The Bone Ship's Wake

by Rj Barker

“I thought I would have to work hard to win enough trust for you to come aboard.”

  “There is not enough work to be found in the entire archipelago for you to have my trust, Indyl,” she said. Did he crack a little, look a little crestfallen at her lack of respect? How could he expect anything else?

  “I did not want this to work out like it has, Meas,” he said.

  “The time for that decision, Indyl, was before you put me into the hands of your torturers. You could simply have asked me what you wished to know.” He stared at her, and Joron wondered what answer he would give to that.

  “It was a mistake,” he said.

  “Some mistakes cannot be forgiven,” she said. A flush of anger across Karrad’s face.

  “Like poisoning half a town with a rotting keyshan?” and he spat the words out.

  “We all have to draw our own lines, Karrad,” said Meas. Joron wondered at her. Marvelled at her. Here she was, on someone else’s ship, outnumbered and in front of a man who had been involved in torturing her half to death. But she did not waver, there was no question about who set the agenda here. “So, Indyl, what do you want from me?”

  “You asked for this parlay,” he said, and straightened a little, as if realising he had lost control of the talk. He took a step closer, as did Gueste, staring at Joron as she did. “I thought it was you who wanted something from me.”

  “Ey, I do,” said Meas. “Your surrender. You betrayed your people, betrayed my mother, the rightful ruler. Surrender and I will let you live.”

  “Let me live, aye?” said Karrad, a smile on his face. He and Gueste stepped a little closer. Joron’s hand fell to his side, hand on the hilt of his straightsword.

  “Ey, let you live, otherwise I will have Joron raise every keyshan in the Hundred Isles against you.”

  Karrad nodded to himself. “That is all you have?” he said quietly. “I thought you may have some hidden fleet, some reinforcements to call on. But you do not, or you would not go straight to the threat of arakeesians.”

  “You are weak,” she said, then she raised her voice, spoke so the entire ship could hear, “you need Joron’s power to survive.”

  “His power?” said Karrad. “We lost four islands and all who lived on them. I thought it a betrayal, at first. But when our coursers worked out the timing, Joron Twiner was not with his Gullaime.”

  “The Hundred Isles needs Joron Twiner’s power to survive,” she said again more loudly.

  “If he has any,” said Gueste.

  “He does,” said Meas. Karrad stared at her. A skeer called. He nodded.

  “I suspect he does, no one could hold out under torture as long as you did and continue to lie. But, Meas, if you are such a patriot, and care about our islands so much…” Gueste stepped a little closer as he spoke. “… then give him to me.” Meas shook her head.

  “I think we both know that cannot happen.” Karrad smiled, nodded, looked at the deck. His hand almost within reach of Meas’s hand. She stepped forward, Joron too. Spoke in a whisper, a kinder voice. “I speak as the woman not the shipwife, Indyl,” she said, “for what we once had, just let us go. We will leave, set up on our own. We have no wish for war. We will let it be known we align with the Hundred Isles and the threat of us raising keyshans will keep you safe. Just let us and my ships go.” He stared at her and once more Joron felt a terrible sadness from the man, trapped between two things he clearly loved, Meas and power.

  “I want to do that, Meas,” he said softly, “but it seems the keyshans are rising whether he calls them or not. And they will be hunted. By us or by the Gaunt Islanders, and to hunt them requires hiyl, you know that. And you know what is required in the making of hiyl – bodies. Human and gullaime. Would you really step away and leave me to it? Or the Gaunt Islanders?”

  “So many deaths already on your conscience, Indyl, you would really add more?”

  “I am already far down that path, Meas. It is too late to leave it.” The two were staring at each other, gazes locked, as intent as any lovers. Indyl’s hand strayed to his sword, released the leather strap that kept it in its scabbard. “Would you do it? Walk away, and let me sacrifice the lives needed to make hiyl, Meas?”

  “No,” she said, the word barely heard. “You know I would not.” He nodded. Turned to Joron.

  “And what of you, Twiner? You are a man, just like I. Destined to be crushed under the foot of the Bern.” Joron stared at him, and for a moment he felt sorry for the man. Karrad believed what he said, at least in part. “Will you continue to serve with her?” He nodded at Meas. “I plan a better world for our sex. Free of the Bern’s unfair rule. Will you continue to serve the daughter of a tyrant?”

