The Bone Ship's Wake

by Rj Barker

  “Do not compare, Joron,” said Meas gently as she joined him. “Tide Child is what he is, and we do what we can. I tell you this, Joron, no ship on these seas has a greater heart. None, and I have served aboard many. Not one can match ours.” She rubbed her hand against the rearspine. “Of all the ships I have served on, Tide Child is my most beloved, the swiftest for his size and the fastest to answer to the oar.” It seemed to him that she was lost for a moment, her twisted hand on the spine, connecting her to every movement and complaint of the ship as he sped over the waves. “So many times, Joron, I dreamed myself back here, away from the pain. And after the first month, well, I never once believed it would happen.” She left her hand on the spine a moment longer, then turned away, her moment of contemplation passed. “Now we return to the black fleet, and plan our next move.”

  “Will they catch us, shipwife?” said Farys. Meas turned to her and Black Orris fluttered down to sit upon her shoulder.

  “As a fleet? No. They only move as quickly as their slowest ship and the Arakeesian Dread is mighty but slow. They may send smaller ships out to harass us, but we have enough gullaime aboard to outpace or outmanoeuvre anything they send, I am confident of that.” She paused, and looked about. “Talking of the windtalkers, where is our Hag-cursed bird?”

  “Hag’s arse!” shouted Black Orris, and flapped his wings.

  “In its cabin, Shipwife,” said Farys, “with its egg. It spends every spare moment with it. That is why we were not as quick as I would have liked when you needed us.”

  “But you came, Deckholder,” she said to Farys, “and that is what matters. Was it your idea to bring in Tide Child and use the Gullaime to move our flukeboat?”

  “Ey Shipwife,” she said quietly, as if sure she had made an error.

  “Well, it was a good one.” She raised her voice so all of those on deck could hear. “You should all know that Joron killed Shipwife Gueste on board Painful Loss. It was her,” and on that last word she looked at Joron, as if she could will acceptance onto him with her one good eye, “who was responsible for the death of Mevans. Your hatkeep is avenged.”

  “And a good thing that,” said Barlay from the oar.

  “Ey,” another voice from the deck, “and I hope the Hag turns her away.”

  “Now, Joron,” said Meas, “go and see why that bird is skulking about belowdeck rather than being a nuisance above it. I would hate for something to be bothering her and us not helping if we can.”

  “It has been acting right odd,” said Farys.

  “She,” said Meas.

  “Ey, Shipwife,” said Farys, “I am still getting used to that.”

  “Well, do so,” she said, and turned from her. “Joron, go attend to your friend.”

  “Ey, Shipwife,” he said. As he walked the deck he noticed that every deckchild made sure they met his gaze, and each returned a nod or a smile or some little acknowledgement that he had done a thing they all approved of in avenging Mevans. He went down the steps into the underdeck grasping the hilt of his straightsword but he did not feel the memory of it slicing into Gueste’s neck, no, his hand still held on to that terrible moment when he had plunged the sword into the body of his hatkeep, and Joron felt that he would never be free of that, no matter what vengeance he took or how far he travelled. It was a sore on his soul the same way the keyshan’s rot left sores on his body.

  Worse, he worried he would be turned away by the Hag for his actions as the Black Pirate. That she would see the wounds his spirit bore, the many lives he had taken that he could have spared, all the deaths in Bernshulme she would lay at his feet. He may have avenged Mevans in this life, but if there was another life then would he ever get to tell Mevans how sorry he was for that moment on that day when he had sacrificed himself for Joron? Or would he, like Solemn Muffaz, end up wandering the cold and dark sea floor? Alone, for ever?

  He felt a stab within, stumbled, his bone spur momentarily betraying him and he fell against the wall of Tide Child.

  “Hag curse it,” he said. Near him, Bonin, an old hand, was just waking, pulling himself from the meagre comfort of his hammock.

  “Reckon the Child took an off wave there, so I do, D’keeper,” he said softly, then shuffled past him and out onto the deck.

  “Ey,” said Joron, thankful for the small comfort offered, “I reckon something hit an off wave.”

  He knocked gently on the door of the Gullaime’s nest cabin.

