by Rj Barker
He wanted to pursue Brekir, to scream and shout, tell her she was wrong. Where was her loyalty, to question him so? He found himself standing. The familiar ache on the stump of his leg as he moved his weight onto it. He stopped. Remembered Meas, so long ago, telling him how the deckkeeper’s place was to question their shipwife. Make them consider their actions. And though shipwife of her own ship, the Snarltooth, he knew Brekir played that role to him in this fleet. He sat again. Turned his chair so he looked out the great windows at the small town. At the hanging bodies. At the corpses. At the fire as it took hold.
This was his. He had done this and he would not run from it. Brekir was right, there were those of his deckchilder who revelled in the destruction, who inevitably took things too far. He did not believe he did. A year, and he had heard nothing of Meas. He believed she must be in Bernshulme somewhere. To get his shipwife back, he needed the Gaunt Islands fleet to assault Bernshulme. Before they would do that, the Hundred Isles fleet must be weakened. And that was what he would do, what he did. If he met their ships on the sea he destroyed them. When he could not destroy their ships he destroyed their supplies. When he could not destroy their supplies he killed their officers. And when he could not kill officers he stripped them of their deckchilder.
Whatever it took
Whatever was needed.
This was war.
No quarter and no mercy shown. In return he expected the same. He only gave in kind what his enemies would give to him. And if this was not what his father had promised, if this was not the glorious stories of being fleet, of proud boneships and honourable shipwives, well, that was because life was not stories. Life was painful, and it was hard and it was cruel and full of loss. And if this was not the peace Meas had wanted, had fought for, well, that was because there was no peace without war. He watched the bodies on the gallows sway in the breeze. Heard that young deckkeeper’s voice.
You and your deckchilder are murderous animals. And I am fleet.
“Maybe we are all animals, ey?” he said to himself. Then he reached for the bottle of anhir and poured another drink. Lifted the scarf then the cup, felt the familiar burn of the strong alcohol in the back of his throat.
The alcoholic burn he had left behind under her, becoming more familiar every day.
“I will find you, Meas,” he said quietly and he spoke only to the bones of Tide Child. “I must find you, for I fear that every day without you I drift further from the course you set me upon.”
4
Once More to Sea
He stood on the rump of Tide Child, a familiar place, a familiar feeling under his one foot as the ship moved across the surface of the water. And yet, all was different to how it had once been – as, he supposed, was the nature of life. He commanded this ship now, and by him stood his people: his deckholder, Farys, and by her was his second and leader of his seaguard, Jennil. Gavith, once a cabin boy who cowered whenever Meas turned her eye on him, was now bowsell of the maindeck. Some figures remained from Meas’s command, stood as if immovable: Barlay at the steering oar, Solemn Muffaz, the deckmother; two solid pins that anchored him here, let him know this was still the same ship he had boarded many years ago, following Lucky Meas as she entered the years of her disgrace. And sometimes Muffaz would glance to Farys, look upon her like the proud father she had never had. Sometimes Farys would glance to Gavith, look upon him in a way Joron knew he should watch but had not yet found the right time to speak of it, or the way to speak of it. He would ask Solemn Muffaz to speak to her, the two were close.
Mevans was still steward, refusing any form of advancement but somehow managing to be involved in every facet of running the ship. Fogle remained his seakeep though not for much longer, he feared. Last few times he had spoken to the woman he had smelled drink on her breath and he could not have a drunken seakeep.
Rich, for him to say such a thing.
Aelerin the courser and the Gullaime were absent from the deck, and maybe it was their absence that filled him with melancholy. Tide Child’s clothing of war was long removed, Windhearth a month behind them. The bows tied down, the sand swept away, the chains unstrung from the rigging and the skulls taken from the bonerail. In the centre of the deck the new gullaime worked, a ring of white-robed windtalkers that sang gently as they brought the wind to move the ship. Joron was careful with them, never worked them too hard or forced them into pain, but there was little kinship between him and these gullaime. They had been chosen by Madorra, who guarded Joron’s friend, the first gullaime he had ever met, jealously. And though he had made the windshorn promise never to speak of the prophecy – the foretelling that Tide Child’s gullaime was the Windseer, meant to free all gullaime from the bondage of women and men – he did not believe that promise had been kept. He knew in the way these new gullaime were around him, too quiet, not suspicious of him but reverent. Because to them he was the Caller and to be that was to be bound within the mythology of the Windseer; whether he was a servant to it, or doomed by it he did not know and none would tell.
