The Bone Ship's Wake

by Rj Barker

  He stared through his nearglass – her nearglass – at the horizon. Passing his eye along the grey sea while the topboy, Havir, gave instruction.

  “Saw it just five off the shadow to the rump, D’keeper, only a hint see, but sure it was the flags waving off the tops of a boneship.”

  “And not one of ours?”

  “No, I’m sure o’that. Not flying the black were they, though?”

  Joron nodded, continued to stare through the nearglass though he did not doubt Havir; the man was an old salt, a skilled deckchild with years of service under his belt. Joron spoke to make conversation while he waited for the moment when the sea rose below Tide Child and gave him that little more distance to his vision. Havir had said the ship flew just below the horizon.

  Did it follow him? And if so how long for? Or was that paranoia, for paranoia was a symptom of the rot. He’d seen it creep up on Coxward, heard him talk of how Hewes, the bonewright below him, was plotting against him. The eventual violence that had risen before he’d been forced to move Hewes over to another ship, bring aboard a woman called Colwulf, and then things had been fine, for a while. Until the paranoia had started again.

  But that was over now, for Coxward at least.

  He took the nearglass from his eye, wiped sweat from his forehead, raised the glass once more. How long could he be up here? How long to wait? How long to stare into that circle, perfect hemispheres of sea and sky punctuated by the gliding dots of skeers as they danced above the waves?

  There! A single line, unnaturally straight, jutting over the horizon.

  “I found his tops, Havir.”

  “And I knew you would.”

  “Seems he’s no longer shy, three spines rising, rigged like us, so a four-ribber no doubt, full corpse lights.” He moved the focus ring. “There’s a second ship.”

  “Ey?” He could feel Havir close to his side.

  “Two-ribber.”

  “Evenly matched, ey, D’keeper?”

  “Ey, evenly matched indeed.” He leaned over so he could shout down to the decks. “Barlay, steer us two points toward the shadow!” He felt the ship come about, the kiss of the wind move from the side of his face to the back of his head, blowing the tangled locks of his hair around as he made his way down the rigging, not fast, maybe, but steady and even until he jumped from the spine to the deck, landing sure-footed and running, at an unseemly rate for the commander of a ship, up to the rump where Farys waited, hands behind her back, overseeing the deck.

  “Two ships, Farys, four-ribber and a two-ribber.”

  “You mean to give chase, D’keeper?” She smiled at him, the burned skin of her face pulling her eyes into slits.

  “Well,” he said, “they call us murderers and marauders, let us not disappoint them, ey?” He grinned a murderous, piratical grin and raised his voice. “Full wings, give me all speed. Sound the bell, beat the drums! Clear my decks for action! Signal Chiver on the Last Light to do the same!” And all became seeming chaos around him, the ship stripped for war, deckchilder running hither and thither as he watched, a smile hidden beneath his mask for he saw the patterns within the seeming chaos. Saw that every woman and man knew their job and their place and he was pleased, for this was the ship he wanted to bring his shipwife back to, an orderly, well-run ship of war. He turned his head to the horizon, lifted the nearglass to study his quarry. Two ships side-on to Tide Child, white as new sand. The wind blew the tail of his hat around his arm, tangling with it and the long locks of his hair. He pushed it away. Went back to staring at the ships and the smile that had so recently been on his face fell away.

  “Seakeep,” he shouted, “call Aelerin for me.” He watched the two ships while he waited for the courser to announce themselves in that soft voice he was so familiar with.

  “You wanted me, D’keeper?”

  “Ey, Aelerin,” he said. The courser’s robe was as pure and white as the hulls of the boneships ahead. “Two ships out there,” he pointed. “They have made a show of themselves and now they run, inviting us into a merry chase.”

  “That explains all the noise,” said the courser, a hint of humour there.

  “Indeed, but they run toward the wind.”

  “That will work their gullaime hard.”

  “It will, and they must know we have gullaime of our own, so they should save their windtalkers, there is a brisk enough wind to run with.”

  “It is what a sensible shipwife would do.”

  “Ey, so, I ask you this, why may they not?”

  “I would think they seek to lead us away from something? Or toward something?” Joron nodded, collapsed the nearglass and placed it in his jacket.

  “Have you studied the charts around here?” He knew the question needless, for Aelerin studied charts obsessively. “Is there anything that they may want to tempt us toward or away from?”

  Aelerin stood, hands clasped before themselves, absolutely still as was their way when deep in thought.

  “There is little the way they head, just the near northern isles, low and cold. A poor place for a trap.”

  “And where they come from?”

  “Open water until Skearith’s Spine is all.”

  “Curious,” said Joron and he squinted into the distance; he could make out the ships without the nearglass now.

  “There is one thing,” said the courser.

  “Ey?”

  “There were reports of keyshans, small ones. Not that way, but given how fast they swim it would not be impossible for one to have made it that far. Maybe they hunt one?”

  “You would think they would have learned their lesson about that by now?”

