by Rj Barker
“You lie,” he said. But knew she did not do so knowingly. Knew from the look on her face, the grief in her body. “You must lie?” he said, and he tried to believe it. “She gave herself to your shipwives in exchange for her fleet being allowed to leave the island. There was no other way for us to survive.” She stared at him, the shock had drained from her, and something else was there, something hard and something calculating.
“Even her life, Joron Twiner,” said Thirteenbern Gilbryn slowly, “is not worth letting loose the whole of her raider fleet. Love her as I do, I would never agree to that.”
“It was not her life they wanted,” he said. “It was her knowledge. She raised the keyshan at McLean’s Rock.” A lie, he knew, one that tasted bitter in his mouth still. But he saw the effect it had on the Thirteenbern. Elation at first, that her daughter may live. Puzzlement, next. Then, was it fear? He did not have time to think properly about it before they were interrupted.
“D’keeper! D’keeper!” He turned, Cwell and Narza running toward him. “It is a trap, seaguard are coming up the ramp.” He turned back to the Thirteenbern, pulled the straightsword from its scabbard.
“A trick,” he said. “And Hag-curse me I almost believed you.” He pointed the blade at her. “You will be the first to die.”
“Take me as hostage,” she said.
“What?”
“I swear, on the Mother, Maiden and Hag, nothing I have said is a lie and those coming are not of my doing. I will tell them to stand down, and you and I will talk more of my daughter. For something is wrong here.” He could hear shouting.
“D’keeper?” said Cwell. The Thirteenbern walked down from her throne, holding her arms out to her side so he could see she had no weapons.
“Take me hostage now,” she said, same voice as Meas, same commanding tone and he did it. Put his arm around her throat, his bone blade at her neck as Cwell and Narza came to flank him.
Seaguard ran into the room, all armed with spears, followed by men with crossbows. Then, walking down the centre of the room, came Indyl Karrad, strolling as if out for a pleasant evening along the docks.
“Send your guard away, Karrad, or he’ll kill me,” said Gilbryn, but he carried on walking and smiling.
“Truthfully,” he said, “Twiner would be doing me a favour.” He felt the Thirteenbern stiffen in his arms. He could not speak. The room before him blurred, his mind felt pierced, as if by a bone shard from a wingbolt hit. What was happening? How was Karrad here? Had Mevans let him go? Why?
“Seems I came in at just the right time to hear Joron saying Meas raised the keyshan.” Karrad came to a stop and scratched at the side of his face. Yawned. “But she says it is him that raised it. That it is Joron Twiner who has the power.” Karrad’s chest gleamed with oil beneath the ornamented straps. “I had hoped to get to you, Twiner, before you had this conversation with the Thirteenbern, but subduing your man took longer than I had hoped.”
“What is happening, Indyl?” said Gilbryn. She pushed Joron’s sword away from her neck and he let her, for he no more understood this sudden turnabout than she did. He could not speak. Could not think. “Is what he says true?” She stepped around Joron, took two steps toward Karrad. “Indyl, does Meas live?”
“Yes,” he said, still smiling. “She lives. I have her, and now I have him.” He pointed at Joron.
“You have betrayed me?”
“Yes,” he said.
“You will die for this,” she said.
“I think not.” He waved at the seaguard behind him.
“A few seaguard will not save you from my shipwives and deckchilder who—”
“—are all out at sea,” he finished for her. “And every ship and soldier left in Bernshulme is loyal to me.”
“Hag’s breath,” said Joron. “He means to take over. Curse me for a fool, Meas even said it at Sleighthulme, ‘My Mother thinks so little of me she only sends her men.’ We did not understand.”
“Not her men,” said Indyl. “Mine.”
“The people of Bernshulme will not let a man rule them,” said Gilbryn. “I will have you fed piece by piece to the longthresh for this, Indyl.”
“You will not,” he said simply. “Bernshulme would not usually stand for a man ruling, you are right. But in these times, with the ruin you have led them to? And if it is a man who can raise keyshans? Well, I think that will be a different matter.” He raised a hand to the seaguard with crossbows and they lifted their weapons. “Twiner’s appearance has accelerated my plans a little, I admit, but right now, I hold Bernshulme.”
The Thirteenbern stared at him, this man who had once been her daughter’s lover, and her own.
“Why, Indyl?”
“I have spent my whole life knowing I will be cast aside when I am no longer useful. You are raised to know that as a man. And knowing that, you must plan for when it happens.”
“I would never have—”
“You would,” he said. “If it was power or me, you would and you know it.” She lowered her eyes then. Unable to lie to him, for what was the point when all in the room knew the truth? “So I planned for that moment, only I planned with more ambition than most.”
“You will not survive this,” she said.
“Well, we shall find out.” Joron could feel Cwell tensing, but she was too slow. Narza moved first. Stepping forward.
“Where is she?” she said.
“Safe,” said Karrad. Narza drew her blade. Two of Karrad’s troops raised their crossbows.
“That was not the agreement. I bring you Twiner, you bring me the shipwife.” Joron’s heart fell.
“You betrayed us?” said Joron. Narza shot him a glance, dismissed him. Cwell took a step nearer to Joron.