  “Come, Joron Twiner,” she said, and he entered into the riotous explosion of colour and objects that was her space. Without Madorra to rein her in the Gullaime had added even more to her nest and sent away the acolytes to another part of the ship. Joron had to bob and weave between strings of objects, some mundane – broken washers, bits of ragged wingcloth, old clothes and broken pans from the galley – and some strange, salvaged by the Gullaime from islands they had visited, odd shells and rocks, bits of weed and old bones. The Gullaime sat upon her nest, blinking her burning white eyes at him. “Sad Joron Twiner,” she said softly. “Not be sad.”

  “I only think, Gullaime, of all the damage I have done. All the deaths that lie at my feet.”

  “Friends?” she said.

  “Ey, friends, and not friends too. All those I sent to the Hag who did not deserve it.” The Gullaime blinked at him.

  “Humans bad,” she said.

  “All of us?”

  The Gullaime made a chirping sound, her beak half open. Then she yarked twice, loudly. “Not all. Most.”

  “They don’t know any better, Gullaime, just like I did not know when I first met you. They see only what is, not what could be.”

  “Not help Gullaime.” She snapped at something in the air he could not see. “Joron Twiner, Ship woman. They help Gullaime.” Then she shuffled to one side. “Come, look. Come come.” He went to her, moving aside a string of shells to get closer and he saw that she had uncovered the egg in its nest. “Good thing, yes? Good?”

  “I think so, I hope so but…”

  “No but. No but. Listen,” she said, drawing the word out in a most un-gullaime way. “Listen Joron Twiner. Listen.” He did, letting the many and various sounds of the ship settle over him, sorting them in his mind into what should and should not be. There, in among the sounds he knew he found one he did not, a ticking and a scratching that was unfamiliar to him. He moved his head from side to side, identifying the direction of the sound, realising it came from the egg – no, not from it, but from what lay within it. He stretched out a hand, freezing when the Gullaime almost bit him, her whole body darting forward, sharp beak open, a hiss coming from her mouth. But she stopped moving when he did. The Gullaime’s head, now below his, twisted on her neck, one glowing eye looking up at him. She slowly withdrew. Made a high-pitched chirp of song, clacked her beak together. “Do, do,” she said.

  “Are you sure? It looked like you were going to bite me.”

  “Women, men. In lamyards. Only take egg. Only hurt egg.”

  “Then I will not tou—”

  “Do,” she said, “do. Trust Joron Twiner. Touch.” Once more he reached out his hand, watching the Gullaime, but this time she did not move, though her eyes remained fixed on him. He laid his fingers on the smooth, colourful surface of the egg, watched all the time by the Gullaime, her head now twitching back and forth between his hand and his face. The egg, where he touched it, was warm, from the heat of the Gullaime’s body, he presumed. Then, he heard the ticking noise again, felt it too. Felt something in the egg moving.

  “A chick?” he said, and he was filled with wonder. “It will hatch?” The Gullaime nodded, fidgeted and Joron took his hand back, let the Gullaime shuffle back over the egg. “When?”

  “Soon, soon. This day, that day, next day. Not know. Call Joron Twiner when.”

  “New life, in the middle of such death, it is like a miracle, Gullaime, truly. Thank you for showing me.”

  “First free gullaime. First not fear blinding. First not clipped. Not sta
rved.” She lifted a wingclaw and touched his face. “Good thing, Joron Twiner. Make a good thing.” Now he nodded, suddenly aware that a single crystal-clear tear was running down his cheek.

  “I do not know, Gullaime, how long it will stay free.”

  “We escape,” she said.

  “We did,” he said softly. “But they will pursue us, and they have more ships than we do.”

  “We keep free,” she said. “Caller, Windseer. We keep free.”

  He wondered what she meant by that, because she had fought so hard against the idea of the Windseer before, saying it brought only fire and death.

  “I thought the Windseer was bad, Gullaime?”

  “We do what is needed,” she said, but he was not sure it was the Gullaime’s voice he heard. It was more like that other voice, the one he was only half sure existed, that lived between them, and which he sometimes heard in the back of his mind. And he was never sure if it was helping him, or driving him on toward madness.