  “You would think. But maybe Sleighthulme is back in production of its poisons? Could they have perfected hiyl?” Joron thought a little on that, on what he had seen in Sleighthulme before the shipwife gave herself up. Vast cauldrons mixing human and gullaime flesh in search of the recipe for hiyl, a poison powerful enough to hunt keyshans with, for all other attempts simply ended up with women and men on their way to the Hag. He raised his voice.

  “I think we shall return to our original course,” said Joron, “see what our friends out there make of that.”

  “Ey, D’keeper,” said Farys and she called out the orders to Solemn Muffaz who called them back to Barlay and Tide Child heeled over, his wings creaking and complaining, spines echoing those complaints as he came back to his original course. If Joron heard the sighs and words of disappointment from his crew, that they were robbed of a fight, then he gave no sign. Instead he raised the nearglass and watched the ships so far away, waiting for the moment when they realised he no longer gave chase, letting time tick past and pretending to be unaware of the women and men scurrying around him, loosing some ropes, tightening others, making work in hope of overhearing his plans.

  “What do you think, Farys?” he said after staring for long enough to be sure, then he passed her the nearglass. She raised it, found her quarry. Studied them.

  “They want to be chased, D’keeper, are slacking some wing, letting it billow so they slow. Wait, the two-ribber has lost a top spar.” She passed the nearglass back and Joron returned to gazing through it. Saw that the smaller ship was indeed wounded, its highest crosspiece having fallen, bringing the white wing with it.

  “Well, now he trails a wing like an injured kivelly.”

  “A mess of rigging and gion is a lost topspar.”

  “It is,” said Joron slowly, “if it is real, but if I were to fake damage then that would also be what I would choose to do. Rigged right it is a simple enough thing to pretend.”

  “Ey,” said Farys. “They must be fair desperate for us to follow.”

  “Which begs the question what is so interesting on our previous course, ey?” He dropped the nearglass from his eye, folded it and placed it safe in his jacket. Raised his voice. “Listen well my women and men, my girls and my boys.” All heads turned to Joron, all work momentarily pausing, then well practised hands conti
nued in their tasks, even while gazes were focused elsewhere. “I’d not have you think I stole a righteous fight from you, but those ships want us following, and I reckon that means there’s something over the horizon they don’t want us finding. So we’ll do finding not following, ey?”

  A rousing shout of “Ey!” in return.

  “And we’ll keep Tide Child rigged for war, as if I am any sort of commander at all then I reckon I know what will happen soon. Those two ships will see we do not fall for their ruse, and they’ll be chasing us.” Looks and smiles were exchanged on the deck of Tide Child, and in the rigging of Tide Child and in the gloom of the underdecks where Joron’s voice reached and even in the deepest hold, where word was passed down from deckchilder to deckchilder. And each and every one of them knew he was right, for Joron Twiner had proved himself a fighting shipwife, even though he’d take the skin off the back of anyone who called him ought but deckkeeper; they knew what he was and where he took them, and they would follow him. For among the deckchilder of Meas’s fleet a rumour had grown up, one that had passed from idle gossip into an undeniable truth in the mind of every woman and man who flew those ships. Was Joron Twiner not Lucky Meas’s son? For what else made sense? And was not Lucky Meas a figure of legend, the Tide Child? The peacebringer? Unkillable, unbeatable, just biding her time afore she came back and led them all in glory? None doubted these were facts as true as the sea and the Hag and the Mother and the Maiden.

  “So,” said Joron, who knew what was said of him and how very wrong it was, though he did nothing to stop the rumours persisting, “you mark my words, girls and boys, women and men, we’ll get our fight. Those ships will come after us soon enough, and maybe more will be waiting over the horizon.” He ran over to the bonerail, raised himself onto it. One hand on a rope as with the other he lofted his straightsword. “Sharpen your curnows, ready your blades and your gaffs and gallowbows, for I see a bloody day ahead.” At that a riot of shouts, a joyous cacophony from his crew and Joron felt it too. Until he saw Garriya, the old woman’s head just above the hatch which led to the underdecks, and then came a dark cloud over him.

  “We have lost no one.”

  “Yet.”

  A shudder ran through his body.

  “Now,” he shouted, “back to work the lot of you, I’ll have no slate-layers on my ship! Rig for speed, tighten the wings and put out the flyers!”

  They went to work, excited and gossipy and ready for the coming battle as Tide Child scudded over waves which glinted and winked in the light of Skearith’s Eye, every scrap of variskcloth raised to catch the wind. Once more Joron brought up the nearglass and trained it on the ships now vanishing behind them. Smiled to himself in vindication as he saw the two-ribber hoisting its fallen spar back into position. “Clever,” he said quietly, “many would have fallen for it.” Then he turned, putting away the nearglass and staring down the deck of Tide Child toward the future. “Best speed we can make in this wind,” he shouted. “Barlay, keep our last course for that was what worried them. Topboy!” he shouted. “You keep me appraised on those ships, I want to know the urgency with which they chase!”

  “Already turning, Deckkeeper, wings a-full of wind!”

