by R J Barker
Arhythm to the day.
Wake, eat, work, watch, eat, watch, eat, work, eat, sleep, wake, work . . . and a keyshan off the seaward side.
Days passed into weeks, and the weather passed from the gentle hands and warm breezes of the Eaststorm into the cold anger of the Northstorm. The three ships built up another rhythm, a martial rhythm: working the bows in the morning, arms practice in the afternoon and every Menday the three shipwives met on Tide Child.
Meas’s crew became more and more familiar with their ship, knew its ways, and now when the shipwife thought that they should tie down a mainwing or loosen a forewing she would find her crew already there, waiting for her order. In the way of a good ship, no one on Tide Child was ever idle; far gone were the days of lounging on the slate, and if someone tried, their fellows would pick them up on it. The gallowbow crews became increasingly proud of their skill, and scrimshaw work started to appear on the weapons, carvings telling of Tide Child’s victories so far, few as they were.
Wake, eat, work, watch, eat, watch, eat, work, eat, sleep, wake, work . . . and a keyshan off the seaward side.
It felt to Joron as if, with every turn of the sandglass, the air dropped a degree, and for every day of travel they made, more cold-weather clothes were broken out. Deckchilder moved across decks which now rose and fell with the waves far further than before, but all aboard, even Coughlin’s men, had their sea legs now and had reached the point where the thought of land, sturdy and unmoving beneath their feet, had become quite alien to them. Meas had shortened the watches. No one stayed in the tops for longer than twenty turns of the glass, as the shipwife knew how hard it was to be up there when the north wind plucked at their skin and tried to freeze the water in their eyes.
They saw few ships as they ran before the Northstorm’s capricious gusts. Sometimes there were wings on the horizon but none were true boneships; all were merchanters, lumpen brownbones – ill-made ships cobbled together from old keyshan bones that no other wanted. Ships that forced their way through the sea taking cargoes hither and thither, ships of no threat to Tide Child, his flotilla or the arakeesian.
Wake, eat, work, watch, eat, watch, eat, work, eat, sleep, wake, work . . . and a keyshan off the seaward side.
Flukeboats too, were seen, sometimes in great fleets of as many as fifty, hunting sunfish, said the sagest old hands, as it was the time of year when those great and gentle creatures rose to the surface. Meas had them watched nonetheless, but if any of them caught sight of Tide Child and his escort, three ships of war that flew no flags for them to recognise, they steered well away, and so it was that they continued, alone, in their course along Skearith’s Spine.
Hastin, who was once a deckkeeper, seemed changed by the trust Joron had put in her on Arkannis. She slowly left the poisonous orbit of Cwell and gravitated towards Solemn Muffaz and Gavith, where they stood on the midships. When they approached settlements Meas had either Cruel Water or Snarltooth fly by them first with Gaunt Islander flags flying, as though they searched for children to take back to their islands beyond the Spine. Up here, past the capital line, nothing was more certain to keep men and women in port and behind their defences than a Gaunt Islander ship of war cruising past. So, though their work was hard and the way was damp and becoming increasingly cold and uncomfortable, it was peaceful enough. Life became a routine. The cold, the exercise of the bows, the practice with bow and weapons, even the sight of the arakeesian as it swam along by them, massive, tireless and awe-inspiring, even that eventually simply became part of their world and something hardly remarked upon.
Wake, eat, work, watch, eat, watch, eat, work, eat, sleep, wake, work . . . and a keyshan off the seaward side.
One day Cruel Water left their small convoy. Joron had got used to thinking of them as a triumvirate, and to look out and see only one set of extra wings, black against the grey and swelling sea, he found oddly troubling. Meas said nothing about the missing ship, so Joron presumed the disappearance of Cruel Water was part of some plan she had chosen not to share, though another part of him worried she did not speak of it because she had not planned it, could not stand that a ship had deserted her. He knew the crew had noticed too, that they whispered of it, but he could not talk to them about it.