  47

  For Those Who Fly: Fly Fast, Fly Far

  Tide Child caught the wind. Alone on the sea, running from the enemy fleet and toward his own. And if he creaked and groaned in ways a boneship should not then Joron, Meas and the crew choose not to hear it, and only to celebrate the way he flew fast and true through the waves. No sign of their inevitable pursuers on the horizon stretching far behind them as Skearith’s Eye fell beneath the water, the black and jagged jaw of Skearith’s Spine to one side, and a thousand islands to the other, some twinkling with the lights of humanity, most dark and lonely. Joron could not shake the feeling that those islands only waited for the moment the song called them to break open and reveal what lived within, eager to escape centuries of confinement.

  Through the night they flew, winds kind, crew working under the glowering eye of Barlay and the capable hands of Fogle, who had put aside her drink on the return of Meas and stood bright and alert under the stars. In the great cabin, Joron joined Aelerin and Meas, standing over the map table.

  “We are here,” said Aelerin, pointing at a wide blue space on their map. “Heading north toward Skearith’s Spine.” They moved their finger up the map. “Our destination is here, further north.” They tapped a gap in the black line of the spine. “Namwen’s Pass. It is the only way into the Gaunt Islands this far north and is well defended. Our fleet should be somewhere here.” Aelerin used their finger to draw a circle in the wide blue area between Namwen’s Pass and where they had placed the small model of Tide Child. “They are about a day and a half away from us at this speed, if they have travelled at a decent speed themselves.”

  “They will be slowed by the brownbones,” said Joron. Meas looked at him, rubbed her mouth in thought then turned back to the map.

  “Where is Karrad and his fleet?”

  “By my reckoning, and from when you logged losing sight of them, about here,” said Aelerin, tapping the map behind the model of Tide Child.

  “Can we make the pass into the Gaunt Islands without being caught?” she said, her face drawn and worried as Joron suspected she already knew the answer.

  “Not unless we leave the brownbones behind,” said the courser, “but if all goes well, and if the winds favour us then we may make sight of Namwen’s Pass.” Meas nodded, looking grim.

  “If we do then our boneships should be able to hold off Karrad’s fleet for long enough to get the brownbones and our people to safety in the pass,” said Joron. Meas nodded, staring at the chart as if the truths of geography, current and wind were an insult of the most personal sort.

  “They should, but we will pay a high price.” Meas pointed at a scattering of paint and some crudely modelled lumps and bumps on the map. “What is here, to the north-west of the pass?”

  “Islands,” said Aelerin. “Mostly small and uncharted but marked with plenty of windspires if the gullaime need them.” Meas stared at them, slowly nodding. “And past that,” added Aelerin, “there is only the Northstorm, it has come down much further than usual. That generally promises a hard year coming.”

  “Mevans said as much to me,” Joron smiled at that memory, the hatkeep commenting on the uncommon speed of the gion’s growth. “Hag bless him.”

  “How many gullaime do we have in our fleet, Joron?” said Meas.

  “Just under one hundred fifty windtalkers,” he said, “and almost one hundred and fifty windshorn with us as well.”

  “A good number,” said Aelerin. “They could bring us the wind we need.”

  “You do not dream good winds, Aelerin?” said Meas.

  “I do not understand my dreams, Shipwife,” said the courser, “they are full of storms, and the winds spin in circles and it all makes so little sense that I can only tell the weather by reading the clouds and the winds. I am of no more use than any other deckchild.”

  “Nonsense,” said Meas, and Aelerin took comfort – not from her tone, which was brusque and dismissive, but from the plain way Meas put aside the notion the courser was anything but useful. “You had such dreams of storms before the keyshan ripped itself from McLean’s Rock, did you not?”

  “Ey,” said the courser, “it is true.”

  “Well, it is plain the keyshans are rising, and if you are having such troubles I am sure that lesser coursers are having worse. What do the clouds and the currents tell you?”

  “Fine winds but not strong ones, and unlikely to be of great benefit to us.”

  “Then also unlikely to be of much use to our pursuers either. The problem is in gullaime,” she said softly. “They will have more, and be more willing to use them harshly.”

