by R J Barker
Washed him clean of battle.
“Joron Twiner.” He turned. The gullaime stood by him, resplendent in its feathers. “We sang, Joron Twiner,” it said. “We sang. And it heard.”
And as if in answer, the keyshan sounded, that impossibly loud sound filling Joron with fear and awe and beauty.
For he was alive.
It was good to be alive.
Tide Child lay in the water while her women and men – those who still survived or were not, like fearsome Narza and loyal Anzir, lying wounded in the hagbower – worked on his bones to try and make him seaworthy. Holes were patched under the watchful eye of Bonemaster Coxward. The wing-wrights reported one full and two half-height spines could be rigged from what they had recovered – enough to get them moving at least. And as they worked, the keyshan lay by them, unmoving, huge, its eyes blazing from the water.
Joron was in the hold, sorting out what must be kept and what could be thrown overboard to lighten the ship, when he heard a noise that – though not alien – should not be heard at this moment when all worked simply to keep Tide Child afloat. More, it was a noise that sent fear through him. The grind of moving handles, the complaining of bone arms as they were drawn back, the shiver of a tight cord.
Someone was spinning their last remaining great bow.
He ran.
Up through the ship. Jumping over wreckage, chunks of bone strewn across the dark underdeck. Bits of body. Blood making his footing treacherous. What now? What attacked now? This was unfair. They had nothing left. They were done. Finished. Spent. Had given their all.
Up a ladder, his curnow thudding against his thigh. Past smashed bowpeeks and bows. Women and men watching his flight and then, as if drawn by it, following him. Emerging into the bright, cold day above. Feeling the heat of the arakeesian to seaward on his face. At the same time hearing Meas’s voice. Loud. Furious.
“What goes on here?”
Dinyl was standing by the last remaining gallowbow with two deckchilder and the crate of poisonous hiylbolts.
“We have a duty,” he said, “to end the keyshan, end the killing.”
“To be carried out in the far north” – she stamped over to him – “and at my order. Not here. Not at your order.”
But Dinyl stood his ground.
“We cannot get to the far north,” he said. “If the arakeesian chooses to swim, we cannot keep up with it. Not with the ship how it is. All can see that.”
“If it dies here,” said Meas, “we simply provide a corpse to be picked over, and all can see that too.”
“Who will find it here? Who will see it here? We are as far north as we will ever get,” said Dinyl, “and we have a duty.”
“Not kill sea sither.” The gullaime had appeared from below-deck. It made no move to approach Meas, Dinyl and Joron, only stood by the hatch to the underdeck amid a mass of tangled rope and broken spar, occasionally clacking its hooked beak shut. “Not kill sea sither,” it said again.
“It is the last,” said Dinyl. He looked around, found the whole crew watching him. “Do you not understand? This is what have fought for. When it is gone, there will be no more boneships built.” His eyes were wide, and Joron knew in that moment that Dinyl felt the terror of battle just as keenly as he did, maybe more so. “No more dead children.” He turned to the gullaime. “No more blinded gullaime. No more battles like the one we have been through.”
“Not kill sea sither,” it said again.
“It is the last!” shouted Dinyl. “The bow is loaded. We can end it all. Go back, report this place to Kept Indyl Karrad. He will have the corpse towed away. This will be the end of war.”
But for his voice the only sound was the lapping of the sea against the ship and the grind of the pumps.
“Not last,” said the gullaime.
“What?” Meas stepped forward, standing within an arm’s length of Dinyl and Joron. “What do you mean it is not the last?”
“More come,” said the gullaime. “Sea sither is first only.”
Joron glanced to seaward. The great head of the arakeesian lay in the water, one burning eye regarding them as if it were unconcerned with its own mortality.
“If that is true,” said Dinyl, “then it is even more important it dies. Indyl Karrad can use the bones. Sell them. We can use the money to forge alliances.” He locked eyes with Meas. “We can still change our world.”
“What do you think, Joron?” Meas said.
And Joron, to his own surprise, found he did not hesitate.