“Bring Meas,” said Narza. “Or I swear I’ll kill Twiner before you get anywhere—”
“I have no doubt you would try,” said Karrad and gave a nod. The crossbows loosed. Bolts thumped into Narza, pushing her back. She stood for a moment, her face twisted into a mask of hate. She took a breath. A step towards Karrad. Blade held out. “Well,” he said to his men, “finish her then.” More bolts, one, two, three and still she stood. Breath coming in harsh gasps. She turned her head toward Joron.
“Save her,” she said, and fell. Dead before she hit the floor.
“The other one too,” said Karrad. But Cwell was already moving, she was behind Joron, and he was paralysed with shock. Still unable to believe it, betrayed by Karrad, betrayed by Narza. Cwell’s arm came around him, her blade at his throat.
And he was betrayed again.
“Loose a bolt,” she shouted, “and he dies. But I have an offer to make.” Karrad lifted a hand, stopped his seaguard in their tracks.
“And you would trust me, after what I did to that?” He pointed at Narza’s corpse.
“I trust two things only,” she said, “ambition and coin. I reckon you are the same.” Karrad cocked his head. Blinked.
“Speak then.”
“I am Mulvan Cahanny’s niece,” she said. “Heir to all he built in Bernshulme, and I mean to take it back.” Joron opened his mouth to speak but she placed a hand over it, he felt her rough skin even through his scarf.
“And why would that concern me?” he said.
“You wish to rule,” shouted Cwell. “To do so you will need the people to accept you. With Cahanny’s organisation ruled by me, as it should be, I can bring you the people.” Joron watched Karrad as he weighed it up. Thought about it. “It is simple business,” said Cwell. “Why do I care who sits in the bothy?”
Silence fell, Joron wanted to rage. To scream.
“Very well,” said Karrad. He turned to his troops. “Sheathe your weapons.” They did. He felt the pressure of the blade at his throat ease a little. “Take Gilbryn and Twiner down to my prison,” said Karrad to his troops. “I will speak with Twiner later, and need to decide what to do with Gilbryn.”
And, as they came forward, all Joron wanted to say was, “What hav
e you done with Mevans?” But he did not, because he was heartsick and lost and, at that moment, he could not bear to hear the answer. How could he have got those around him so very wrong? Cwell’s blade left his throat and, at the moment the heat of her body moved away from him, she whispered two words into his ear.
“Trust me.”
Then they came to take him away.
33
The Woman in the Corner
He was numb. Numb and bound and stumbling forward between two guards feeling like life had outrun him, like he had jumped into the depths expecting to drown and been caught in a riptide which had thrown him up on the shores of a strange and foreign land. Everything had changed, and so quickly.
Numb.
The seaguard escorting him were not gentle, they laughed as he stumbled, not realising he was playing less able than he was, exaggerating his limp in the hope they would not take his spur from him, but maybe he worried too much. They showed no fear of him. Either Karrad had not shared he was the Black Pirate or they believed their power in this place was absolute. They walked him down through the bothy and into the tunnels toward the dungeons. Down here the walls wept moisture and those in the cells around him wept and moaned in misery. A door opened, he made to step through but one of the guards stopped him, undid his shackles and ripped the mask from his face. Turned him so they could look on him, immediately recoiled.
“We know what you are, who you are,” the guard said, face twisted in hate. “We know what you did to us and look at you, as rotten in your body as you are in your actions.”
“So you will kill me?” He meant to sound defiant, instead he sounded resigned. “I had hoped to die at sea.” The man laughed, his face was lined, older than most seaguard and Joron wondered whether that meant Karrad was forced by the plague to bring older, less capable seaguard into his forces.
“I would love to kill you, lost my boy and my woman to the pox the beast in the harbour brought.” He took a step back. “But Karrad has said I must not, and besides, what he has in store for you is worse than any death, even from the rot, be sure of that.” He smiled and gave Joron a gentle push into the cell. “I will listen for you, as you give up your secrets. I will dance to the song of your pain, Black Pirate.” He shut the door, then spat through the bars into Joron’s face. The spittle was warm on his cheek, stung where it hit the sores, but he did not wipe it away. Only stood, staring at the man, unblinking as it rolled down his face, warm as tears.
“I will not forget your kindness,” said Joron. The man laughed, turned to his friend.
“You hear that, Franir, I think the rot-cursed pirate threatens me, ey? From inside his cell.”
“Look to what pride gets you in this place, pirate,” said Franir from the shadows, then they left, taking the torch with them and leaving only the faint glow of one wanelight behind.
Joron wiped the spittle from his face with his sleeve. “Wherever I go, it seems I make friends,” he said to himself. Then laughed. A bit of forced and stupid levity but the laughter within wanted more, it wanted to grow and consume him. Leave him capable of nothing else and while it was bubbling up he realised there was no joy in it, no mirth. This was cold laughter, like an ice island within, and trapped within the ice were hundreds of bodies – no, more; a thousand, and bits of ship and broken gallowbows and ropes from which men and women hung, faces distended and purple, tongues swollen as they were starved of air and the laughter still wanted to come, to fight up and out of his body as strong and clear as the song of the keyshan. But it was warped and impure in a way the songs never were.
