by R J Barker
“The flag will not fool them, not for long. Once someone who knows the ships of the Gaunt Islands well is consulted they will know they do not have a four-ribber. But they will wonder if this ship has been taken. So they will pause, they will wonder, and maybe they will let us pass through without checking or sending out a flukeboat to look at us.”
“Maybe,” said Dinyl.
“Oh, I know it is unlikely.” Meas grabbed a rope and climbed on to the rail, staring out at Skearith’s Spine and the birds wheeling and squabbling around its base. Then she turned to face the deck and raised her voice. “But it is worth a try, and the longer we have before the ships out there know of us” – she pointed through Skearith’s Spine – “the better.” She waited while her words sank in, then took a breath. “There is more I must tell you, and now is the time. I have not been truthful with you, and I must be that now. A shipwife does not have to explain herself, ever, but I choose to. I did not know all of you when I came aboard. Did not know what a fine crew you would turn out to be. Or if you would follow, if you would be loyal, if you would understand duty. But I do now. And I trust you to trust me. So stop what you do, my deckchilder, and listen.”
They did. All around work stopped. Old crew and new crew and Coughlin’s men and even those few that still followed Cwell gathered before the rail. The shipwife watched them gather, let them gabble excitedly and waited for them to settle, before she spoke again.
“Both Cruel Water and Snarltooth are Gaunt Islander ships.” A sharp intake of breath at that, but Meas carried on. “They chose to join us, to protect the wakewyrm with us. So they may be able to pass us off as their prize, but they may not.”
Cwell stepped forward, her face bent with scorn. She spat on the deck.
“You make us into traitors.”
Meas jumped down from the rail to stand in the centre of the ship’s deck.
“Have I made you into traitors?” She walked around Cwell, meeting the eyes of every woman and man but her. “Or have I made you into real deckchilder, into real crew? Into women and men with a bit of pride? Into fleet!” Her voice rose. “You saw Cruel Water,” she said to Farys. “Saw him with his gallow-bows pointed down, ready to loose on the arakeesian to keep it safe, even though they knew it was certain death for them.” She walked across to Barlay. “Those ships will fight with us because they see what we see.” She pointed to the wakewyrm. “They see the keyshan! They understand the keyshan! They know its bones bring war and killing for ever. And you” – she picked out Karring this time – “you have four children back in Bernshulme, children you see fit to kill others to protect. The Hundred Isles, the Gaunt Islands – if either takes the arakeesian, we will fight for ever.”
“That is what we do,” said Cwell. “We fight the Gaunt Islanders.” She turned to look into the faces of the crew. Joron could not read them. They looked uncomfortable, that was true, but were they uncomfortable with what Meas said or that Cwell challenged her? Cwell walked up to Meas, standing tall before the shipwife. “Fighting Gaunt Islanders is what we do.”
“It need not to be,” said Meas. “The wakewyrm is the last arakeesian. In the far north, where the water is too deep and dangerous to recover the body, we are to kill the beast.” There was more shock at that than at the mention of working with Gaunt Islanders. “We carry the right weapon, an old and fabled weapon. One shot is all we need and then we let the corpse sink. The wakewyrm is the last one, the wars will stop.”
Cwell took a step closer to Meas.
“If it is the last, we should take it for the Hundred Isles. The advantage would let us wipe out the Gaunt Islands.”
“It does not work that way,” said Meas. “Ships are taken and bone can be smuggled. No. The beast dies – it is the only way.”
“I may be a murderer,” said Cwell, and she turned to the crew, “but she is a traitor! A traitor!”
Would they turn on Meas? Joron could not tell. Maybe either the death of the keyshan or working with the Gaunt Islanders would have been accepted. But both? Was that too much? There were whispers. Tools were picked up from the deck as if to use as weapons. Was the fight lost before it had even started?
Barlay stepped forward, and as it was rare she chose to speak all action stopped. All talk stopped.
