The Bone Ship's Wake

by Rj Barker

  “If there was any doubt they were herding us it is gone now,” said Joron.

  “Ey,” said Meas, then she turned to Barlay. “Send a signal, to Coult, Turrimore and Adrantchi. I wish to speak with them.” The signals were sent, and Tide Child slowed his speed through the water to pick up the flukeboats of the other shipwives. There was no meal prepared, no hurrying of the shipwives down to her cabin; Meas met them on deck with all her crew at their jobs and Tide Child cutting smartly through the water.

  “You wanted us and we come, Shipmother.” Coult’s metal tooth glinted in the light.

  “Ey,” said Meas, “though I bring no joy to this meeting.”

  “It is about the Dread,” said Turrimore.

  “Ey,” said Meas, “it is about the Dread. It sits out there to cut off our escape should we be barred from the Gaunt Islands. I hope we are not, but if that is the case then we will have to pass him.”

  “You need ships to take him on,” said Coult. “We have nothing big enough to…”

  “It is suicide to take even Tide Child against him,” said Turrimore, “madness.”

  “And yet,” said Meas, “it must be done. I hope it does not come to it. But if it does the Dread’s broadside must be kept from our brownbones, so our people stand a chance of getting in among the islands and what shelter can be found there.”

  “And what then?” said Adrantchi quietly. “They will not stop hunting us.”

  “Hit-and-run attacks from the boneships when we are among the islands,” said Meas, “and Joron will raise the keyshans; hopefully in the confusion the brownbones can escape.”

  “From what has been said,” said Turrimore, “the keyshans are like as much to be a danger to us as to Karrad’s fleet.”

  “True,” she said. “But so is a storm, and every deckchild knows a shipwife has been thankful for a storm on occasion.”

  “And if we escape, where do we go?” said Turrimore. Meas ignored her.

  “I would lead the attack on Arakeesian Dread,” said Adrantchi, and he rubbed his furrowed brow. There were bags under his eyes and he was sallow and ill-looking. “Beakwyrm’s Glee is second only to Tide Child in size, Meas,” he said, “it is no choice really, it cannot be you, so we should go up against the Dread.”

  “I am not sure,” said Meas quietly, “that size will matter much when compared to the Dread’s weight of shot, Adrantchi.” He shrugged.

  “It will help, we may last a little longer than a smaller ship.”

  “I will go with him,” said Turrimore, and even Meas could not hide her surprise; the two shipwives had never seemed to get on and yet, here they were, choosing to go together against an enemy they had little hope of prevailing against. Turrimore must have sensed the confusion and she shrugged. “I cannot have a man grasping all the glory, it would not do.” Meas bowed her head, to hide a smile, to hide her pain that these shipwives and their crews were prepared to go to almost certain death for her.

  “No, of course not,” said Meas, and raised her head. “It would not do at all. But I do not plan for us to attack the Dread,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “No, he is best used as a fighting platform.” She unrolled a sheet of parchment on which Aelerin had drawn a rough map. “Joron, if you would,” she said, and he held it down on the bone rail so all could see it. “This is Barcles Bight,” she said, pointing at a place between two islands. “The only place deep enough for Tide Child and Beakwyrm’s Glee. They will know that, and were I in charge of the Dread I would place him where he has sight across the entrance, then loose at us as we enter.” Coult stared at the map, nodded.

  “Makes sense,” said Adrantchi.

  “Without Brekir, we have fighting ships. We will make a screen of them, nine ships the side nearest the Dread, arranged in two lines, inner one of four, outer of five. Tide Child and Adrantchi’s Glee will head the lines. Turrimore, stay at the back and keep everyone in place. And though I would rather not be, I know you will insist I am on the inner line where there is more protection, so that is how it will be. We will soak up the shot for the brownbones.”

  “That’ll be hard,” said Turrimore. “He’ll have range on us, but not us on him.”

  “It will indeed be hard,” said Meas.

  “We should just attack,” said Adrantchi. Turrimore nodded.

  “We have nothing that can puncture his hull,” said Meas, “and we will not last any time at all up close against his broadside,” she looked at the gathered shipwives, “but we may last long enough at range to get into the Bight, and besides, it is the brownbones we are here to protect. They contain our people. They are the priority.”

  “What of the other two ships?” said Coult.

  “You on Sharp Sither and Chiver on the Last Light,” she said, “will guard the other side of our formation from those two-ribbers. One-on-one I have no doubt you will come off best.” Coult nodded. “But remember, Coult, the aim is to get the brownbones away, not to get into a protracted fight.” He nodded again.