Although he grew in confidence, seemingly every day and with every order he gave Joron was more conscious of how the increasing respect of the crew for him was also a growing wall between them. Even those he considered close to him – Farys, Karring and Old Briaret – now saw him more as an officer than as a man, as a person. It saddened him that he could not be both, but he knew it had to be so.
The weather became colder.
The rhythm continued.
Wake, eat, work, watch, eat, watch, eat, work, eat, sleep, wake, work . . . and a keyshan off the seaward side.
A change to the rhythm came abruptly with the return of Cruel Water. Meas called Joron and had him set the blue lights burning in the tops of the spines.
“You call the other shipwives?” he said. “But it is not Menday.”
“I ask you to obey, Deckkeeper,” snapped Meas, “not provide commentary.” She stalked away and he set to doing as he was told, knowing that he had indeed been told. Three turns of the glass later he saw the faint glow of the lights in the beaks of approaching flukeboats as they rowed over to Tide Child. He could also smell the scent of a fine fish being roasted for a grand dinner and above that the sweeter scent of a boiled pudding. He wondered what had caused Meas to make this sort of gesture.
“Bad news for us, I imagine,” said Dinyl, wrapping his stinker coat more tightly around his shoulders as he came to stand by Joron.
“What?”
“If she’s having cook use up some of the last of our sweetsap for a pudding then it must be bad news. Treat them with good food, then they will be less bitter when you give them bad news, that was what Karrad always said.”
“It is not bad news, not unexpected bad news anyhow,” said Joron. “Only that we make the turn for the Gaunt Islands tomorrow. No doubt Cruel Water has been spying out the route.”
“She tells you that but does not share it with me.” Dinyl looked away, at the roiling sea.
“I do not think that was intentional.”
“So you think, but I am not invited to the shipwives’ dinner.”
“Because she trusts you to run the ship.”
Dinyl stood a little nearer, gazed into his face.
“Do you trust me, Joron,” he said, “or are we no more than shipfriends?”
“Of course I trust you,” he said, But though he knew Dinyl’s warmth, his friendship and trusted him himself, somewhere within, he was not as sure the shipwife felt the same, and he could not meet Dinyl’s eye. “But someone must command the ship while she gets the other shipwives ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“To fight their own people of course. We have only fought raiders up until now. It is a different thing to kill your own women and men, or so I imagine.”
“Surely a death is a death?” said Dinyl.
“To the blade that causes it maybe,” said Joron, “but I reckon it is a fair difference to the mind which holds that blade.”
Dinyl stared at him, and it seemed to Joron that the deckholder wished for something from him, but he did not know what.
“You are a deeper thinker than I expected,” said Dinyl.
“I may not know as much as I think, Dinyl. The shipwife may only wish for Arrin to share his information while it is fresh in his mind. A lot of what we do next will depend on what Cruel Water has found out.”
“If that is where he has been.”
“Where else would he be?”
“I do not know,” said Dinyl, “but neither do you, as she shares so little.” He seemed to shrink down into his stinker, and Joron could not lose the idea Dinyl was hiding himself within it, moving away from him and the ship in some way. “Karrad shared almost everything with me.”
“She i
s not Karrad,” said Joron.
A few turns of the glass later, after the shipwives had been whistled on board, greeted by a far tidier and fleet-like crew than Joron had ever seen Tide Child put up before, Joron was asked down to the great cabin to join the meal. He took a seat next to Meas and placed his one-tail hat on the back of his seat, following the example of the other deckkeepers, sturdy Oswire next to one-legged Arrin – who sported a cut on his face – and Mozzan, a man with skin as dark as his own whose hair was woven into long thick snakes, beside Brekir – her deckkeeper as cheerful as she was morose.
“So, now we have a full table,” said Mozzan, “does this mean we can eat?”
“Ey,” said Meas. “Mevans! Bring through the first course.” The hatkeep appeared at the door, holding it open for two crew, Chalin and Fornir, to bring in a huge plate on which was a roasted jawfish surrounded by root vegetables. The fish was as long and thick as a man’s leg, curled on the plate so that its fanned tail propped open a fearsome mouth full of backward-facing spiny teeth. As tradition dictated, the officers were served only one side of the fish, the other side having been removed to treat the crew, and the fish had been arranged to hide the bare ribs. Before they started on the fish, Farys appeared with a steaming bowl of pounded varisk pulp, flavoured with dried berries.