  “All of our gullaime would come to the slate for you,” said Joron, “you know that.” She nodded but did not look at him.

  “I will ask them, do not worry, Joron. But not simply for us to run, for if we have to fight we will need them then, and I will be forced to ask them to give their power, knowing most will sicken and many will die.” She looked bereft. Then said, in hushed voice, words meant only for her and the two stood with her, “I swear, the more desperate our situation becomes the more I value every life we have.” She placed a hand on her desk to still a sudden shaking that both Joron and Aelerin pretended they did not see.

  “I may have some good news to share, Shipwife,” said Joron.

  “We sore need it.” She looked at him. “Well, man? Out with it.”

  “The Gullaime’s egg, it is close to hatching.” Meas’s face lit up.

  “Well, there is joy in that, and I believe Farys’s time comes close as well.” Meas’s face darkened a little. “I hope with all my heart that the Hag spares her and she makes it through childbirth,” she said. “I would not have Solemn Muffaz’s sacrifice be for naught.”

  “She is strong,” said Joron.

  “Ey, but the Hag cares naught for strength when you are on the sea. I will hold off sharing knowledge of the Gullaime’s child a little, maybe until we know it lives. It will give the crew a lift. Hard as it sounds, if Farys and her child are lost in the birthing it will be a blow, but they are used to women dying that way. To lose the Gullaime’s child as well? That may be the thing that pushes them over the edge and makes them lose all hope.”

  “Odd how they have come to love the Gullaime, is it not?” said Aelerin.

  “Often,” said Meas, “I find we lose our fear of a thing when we realise we are more alike than not, despite how we look.” She stood fully, rubbed her back where it ached from leaning over the map. “There is little we can do now but make the best speed we can. Joron, get some sleep. Aelerin, you have the deck, I will be here if you need me.”

  When Joron woke, the sound of bell fresh in his ear, it was to the familiar rhythm of a ship moving well over the sea. A feeling of peace in a moment that all was as it should be. He did not think of what had passed, or of what was to come and he felt no pain from the scar on his back, the stump of his leg or sores on his body and face. It would not last, with movement came pain. He anointed his sores with the
salve made by Garriya before putting on his clothes and wrapping his face. As he did he heard a scratching on his door, soft and subtle.

  “Hello?” he said, “who is that?”

  “Gavith, D’keeper,” came the reply.

  “Come in,” said Joron. As Gavith entered he struggled a little with the door, having lost his arm in the battle with the toothreaches. “How can I help?” said Joron.

  “The shipwife sent me, D’keeper, to tell you Farys has started with the birth pangs,” he said and bowed his head, unable to look at Joron.

  “And Garriya watches over her, I take it?” Gavith nodded. “Then there are no better hands she could be in.” He nodded again and Joron pushed himself from his hammock. “You are worried for her, ey?” Again Gavith nodded, and then he spoke so very quietly that Joron knew he forced the words past a ball of pain and misery in his throat.

  “It should have been me,” he said.

  “What should?”

  “Solemn Muffaz,” he said. “It should have been me, not him that went over the side.” Then he looked up, straight into Joron’s face, tears running down his cheeks. “You took me on, and I have let you down. It should have been me.” Joron thought for a moment, on his words, on what to say. That Gavith was the father of Farys’s child he had been sure of, and that knowledge had soured their relationship.

  “You have not let me down, Gavith. We have all made mistakes. And Solemn Muffaz made a choice. He decided that Farys’s life, and your life, was worth his.”

  “I am not worth him,” said Gavith. “Look at me, a one-armed man. What use am I to the ship? Takes me twice as long as any other to do the simplest task. I should end my misery, D’keeper, for I am sure I bring bad luck now. That is why the tide has turned against the ship.” Joron realised that, though Gavith was wracked with guilt for Solemn Muffaz and worry for the woman he loved, it was not the only reason he was here. He brought a warning, a rumble from belowdecks, whether he wanted it or not. Joron’s words would go to the heart of the ship. They would be carried by Gavith, and Gavith’s reaction, his demeanour, could affect the whole crew for he had always been popular as one of the shipwife’s chosen.