  “One of the Bern stands by your side, Kept Karrad.” Joron pointed at Gueste.

  “She has earned my trust.”

  “And Meas mine,” said Joron. Karrad pursed his lips, stared at the deck for a moment, then turned back to Meas.

  “We are done here, I think,” said Meas before he could speak. Wind whistled through the rigging.

  “I dreamed such a future for us, Meas,” Karrad said.

  “Dreams fade when we awake to reality, Indyl,” she said softly.

  “Aye,” said Karrad, “so what is left?” With that he drew his sword, slowly. Stared at the blade. “As you say, we are done.” Then he lunged. Joron did not cry out. He trusted his shipwife, and before Karrad’s lunge was complete her own sword was there. Batting his aside, lunging back and he heard her hiss with pain at the impact on her blade. Worried for a moment her twisted hands may drop the sword. Then a great cry went up from the crew, weapons were drawn. He had no time to think as Gueste lunged at him. But she was not battle-trained the way Joron was. Not forged in the heat of combat the way he had been. Not had every nerve stretched until they sang. She had lived a life of indolence. Her lunge was sloppy, lazy. Not quick enough to get the drop on even a sick man with one leg. He danced around her, let her come forward. Moved behind her. As she tried to recover from her lunge he was on her. Bringing down the hilt of his blade on the back of her neck. She staggered under the blow and he wrapped an arm around her throat, the other bringing up his sword so he held the edge against the skin of her neck.

  “Stop!” he shouted. “I have your shipwife! Stop!”

  Everything froze. Meas and Karrad both in first position, about to cross swords. The crew, some with raised weapons, some with only their fists. The seaguard, in a line, crossbows at the ready.

  Meas took it all in, just that bit quicker to react than anyone else and she dived across the deck so she was behind Joron and Gueste. He heard the twang of loosing crossbows. Bolts bouncing off the slate where she had stood.

  “Hold or I kill her!” shouted Joron. He felt Meas come in to stand close behind him.

  “Well done, Deckkeeper,” she said.

  “You will not get away with this,” said Gueste.

  “For your sake,” said Meas, “you should hope he does.” She moved so she had her back to his. Then they edged down the deck toward where the flukeboat was moored, the space between full of threatening faces. Women and men full of anger, heavy brows above glowering eyes, scarred cheeks, missing eyes and fingers, a constant undertow of angry voices eager to drag them to their deaths.

  “You think I won’t kill her, to get to you?” shouted Karrad. He felt Gueste stiffen in his arms. Saw some of those baleful stares move from him and Meas to Karrad. Only a fool threatened a shipwife on their own ship.

  “Try giving that order, Karrad,” shouted Meas, “see how it goes down when you tell a crew to murder their own shipwife.”

  Karrad stepped forward.

  “She treats them badly, whips them constantly,” he said, half a smile on his face. He was so confident, so sure of himself. “They would probably welcome it.” Joron again felt Gueste stiffen in his embrace. He felt the mood of the crew change and Karrad felt it also, but he did not understand that he had insulted them.

  “You do not unders
tand ships,” said Meas. “Nor the ways they work.” Karrad’s confidence faltered, and in that moment Joron knew he would never give the order to shoot them down. Meas had called his bluff and he did not have it in him to risk the crew disobeying. Joron moved more confidently, the crew of Painful Loss parting as he moved down the ship, a bubble of clear deck among the crowding deckchilder until they reached the rope ladder.

  “You go over first, Meas,” said Joron.

  “Ey,” she said.

  “Be ready for me,” he said, “I will be coming down quick.”

  “We will be,” she replied. He heard Meas go over, the side, down the hull of Painful Loss. Heard her welcomed by familiar voices.

  “You’ll never make it back to your ship,” said Gueste to him. “We’ll have our bows untrussed and shoot you out of the water before you’re even a third of the way back.”

  “You won’t,” he said.

  “Why,” she laughed. “Do you plan to kill me? Avenge yourself because I stuck you in a box?”

