by Rj Barker
“Those that sleep beneath the islands are waking anyway,” said Meas. “That was what almost got us killed on Barnt’s ship.”
“Maybe he lied,” said Coult.
“He did not.” This voice from the door. Garriya stood there, old and ragged and huffing and blowing as if she had run through the ship.
“This is a place for shipwives, old woman,” said Meas, her voice low and cold. “Your place is in the hagbower.”
“Shipwives,” she said, and walked forward, her steps halting through age but no less determined for it, “talking strategy, aye?” Her gaze wandering across them. “The Calling has begun, oh grand and mighty shipwives, and once begun it cannot be stopped. The keyshans return. The world turns and all that was begins again.”
“We do not want your mystical talk,” said Meas. “Can it help us plan?” Garriya shrugged.
“All knowledge is worthwhile, is it not? Maybe it will not help you fight, but it will help you stay alive.”
“Why is she allowed in here?” said Adrantchi. “Stop at any island and you can find the deranged calling out of doom. Is she any different?”
“Who knows,” said Meas.
“Listen to her,” said Joron. “She has not steered me wrong, her advice has always been true, though oft as not confusing.”
“Run,” Garriya said, her gaze passing across those gathered. “That is what you must do, run.” Then she turned to Meas. “You know who you are, you walk upon the bones of your truth.” And as the old woman spoke the song within Joron increased in volume, became a thousand voices and he had to fight to keep his footing. Garriya turned to Joron. “And you waste your time here with chitter-chatter when the one you are blood-tied to is in real danger. Think on what matters, boy.”
“Leave here,” said Meas quietly. “Go to your place and stay away, old woman.” Garriya did not move.
“You do not want to hear, mighty Shipwife, what you have always known.”
“Get out!” shouted Meas. “Now!”
“You know the truth, ship woman,” said Garriya, backing away. “You know.”
“Out!” shouted Meas, and the old woman left.
“What did she talk of, Meas?” said Coult.
“Who knows? She has always been strange, half mad.”
“And you do not cast her off?” said Turrimore.
“She is a good healer,” said Meas, but Joron was hardly listening. Since he had come back to Tide Child he had not had a moment, a second to check on the Gullaime. She had been rushed off by Madorra as soon as he had come aboard, as had been the case for long on long. But Garriya’s words brought back a memory, one of feeding the windsick gullaime by hand long ago when Joron had been new to his place at Meas’s side. A drop of his own blood that dripped into the windtalker’s beak. Could it really be that simple, could the tie that bound them be one caused by that single accidental sharing?
It did not shock him, nor did it surprise him. For the Hundred Isles was born of blood.
He was filled with the need to leave, to go to the Gullaime, but could not. To do so would give credence to Garriya’s words and it was plain that Meas wanted none of it. So he sat, the urge to leave and his worry for the Gullaime growing as the shipwives argued and planned what they must do. It seemed to take an age. Every moment that passed feeling twice, three, four times the length of any other before it. Eventually a course of action was agreed, plans made.
“So, we are decided then,” said Meas.
“I do not like this,” said Brekir, “it puts you at needless risk.”
“We are all here to die, Brekir,” said Meas, “only the day is undecided.” She gave the other shipwife a smile. “I will take Tide Child, fly a flag of truce and talk with Karrad.”
“You think he still fears Joron’s ability to raise the keyshans?” asked Coult.
“Yes, he only has the…” She coughed. Sat very still. Took a moment. Composed herself. “He only has the information taken from me on how Joron’s powers work,” said Meas quietly. “So he is unsure of just what Joron can do.”
“So you will try and bluff.” She nodded.
“I hope he will see sense,” she said, “he may stop all this. Peace can still be made.” Coult let out a snort of disbelief. “He nearly did before, Coult, you did not see him. But it does not matter, that is not why I go. We will hold him in talks as long as we can, his fleet is large and slow, we outpaced it easily.”
“Slower than a couple of boneships maybe,” said Brekir, “but we have those brownbones with us.”