“Gaunt Islanders took my boy,” she said. “Took him to sacrifice for their ships. He were not even whole – born with half a leg he were. I wanted him to be a shoemaker on Hoppity Street.” She smiled then, a pleasant memory blowing across her face. It quickly passed and the storm followed. “They probably fed his blood to their ships, I reckon, maybe even those ones out there, that we head towards.”
“See, Shipwife?” Cwell turned Meas rank into a sneer. “And you want us to be friends with these people.” She turned her back on Meas. “This woman who calls herself Shipwife, she has lied to us. She has made us into betrayers. All know you get off a ship of the dead by doing some great deed. This could be our great deed, women and men of Tide Child. We can work together.” She pointed at the deck, her hand shivering with anger. “We can remove a traitor from the slate of this ship. We can bring home the body of an arakeesian to the Thirteenbern. We will get rid of our black bands and become rich!”
“You have mistook me, Cwell,” said Barlay. “What the ship-wife says is if there are no more arakeesians, there are no more bones. And if there are no bones there will be no more great ships. Varisk is too brittle, Gion is too soft for the big ships, and all know if it ain’t got keyshan bone in it, then the Hag will take it. That is what the shipwife says – says women and men will not be able to raid or war. Says there will be no more children taken.” She turned back to Meas. “That is right, is it not, Shipwife? I am right?” Her face was screwed up as if she fought, as hard as she may fight any physical opponent, to see past the world she knew into the possibility of another one.
“You are right, Barlay,” said Meas. “That is what I dream of. That is why I stand on this deck with you. And I do not think I have ever heard any put it better than you.”
“You do not stand with us,” said Cwell. “You call yourself Shipwife, and put yourself above us. We are just Berncast to you. We are the twisted and the weak, and good only to serve.”
“I lead, that is right enough,” said Meas, “and I enforce discipline, for a ship will not work without it. But I stand among you, not above you. And is Joron Twiner good only to serve? His mother died bringing him to the world. They call him Berncast, say he is only a fisher’s boy.”
“Fine words,” said Cwell, “yet you wear boots and we go barefoot. What do you say, Barlay?”
Barlay glanced at her, then her head turned to Meas. Her gaze travelled down the shipwife’s body to her shoes. Then to her own bare feet. She stood stock still apart from her head, which moved slightly, nodding to herself. Then she lashed out, her fist catching Cwell on the chin and knocking her unconscious. She stared at the body of Cwell.
“You can’t climb rigging with boots on, fool,” Barlay said to the unconscious body before her. “If the shipwife dreams of a world where children are not taken and raids are not made, then I say” – she looked to her left and her right – “that is a world worth fighting for, no matter who we must fight or who with. But more than that – Farys, Mevans, Old Briaret, Karring, Solemn Muffaz, Anzir, and I can name many more – we have learned to trust the shipwife, ey?”
“Ey.” This from well over half the crew and almost together.
Meas nodded.
“Very well. And I am right proud to have you with me, Barlay.” She turned on the spot. “Proud of the whole crew. But I know I ask a lot, and I will not force any of you to follow me through Keyshanhulme Sound. Any that do not wish to come may take a flukeboat. Do it now.” She waited, but none came forward. “Very well. Then we must get ready to fight. The arakeesian swimming below us will no doubt be the cause of some uncomfortable questions from the Gaunt Islanders on watch, so be ready when we enter Keyshanhulme Sound. I want mos
t of you in the underdeck. We must look like a ship manned by a prize crew, not a ship of war. If, and when, the time comes to fight I will call you. Do not worry – none will miss out.” She smiled. “Apart from Cwell, as she will be locked in the brig. Solemn Muffaz, if you could see to that.”
Laughter at that, and a strange sense, not of joy, but of rightness. That this was the way the crew believed things should be, that Meas would tell them what to do and she would tell them right, that she would call upon them if needed and in return they expected she would take care of them. That she had thought to fly the Gaunt Islands flag, that she would think how to attack and to defend and do her best to keep them safe. At some point this crew of the violent and the lost had decided that Meas could be trusted, and if she kept her side of the bargain then they would keep theirs. It was an odd thing, thought Joron, to find a purpose in such a dark place as a black ship.