  “No,” said Joron, and he grabbed her forehead, pulled back her head to bare her throat. “This is for Mevans,” he said and pulled the straightsword across her neck. Pushed her body forward into her crew, her hands coming up in a vain attempt to stem the flow of blood. Her crew roared. He heard Karrad shouting, “Shoot him down! Shoot him down!” Too late, he was gone, throwing himself over the rail, bracing for the impact as he hit the flukeboat, but he was cushioned by the waiting arms of his crew, lifted and ready to catch him. Like the petals of a flower closing at night, they enfolded him, pulled him down to the bottom of the boat and he gently descended, his heart beating madly with adrenaline, hearing shouted orders.

  “Cast off!” The bump and scratch of gaffs against the hull of Painful Loss. The feel of the sea beneath them as the little boat moved away. “Shields!” Darkness as shields blocked out Skearith’s light. The rattle of crossbow bolts on hardened varisk. “Row, Hag curse your weak arms,” shouted Meas, “row as if your lives depend on it for they surely do.” Joron tried to stand, found his way blocked from above by the elbows of those pulling on the oars. Then Meas was there, pushing her way through and offering her twisted hand to pull him up to stand, bent over, beneath the roof of shields. Another rattle of bolts.

  “You killed Gueste?” she said.

  “Ey.”

  “I do not remember, Deckkeeper,” she said, “giving you the order to do away with her.” But she was grinning, her fierce and predatory pirate’s grin. “I hope it made you feel better?”

  “It was for Mevans, not for me,” he said. She nodded.

  “Ey, well, maybe not the best time for it, but it was definitely deserved.” She stood, pushing up a shield so she could see the boneship. Quickly pulling the shield down again as more bolts rattled off the varisk. “Mevans would have appreciated it,” she said, her grin falling away, “he always liked a bit of drama.” She lifted the shield again. “We’re out of range of the crossbows, which means they’ll be crewing the gallowbows,” she said. “Shields down!” A flood of light, the smells of the enclosed, sweating bodies whipped away to be replaced by the freshness of the sea. Meas turned to look at Tide Child, shielding her eyes. “Now we must hope our Gullaime is paying attention.”

  46

  The Last Escape

  They rowed away from Painful Loss with all the speed their muscles could give them as the boneship made ready to loose. And at every stroke Joron wondered where the Gullaime was.

  “No sign of the Hag-cursed thing on Tide Child’s deck,” said Meas.

  “She will come,” said Joron, and he was sure she would. But all of his attention was now on Painful Loss. His execution, for that is how he thought of it, of Gueste was not entirely done from a need for vengeance. Not entirely an act of payback for a lost comrade. A boneship was run by its shipwife, and from them came command and from them came order.

  A good ship could lose its shipwife, the deckkeeper would step up and none would notice, and maybe Painful Loss did have a good deckkeeper – in fact, Joron felt sure it would. But it also had Indyl Karrad, a man who had never been shipwife but now wore the uniform of one. Joron had bet his life, and the lives of all those around him, that Karrad was not the sort of man to easily hand over power. That he would not stand back and let Gueste’s deckkeeper take over. He would need to feel in command, to be seen to be doing something. And as such, would muddy the waters and interfere, and from the way Painful Loss was currently drifting, Joron was sure he would have won his bet.

  “This will not last, Joron,” said Meas, as the wing of their small boat was hoisted. As if they heard her, order began to be restored to Painful Loss. The crew along the sides moved to give room for the gallowbow crews to work. Already the bows were untrussed and the crews were working on stringing them. “Come on, Gullaime,” said Meas, looking forward to Tide Child. Then the black ship’s wings fell, great swathes of dark wingcloth shrouding the spines. Joron heard the cries of the gullaime aboard Painful Loss as they brought their wind, pushing the two-ribber round so it was easier for the bows to be brought to bear on the flukeboat. Tide Child began to move, slowly at first, then more and more quickly as its wings filled with wind. Joron glanced back at the two-ribber, but its gullaime were not as powerful, its movement slower. Tide Child came on more quickly, heeling him over as he began his turn.

  “Farys is bringing him round,” said Meas.

  “I had expected our gullaime’s intervention to be more direct,” said Joron.