“You must use the delay we create to get the brownbones with our people and the rest of the gullaime aboard as far from here as you can. With any luck you will make the Gaunt Islands. They have promised to attack the Hundred Isles fleet, if we can bring it out of the defensive ring far enough. The nearer we get to the Gaunt Islands the more likely that becomes. Brekir will fly ahead of you and warn them of our coming.”
“And if Karrad decides not to talk, or to double-cross you?”
“Then our job is made harder, right enough,” she said, “but we are of the sea, we are used to hard, ey?”
“Ey,” said Coult, “that is not a thing we can gainsay.”
“Back to your ships then,” said Meas, “we set off immediately.” Then the meeting was done, the shipwives breaking up and the small fleet of black ships and huge brownbones let down their wings, caught the wind. On Tide Child all was action as the ship was readied. Meas commanded the Gullaime be brought up on deck and Joron felt his breathing ease a little as she slinked up, followed by Madorra and the gaggle of white-robed acolytes. Meas watched them.
“Feel a little easier now, Deckkeeper?” she said.
“Ey,” he said.
Tide Child heeled over, catching the wind and turning while Meas raised her nearglass and stared at the far horizon.
“Do you see them?” asked Joron, as he watched his Gullaime, hopping sadly around the beak of the ship while the deckchilder worked. Meas shook her head.
“Not yet,” she said. “And I do not expect to see them for a day at least.” She put away the nearglass. “I wish to be over the horizon and out of the sight of the rest of our fleet before I meet Karrad. And I must deal with some disciplinary matters.” He knew she meant Farys. A coldness within Joron. “You have let your hand slip,” she said. A deckchilder walked by and she stopped her. “You,” a space where usually there would be a name, “why are you on the rump?” The deckchild did not look at her.
“Taking water to Barlay on the oar, Shipwife,” she said. Meas nodded, turned back to Joron.
“Those disciplinary matters,” he said quietly, “you have told me many times how your ship is run differently and…”
“I will see her in my cabin in two bells time, Joron, and you as well.” She did not look at him, only walked past, her head down. “Come,” she said quietly. “I know you care for Farys. But boneships run on discipline, it has always been my way.” He wanted to argue, to tell her she was wrong, but in the end it was her ship, he had risked everything to bring her back and how would it look if he defied her? Her ship had always run because all knew their place. All knew her discipline may be harsh, but it was fair and she showed no favouritism. “You understand, do you not?” she said.
“Ey,” he said, then something further down the ship caught his attention. A sudden squawk of outrage. When he looked the Gullaime was cowering on the deck before Madorra while the windshorn pecked and bit at her. “Excuse me,” said Joron, “I must deal with that.” Meas nodded and Joron strode down the deck, boot and bone spur clacking on the slate. “What is this!” he shouted. “What is this about, Madorra?” The windshorn hissed at Joron, leaping back and spreading the wings under his robe to make himself bigger. Behind him the acolytes chattered and chirped.
“Bad gullaime!” he spat. “Lazy gullaime!”
“That is no excuse for attacking her, Madorra,” said Joron. The windshorn sidled forward, making himself low and
small.
“Not do duty, ship man,” he said. “Gullaime not do duty. Duty matter, yes yes?”
“The Gullaime’s duty is the same as mine, or yours or any other’s on this ship.” Joron barked the words out, full of anger. “Our duty is to do what the shipwife tells us, and it is never to attack another member of the crew.”
“Oh,” said Madorra, making the word sound like a coo. “Not attack, no. Play. Ship man not understand gullaime ways. Is only play.”
“It did not look like play,” said Joron. “Gullaime, is this true? Was it play?” His heart went out to the windtalker, she was pressed low to the deck. Looked beaten, worn down. Like he felt, like Tide Child himself.
“Not attack,” said the Gullaime, her voice low and dull. “Was not attack. Only play. Yes, play.” Joron stood there, unsure what to do, knowing he could do little in that moment.
“Very well,” he said. “But know this, Madorra, I watch you.” The windshorn’s single eye sparkled and he hopped forward so he was near enough that he could speak and no other could hear.