A moan.
A noise.
A shifting of material.
He turned to find he had a companion in the cell. A small figure, curled up into a ball in the corner. In the dim light he could barely make out anything about them. Only that they were hurt and frightened and when he stepped closer to them they tried to make themselves smaller. Tried to push themselves even further into the corner of the cell.
“I will not hurt you,” he said. “We are in the same boat, if anything, so you need not fear me.” At the sound of his voice the figure in the corner froze, then turned toward him. He could make little out of them. A pale face, a ragged bandage over one eye. Filthy clothes and hair. He wondered how long they had been here.
“Joron?” The word a croak. They knew him? How did they know him? Had they been warned of who was to share the cell, had they… no. The plains of the face, the voice. Such faint markers in the gloom and his confusion, but markers nonetheless. “Is it really you, Joron? Or are you another dream come to increase my torment?”
“Hag’s breath,” he said, and he was down on his knees before her. Gathering her up so he could look into her face, only one eye showing, the other covered by a filthy bandage. “Meas? It is you, Meas.”
“You should not have come, Joron.”
A moment of silence, such pain in her one eye.
“I promised,” he said. She let out a breath, lifted a hand, the nails strangely gnarled, and touched his face.
“I have wished for nothing but to see you.” She coughed, almost doubled over by it. Then lifted her head again. “I was wrong to.” She brought up her other hand, cupped his face, not bothered by the sores that so many others turned away from. “I was wrong,” she said, “you should not have come. My mother knows no pity, she will…”
“Meas,” he said gently. “It is not your mother who holds us here. It is not your mother who has held you for so long. It is Indyl Karrad.”
“Did she tell you that?” her words a scar on the air. “You cannot trust her, look what she has done to me and…”
“No,” he said, though he knew his words must hurt her as much as any torture, “she did not tell me that. She thought you dead. Karrad himself told me. He has overthrown your mother and moved to take over the island. His people shot Narza down before my eyes.” She stared at him, and he waited for some emotion. Some fury at this betrayal by a man she had once loved. Some mark of the woman he had known, who had made him. Who was strong and who was hard. But there was no emotion at all in the one eye looking at him. No expression on her face.
“Indyl has done all this?” she said. He nodded. The hands left his face, cold where there had been warmth, and she wrapped her arms about herself, drew her legs up into a ball once more and when she spoke it was no longer to him. “And I thought they had wracked all the pain they could from me.”
“Meas, I—”
“Let me alone, Joron.” That sharpness back, hard, shipwife as ever, before softening. “Just for a while, please, let me be alone.”
So he did. Left her to her corner and wondered what must be going through her head, long months of pain and all the time sure she knew who was to blame, no doubt living off the hate. Now he came and he had changed everything with only a few words. Turned her world on its head the way his had been turned barely half an hour ago. But for him it was no great shock, he had trusted neither Meas’s mother nor Karrad, which of them betrayed him made little difference in the end. For her though?
“We were happy once.” The words were so quiet he could barely hear them. Meas did not turn toward him, did not speak to him as much as to the wall. “Young once, everything is simpler when you are young.” She turned, one eye glittering, the other hidden behind the dirty bandage. “I should have known, really, Joron, should have guessed. My life here has been a circle; pain, sleep, heal, repeat. Again and again and again until I had become fully convinced I lived in some terrible dream. Everything is circles, Joron,” she said. Then she closed her eye and turned from him, he thought he heard weeping but said nothing. Tried not to listen. Tried to close his ears and when that did not work he tried to listen for other sounds in the darkness, hints to where he was, to who else might be kept in the cells around them. The Thirteenbern must be somewhere. Eventually the sobbing died away and she spoke again. “We were chosen, Indyl and I.” That quiet voice once more, as if she felt the need to f
orce the story out. “For each other. He had been one of my mother’s favourites. I already had my first command, a small thing, not much more than flukeboat with a skeleton of bone, called Hagswrath, and how I loved him. But I was not meant for the decks, never meant for it…” Her voice tailed off. “Win a little respect, command a boneship for a little, then children, and climb the ladder of the Bern. That was my future. That was my plan.” She let out a small laugh. “That was my route to vengeance on my mother. I lived to spite her.” This spat out, more of the Meas he knew in those words than he had heard before.
“Maybe that was her plan?” She laughed then, full throated and real, his shipwife back for a moment, inhabiting this ghostly figure curled up in the corner. Then the laughter died away.
“Oh Joron,” she said. “Oh Joron you should not have come.”
“How could I not?” he said. And he was holding her, did not think about propriety or what was right, he just held her. Became a place of human contact and warmth for a woman denied it for so long. “You are the shipwife, Meas Gilbryn, the greatest who ever lived. You are Lucky Meas, the witch of Keelhulme Sounding. You are my shipwife. And if you wish to change the world then the world will change. And for the better.”
“But we have not made it better, Joron. We have brought only pain. I should have died. It would be better if I had…”
“No!” he hissed it. “The deckkeeper serves the shipwife – without you, I do not know what to do.”