But the gullaime obeyed him, in most things.
“Farys,” he said.
“Ey, D’keeper?”
“I am going below, you know our course.”
“Ey, D’keeper,” she said and he left her on the rump, sure in the knowledge that she would mind the ship and steer it as careful as any who lived.
And down, out of the cold which bit his cheeks and nose, even through the scarf wrapped around his face, and into the damper cold of the underdeck where the glowing eyes of wanelights showed the way and he passed through to the Gullaime’s cabin. At the door stood Madorra, clad in white, one fierce eye looking out at him.
“Madorra,” he said, always aware of the rasp in his throat that had destroyed his singing voice. “I would speak to the Gullaime.”
“Busy,” said Madorra, then hissed. “Too busy for you. Busy.”
“I command this ship, Madorra, no one is too busy for me.” He made to walk past the windshorn – one of those gullaime who could not control the wind, and had acted as both guard and captor to its own people back in the Hundred Isles – but it did not move. “Gullaime,” shouted Joron, “I would speak with you.” Madorra hissed at him again but the Gullaime’s voice could be heard above it.
“Come, Joron Twiner, Come.” Joron waited, staring at the windshorn, he noticed its white robe had acquired a garland of shells, sewn in around the collar. It did not escape him that they were guffin shells, the creatures within the pearlescent white curls famously poisonous to humans, a delicacy to the gullaime.
“Well?” said Joron to Madorra. The windshorn blinked its one good eye and moved aside. “Thank you,” said Joron and he opened the door, moved within, from the cold and damp to the warm room, heavy with the scent of gullaime, hot sand and salt. They had twelve gullaime aboard now – five currently on deck, his gullaime, Madorra and five others in here. He did not know the names of the ten new gullaime, and they would not talk to him or meet his eye.
They sang constantly and though they followed the gullaime everywhere, were always with it, they seemed to obey only Madorra and not the Gullaime, which sat within their circle and looked mournfully up at Joron.
“Away go,” it said to them, sadly. Once it had been a whirlwind of anger and fury but now it only seemed tired. When the gullaime around it did not move, but continued singing their low and mournful song, a little of the Gullaime’s fire returned. “Away go!” it snapped at the one nearest to it and, as one, they withdrew to the door, though they did not leave the room.
“You were asked to leave,” said Joron to the group of gullaime, and they cooed and clicked but made no move on his say-so.
“Will not leave,” said the Gullaime. “Will not.” It settled down into its nest, its robe, once torn, filthy and ragged, now the finest thing on the ship. Sewn with cloth of many colours, jingling with shells and trinkets and feathers and bright things given to it by others of its kind and by the crew. Joron cou
ld not help feeling the robe was as much prison to the Gullaime as command was to him, that the windtalker was trapped within it, unable to share, unable to escape.
“Find ship woman?” it said.
“No, she was not there, and none knew of her.” He shook his head. “If you would have these gullaime removed from your cabin, I can have that done.” The Gullaime shook its head.
“No, no no. Madorra not leave. Madorra fight, Madorra kill. Not do, not do.” It sounded on the edge of panic. Joron nodded.
“You would not have cared about it killing us once,” said Joron. The Gullaime yarked quietly, a sad laugh to those who understood its ways.
“Not care much now. Care for Joron Twiner.” Its masked head turned to him. “Joron Twiner sick,” it said quietly. “No make Joron Twiner’s life hard.”
“My life is already hard and I do not think it will get much easier, Gullaime.” It nodded sadly.
“Not want,” it said.
“No,” said Joron. “Well, I only wanted to look in on you. I must see the hagshand now, and Aelerin. If there is ought you want, then call on me.”