“It saved us,” he replied. “We needed it and it came. It seems a poor way to repay it, to put a bolt through its eye.”
“No!” The word from Dinyl’s mouth was a howl, his expression one of utter misery. “Joron, it is our duty!” Then, more quietly: “We were given a duty.”
“To be fleet is about more than duty, Dinyl,” said Meas. “It is about honour and it is about loyalty.”
“I am loyal!” he shouted. “And I have honour. I remember my promise.” He turned to the deckchild at the bow. “You, loose the bolt!”
Joron felt himself flinch, waited for the low thruum of the bow launching, but nothing happened. The deckchild at the trigger only stared at Dinyl.
“I obey the shipwife,” she said. “I do as she orders.”
Dinyl looked at her. Nodded to himself.
“Very well,” he said and produced a small crossbow from behind his back. He raised it and pointed it at Meas’s temple.
“Give the order, Shipwife.”
“Mutiny, is it, Dinyl?”
“No.” He looked miserable, sounded it. “I have no wish to remove you from command. You are the greatest shipwife I have ever served. I only ask that you give the order. Only ask you to do your duty.”
“I believe my duty has changed. Somehow, that keyshan came when we needed it. Maybe death is not the answer.”
“Please, Shipwife,” said Dinyl. “Give the order.”
“Put down the crossbow, Dinyl, and we will forget this happened.” She turned so she stared at him over the weapon. “Do as I ask.”
“I have done everything that has been asked of me.” Was that a tear in his eye? “I have given up everything, taken on the black armband when it was asked of me. Lost my family because it was asked of me. Become a disgrace because it was asked of me. If I do not deliver what Karrad wishes, I will never remove the armband, never get back what I was. Shipwife Meas, I have no wish to kill you, but I will. All I ask is that you do what you were ordered to do when we set out.”
“I told you at the beginning, Dinyl, once you wear the black band there is no taking it off.”
“You make us into traitors,” said Dinyl.
“She is no traitor,” said Joron, taking a step closer.
“No traitor?” shouted Dinyl. “Why do you think she is here? Joron, you can convince her, please, for our friendship. Tell her to give the order.”
“I will not, Dinyl.” Meas smiled at Dinyl over the weapon he held in her face.
“I will kill you if I have to, Shipwife. Give the order to launch.”
“No.”
“Then” – his voice shook – “I am sorry for what I must do.”
Joron’s hand went to the curnow at his hip. Unhooking it, he brought the blade up in a fluid, skilful movement that cut cleanly through Dinyl’s wrist. The crossbow bolt flew harmlessly over the side, and Dinyl staggered back, grasping his bleeding arm, his eyes wide with pain. Meas moved, and Joron saw the flash of the rockfist wrapped around her knuckles as it cracked into Dinyl’s temple, knocking him to the slate, unconscious.
“Get him to the hagbower,” she said, staring down at him. Two deckchilder stooped to gather him up. “Make sure his arm is seen to.” She turned to Joron. “See, I told you. When you really needed the skill you would get it right.”
He Joron tried to smile but could not for he knew had as much as killed a man he come to hold dear.
“It is kinder to let him die to
day from blood loss,” he said quietly, “than to save him to be thrown to the longthresh later for mutiny.”
Meas shook her head.
“Dinyl did what duty demanded of him, and I can respect that. I can not even say he may not have been right. He is a good officer and I will keep him, if he survives.” She turned to the deckchild at the bow. “Those hiylbolts,” she said, “they are simply weight we do not need. Put them over the side.”
She watched the weapons go over the rail, and as if this was some agreed signal, the wakewyrm raised its head and opened its beak, letting out its deafening call, and Joron heard the beautiful spinning song within it. Then it began to move.
Tide Child rocked as the sea was disturbed by the beat of the keyshan’s flippers. They watched it swim away, its huge body building up speed on the surface until it lowered its head and dived, massive tail rising from the sea and waving as if in farewell before disappearing into the depths.
“So,” said Joron to the air, “it is over.” He felt more than heard the gullaime come to stand by him. The heat of its body. The hint of a song in its voice.