“Sea sither rising now, man,” Madorra hissed. “Not need you. Watch you.” Then he hopped away as if nothing had happened. Joron wanted to act, felt no doubt that the windshorn was a threat to not only him, but the Gullaime. Then the Gullaime approached him.
“No trouble, Joron Twiner. No trouble,” she said, and Joron had never heard her sound so sad.
“I can stop it,” said Joron. “I can imprison Madorra.”
“Must not. Must not.” Her eyes, uncovered since she had revealed herself on Wyrm Sither, became wide with panic.
“Very well,” said Joron. “I will not.” The bell rang and Solemn Muffaz passed him. Joron knew that soon the deckmother was ordered to collect Farys and take her to the shipwife’s cabin to face her discipline. Joron watched the Gullaime slip away, it looked broken and forlorn and he felt they shared a stronger kinship than ever.
43
Only the Day Is Undecided
Early evening and he stood behind Meas in her cabin, the both of them splendid in all the feathers and trinkets of their best uniforms. Behind them Tide Child’s wake stretched out across a grey and choppy sea, one that was always changing and always the same, uninterested in the small dramas of women and men aboard the ship crossing its surface. Meas sat so straight it made him uncomfortable to see it. Outside the room he knew Solemn Muffaz waited, no doubt dreading the order to bring Farys, Joron’s second and a favourite, up. For just like Joron, Solemn Muffaz knew what was to come.
On her desk Meas had set her two-tail hat to one side and in front of her sat one of her books, open at the Bernlaw: the set of decrees by which the crew of a boneship lived their lives. Harsh, most would think them. But life aboard these ships was harsh, and discipline was what held them together, as much a part of the ship’s life as the bone of the hull, the variskcloth of the wings or the great bows upon the deck.
The words of the Bernlaw were writ large on the page before Meas, illuminated in expensive coloured inks, large enough for him to read though he knew them by heart, having read them to the crew so many times each Menday of their long voyages.
“Shall keep themselves in good health. To go against this is punishable by death.”
And it did not matter to him.
“Shall obey those the Bern put above them. To go against this is punishable by death.”
And he found himself questioning.
“Shall pay true honour to the Maiden, Mother and Hag. To go against this is punishable by death.”
And he found an anger rising.
“And woman may lay with woman and man may lay with man but woman may not lay with man and risk a child aboard ship. To go against this is punishable by death.”
And he felt like his heart was being ripped out through his throat.
As if knowing he had read the words before her, Meas shut the book, the heavy pages making a sound like a fist impacting on skin. Felt like a punch to his gut. She took a deep breath, and as she did it was as if she drew all the power and seriousness of a shipwife to her, even though he could not see her face he could sense it hardening.
“It gives me no pleasure, Joron,” she said. “Farys knew the Bernlaw when she chose to disobey it.”
“Were I in command—”
“You are not,” she said, her words as short and cutting as the icy rain of the far south.
“But I was,” he said softly. “When this happened, I was.” It was all he could do not to beg and he wished she would turn so he could see her face, know what she was thinking. “I saw what was between them and should have stepped in personally instead of asking Solemn Muffaz. This is my failing, not that of Farys and Gavith.” She put her hands on the desk, stretched her arms out to either side of her along the dark surface.
“So you know who the father is.” He did not speak then, not for a moment. He knew Meas believed in the rules in the book before her, had lived most of her life by them. She turned and looked at him, he saw her wince as some pain coursed through her from the sudden movement. Her one eye blinked. “You are sure it is him?”
“I suspect,” he said, “but I did not witness anything, and suspicion is not enough to condemn someone to death. Can we not just put aside—”
“Is it the law of the sea!” She shouted it, smashing her hand down on her desk. Made him jump, like he would have done the first time she ever brought him in here, when he had been nothing but a frightened boy. But he was that no longer.
