The Bone Ships

by R J Barker

  “Four,” said Dinyl. “Four dead, eight hurt enough to go below.”

  “Not too bad,” she said. “I thought the Hag would have called more, but she was generous today.” Then she raised her voice. “You did well, my girls and boys, so well! And the Hag barely touched us. We’ll send those she called down to her with all due ceremony – don’t worry about that – but we have done well.”

  There was a moment of warmth among those on board, women and men turning towards each other, congratulating, sharing commiserations for lost friends. Then Coughlin very deliberately backed away from those nearest him, ignored by most, except Cwell and a small group of crew – ten, maybe less – who followed his example.

  Meas continued: “But all we faced today was flukeboats, and we will face much worse, do not pretend otherwise. Once the Scattered Archipelago knows what swims through it, more boats, more ships, will come. We will be fighting our way from here to the Northstorm. When we don’t fight, we will be alert.” She seemed to grow a little, to stand taller. “In front of us” – she raised her voice – “is the future of the Hundred Isles, and we must keep the future alive to the Northstorm. Do you understand? If the future does not live that long we all die. Not everyone has the foresight you do, not all see the future as clearly.” She took a step to the side so all on the slate could see the island of water that moved before them.

  At that moment, as if rehearsed, the water swelled, rose, broke in a white froth as the arakeesian’s rear flippers broke the water, spreading webs of skin each, as vast as the mainwings of Tide Child, catching the light of Skearith’s Eye, throwing back the colour in a thousand rainbows before crashing back into the water. And even though the arakeesian had ten, or maybe fifteen shiplengths on them, the water rained on to the decks of Tide Child. “It blesses us,” shouted Meas. “It knows we fly to protect it, and it acknowledges us in the only way it can, with the water that sustains it, and us! Let it know we are here, ey?”

  A desultory cheer.

  “Is that all you have?” she said. “We make history. Tide Child’s name, your names, will be part of the Hundred Isles for ever more after this. Is that all you have?”

  A louder cheer.

  And Meas raised her voice almost to a scream. “Is that all you have?”

  And this time the cheer was louder and longer, and she nodded.

  “Good, now clean my decks. Truss the bows and set the wings. We fly the sea to make history – do not let me down!”

  As they went back to work it seemed the mood lifted. But Joron did not feel it; he felt within a strange sadness. He knew this victory was barely that; bigger challenges and bigger ships would come, and for this small victory they had exhausted their single advantage: the gullaime who lay silent and still on the deck. It was odd how none touched it, none came near, none even looked at the windtalker even though it had made their victory possible. Joron leaned over it, the fishskin of his clothes creaking in time with the wings above him. The scent of it, desert and dry heat, was redolent of the feeling he got from the arakeesian that slid through the sea before Tide Child. But where the arakeesian was huge, undoubtedly alive, the same could not be said of the gullaime. There was nothing that said life in the windtalker, no movement, no sense of breath moving in and out of the creature’s body, and if such things had a pulse Joron did not know how to find it.

  “Take it below, Joron,” said Meas quietly. She had approached across the deck without him hearing, and her words were meant only for him. “Take it below to its cabin, Joron. The crew may not look at it or talk of it, but they know it is special.”

  “It is d—”

  She cut him off.

  “Take it below. Take it to its cabin and tend to it, for it may be sore ill, but a beast that can call such winds as this one does will not die easily.”

  Joron wondered at this theatre. Surely the whole crew must know it was gone? But then he remembered where he was and what he was, and that his duty was to his Shipwife, and it was not to ask questions, it was to follow orders. He slipped his arms under the body of the gullaime – it felt like lifting air, like the gentle winds of the Eaststorm had been given form. The desert scent of the creature surrounded him. Its head lolled on its long neck. He found he could easily hold the body with one arm, so he used his other hand to place the gullaime’s masked head over his shoulder and held it against him the way his father had carried him sleeping from their boat when he was a child.