He leaned over the rail and stared at the huge body gliding through the water below. This creature from legend was what bound them together, and Meas had used it to create a crew unlike any other in the Hundred Isles.
Had she known when she found him?
That he was born Berncast?
That she could use that when the time came?
Did she plan so far ahead?
And if so, where was his resentment? Where was his promise to take the two-tailed hat from her? Joron took a deep breath of sea air, fresh with the scent of the mountains they flew past. He laughed quietly to himself. His promise had been left a hundred thousand shiplengths behind, along with the bottles of drink and a version of himself he no longer wanted to think about.
He turned from the keyshan, saddened that it must die.
“Sound in view!” The call came from above.
“All below except bowteams one to five,” shouted Meas. “We will work the ship. Mainwings only on the spines.” Women and men climbed the rigging, brought in the unwanted wings, and Tide Child slowed. As if sensing it was part of the convoy, the arakeesian slowed too, letting the ships pull ahead.
Joron watched as the gap in Skearith’s Spine came into view, the mountains appearing to move as Tide Child approached, those nearer sliding away to reveal the sound. He could just make out ropes tied across the cliff faces to provide handholds for those using the paths that wound their way up to the watchtowers. Both were old and had been repeatedly patched with gion and varisk for so long it had ossified, making them look like giant stone plants reaching out of the basalt into the sky. He could see people moving on top of the further one, little more than dots. As he watched, Cruel Water, under full wing, came past Tide Child to take up station at the front of the convoy, and intercept any boats coming out to investigate them. As if in answer, two flukeboats left the jetty below the further tower and headed towards the centre of the sound. Both were big enough to mount two gallowbows, one to each side, and they were bristling with armed men and women.
“Farys,” said Meas as the girl walked past with a coil of rope.
“Ey, Shipwife?”
“Go below, have the landward underdeck bows untrussed, strung and ready to loose. Those boats are better armed than I would like, and Cruel Water may need some assistance.” She pulled out her nearglass and put it to her eye. “Slow Tide Child by three rocks, Joron,” she said. “I would have us look like we are preparing for inspection.”
One of the approaching boats slowed to let its officers board Cruel Water while the second turned toward Tide Child.
“What is happening on Cruel Water?”asked Joron.
Meas lowered her nearglass. “Oswire speaks with the Gaunt Islanders.”
“Why not Arrin?”
“I expect he takes a calculated risk. By not appearing himself he makes it appear that this is not important to him. The man who has gone aboard is probably insulted; the conversation they are having is exceedingly animated.” She glanced at the approaching flukeboat. “Have them spin the bows of the underdeck, Joron, load them and be ready to open the bowpeeks. But have them do it quietly.” She lifted her nearglass once more. “I don’t like this.”
“Ey, Shipwife.” Movement caught his eye. “More flukeboats are leaving the towers, Shipwife.”
As he headed to the underdeck hatch to pass on her orders, Meas turned her nearglass to the second pair of boats.
“Hag’s teeth.” Joron rejoined her on the rump, and she directed her nearglass back to Cruel Water. “One or two is fine, but the sound is too narrow for us to manoeuvre without coming under the bows of the towers. Fighting three boats full of crew while being shot at by the towers is something I could do without before facing three boneships.”
The first flukeboat approaching Tide Child was commanded by an officer wearing a one-tail hat just like Joron’s, and the two gallowbows on his boat – more a small ship, if not one fit for the open sea – were both loaded with wingshot. Bowsells stood behind them with burning torches.
“They load their wingshot with hagspit, Shipwife,” murmured Joron.
She shook her head.
“I see it. Do nothing except look confident and pleased to see them.”
Joron’s heart beat fast, his breathing becoming shallower.
“I fear I look neither confident nor pleased,” he said as Dinyl came to join them.
“You look rather sick actually, Joron,” he said.
“Thank you, Dinyl.”
Meas watched the deck of Cruel Water.
“Come on, Oswire,” she said under her breath. “Convince them we are their ships.”
The flukeboats kept on coming towards Tide Child.