“No, Joron Twiner,” it said. “Now it begins.”
The story will continue in book two of the Tide Child trilogy.
Appendix: Ranks in the Fleet and the Hundred Isles
Bern The ruling class of the Hundred Isles consisting of women who have birthed children well-formed and unmarred.
Berncast Second-class Citizens of the Hundred Isles. Those who are born malformed or whose mothers die in childbirth proving their blood “weak”.
Bonemaster In charge of the upkeep of the ship’s hull and spines.
Bonewright Specialist crew member who answers to the bonemaster.
Bowsell Head of a gallowbow team. A bowsell of the deck is in charge of all the gallowbows on each deck of a boneship.
Courser Ship’s navigator and holder of the charts. Although all officers are expected to be able to navigate, the sect of coursers are specialists. They are believed to be able to dream the coming weather and hear the songs of the storms.
Deckholder Third officer, generally known as the d’older. Larger ships may have up to four deckholders, who are known as the first d’older (most senior), the second d’older, and so on.
Deckkeeper Second to the shipwife and speaks with their authority. Larger ships may have up to three deckkeepers, who are traditionally known as the d’keeper (most senior), the keepsall and the decksall.
Deckchild A crew member who has proved themselves capable of all the minor tasks required in the running of a boneship.
Deckchilder A generic term for the entire crew of a ship below the rank of whoever is using it.
Deckmother In charge of discipline aboard a boneship. A traditionally unpopular rank.
Gullaime Also called windtalker and weathermage. An avian race of magicians able to control the winds and as such invaluable to the running of a boneship.
Hagshand The ship’s surgeon, who works in the hagbower. Few who go under the knife of the hagshand survive.
Hatkeep Steward to the shipwife. A post often given to a deckchild who has proved particularly loyal or clever.
Kept The chosen men of the Bern.
Oarturner In charge of steering the ship.
Purseholder In charge of the ship’s funds, weapons and food supplies.
Seakeep A seasoned deckchild with thorough knowledge of a boneship and how it should be run. The seakeep is expected to run the ship if there are no officers on deck and often acts as a go-between should the crew wish to communicate something to the shipwife.
Shipmother Commander of the fleet. There are five ship-mothers. The ruler of the Hundred Isles is the most senior and has four deputies. These are named for the Northstorm, the Eaststorm, the Southstorm and the Weststorm. Shipmother of the North, Shipmother of the East, etc.
Shipwife Master and commander of a ship. The shipwife’s word is law aboard their ship. To disobey is punishable by anything up to being sent to a black ship or death, depending on the shipwife’s whim.
Stonebound The lowest rank on a ship. Used as an insult or as a quick way of denoting that someone does not really understand how the ship works or is not fleet.
Topboy The lookouts posted at the top of a ship’s spines.
Wingmaster In charge of the wings and rigging of a bone-ship.
Wingwright Specialist crew member who answers to the wingmaster.
Afterword and Acknowledgements
I get lost in the sea. It’s one of the things that I find endlessly fascinating, hypnotic even. Never still, always changing, so many colours and shapes. It’s also a huge part of our civilisation: so much of history and pre-history begins with the sea. So much of history and pre-history is lost beneath it.
I think fantasy is often about journeys, beginnings and ends and new starts, and here we are, you and I, at the end of a new start. I hope you’ve enjoyed your time with Joron, Meas and her crew. I probably, first of all, owe an apology to anyone who understands the tremendously complicated business of sailing a tall ship. One of my great loves is the literature of the sea, from Moby Dick through C. S. Forester to Patrick O’Brian, but on writing The Bone Ships it quickly became obvious that I had a choice between meeting a deadline and fully understanding ships (or understanding them at all – they are fiendishly complicated). So if you’ve read this and got annoyed with how very fast and loose I have played with sailing and navigation, mea culpa, it got sacrificed in pursuit of the story, but I hope my deep and abiding love of the sea comes through.