  As he passed through the underdeck the bonewrights rebuilt the ship around him. The courser’s cabin, the gullaime’s nest, the stateroom for the shipwife and the deckkeeper’s cabin were all permanent, but the quarters for the deckholder, bonemaster, hatkeep, seakeep and deckmother were broken down for action. Tide Child was becoming less a ship of war with every moment.

  Joron stepped around the industry with his burden and into the gullaime’s cabin. It did not smell. He had always thought the scent was from the living quarters, that somehow it was imbued with the heat of the creature, but it was not. The smell of sand and heat came from the beast itself. Now it was gone. He laid the guillame in the nest it had constructed in one corner, near the bowpeek. When he put it down it sighed, and for a moment hope raised its head, but the beast made no other noise. Joron had tended corpses before and knew it was most likely he heard only the air leaving the body, the corpse sigh, the last exclamation made when a woman or man saw the Hag beckoning them into her domain.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and he did not know why. He had not made it raise the wind, he had not forced it aboard Tide Child.

  “Skearith’s children are hard to kill, Caller.” He turned. The old woman, Garriya, stood in the doorway.

  “What?”

  “Water it. Feed it. Keep it warm.”

  “It is dead,” he said.

  “Is it, Caller? Many would think so, but do you not feel the heat?”

  How did she know? What did she know?

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You feel the heat. You do, don’t you, Caller?”

  “Why do you name me that?” he said. “Caller?”

  She stepped back and the darkness of the underdeck swallowed her.

  “You feel the heat,” she said.

  Joron walked to the door but there was no sign of the woman. Farys walked past, rolling a water barrel.

  “Water, please, Farys,” he said. She stopped and set the barrel flat, and he gave her his water bottle to fill from the spigot. He took it back, realising how thirsty he was once more, and drank a long swallow of the brackish water. It tasted brown, of dirt and land. He passed it back. “Fill it again, if you would.”

  “Ey, D’keeper.”

  When it was full he took it into the gullaime’s nest, shut the door behind him and knelt by the creature. He took its head – so light – and tipped it back, opened the hooked, predatory beak with his thumb, hissing as he caught himself on one of the spines within. A bead of bright blood welled up. He dripped water polluted with his own blood into the gullaime’s beak. Did he feel it swallow? Did something in its throat move? He didn’t know. But he kept dripping the liquid in until he judged it would have had enough. Then he went to one of the bowls on the floor and took dried fish from it. Flaking it into small bits, he dropped them into the creature’s beak, washing them down with more brackish water.

  “Careful it does not choke. Rub its neck below the beak to make the food go down.” He looked up. Now Meas stood in the door. Stepped in, boots tapping on the bone deck. He nodded, rubbed the creature’s neck with his thumb, leaving smears of red on the pink skin, feeling nascent feathers as ridges beneath the flesh. “It lives then?” she said.

  Joron shrugged.

  “I give it water and food, but . . .” He left the sentence hanging.

  Meas squatted by him.

  “It may only be windsick.”

  “Windsick?”

  “The godbird’s spirit lets them control the weather, but they use it up.
The godbird’s spirit dwells in the windspires. It fills the gullaime when they visit – do not ask me how; that is for those who run the lamyards to know, not for decent folk – but this one had not visited a windspire in an age.” She looked into Joron’s eyes. “It hurts them, to be empty of the godbird. And if it hurts too much they can fall into a state where they seem to die. I have seen shipwives throw them overboard, thinking them deadweight, only to have the gullaime start screaming when the longthresh take them.”

  Joron dropped another flake of fish into the beak. Rubbed the throat. Poured the water.

  “How do we tell the difference?”

  “I do not know, Joron Twiner.” She leaned in close. “But if anyone asks, we will say it is windsick. You will come down here twice a day to feed and water it – the crew must believe it lives.”

  “Why?”

  She stared at him.

  “To be shipwife, Joron, it is to juggle so much in the air. A crew, any crew, is held together by belief. They believe the shipwife knows best, so they follow me. They believe that the deckkeeper knows more than them, so they follow you.”