  “Yes,” said Meas, and glanced back at the white ship, “me too, but there will be reasons. And Painful Loss cannot take on Tide Child bow to bow, it will have to break off soon if it is to escape a fight.”

  “Does Karrad know that?” He watched Painful Loss as it came closer and closer to where its bows would be in the best position to loose directly at their flukeboat.

  “Karrad will have an eye on his own skin.” She glanced at Tide Child, gathering more speed, then back to Painful Loss. “Hag curse it,” she spat, “he’ll have time to loose on us at least once before he needs to make a break and escape.”

  “Hard to miss at this range,” said Joron.

  “Such things happen though,” said Meas. She stood taller in the beak, straightened her jacket. Joron found himself doing the same.

  “Spin!”

  The word echoed over the water and Joron saw the winders go to work on the bows of Painful Loss. He took a breath. Enjoyed the day, the way Skearith’s Eye caught the waves and light and danced over the water. The low song of the warmoan as the bows came to tension. The beauty of Painful Loss, so bright and so white.

  “Steady, my girls and boys,” said Meas quietly.

  “Load!”

  A bird called out and a fish broke the surface of the water with a gentle splash.

  “Aim.”

  He realised that, in this moment, his hearing had become exceedingly selective. He heard the breathing of those around him, the crack of wind in the wing, the creak of the ropes.

  “Loose!”

  They stood, those around him. He wondered why, for it would make no difference. At the same time he understood the need to face your death as it came toward you, standing on your own feet, dying on your own terms.

  He heard the call of a skeer, such a lonely sound.

  They were hit. A massive, juddering shock. The whole boat knocked to one side. The crew thrown over each other, tumbling into the bottom of the boat in a tangle of arms and legs, unable to keep their balance against the sudden, violent motion. Joron was only saved from being thrown into the water by the rigging he clung on to. He swung around, fighting to find his footing, seeing, as if in slow motion, the great bolts from Painful Loss passing through the air around them, splashing into the sea an arms-length away. Hitting where the flukeboat had been, but where it was no longer. The impact they had felt was from a huge gust of wind. The flukeboat had been punched to landward, out of the path of the bolts, and amid the groans a
nd shock and surprise of their little crew he heard laughter. Meas’s laughter. Coming from the bottom of the boat where she lay amid a tangle of deckchilder arms and legs.

  “She was watching, Joron!” she shouted. “Our gullaime, she was watching all the time!” More laughter, then she was lashing out around her, cursing those still lying in the bottom of the boat, demanding they get up and set about getting them moving. Joron, now laughing himself, full of the lightness of being that is brought by finding out you are alive after facing certain death, struggled to get his feet under himself. Saw that Meas, and Farys, had called the situation right. After letting off its broadside Painful Loss was moving off, not willing to risk the wrath of Tide Child’s great bows.

  When they were back aboard the familiar cracked slate of Tide Child, Meas ordered Farys to set course, with all possible speed, away from the Hundred Isles fleet and toward their rendezvous with Brekir and the rest of the black fleet. Then she returned to her place on the rump. Joron tarried a little, lingering in thought, as it was only after being on the finely kept decks of the Painful Loss that he realised just how weathered his beloved Tide Child had become. Always he had been a tired ship, though when the work was put in still a fine one, one of the finest, as Meas had often said. But even the greatest of the boneships required constant care and attention to keep it in fleet condition, and a fighting boneship required even more attention, needing resources that Joron and his fleet had been sorely lacking. So now, with the Painful Loss still fresh in his head, he felt for Tide Child as he walked up the deck, so proud once, now so tattered. His paintwork chipped and showing the off-white bone beneath, wings ragged, rigging much knotted and frayed and retied, and his hull repeatedly patched and stuffed with a mixture of bone fragments, old cloth and bone glue.

  Joron knew that in the hold the stores were sadly depleted; Tide Child had spent the last few years in a constant state of having only just enough, always afraid the next run may not yield enough supplies to allow them to carry on. He knew that beneath the water the hull was once more growing a tapering beard of weed that slowed them down, and that recently the familiar creaks and groans of the ship underway had become more strained, more worrying and less familiar. He made his way up the deck, to join Meas by the rearspine.