“How is your Gaunt Islander accent, Joron?” said Dinyl.
The oars of the flukeboat beat, pushing it nearer.
“Poor,” said Joron.
“You joke,” said Meas, watching the boats approach, “but we may have to try it out.”
The Gaunt Islander officer on Cruel Water appeared on the rump of the boneship. He shouted something and waved at the flukeboat approaching Tide Child, which hoisted oars and glided to a stop. The officer on the flukeboat gave Meas, Joron and Dinyl a salute, and the boat turned, making for the jetty. Joron felt he could breathe again.
“Well,” said Meas, “I had thought Oswire surly, but she must be charming enough when duty requires it.”
“And now we have only the three Gaunt Islands boneships to fight,” said Dinyl. “Little more than a walk up the Serpent Road.” He smiled at Joron, who did not share his bravado.
“Full wings!” shouted Meas, and women and men scurried up the spines. Joron watched the wings fall, felt Tide Child pull away. “When this is over I shall owe Oswire a drink of some sort,” said Meas absent-mindedly as she watched Cruel Water drop his wings, catch the wind and start a slow turn to bring himself round into line behind Tide Child. “Deckholder, have the underdeck gallowbows trussed. Twiner, get us on our way before they catch sight of the keyshan and have some awkward questions for us.”
“Shipwife,” said Joron, “could we not use the same trick on the boneships? Pretend to be Gaunt Islanders?”
“I doubt it,” she said.
“Why?”
Meas pointed at the towers. Thick white smoke was pouring from them and figures ran towards the jetty. The flukeboats were turning, though Joron doubted they could catch them now the boneships were under full wing.
“Because now they have seen the wakewyrm.”
They flew for a day, the winds brisk but cold, pushing them forward and plucking at their skin with icy fingers. In idle moments the crew gathered in small groups, standing close and sharing warmth until Meas saw them, shouting that it was work that would keep them warm not gossip. Then they would hop to whatever tasks were nearest. Where once Joron had avoided the underdeck, finding it stifling, now he found excuses to go there for the shelter it provided from the constant freezing wind that made his ears ache. Even there it was cold and the wind, like vermin, found its way into everything. For every gap that was stopped it fo
und two or three more places to squeeze through and chill the skin.
They flew another day.
Tasks previously avoided, manning the pumps or moving cargo, physically taxing work, became more popular for the warmth they gave. Meals were no longer served cold; everything, from the bowls of gluey fossy pet they broke their fast on to the hard bread to the watered anhir was heated, and extra rations of drink were always coming up in steaming buckets, until Meas put a stop to it, claiming her crew spent “more time pissing over the side than working”. Joron found excuses to be in the small galley and watched sadly as their supplies of varisk charcoal dwindled.
They flew another day.
The waves grew, not into the truly dangerous, vertiginous waves that would topple a ship, not yet, but Joron had no doubt the Northstorm would bring them eventually, that it held them in reserve, waiting for Tide Child to displease the Hag. For now the waves rolled like gentle hills, lifting the ship towards the sky before lowering it into the valleys between each wave and the next. It was a soporific motion, as if the sea cradled Tide Child and its consorts. Below them the arakeesian remained unaffected, gliding through the depths with its back-wings down, sometimes surfacing to reveal its glistening skin. Then the waves washed over it once more, and in their wash Joron could see it was not skin at all but tightly packed feathers, ruffled by the water the same way Black Orris’s feathers were ruffled by the winds that drove Tide Child onward.
“Ship rising!” came from the tops and Joron returned the call.
“Say again, Topboy!”
“Three ships rising to landward!”
Words like icewater, shocking a crew become drowsy with the ponderous motion of the waves.
“Deckmaster! Deckholder!” shouted Meas as she grabbed a rope and started up the rigging. “Clear the ship for action! They may be a way off but it will do us good to blow the dust from these slatelayers!” Then she was lost among the black wings of Tide Child’s spines.
“You heard her!” Joron shouted. “Ring the bells, bang the drum! Get these slatelayers running!”