  “Even me?”

  “Even you.”

  “Not all of them,” said Joron quietly.

  “Enough for now, and the number will grow.”

  “Will it?”

  “Yes,” she answered simply, looking into his eyes. “You did well today, and what they believe, well, that will be different for all of them, but most believe you will bring them through safe.”

  “And if they do not believe?”

  “Mutiny, Joron, and you and I go over to feed the longthresh. It is harder on this ship because there will not be riches. The women and men aboard think they know why they fight, some because they want those they left behind to have their wages, most because they hope for freedom – to be off the deck of the black ship.”

  “That will not happen.”

  “And maybe they know that, somewhere deep down. In the end, do you know what women and men really fight for?”

  “You said riches or freedom.”

  “That is what they think they fight for.” Joron waited for her to finish her sentence while she waited for him to do the same. When he did not speak, she sighed. “If you saw someone attack Farys, would you stand back?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . .” He realised he did not know. Not really. He thought hard before he spoke. “Because she would not stand back if I was attacked.”

  Meas nodded.

  “Ey, that is it. Loyalty. That is what makes a ship work – ties of loyalty. To each other, to the ship. And every time we fight together, we are bound closer together. It is your nature, Joron, to like people and to be kind. Do not think I have not seen the leeway you give.” He was about to interrupt but she held up a hand. “It works well for you. Every officer is different, but that is not why I speak here and now.” Her stare unwavering. “Every woman and man, no matter what they think they fight for, or really fight for, needs one thing more. Hope, Joron Twiner, they need to hope. And when this gullaime flew us out of Bernshulme harbour by itself, having not been on land for months, oh, they may not have said anything. They may not have acted as if anything was different, but each one knew what I knew, that we have a creature of rare power aboard Tide Child, Joron. Our task is close to impossible, and they all know that. To take on eight flukeboats? That is nothing much. But bigger ships will come. I know it, you know it, the crew know it. They will have corpselights and they will have well trained crews. In that gullaime our crew see hope.”

  “But what if it is dead?” She stood, her clothes creaking, feathers catching the dim light.

  “Then you will still come down here, still make a pretence of feeding it, and we will have to find some way to mask the smell for as long as we can.” She turned and opened the door, pausing for a moment before she left. “And Joron, I meant what I said about your ways being good ones, but there are those who will mistake kindness for weakness and try to take advantage of you. Do not let them.” With that she left, closing the door behind her, and he fed more dried fish to the gullaime, his bloody thumb rubbing back and forth on the rough skin of the windtalker’s throat.

  Later, he walked the slate, thinking on what she had said, considering it as he watched the great patch of flat sea that denoted the arakeesian before them. He knew there were those among the crew who did not jump as quickly to his orders as they should, and others, like Cwell and her followers, who openly resented him and, he was sure, meant him harm. But his way had been to breeze through it, and he thought it was working. But if Meas had decided to mention it, maybe he should look to how he worked.

  Joron passed Chiciri. A big woman, she was kneeling on the deck talking to Sprackin, the former purseholder, and Destin, one of the wingwrights. He knew none of them were fond of him, and once he would have walked past them, but now he did not.

  “If you have nothing do to,” he said, “I believe Mevans is overseeing the restowing of the cargo hold. The shipwife was unhappy with the steering and wishes to try and get a little more speed out of Tide Child to ensure we can keep up with the arakeesian. You want to see the beast, I’m sure.”

  Chiciri stood first. The other two followed her and she pulled her shoulders back, making herself bigger, sticking her chest out.

  “Very well, D’keeper,” she said. “We’ll just finish up here.”

  He heard the disrespect in her tone and wanted, more than anything, to just walk away. But he could not. To let them ignore his order and go on talking was to let go of his command.

  “Now, Chiciri, if you will.”

  She took a step towards him. “But what if I won’t?”

  Then Chiciri was on the deck, knocked down by the heavy body of Solemn Muffaz hitting her. In his left hand he held a club, which he drew back to hit the prone woman. She raised a hand. Sprackin and Destin backed away, distancing themselves from their comrade.