  “I do not like it, I am a fighting shipwife,” said Turrimore. “But I suppose it is the way it must be.”

  “It is,” said Meas. And all nodded except Adrantchi, who continued to stare at the map. Before Meas could ask him what he was thinking, they were interrupted.

  “Ship rising!” The call was magnetic, heads raised in direction of the topboy.

  “Where is it, topboy?” shouted Meas, and Joron rolled up the map.

  “Ahead, five points to seaward.” As if attracted by these words the shipwives and Joron all made their way to the beak of Tide Child. Nearglasses came out and they stared at the horizon, seeing nothing yet. Time passed, then another call.

  “Ships rising!”

  “Say again, topboy?” said Meas.

  “Ships rising, shipwife! A whole fleet of them, they are following the first ship.”

  “The Gaunt Islanders,” said Meas, and she could not keep the relief from her voice. “I did not believe it would happen, but they have come.” She turned from Joron, staring over the rump at the Hundred Isles fleet pursuing them. “They have come, Joron. I should have known Brekir would not let us down.” Then she raised her voice, “They have come!” she shouted. “The Gaunt Islands fleet has come!” A ragged cheer greeted her voice. More cheers, from the ships around them as they also saw the fleet. The gathered shipwives grinning at one another. “Make best speed! Drop all the wings, catch all the wind there is!” Black wings were unfurled and Tide Child leapt forward, all around them the fleet was doing the same. “Signal the rest of the fleet to keep pace with the brownbones,” shouted Meas, “we will go ahead to greet Brekir.” She turned, “Coult, Turrimore, Adrantchi, return to your ships.”

  “Ey, Shipmother,” came the reply, and there was a giddiness, a joy in all of them, except Adrantchi, who looked as grey and sad as ever. Meas saw them over the side, watching her shipwives leave. As Adrantchi made to go over the rail Turrimore walked over to him, leaned in close, and said something into his ear, though what it was Joron and Meas were too far away to hear. Adrantchi said something back, also whispered, and more words were exchanged until Turrimore drew away. The two shipwives stared hard at one another and, for a moment, Joron thought they may come to blows. Then Adrantchi put out his arm and they grasped one another, hands around wrists, and Adrantchi gave the taller, darker shipwife a nod.

  Well, thought Joron, you may never be friends, but it seems at least you have found some accord.

  With that they were over the side and into their flukeboats, then Meas gave her ship full reign, eking every rock of speed out of him until Brekir’s Snarltooth could be made out without a nearglass. Still, Joron and Meas raised theirs, to get a better look at this bringer of good fortune. Joron stared through his nearglass, hope, which had been hard to find in the last few days, burning within him.

  Bless you Brekir, he thought as he stared at her ship. He was fitted for all speed, spines raked back and all his wings out.
He let his nearglass drop and turned to Meas. “She can barely wait to see us,” he said.

  “Ey,” said Meas, something thoughtful there, “a waste of her gullaime’s strength though, as we are coming to her…” As she spoke her words tailed off. “No,” she said.

  “What?” A coldness ran through Joron, as if he were dipped into the icy sea. He raised his nearglass to look at Snarltooth again but could see nothing wrong. Just the black ship leading the Gaunt Islands fleet toward them. But, were those wings a little ragged? Were there wisps of smoke coming up from the ship? That made no sense, unless she had a fire on deck but why would that be? Why would Brekir have fires ready for hagspit bolts? And were her bows rigged? She was too far from Karrad’s fleet, and too canny a shipwife to have bows strung and fire on deck for any longer than needed.

  As if in answer, Snarltooth slewed around, bringing himself side-on to the Gaunt Islands fleet and Joron saw him loose. A full broadside of wingbolts bright with hagspit that cut into the ship leading the Gaunt Islands fleet. Smashing into the hull in small explosions of fiery liquid, one of which must have hit a wing as the cloth lit up, flame shooting up into the sky.

  “No,” said Meas again.

  The burning ship launched at Snarltooth, but the black ship had better positioning, the bolts either passed through its rigging or bounced off the hull. Then Brekir loosed again, this time a devastating salvo that brought down the Gaunt Islander’s mainspine. Snarltooth started to turn again, but not towards Meas, toward the Gaunt Island fleet which had split in two behind the stricken ship. One half steering for Meas and her fleet, the other coming line-on to Snarltooth.

  “No,” said Joron.

  The first ship loosed and Joron knew that these bolts were better aimed. Fancied he heard the screaming as they passed across the decks of Brekir’s ship, killing and maiming. Snarltooth loosed again. Not as many bolts flew this time. Then the second ship in the line was loosing and now Meas was running down her deck.