“No,” he said it calmly, but with surety. “It is the law of the Bern. And we are not—”
“Quiet, Joron!” She stood, her chair falling backward as she span on the spot to face him, all the fierceness in her rising. “I command Tide Child! Not you.” She stabbed him with her finger. “Not you!” Her breathing coming hard, her lips pursed into a thin line. It was like some battle went on within her, some storm raged and it took all she had to hold it in check. When she spoke again it was more quietly, but no less intently. “If you cannot abide by my decisions when they are hard, Deckkeeper, then you should resign your place.” He stared at her. Two people, broken by the sea and their duty upon it. Bodies and minds wracked by events beyond their control.
“I only say,” and he spoke no less intently than she had, “that maybe there is another way.”
“It is the Bernlaw, Joron,” she said, and there was no joy in her words, only a cold and stark devotion to the life and duty that had defined her. A duty he knew she must have clung to through long months of torture. That must have been her everything when she had not even hope left.
“We have fought,” he said, fighting for control of his voice as hard as he had fought any action on the slate of the ship, “storm to storm, on your say-so. We have fought against the cruelty of the Bern. And yet you would condemn those who have never wavered in your name, in the name of those we stood against.”
Her eye on him, her breathing coming slowly, her body wilting as if weighed down by the crushing pressure of command.
“Joron, there are near forty ships over the horizon and they will not let up on us. What is to come will press us sorely if we are to survive and I cannot afford to be seen as weak. I cannot risk the crew thinking Karrad and his torturer broke me.” She took a breath, fought to swallow air and for a moment he thought she may break down. Meas bowed her head and it felt like something within him cracked as she whispered to him. “I barely know the names of half this crew, Joron. I have been away for so long and they have heard so much about me, but I have returned to my ship much diminished.”
“No, Meas,” he said, “not diminished at all, not in their eyes or mine.” She raised her head and stared at him, and he knew she wanted more than anything for him to understand why she must do what she believed she must do.
“I have to be strong, Joron.”
“Then I beg you,” he said, “use your strength for change, do not simply fall back on what you know. You said, Meas, that you saw we
must change.” She took a deep breath, blinked.
“Yes,” she said. “But the Bernlaw is the spine of the fleet. I cannot simply break it.” Then she turned away and sat once more at her desk. “Solemn Muffaz!” The door opened and the deckmother stood there waiting for her order. When it came it was said without inflection or emotion. “Bring Farys to me.”
They waited in silence and Joron used every moment to curse himself. He had seen the growing affection between Farys and Gavith. Seen it and put the responsibility of it onto Solemn Muffaz. Partly because she was a favourite, and so was the boy. They had both been with him so long, and maybe somewhere within he had felt he could not begrudge them a little pleasure. For life was short and hard and they had known little else. What happened here was on him and he must face that. Then Solemn Muffaz brought Farys in, stood her before Meas’s desk and left the room without a word. You suffer also, Solemn Muffaz, thought Joron, for you love her like a daughter. And that suffering fell on Joron’s shoulders too. Maybe Meas was right, if this was where a little kindness led it may be better to put such gentleness aside on the deck of a boneship.
Farys stood before them, making no attempt to hide her swelling belly, and his heart broke a little. This is on me, he thought. This is my failing.
Meas took her hat from her desk, placed it on her grey hair. Sat straighter.
“Farys,” she said and the word barely disturbed the thick air of the cabin.
“Shipwife,” she came to attention. Stared straight ahead, her eyes bright though she did not look at either of them.
“You know why you are here?”
“Yes, Shipwife.” Before Meas could say any more she continued. “I know the Bernlaw, I knew it when I broke it. I knew the penalty and I know any judgement here is not put upon me out of malice or cruelty. I accept what must be.” She looked at Joron. “And do not blame Solemn Muffaz for this, D’keeper; he spoke to me as you asked, and in most serious and firm terms. Mevans too, Hag bless his memory.” She touched her swollen belly, only briefly, as if for some reassurance. “But it was too late by then, the life within me was already kindled.” She stood straighter, stared ahead. “I know what verdict you must pronounce, Shipwife,” she spoke formally, “but would ask one thing.”
