strange. She has been here a long time.”
“It has broken her mind.”
“No, Shipwife, she has the Hag’s spirit in her.”
“You have adopted another broken soul, Mevans. A fleet ship is not the place for—”
“She is lucky, Shipwife, she is. Her name is Garriya and she is lucky.”
Meas shook her head before turning to one of the seaguard.
“Bring back the old woman,” she said then turned back to Mevans. “At least tell me she can sew.”
“I do not believe so, Shipwife.” chuckled Mevans. “She’s no use for nothing. But she is lucky.”
Meas stared at him for what felt like a long time, then shook her head. “As well as the usual, Mevans, I need women and men for seaguard. Violent men and women, but ones with discipline.”
“Plenty of violence but little discipline on this ship.”
“You know those aboard this hulk well?”
Mevans nodded.
“Ey. I reckoned were only time till you turned up. Some of those you have turned down I reckon could be worked up. I have a list of their skills. Most are a bad lot, little more than stonebound, but there are those who will measure up.”
“Well, in that case you can free up Joron and I.” She leaned in and spoke quietly. “We need good crew, Mevans, and as many as you can get.”
“I shall find them for you,” he said.
Meas nodded but Mevans held her gaze.
“What?”
“There is one other thing.”
“Only one?”
“Well, ’tis one for us, by which I am meaning your crew. But come to think of it, it may also help you.”
“And what is it?”
“Black Orris.”
“Three women’s tits,” said Meas. “Black Orris? Really?”
“We cannot fly without Black Orris.”
“And where is Orris?”
“In the hands of Mulvan Cahanny. But, and this is the thing. I happen to know that Cahanny wishes to move some freight and he wishes it to be secret.”
“How can you know such a thing from aboard a hulk?”
“It is where they bring criminals, Shipwife, and some of my family may have passed through.”
“I am still a fleet shipwife, Mevans, not one of your criminal cousins here to help smugglers.”
“Ey, I know that. Only a ship of the dead . . . Different rules, that, ain’t it, Shipwife?”
“I am not a pirate.”
“’Tis just that Cahanny would send his people with this shipment, for I heard it is fair valuable, and his people, well, they are both violent and disciplined, which is what you are wishing for.”
“But they would not answer to me, Mevans.”
“Well, no, they would answer to Cahanny. But if he puts ’em under your command then they would be yours and you could ask for Black Orris in return. As payment, like.”
“If Orris’s mouth has not got him killed already.”
“Orris won’t be killed,” said Mevans, flashing a smile. “He’s lucky, see. Like you are.”
Meas took a step back.
“Seaguard,” she said. “This man, Mevans, now holds the rank of hatkeep. Obey him as you would obey me in his choice of crew.” She turned away. “Joron, we must go ashore.”
He nodded and stepped close. “Who is this Cahanny?”
“If a bone is stolen from the boneyard, or goods are smuggled in, or a body ends up in floating face down in the harbour, well, Cahanny is the man most likely behind it.”
After the miasma that surrounded the hulks it was almost a relief to be back in the stink of Fishmarket. The streets were busy, but Meas threaded her way through the throng as though the people were barely there. She had a natural grace, was always aware of her place and that of others in the world around her – part of what made her a good shipwife. In a sea fret or a heavy fog to have a constant idea where the enemy would be was an invaluable skill, like being able to hear the shoalsongs of the fish had made his father a successful fisher.
Can you hear the song, boy? Can you hear it?
In the centre of Fishmarket, in a square surrounded by stalls loaded with the bounty of the sea, hagpriests were conducting a ceremony under a statue of the Maiden made from varisk stalks. They stood on the raised base of the statue, and behind them were three Kept, skin oiled and bodies strapped tight. The priest’s faces were covered by masks painted in bright reds, greens and blues. They were Bern, as all priests were, dressed as the Women of the Sea: Maiden, Mother and Hag. Kneeling before them was a girl holding a baby. A crowd had gathered to watch the committing of mother and child, but when Joron glanced at Meas he caught an expression on her face hovering somewhere between revulsion and fear.
“We should get out of here,” she said, “before they start.” But it was too late. The seaguard had blocked every exit from the market square and the priest in the long mask and ragged robe of the Hag was raising her voice.
“Listen all! Stop all! Stand and watch this soul committed!”
The crowd, already standing, staring, became silent.
“Listen all! Stop all!” shouted the priest in the short robes and ruddy-faced mask of the Maiden. “This girl attended the laying week. And found many who would ask her favour. And she gave her favour. And the Maiden smiled and favour bloomed within her.”
“Listen all! Stop all!” shouted the priest in the long robe and mask of the Mother, drawn and serious. “This girl brought her bloom to pass. Her belly swelled, and when the Mother tested her strength she was not found wanting. And she gave birth to a healthy and strong child. Hail the firstborn!”