“What a feast,” said Arrin. “I do not think I have had jawfish since before I took on my black ship.”
“I fear Shipwife Meas seeks to treat us with food in an attempt to make whatever task she has for us less bitter,” said Brekir, staring at the opaque eyes of the fish on the plate. A crueller soul than Joron might have suggested that Brekir and the fish bore a distinct resemblance to each other.
“Ah, Shipwife,” said Mozzan, “grim work is the lot of the dead, so we should enjoy what life we can.”
“If you say so, Deckkeeper,” she said with little enthusiasm.
Meas stood, lifted her cup, and Mevans appeared with a bottle of akkals and filled it, going around the table seaward side to landward.
When he came to Joron he covered his cup. “Only water for me, Mevans,” he said. “It will be my watch after the meal.” Mevans gave him a smile, nodded and moved on.
“We have seen action,” said Meas, “and we have acquitted ourselves well. You both serve your ships well and have no need to prove this to me. I bring you food in the name of the Maiden, the Mother and the Sea Hag. Enjoy what is provided and be thankful the sea has not taken us.”
She sat, and as she did everyone at the table raised their cups and gave the traditional reply.
“Be thankful for this, for the Sea Hag waits for all!”
The jawfish was portioned up and plated, and the pounded varisk served with it. Joron, used to hard gion bread and dried-fish stew, thought he had never tasted food so fine. Then came a soup made of the last of the ship’s kivellys. They had stopped laying eggs a week ago and sealed their fate. Drink flowed and stories were told, jokes made, and by the time the glutinous steamed pudding was served, even morose Brekir was smiling, on occasion. When Mevans cleared away the plates and served a tisane to aid digestion, it would have been easy to forget that, just as much as the lowest woman or man on the ship, they were all women and men condemned to die.
Joron was talking to Mozzan, finding out how he braided his hair. It seemed a good way of keeping it out of his face; unlike Joron’s wiry mop which was always escaping. Mozzan was giving a very detailed description of how to do it, all big gestures and smiles, when Meas interrupted.
“So,” said Meas, “we have eaten, we have drunk and now we approach the quiet wake of the meal. Shipwife Arrin, tell us how your trip to Keyshanhulme Sound went.” Mevans appeared and cleared away the last of the plates. And with them went the atmosphere of joviality and gentleness. The shipwives and deckkeepers were now all business, for this was important, this was the information they lived and died by. This was the business of war.
“We left you, and the north wind was kind, for once, almost as if it wished to hurry us to trouble. My contact was to meet us at Kwiln Howe – do you know it?”
“Meas is of the Hundred Isles,” said Oswire. “Of course she does not, unless she has raided it.” Oswire turned to Meas. “Have you?”
“No,” said Meas, ignoring Oswire’s tone. “I have rarely been this far north. Mevans, ask Aelerin to join us with their charts, if you would?”
“Ey, shipwife.”
“But you did raid,” said Oswire.
“Yes, I did,” said Meas. “As did you, as did Brekir.”
“Enough, Oswire,” said Arrin. “What is past is past. We fight to end such things.”
“So we do,” said Oswire, and swirled the drink in her cup before taking a sip. “So we do.”
They waited in silence until the courser appeared, rolled charts in their hands.
“Aelerin, the chart covering the area around Keyshanhulme Sound, if you would.”
“Ey, Shipwife,” said the courser and unrolled a chart on the table. Joron looked upon his world the way Skearith must have once stared down on it from the sky.
“Well,” said Arrin, “I see your courser has marked out where we shall follow our charge through the deep-water channels. Not being so restricted we took a more direct route.” He traced a line with a finger, passing through Keyshanhulme Sound, then dancing between islands on the other side until he stopped at one among many – nothing special, just an island like any other.
