by Rj Barker
“Is that what is being said belowdeck, Gavith? That the Hag has turned on Meas?” Gavith did not speak at first, only nodded.
“Not by all,” he said, and sniffed, wiped at his nose. “Not even by most. But by some it is whispered. I think some of ’em that did not know her expected more than what they got, see.”
“Well let me tell you this. First, respect Solemn Muffaz’s choice, he knew this ship as well as any, and decided you were worthy. And I – look at me boy,” he said harshly, as Gavith tried once more to commune with the floor in his shame. His eyes snapped back to Joron. “I consider you worthy, for no woman or man on this deck can aim a gallowbow with your skill. If you had stepped forward, rather than Solemn Muffaz, we would have not only lost you, but also Farys and the child within her, do not doubt that for we were trapped within law and tradition. And lastly, you listen to me. The shipwife went through torture every moment she was away, and yet she did not break. For she knew the truth, our ship is called Tide Child, for the prophecy of one who will bring the Hundred and Gaunt Islands together in peace, and with all my heart I believe that to be Meas Gilbryn, your shipwife. Do you understand?” Gavith stared at him, blinking as he took it in and Joron, having already put one step on the ladder of prophecy decided he had nothing to lose by ascending it fully. “The gullaime have a prophecy also. In it they name me Caller, and I bring the keyshans. And if our shipwife asks me, I will bring every keyshan in the sea to our aid, and life is coming to this ship. New life, not only Farys’s babe, but more than that, you mark my words. I feel it as sure as I feel the keyshans deep below us, do you understand, Gavith? Something wonderful is coming.” He nodded, and Joron could feel a change in him. “Be off then,” he said, “I am sure you have duties.” Gavith turned and opened the door, having to push past Garriya who stood outside it. She watched him go. Then humphed to herself.
“Told him just enough but not too much. That was well done, Caller,” she said.
“That or madness, to make solid lower-deck rumours of prophecy,” he replied. “So do your job, old woman, and bring that girl through her birthing.” She grinned at him, further wrinkling up her wrinkled old face.
“Heh, what has it come to when some deckchild thinks he can tell old Garriya her job, aye, for you are all fools on the sea,” she cackled and began to shuffle off, “and all would die without me. You just keep this heap of old bone floating, Caller, I will do the rest. Yes, old Garriya will do the rest.” She vanished into the gloom of the underdeck.
The mood on deck was taut; news of Farys’s birth pains starting had passed quickly through the crew and they feared for her, even as they knew such things were beyond the control of women and men. All knew women who had fallen to childbirth, and their thoughts, unbidden, turned to those of the ship they had lost. As Joron climbed the stair to the slate he heard a strangled scream of pain from the hagbower far below, and as if in answer a twinge of pain shot up from the stump of his leg. On deck he found Meas stood on the rump, staring out with her nearglass. When she put it down she looked white as sea ice, too pale for good news though she hid it quickly.
“Our fleet is on the horizon, Joron,” she said. And he felt a sliver of cold ice down his back.
“No,” he said, “it cannot be. It is too soon to catch sight of them, far too soon. We should not see them until much later. Karrad will catch us with ease if they are so slow.” Meas nodded as he took his nearglass from his coat and lifted it to his eye. Scanning the horizon through the dirty circle of vision. At first he saw nothing, only the jagged spires of Skearith’s Spine, then as he worked along from the mountain range he found the last thing he wanted to see, the spines of ships. Only two, but he knew they must be the outriders of their fleet and his heart sunk. As if in mockery, the confirmation came from above.
“Ship rising to for’ard!”
“Ey,” he said, “and Hag curse that for being true.”
The Song of Lucky Meas
She flew across the sea
Black ship upon the wa-ter
And Joron Twiner stood
As always right beside her
But the hagpriest tret her cruel
Said “We should take her eye.”
Thirteenbern called out
“Give the child to the ships!”