The crowd returned the shout: “Hail the firstborn!” And when the shout died away the only sound left was the crying of the child’s mother.
“Hold up the child, lass,” said the Hag. The girl did, peeling the baby from her breast. It screamed as she took it in both hands, holding it above her head.
“As the waves are monuments to the power of the Hundred Isles, so the fruit of the laying is our strength,” said the hagpriest. “I pronounce you firstborn and cursed born. But fear not, child.”
The Maiden and Mother echoed, “Fear not, child,” as the Hag took the babe from its mother. “A ship rides in the harbour, built from the bones of our wrecks; ke
yshans fall in your name and you will ride the bones as a corpselight. So your body dies, but your soul lives in the ship.” The Mother priest stepped forward, removing her mask and taking the girl’s elbow, helping her stand.
“My baby,” said the girl, bereft, forlorn.
“Your baby serves the three now,” said the Mother. “And you I will call sither and Bern. And you shall join us at the spiral bothies and have your pick of the Kept and rise in power through the magic of your fertility and strength. For you are no longer of the Berncast.”
The Maiden priest stepped forward, also removing her mask.
“And I will also call you sither. And I will dress you and teach you the ways of the court and the ways of men.” She stared out into the crowd. “Now tell truth, sither. Do you know the father of your babe?” The girl shook her head, but she glanced into the crowd and her eyes alighted on a boy whose stare back was so intent Joron had no doubt he was the child’s father. Joron was not the only one who noticed the glance; both the Maiden and the Kept behind her saw. “So you lay with many?”
“Many,” said the girl, her head bowed.
“Then I congratulate you for following our customs as the Women of the Sea desire.” The Maiden squatted and dipped a feather into a pot of blue paint. “For the Northstorm,” she said and flicked the feather. A line of paint appeared on the girl’s face. Then she repeated her actions for south, east and west, criss-crossing the girl’s face with blue before turning to the crowd. “Now, good people,” she shouted, “let us go to the harbour and the committing block and send this child upon its great journey, for it will be fleet!”
The Mother kept a tight hold on the sobbing girl’s elbow.
“And while you celebrate the renewal of light above our glorious boneships, I will take this girl to become Bern!”
A huge shout of approval rose from the crowd, though when Joron looked at Meas behind him he saw she was clenching her fists so tightly her hands looked bloodless and her face bent with fury.
Of course.
That child had been her once.
Everyone knew the story. As a babe Meas had been taken to the committing block, to ride Arakeesian Dread as a corpselight, but it was no fine day like this. It was a dark day full of ill omens. The ground had moved in the days prior, and strange lights had been seen in the sky. As Meas was taken up to the block and the rites were said, the link between block and ship made, the sea had vanished, running out of the bay, stranding the ships, leaving the sea floor exposed and all its toothed and clawed horrors flipping and gasping. And when the hagpriests had tried to continue with the rite, the sea had returned, as if in fury that none had understood its warning. A great wave had come in, wrecking ships and town alike. As far up as the second bend of the Serpent Road had been awash. The priests who had brought Meas to the block had died, but the babe, miraculously, had been found washed ashore, safe and squalling, and none dared touch her with the knife then.
Though none had wanted her either.
The crowd started to stream towards the committing block in the harbour and Joron looked to Meas once more. She was staring at the statues in the centre of the market square where the ceremony had taken place and the girl’s family and well-wishers were shaking her hand and wishing her good fortune at the spiral bothies. Most were Berncast, missing arms, legs, fingers, faces twisted, eyes gone, bodies palsied.
“They think she goes to glory,” said Meas, “but she will never be much more than a servant.”
Behind them the Bern who had played the Maiden was talking to one of the Kept, who then went across to one of the seaguard. There was no mistaking what was happening. The Kept subtly pointed out the boy, who stood stock still, staring at the girl and ignoring everything but her. In turn, she could not keep her eyes from him. Where she was unmarred, he had a blood birthmark, livid red across his cheek.
“Twiner,” said Meas. “That boy.”
“Yes?”
“He comes to our ship.”
“But he has done nothing to be condemned.”
“Go to him.” Meas was staring at the seaguard. “Do it now.”
And Joron was moving, pushing against the current of the crowd like a fish fighting a river to get home to spawn. When he reached the boy, who could not have been more than fifteen, he took him by the arm and the boy tried to fight him off.
“Child, my shipwife wishes to speak to you, so you will come with me.” Mention of a shipwife was enough to cow most in the Hundred Isles and the boy stopped resisting, let himself be led back to where Meas stood watching the seaguard, who had set their own course for the boy.
“Shipwife,” said the boy and bowed his head. “How may I help you?”