“The towers on Keyshanhulme are still there?” asked Meas.
“Ey,” said Arrin, “but they do not have the range to cover the channel. As long as we keep to the centre they have little real chance of hitting us.”
“Were there ships moored there?”
“A few flukeboats, nothing to worry about. One came out to meet us on our way back and was friendly enough. I said I would be returning later on, coming back through with a flotilla.”
“You think we may be able to pass through without arousing suspicion?” asked Meas.
Arrin shook his head and his stripes of command fell into his eyes. He pushed the multicoloured hair out of his face. “Unlikely. The Gaunt Islands have no four-rib ships of the dead. We may get away with it. News travels slowly and they may think Tide Child newly taken, but even so, I suspect the fact we accompany an arakeesian will draw more than a little curiosity.” He smiled and Meas let out a quiet laugh.
“I thought as much,” said Meas.
“As did I,” echoed Brekir, her voice barely raised above a miserable whisper.
“Carry on with your story, Arrin,” said Meas. “I presume it involves a fight?” She pointed at the cut on his face.
Arrin grinned.
“Oh indeed,” he said. “We arrived at Kwiln Howe. I expected my contact to meet us on the beach as we were not exactly inconspicuous and she knows what we are about, but it was not so. In fact, there was no one on the beach, which I thought true strange. Kwiln Howe is not often visited as the north side of the island is a heartground, and you know how suspicious women and men are about passing near the dead places. Usually any visitor to the island is gladly received.”
“But not this time,” said Brekir. “So runs our luck.”
“It could have gone better, ey,” said Arrin. “Anyway, I made my way to the village. They are all bent or twisted in some way. Berncast, you would say.”
“You should have sent Oswire,” said Mozzan. “The Hag cursed her with an eternally surly face – she would have fitted right in.”
“I could pull off one of your arms, Mozzan,” said Oswire, “and then who would fit right in?”
Mozzan laughed, though Joron was not sure Oswire was being humorous.
“Ey, that I would, Oswire, that I would.”
“Carry on, please, Shipwife Arrin,” said Meas. Though she did not say this was a rebuke to the two deckkeepers, the thought of it was a current running through her words.
“The villagers were having some type of festival. Spirits were
definitely high, and they had raised a scaffold for a hanging. On the scaffold stood my contact. She was not in as high spirits as the rest of her people.”
“They had found out about her? That she is for our peace?”
Arrin shook his head.
“No, it was local trouble of some sort. Something about a marriage contract that had been broken or not adhered to correctly, and they believed this had brought down the wrath of the Hag in the form of disease on the village. Why this worried them, I do not know; they all fall to keyshan’s rot before they reach any great age on Kwiln Howe.”
“And?” said Meas.
Joron realised he was enjoying the story. Arrin was a good tale teller.
“I explained that I needed to speak to the woman on the scaffold, and the headwoman and I had a disagreement.” He pointed at the cut on his face. “As you can see.”
“Did you lose anyone?”
“No, thankfully. They could not stand up to my deckchilder, but sadly I no longer have a spy on Kwiln Howe, though I at least have one more crew member.”
“I hope the information was worth it.”
“I think so,” said Arrin. He passed Meas a piece of parchment with symbols scrawled on it. “She had this for you. I do not know the code so cannot tell you what it says. And she had other information for me which I will give you now. There is a patrol running up and down the Gaunt side of the sound.” He traced a circle on the map with his finger. “This is the route they take. A pair of two-ribbers and a four-ribber.”
“So we are equally matched with them,” said Meas.
“Well, maybe not,” said Arrin. “Coming back we saw them, beautiful ships with light purple wings, the colour of twilight. The four-ribber has four corpselights, each two-ribber has two, and they are all the blue of firstlight, so we know they are well maintained ships with no damage.”
“Ours are hardly falling apart,” said Meas.
“They still have the advantage,” said Brekir, staring at the table. “No doubt they are straight out of dock, newly fitted out, no weed on their bones to slow them. And the deckchilder always think a ship with the lights of life has an advantage over a dead ship.”