“Call,” it said, and Joron pushed through the little gaggle of white-clad windtalkers and out of the door, only to be hissed at by Madorra as he passed. He ignored it – the windshorn were seen as outside the command of the ship, so for Madorra to act in such an insolent way was no more a threat to his command than if a kivelly pecked him or a longthresh bit him. Still, it rankled at Joron as he made his way deeper into the bowels of the ship to where Garriya, the hagshand, waited for him in the hagbower where the sick and the wounded were brought. It was empty today, their raid had seen no casualties. It was often the way. To turn up with overwhelming force was part of it, but more than that was his reputation, the Black Pirate who left none alive, the only proof of his passing in the swinging corpses and burning towns.
An exaggeration, of course, and he understood it was necessary – that in the long run his reputation saved the lives of his people, and it was what he hoped would lead them to Meas. He liked it no more for that though.
In the hagbower, Garriya sat on a stool, no hammocks for her, and laid out by her were the tools of her trade. Could take her for a torturer as much as a healer, he thought. The old woman was a mass of contradictions, fastidious about washing her hands, but never washed any other part of herself. Played dumb half the time but fooled no one any longer. A powerful intelligence worked behind those bright eyes.
“Caller,” she said. “How goes it?”
“I hear more and more reports of keyshans rising throughout the seas, and yet I have not sung them out.”
She chuckled, passed a hand over her tools as if wondering which would cause the most pain.
“You think you are all there is in the world?”
“No, but we called a beast, we…”
“Did not raise the first one, Caller,” she said, then rolled up her tools and stood. Making her way to the shelves and jamming the roll behind a rope before taking out a cloth and a bottle.
“Well, no…”
“You can speed a thing on a little,” she said, “but you cannot stop a thing once started.”
“What do you mean?”
“Take your scarf off, sit on the stool. Let us see how we do today.”
He did as she bade, it felt strange, the air against his skin rather than the warmth of his breath, caught by material. She came before him, ugly, old, skin ingrained with dirt.
“Anyone on that isle know where she is?” He shook his head. “Of course not, why would they send anyone that important way out here.” He was about to answer but she lifted his head by putting her hand under his chin and pushing up, effectively stopping him talking. “The sores are no worse,” she said. “Any dizziness?” Shook his head. “Nausea? Find time missing?” Shook his head. “Made any decisions you regret?”
“Many.” She smiled as she soaked her cloth in liquid from the bottle.
“Made any that made no sense to you later?”
“Not recently.”
“Good. Now, this will hurt.” She dabbed on the liquid and he hissed; it felt as if his skin caught fire, but if this was what was needed to keep the keyshan’s rot at bay then this was what they would do.
“How is Coxward?” he said, in one of the short respites.
“I could keep him here no longer,” she replied. “Now he is restrained in the brig.” Another dab. Fire running over his skin. “It’ll be a long time before you are in his condition though. He’s had the rot for many years.”
“I could have done with him, none know a ship the way he does,” he said. “Can you make him well?” She shook her head.
“Once the rot has reached the mind, only the Mother can fix it, and I am not her.” Dab. Pain. “It would be kinder to let him go, Caller,” she said, her voice low. Pain. “There is naught left in this world for him.”
“He has been with us from the start.” His voice caught. “I do not want to lose—”
“Sometimes it is not about you,” she said. Dab. Pain. “You know, Caller, life is loss, and much has been taken from you: Dinyl, your leg, your song and your shipwife. And if you think you can dilute your pain in blood you are wrong. Blood will only feed it.”
“It is not vengeance, Garriya.” He moved her hand away, caught a whiff of the liquid she had in the bottle and it made his eyes water. “She is in Bernshulme, I am sure of it. And I need Gaunt Island ships to assault the capital, but they will not give them to me while the Hundred Isles navy is strong.” He picked up the scarf and tied it once more around his face. “So I weaken them.”
“And yourself.”
“We lost no one.”
“Yet.”
“We lost no one, old woman.” He stood. She stared.
“Go visit your bonemaster in the brig.”