  Then it became a race, though not a true race, for Joron knew it was unlikely Tide Child would be caught, they had the wind still, and if those ships flogged their gullaime hard for extra speed then Joron had gullaime of his own, and they needed no flogging to work for him. Were glad to, for they named him Caller, and saw in his words the nearing of the Windseer’s time and if they were right, that brought nothing good. But Joron knew prophecy was a fickle thing, for Meas had been named in one, and where was she?

  Where was she indeed.

  On flew Tide Child, cutting through air and water, making such speed that it caught the breath from the lungs of those who rode him. And if there was a greater joy in the world than a ship under full wing then Joron did not know it. That he flew toward danger did not matter in this moment. This was what every deckchild lived for, just them and the sea and the wind and the way it carried them. A shout went up, that made so much sense but also filled Joron with fear. For what else was worth so much in the Hundred Isles that two ships would risk sacrifice to keep him away from it?

  “Keyshan rising!”

  6

  The Cause

  What fear and amazement. What wonder and terror those words brought to every woman and man in the crew. “Keyshan rising!” For many among them had seen the keyshans, knew the majesty and the danger that came with them, knew the creatures could smash a ship like Tide Child to nothing and barely even notice. Those of the crew who had not seen a keyshan had heard talk of them, heard it so often that to every woman and man among them it was as if they had seen the keyshan themselves. Like they had felt the heat coming from it, the splash of the water as it breached the surface, heard the terrible cacophonous song that beat against the ear like a hammer.

  And each and every one of them knew that they were somehow linked to the keyshans by their special gullaime, and some believed by their shipwife, who had raised one from the dead rock of an island and given herself up to the enemy so that they may escape.

  Or so they thought.

  And Joron let them.

  And if some remembered otherwise, well, they never spoke of it to their deckkeeper.

  As the crew wondered and worried and talked among themselves Joron stared at the world through the convex circle of the nearglass. First over the beak of the ship, toward the horizon where the topboy said the mighty form of a keyshan awaited him, then over the rump of the ship. Behind him and to seaward, the black form of the two-ribber, Last Light, black as Tide Child, but smaller. Only two spines and wings triangle-rigged, not square like the bigger ship’s, and corpselights glowed above it marking that it had come over from the Hundred Isles fleet and was not a true black ship. He was built for speed and quick hit-and-run attacks with his twenty smaller gallowbows. Then Joron tracked back toward the two white boneships, towers of billowing white varisk cloth growing larger every moment.

  “They punish their gullaime to catch us,” he said.

  “Should I bring up ours?” said Farys.

  “No,” he said, turning back to the beak, “let them tire their gullaime, we will keep ours fresh. Make sure Chiver on the Last Light knows that too.”

  “Ey, D’keeper,” she said and ran to shout out instructions for the signals to be given. Tide Child flew on, his beak smashing through waves, sending spray up in twin arcs as he barrelled forward. In the convex world Joron looked through he saw the first sign of the keyshan, a huge flipper, almost as long as the ship that followed them. He waited for the thrill to run through him, the shock and awe at the creature. Yet it did not come.

  Where was the heat?

  The joy?

  The song in his heart?

  Where was the terror?

  The majesty?

  The sheer and overwhelming presence?.

  Somewhere, deep inside, he felt a darkness. Knew a truth.

  “Dead,” he said quietly.

  “D’keeper?”

  He focused the nearglass on the beast, saw its belly, as big as an island, thick with white feathers and as he scanned along it, the creature’s body bending in the imperfections of the glass, he saw it was spattered with blood. And that blood surrounded the creature, a slick of black, and within the black a million jewels. He struggled to understand it. Was this some property of keyshan blood? Did jewels run through its body?

  On closer inspection he saw a line of wounds across the beast’s body.

  What weapon could do this? What vast engine had been created to make this series of punctures across the body of something as mighty and indomitable as a keyshan, empress of all the seas?

  No woman or man of the Hundred Isles had caused this.

  And no woman or man of the Gaunt Islands either. He looked harder, saw how the regular the wounds were, how they were shaped, long and narrow l
ike a beak.

  Bite marks.

  A fight?

  It must be. Over what he did not, could not, know. Territory? Mates? Some terrible sub-aqueous grudge? How could a man understand a keyshan? None could, not really. Not even himself, who had, in some unfathomable way, a connection with them. But he was also not surprised by the violence. How could he be? He had seen them smash ships, seen them open their mouths to reveal a cave of huge teeth. He had, unthinkingly, presumed them simply for hunting. Never thought of them fighting.

  “It’s dead?”

  He turned to find Farys, staring across the water. She looked stricken.

  “Ey, so it seems,” he replied. “No wonder they wish us away, there’s enough bone there to keep the Hundred Isles fighting for another generation, and with the damage we’ve done to their fleet it’s bone they need.”

  “So what do we do?” she said.

  “We fight, Farys; what choice do we have?”

  “Ship rising!” shouted from the tops.

  “Tell of the ship, Topboy,” shouted Joron, and he hoped it would be one of theirs – Brekir, maybe, having turned back for some reason.

  “Boneship, D’keeper, coming from t’ward the Eaststorm, four-ribber, I reckon.”