  “Now the deckkeeper,” said Solemn Muffaz, “may be a man unused to the words of commoners such as you and I, Chiciri. And as such he may not have realised how disrespectful you just were.” Black Orris, as if drawn by the confrontation, fluttered down to land on Solemn Muffaz’s shoulder. “But I am a man of very poor upbringing, and I heard it sure as Black Orris says arse. And I am sure that, from now on, the deck-keeper will recognise when he is addressed in such a way as to make someone deserving of the cord.”

  Joron nodded. He managed not to glance over his shoulder and look for Meas, who he was sure had steered this encounter as surely as she steered Tide Child.

  “I will know it,” he said, “and I will award the cord as deserved.” He paused and glanced at Solemn Muffaz. Out of sight of the three before him, he held a hand by his thigh, showing four fingers. “In the morning, Chiciri,” said Joron, “you will receive four strikes of the cord.” Then he turned to Sprackin and Destin. “And you two will consider yourself lucky not to be joining her.”

  Solemn Muffaz smiled.

  Black Orris opened his beak.

  “Arse,” said the bird.

  The next morning the entire crew were called to the slate for the cording of Chiciri.

  Solemn Muffaz brought the woman up from below and led her to the mainspine. There he tied her hands around it and bared her back. Meas read from the Bernlaw and pronounced the punishment: “Four lashes for insubordination.” Her brow fierce, the eyes below cold, she let her gaze rove over the crew. “I would have it known,” she said, “I think the deckkeeper overly lenient, for which Chiciri should thank him.”

  Joron knew she spoke to create a difference between them: a kinder side of the ship in Joron, a harsher one in her; but it still felt like she admonished him and his collar tightened around his neck. Or maybe that was because, from across the deck, standing with Coughlin’s men, Cwell’s beady eyes were locked on him.

  “I could sort her.” Whispered from behind him by Anzir.

  “No,�
�� said Joron.

  “It may not be a bad idea,” said Dinyl, who stood by Joron.

  “I will bring her round.”

  Dinyl shrugged, but conversation was cut short when Solemn Muffaz brought out the cord. It was not a thing a deckchild ever wished to see, a handle of polished varisk from which came two long, thin tails of braided birdleather. Along each tail were tied four knots. It could inflict terrible pain, even death, if used hard and long enough, and Joron was thankful that Solemn Muffaz only intended to deliver a lesson, not a sacrifice.

  “Four strikes for the Hag, Shipwife,” intoned Solemn Muffaz.

  “For the Hag, four strikes, Deckmother,” replied Meas.

  Solemn Muffaz drew back his arm.

  As he did, Joron heard Chiciri speak, her words loud enough for all to hear.

  “I bet you will enjoy this, Muffaz, hitting a woman.” And he saw Solemn Muffaz’s arm falter, knew that Chiciri had wounded the deckmother, put him in an impossible position. For if he hit soft, all would think it was because Chiciri spoke the truth, and if he hit hard, all would think Chiciri spoke the truth.

  Joron cursed inwardly, hating Solemn Muffaz for putting himself in this position.

  He stepped forward.

  “If I handed down this sentence, it is only right that I should carry out it,” Joron said, though he felt his legs weaken at the thought. Solemn Muffaz turned, tears running down his face.

  “No, D’keeper, it is the deckmother’s duty. I carry it out with no joy. It is on the order of the deckkeeper and the ship-wife that I strike.” With that he turned back, running the cords of the whip through one hand.

  “Get on with it then, Deckmother,” said Meas as Black Orris fluttered down to land on her shoulder.

  Muffaz made the first strike. The cord cracked in the air and then cracked against Chiciri’s back, leaving two bloody lines and making her hiss as she took in a breath, but she did not cry out. And she did not cry for the second or third or fourth, though when the last strike was made she slumped against the spine, unconscious, and had to be cut down and taken to the hagbower for her wounds to be treated.