He turned from her, fully intending to go back up the stairs and through the underdeck and the hatch until he was on the slate and in the light of Skearith’s Eye far above. But guilt nagged at him. Coxward had served him well until the rot had taken his mind, and Joron owed him a visit at least. So he turned, heading further down and further into darkness, the only lights the small glow of the wanelights positioned along the tight corridors. He heard Coxward before he saw him. Heard the raving and crashing as he threw himself around the small room that housed him. The brig had been made as comfortable as possible, as the man had done no wrong, not really. He had caused a few bruises, but that was the disease, not the man.
“… fire is coming!” he roared. “It’ll all end in fire and teeth. You hear me? I am the teeth! I am the fire! I am the place beneath. I am the Hag’s own vengeance. You come upon me! You come upon me! I will kill you. I will…” He quietened as Joron stepped into his line of sight. He had been a large man, once. Now he was not, his flesh hung from his bones, skin mottled with sores and dried blood.
“Shipwife!” he said. Hand coming to his chest in salute.
“I am not…”
“They have locked me in here, Shipwife,” said Coxward, and he pushed himself up against the barred door. “It is mutiny, Shipwife. Mutiny. I know about the crew, listen to me.” Joron stepped nearer; the sores of keyshan’s rot filled the air with the smell of rotting flesh. This awaits me, thought Joron. This awaits me. “Listen, Shipwife, they think me mad, but I know the truth.” He sounded less manic than he had the last time Joron had seen him. He stepped nearer.
“Truth?”
“Ey, many aboard are new, they resent you, Meas, resent you. Know you fell from grace right off the beak of your ship, eh? Well, they are planning and things.” Was he almost lucid? Did he, despite thinking Joron was Meas, actually talk of something real? Joron stepped forward a little more. “And worse, Shipwife, you think they are women and men yet they are not, they are borebones, borebones in human flesh. They wear women and men as we wear coats.” His voice was rising with every word, with every syllable and Joron had no doubt the man was tormented, that
he believed every word he said. “It is all true, Shipwife. It is all true, I feel them beneath my flesh! They think me mad! I see the fire and the death!” Spittle flying from his mouth and Joron stepped even nearer.
“Coxward,” he said softly, “I am not Meas. She is gone.”
Like cloud passing to reveal the light of Skearith’s Eye. The sudden return of lucidity.
“Joron?”
“Ey, it is me, Coxward.”
Coxward put his hands on the bars, brought his face right up to them. Tears in his eyes.
“Served well, didn’t I?”
“Ey, Coxward, you have. None better.”
“I cannot abide this, Joron.”
Joron put an arm in through the bars and around the man. Pulled him close.
“You have served this ship and me, Coxward. You served Meas and you have served as well as any woman or man ever could.”
“You believe me then,” he said, a froth of white in the corners of his mouth, “about the borebones? About the fire?” The cloud returning, the light going out.
“Ey,” said Joron quietly. “I will sort it, do not worry yourself.” The torment receded a little, as if Coxward had only needed to hear those words, and when Joron saw peace enter the bonemaster’s eye he gave him a smile.
Then Joron drove his bone knife deep into the man’s heart. Watched the light in his eyes go out, and hoped what he saw at the last was gratitude, that he had freed him from the madness. “Rest easy, old friend,” said Joron, letting the body down. “You rest easy.”
He stared at the still body of the bonemaster and inwardly, he cursed Garriya.
“We have lost no one.”
“Yet.”
Then he heard the call from above, the one he feared most, and the one that sent a thrill of excitement running through him.
“Ship rising!”
5
And I Saw a Fair Ship
Amazing how quickly you became used to something. He stood in the swaying tops of the spine, the slate of the deck far below him. Leg and bone spur braced against ropes as he lifted the nearglass to his eye. Not so long since he had thought he would never ascend the spines of a boneship again. Not so long since he thought the loss of his leg made it impossible. First he had ascended a little, then a little more and then a little and a little more, for how could he command a boneship if he would not do what he expected of his crew? And though each step had been tentative, each time he used his false leg, his spur, to move along a rope or spar he had been sure it would slip. But, just as with walking, and running and fencing, he had slowly become used to it, slowly worked out how to translate the pressure on his stump into a semblance of feeling, and now he climbed the spines of the ship as well as he ever had, better even.