Books are never created in a vacuum and I wouldn’t be doing this without my lovely agent, Ed Wilson, and I wouldn’t be making much sense without my brilliant editor, Jenni Hill, who does her best to nudge me onto the right course, even when I might not want to be nudged. And of course, you probably wouldn’t be reading this without my excellent publicist Nazia who does a great job of getting what I do out there and generally harassing me on the internet. Orbit and everyone there have been brilliant to write with and I am hugely glad I get to do it all over again with these books.
And of course, my family are massively important. Without them around me, the distraction provided by my son, support of my wife and maybe even the occasional bites from the cat, I doubt I would be doing this.
I also owe a debt of thanks to Paul Walsh who helped me out with distances, travel and my early maps; any errors (ha, any! Should say all) are my own. And my early version readers for this book, Dr Richard Clegg, Fiona Pollard, Matt Broom and Mike Everest Evans, your mixture of cheerleading and nit-picking helps me more than you will ever know. There’s also a whole host of book bloggers, reviewers and BookTubers who have supported the Wounded Kingdom books, and I can’t name you all for fear of forgetting someone (because we all know I would) but each and every one of you know who you are and that you have my thanks. Then there’s the various people running cons, events and podcasts who have been kind enough to have me along to talk nonsense, as well as Starburst! and SFX magazine who have been hugely supportive. Also Phil Lunt, Helen Armfield and everyone else at the British Fantasy Society and the wonderful booksellers at Waterstones. You are all wonderful people and you all make me very happy.
Oh, and then there’s authors. Often terrible people such as Jason Arnopp (author Xtra), or Scott K. Andrewerson (I’ll get it right one day, Scott), Gavin Smith and his big green coat, Tade (don’t call me Tayd) Thompson, Nicholas, the great award stealer, Eames and Sir Edward Cox who all do their best to stop me working. But largely wonderful people like Adrian Tchaikovsky, Anna Stephens, Pete Mclean, Adrian Selby, Mark Stay, Catriona Ward, James Barclay, Jeanette Ng, Gemma Todd, David Hutchinson, Ed McDonald, Jenn Williams, Tasha Suri (and Carly), Stephen Aryan, Robin Hobb (and family), Mike Brooks, Tim Pratt, Justina Robson, Gareth Hanrahan, Lucy Hounsom, Stark Holborn, Stephen Erickson, Kim Stanley Robinson, Micah Yongo, Bradley Beaulieu and oh my I have met so many and you have all been so forebearing and my memory is so ve
ry bad. To the person(s) reading this and thinking, “Oh, but you forgot me!” nudge me and I’ll put you in the next one.
I absolutely must mention Tom Parker, whose drawings have helped shape this book and its world (as well as the Wounded Kingdom before it) and they grace the chapter headings (more in the next books) and his wonderful map is in the front. As well as Hannah Wood who designed the beautiful cover that no doubt caught your eye.
Lastly, music. I always write with music and apart from my mainstays (the Afghan Whigs, Fields of the Nephilim and 16 Horsepower/Wovenhand) I’ve been listening to a lot of Cult of Luna and Myrkur while writing this as it seemed to match the mood. Editing has mostly been accompanied by The Last Internationale.
And, of course, I must thank you. For reading what I write, telling people about it, leaving reviews. All these things help us keep doing what we do. I hope you’ve enjoyed Joron’s journey of discovery and that you’ll follow him, Meas, the gullaime, Tide Child and his crew for the rest of their voyages and further exploration of the world of the Scattered Archipelago.
We will see so much.
We may break your heart.
RJ
Leeds, February 2019
extras
about the author
RJ Barker lives in Leeds with his wife, son and a collection of questionable taxidermy, odd art, scary music and more books than they have room for. He grew up reading whatever he could get his hands on, and has always been “that one with the book in his pocket”. Having played in a rock band before deciding he was a rubbish musician, RJ returned to his first love, fiction, to find he is rather better at that. As well as his debut epic fantasy novel, Age of Assassins, RJ has written short stories and historical scripts which have been performed across the country. He has the sort of flowing locks any cavalier would be proud of.
Find out more about RJ Barker and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at www.orbitbooks.net.