And the sea came to her rescue
As word left the Bern’s lips.
PART III
THE WAKE OF SHIPS
48
Departures and Arrivals
On their approach there had been a frenzied exchange of signals between Tide Child and the vessels of the black fleet, Meas letting her shipwives know their presence was needed on her ship. As Tide Child caught up with the fleet she vanished to her cabin and left Joron to watch the flukeboats of the shipwives coming to them. Then to stare worriedly through his nearglass behind them, expecting to see the spines of their pursuers at any moment. He was glad of the distraction when the shipwives started to board, of having to arrange all the due ceremony Tide Child could muster. Fogle took them to the underdeck, rather than Meas’s cabin, and gave them what food and drink could be spared while they stood between the small gallowbows. Of Meas there was no sign, and Joron walked among them, aware of some odd feeling in the room, as it was not long since he had commanded them, been above them, and now he was once more a deckkeeper, not even their equal. In fact he, like them, was unsure of his position for he held a strange place now – deckkeeper, ey, but also the one who had gone in and against all odds brought Meas back to them. Maybe once such things would have worried him but he was long used to command and the awkwardness it carried with it. He had found that to simply carry on, acting as normal as possible, was nearly always best. Soon he was talking with them, collecting news, small news only, talk of how ships flew, of how their crews were – a worrying outbreak of disease on the Waveturner, that Spinebreaker was low on stores – and Joron, much practised in the ways of a shipwife now, hid his dismay on finding that, though there was plenty of news, there was nothing good in it and that the thing in shortest supply was hope. But still he walked among them, greeting every shipwife by name. And knowing what each of them waited to hear and what each of them dreaded hearing also.
“Ship rising!” came from above, shouted so loud all could hear it and the tension in the room broke, for it is always better to know than to wait. Some there nodded, some bowed their heads, some clicked their tongues and others let out a breath, as if they had been holding it until that inevitable moment when the first outrider of the Hundred Isles fleet pursuing them was spotted by the topboys.
“Well,” said Adrantchi, his black brows furrowed, “there it is.”
“Ey,” said Coult. “There it is indeed.”
That was when Meas chose to appear. She wore her dress uniform, her best, deep blue, festooned with feathers and crossbows and shining trinkets. Her gifted eyepatch had been embroidered with small pearls sewn into a stylised eye. Her two-tail now sported a fine red feather that Joron would swear was from their gullaime. Among the gathered shipwives there was an intake of breath. For here was Meas. Those who had seen her before saw the shipwife now, not the tortured survivor. And those who had not yet seen her took in a breath for even though they had been told she had returned, it was a hard thing to believe. That even Meas could escape from Bernshulme after a year of imprisonment. But here she was, the shipwife, the witch of Keelhulme Sounding in all her glory. Did they all stand a little straighter? Joron thought they did, except for Brekir, who Joron saw smile and nod to herself at the reaction of her comrades. As if a thing she had always known had simply been proven true.
An unearthly wail from belowdecks broke the moment. One that caused alarm even among the gathered and much-bloodied shipwives of the black fleet. Meas smiled.
“Worry not,” she said. “You only hear a new world coming into being. You hear the pain of birthing a child, just as we experience the pain of birthing new ways.”
“Have you put asid
e the Bernlaw on this ship?” said Turrimore, and Joron could not read her – was she pleased, or was she furious?
“I have put aside its needless cruelties,” said Meas, “just as I would put aside the Bern and theirs.” She looked around the shipwives. “A well-run ship should have no need of the cord, and all the ships of my fleet are well run, are they not?” And Joron had to hide a smile at the way she trapped them; either admit she was right or admit to a poorly run ship, which none would do.
“I applaud these new ways,” said Brekir, “but they may not last long, Meas, unless you bring us happy news from your meeting with Karrad?”