“What is your name?”
“Gavith,” he said.
“Well, Gavith, I take my ship to fly the waves soon, and I will need a cabin boy.”
“I am honoured, Shipwife,” said the boy. He still could not look at her, such authority plainly frightened him. “But I must stay here, for I am to join the Kept.” Then he looked up, a happy glint in his eye. Meas attempted to contort her face into an expression of kindness, though she could not quite manage it. “You are the father of the child just taken?”
“Aye, and when Bassa is in her bothy she will tell the Thirteenbern I am the father and choose me as her Kept.”
Meas put a hand on his shoulder.
“I have a harsh truth for you, Gavith, and one that will be hard to hear. Someone at the bothy will tell Bassa when she arrives never to ask for you or mention you again, and that she must choose her Kept from those who are already there, already favoured.”
“She will not,” he said. “We have loved each other since we were—”
“Look up there.” Meas pointed at the statue. The three Kept were still there and were staring at Meas, Joron and the boy. “They have no wish for competition. The Bern advance through bearing children. And the Kept seek the favour of those women who breed well and navigate the court with ease. Now, Bassa is only firstbern. She has no importance yet and the court will be a stormy sea for her, as long as she lives. But if her strength holds and she makes fourthbern? Or fifthbern? Every man among the Kept will want to be with her. And they know the ways of the court, they know about power.”
“I will learn.”
“You will never get the opportunity,” she said, harsh now. “You have seen your face in the water. You are Berncast.”
“It is only a mark. It will fade. My mother says it will—”
“You will never be Kept, boy.”
“Not if I go to sea with you.” He tried to escape her grip.
“They will kill you,” she said.
As he was about to reply – indignant, furious – they were interrupted.
“The boy is to come with me.” The seaguard was a big man, armoured and threatening. One hand rested on his curnow. “I am to take him to his woman.” Gavith looked at the seaguard and Joron could see the war on his face. He wanted what the seaguard said to be true, but Meas had sown a seed of doubt.
Kept Tassar appeared from the crowd.
“Shipwife Meas,” he said, “and my friend Joron, how good it is to meet you both again.” He sketched a small bow with his head. “I am afraid I must take this boy with me.” Now Gavith’s face changed, for there was no hiding the threat radiating from Tassar. It was as if the man could not control what he was, the darkness emanating from him. “I wish to teach this boy the ways of the Kept. I wish him to know – the sort of things a man needs to do to survive in the spiral bothies.”
“I am afraid this boy has signed on with my crew,” said Meas. “He is mine now.” The boy was like a kivelly locked by the glare of a predatory sankrey, unable to talk or move.
“Well,” said Tassar, “in that case I will not stand in your way. The outcome will be the same for him either way, eh?” He turned and walked away. “Saffin, come,” he shouted, and the seaguard followed him.
“What did he mean,�
�� said Gavith, “the outcome will be the same?”
“I am shipwife of a black ship,” said Meas simply.
The boy’s face fell as the truth of his situation came home.
“He was going to kill me.”
“Ey,” said Meas.
“And now you will do it instead.”
“Maybe,” she said, “but I do not intend to die, and you should not either. Take what life you have and enjoy it. Now, you must come with us. I do not trust Tassar – he rose far and quickly, which means he is ruthless. He may still decide to make sure of you. He has always been a thorough man, if an unpleasant one.”
They walked through the back alleys of Fishmarket until they arrived at a drinking den named Boneship’s Rest. A sign above the door showed a boneship wrecked on rocks. A huge woman and man stood before the door, both all muscle and with long black hair that had been elaborately braided.
“I wish to see Cahanny,” said Meas.
“And I wish to grow wings, fly and escape my fate as much as any gullaime,” said the woman. “Don’t mean it will happen.”
“I am Meas Gilbryn.”
“Fancy names sink nothing here, Lucky Meas,” said the man.
“I have a ship,” she said, “and I understand Cahanny needs a ship. So there may be a deal to be done.”
“Toth,” said the woman, “go see what he thinks.”
They waited in uncomfortable silence in the alley, Joron pretending an interest in the various bones and fish heads that littered the ground.
The man returned. “He’ll see you,” he said, holding the door open. “Not the boy.” He nodded at young Gavith. “He waits here.”
“You will protect him?”
“Aye,” said Toth, “and if you don’t come out we’ll find a use for him. Have fun in there, Lucky Meas.” Joron did not think he meant it.
Inside the Boneship’s Rest Joron could not tell if the place was dim because it was badly lit or dim because it was full of smoke from the gossle burners in the corners. Smoke leaked from the braziers, curling up into the air like the long graceful necks of courting laybirds, twisting and dancing around one another in delicate spirals as they filled the room with pungent, narcotic fumes. He found himself transfixed.