“Indeed I do,” she said, striding through the shipwives so she stood below the open loading hatch to the underdeck, bathed in light. “Gueste, who tried to murder Joron, and did murder Mevans, is dead at my deckkeeper’s hand.”
Another smothered scream from below.
“Well,” said fierce Coult, his metal tooth shining, “I’ll raise a cup to the death of any of my enemies. Well done, Twiner.”
“I take it,” said Tussan of Skearith’s Beak, with an odd giggle, “that the rest of the meeting did not go well.”
A scream again, one of long and sustained agony. He caught Meas wincing, felt a twinge of answering pain in his leg.
“It went as well as expected,” said Meas. “I bought us time and that was all I ever intended, though I had hoped you would travel further.”
“Well,” said Bakin, a small man who commanded one of the two brownbones that carried their people, “that is my fault, Shipmother,” he said. “I do what I can but my brownbone, Waveholder, is not fast, and lost a spar which slowed everyone. I told them to leave us behind, but they would not.” Meas smiled, and went forward to the man, who looked as truly miserable as any Joron had ever seen. She took him by the arm.
“We leave no one behind, Bakin, and we blame none for the misfortunes of the sea. We are in this together.”
“Thank you, Shipmother,” he said.
“What happens now?” said Coult.
“Hard decisions,” said Meas. “That is what happens now.” She gave a small smile, a baring of teeth. “Brekir, you are to take Snarltooth, he flies faster than any other, and make for Namwen’s Pass. Tell Tenbern Aileen we have done as she asks and bring her the Hundred Isles fleet, so she can bring the Gaunt Islands fleet out and crush them. We will do what we can to stay ahead of Karrad’s fleet in the meantime.” Brekir nodded, made no argument, understood the sense of the order as her two-ribber was well known as the quickest.
“And how do we last long enough to meet them, Shipmother?” asked Turrimore. “It is plain to anyone who understands a chart that they will catch us. We are outnumbered, and will be forced to stay close and protect the brownbones. They will pick us off from a distance.”
“Then we must stop them getting close.”
Another scream from below.
“And how do we do that?” said Turrimore, and as always there was aggression in her voice. It was in her nature to challenge those in authority. Joron had once been worried by that but had come to value her forthrightness, and from the smile on Meas’s face she did the same.
“With sacrifice, if need be, Turrimore, that is how.” The tall shipwife nodded at Meas, as if this was to be expected, was desired even. “When they get near, we must send some of our fighting ships out to harry them.”
“They will not survive such an encounter long,” said Chiver.
Another scream from below.
“No, they will not,” said Meas quietly. “So Tide Child will be first to attack, I’ll not ask any of you to—”
“No, Meas,” said Coult, “Tide Child will not lead any attack. Like it or not you are shipmother of this fleet.” She stared at him, a hard stare.
“So as shipmother, I should lead it, and you should follow my orders.”
“Ey, I will not disagree. That is how it us usually done.” He looked about himself, at the gathered shipwives. “But we have new ways now, as you say. And whoever goes back, goes back to die. You do not realise what you and this ship have become among the other crews. Most of them have never met you, or served under you. They know you only through stories: the witch of Keelhulme Sounding, the greatest shipwife who ever lived, the one who went away. The Tide Child. That is how they think of you now, you are more than human to most of them. Ey, and to those of us who know you well, maybe we think it a little too.” He grinned, looked around the underdeck once more. His words met with nods, and quiet “ey”s. “Joron there, Meas, he led us on a crusade for no other reason than to bring you back, even though it seemed hopeless. And yet, here you are. Back from the dead as far as many of ’em are concerned.”
“No one comes back from the dead,” she said.
“Ey, and we all know it,” said Coult. “We fight for a dream, and we’re ready to die for it, Meas, it’s what we signed up for. But if you go out and die on the first day, it all dies – their belief in you, the dream.” He stepped forward, this hard warrior’s voice now soft. “They don’t see you as a woman, any more, Meas, you are more than that now, so you must live if you expect your fleet to.”
“I am only a shipwife,” she said softly.
“No,” said Brekir, “you are not. Coult is right, Meas, I know you hate it but it is true. You must live, that is more important than anything else.”
As if giving voice to Meas’s frustration at finding herself trapped within her own legend, another scream came from below. This one slow, this one lingering, and it sent a shiver down Joron’s spine.
“Let us go to my cabin,” said Meas, and led them to the great cabin at the rear.
“We will attack first,” said Adrantchi when all were settled, “they took Black Ani from me, and I will not be sad to go down to the Hag and join her at the fire. But I’ll take as many of them as I can with me first.”
“No,” said Turrimore, “I should go. Bloodskeer is faster and more manoeuvrable. But he is low on stores, has problems with his hull. We are running the pumps day and night to stay afloat and if we do not fight soon my crew will be too tired to fight at all.”
“No,” said Adrantchi, “it should be me, I made the offer first.”
“And I made the case for Bloodskeer,” said Turrimore. “I am willing to decide this by blade if that is your wish?” Adrantchi’s hand went to his weapon and Meas stepped forward.
“Save your blades for the enemy,” she said. “And do not be eager to die. We do not know what is coming and we may make better time than expected.” She looked from Turrimore to Adrantchi. “You two have never been great friends, but I would rather see you both live to argue in old age than throw you away.”
Adrantchi nodded, stood down. Turrimore did the same.
“Eager to prove ourselves is all,” she said.
“Ey,” said Adrantchi. “It is true.”
Meas stared at them, and Joron wondered she did not break down. For he felt it, felt the fierce loyalty of these women and men. He knew, without asking, or checking, that every single one of them, even the shipwife of the brownbone, would fly to their death in defence of Meas and her dream of peace.
“We only need to reach the Gaunt Islands fleet. Brekir will bring them to us,” said Meas quietly. “There is safety there. If they make good time we will join with them. Once Tenbern Aileen has broken Karrad’s fleet there will a real chance for peace. Land will be our price for giving her this gift.”
Another scream from below, this one even longer, more pained, a wail of hurt and tired despair. Then it shut off.
Silence in the cabin, as if that scream spoke of their future, the pain and sacrifice that all knew was coming. The sudden silence of death. None spoke. They only waited until there was a soft knock on the door.
“Open it,” said Meas and Joron did.
There stood Garriya, her hands still wet with blood.
“Shipwife,” she said quietly, her face hidden by shadow. Joron’s mouth became dry.
“Old, aye,” she said, “but have you looked in the glass recently?” She laughed to herself but before anyone could speak or reprimand her for her words Joron interrupted.
“Farys,” he said, “how is she?” It felt, in that moment, as if so much rested on that question. Meas had said the screams were the sound of their future, and now Garriya, unknowingly, brought that news, held the omens of what was to come at her bosom.
“Tired, Caller,” she said, “but the girl lives, she is strong.”
“And the babe?” said Meas, the softness of her voice barely hiding the urgency of her request. “What of the babe?”
“Lives too, has all the strength of a keyshan.” At that Meas smiled. The omens were good, the child lived. Then, as they listened they heard it, the squalling of a babe from below.
“A daughter,” said Meas quietly. Then she raised her voice. “She is a daughter of the sea!”
“Ey!” came the reply from the gathered shipwives, a sudden rush of good cheer.
“Well,” said Coult, “while the omens are good we should return to our ships.”
“There will be grumbling about this when we do,” said Brekir, “childer are not to be bern on boneships.”
“No,” said Meas, raising her voice, “do not allow such words on your decks.” She pointed behind her, towards the pursuing fleet. “That was their way. But it is no longer the way. You go to your ships, and you will tell your crews that we are no longer ships of the dead. We are now ships of life, and Mother look down on me as I say this…” She raised her face to the sky, hidden by the overbones of the cabin. “I intend us to live.”