  “North,” she shouted, “steer us north! We are betrayed! Steer for the islands! Make signals to the fleet to follow!”

  “I don’t understand,” said Joron, his mind frozen, mired in shock. “Why did she attack them? Why would Brekir, of all people, betray us?” He was numb, not thinking straight. Tide Child started to turn, a hard turn, throwing up a wave. Joron stumbled, unprepared for the manoeuvre, almost dropping his nearglass. He raised it again, saw another broadside hit Snarltooth, this one almost certainly fatal as the rumpspine came down in a sheet of flame and the ship appeared to have lost steerage, was slowing, drifting away from the line of ships attacking. But their attack was relentless, the ships at the start of the line had come about, and were loosing directly down Snarltooth’s deck as they passed. The most devastating way to loose on a ship, bolts passing the whole length of it, the carnage aboard would be terrible, total. “I don’t understand,” he said again. “Why would Brekir betray us?” He lowered the nearglass.

  “She would not,” said Meas, once more by his side and she looked close to tears. He saw her swallow her grief, bite down on it and force the mask of shipwife back on. “The Gaunt Islanders have.”

  “Then why did she not simply run?”

  “Because she had to warn us, Joron,” said Meas. “She waited until she knew we could see her, and then she sacrificed herself to give us enough warning that we may have a chance for escape.”

  “I had thought—” began Joron.

  “We go north,” said Meas, forcefully. “And we must face the Arakeesian Dread’s broadside.” He could not speak. Only a moment ago it had felt like this was all over. They were saved. “Get a grip, Deckkeeper,” hissed Meas, “the crew are watching.” And that was enough. He nodded, lifted his nearglass once more and found Snarltooth, the ship alight, his spine broken and the rump slowly sinking beneath the waves while his enemies, remorselessly, continued to loose upon him.

  “Hag accept you, Brekir,” he said, “and all yours.” He turned, saw the Arakeesian Dread where it had come to a stop, ready to protect Barcles Bight with its terrifying weight of shot. “Though we may see each other again soon enough.”

  53

  A Day of Dread

  She stood on the deck of Tide Child before her gathered crew, women and men on deck, gullaime perched in the rigging. Joron on one side, Aelerin on the other, two fleets closing on them.

  “I give us hours,” she said, “before we must fight for our lives. And make no mistake, it is a fight for our lives. Nothing more and nothing less. I have sent written orders to the other ships, but you are my crew, and you deserve to hear this from me.” There was general mutter and agreement among the deckchilder that this was a most officerly thing to do. “We head due north, to Barcles Bight. The pursuing fleets cannot catch us before we are there, and once through the bight there are many islands, small and big. The channels are too shallow for their biggest ships, so the odds will suit us better.”

  “Hit-and-run attacks, we know ’em well from our Black Pirate days,” said Barlay.

  “Ey,” said Meas. She looked over the gathered crew. “And what you have been told, what you think may be? Well, it is true, the deckkeeper and the Gullaime can call the keyshans. And this they will do.”

  “We cannot lose with the sea dragons on our side!” was shouted from the crowd but Meas raised her hands.

  “I warn you, my deckchilder, not to make the mistake of thinking the keyshans are on our side. They are huge and fearsome and we are as nothing to them. They will sow confusion among our enemies, but they will not fight for us. Do not expect it. Our advantage lies in that we know they will be coming.”

  “What of the Arakeesian Dread?” shouted another.

  “We have a plan for him, don’t you worry.”

  “Good,” shouted Cwell. “I’ve not liked all this running, could do with a fight.” To this was a chorus of “ey”s and laughter. Meas stepped forward.

  “Many of you,” she said, “do not really know me.” She braced her hands on the rail of the rump, looked over the deckchilder, human, windshorn and windtalker alike. “And I do not know many of you as well as I should. But Joron picked you. And I trust him to have picked the best. And I have seen how you run this ship, so I know you are the best.” She smiled, met as many of their gazes as she could and Joron knew that with that simple sentence, she had every single one of them on her side. “What is coming is hard,” she shouted. “What we must weather will be hard. But we will weather it. And there is no finer and greater crew afloat, no group of woman and men,” she looked into the rigging, “and gullaime, I would rather weather it with, ey?”

  “Ey!” came the reply. Loud enough to hurt Joron’s ears. Then a lone voice shouted out.

  “For the Maiden!”

  “Ey!” the crew returned.

  “For the Mother!”

  “Ey!” the crew returned.

  “For the Hag!”

  “Ey!” the crew returned.

  “For the Shipwife!”

  “For the Shipwife!” the crew returned. With that they broke ranks, running to their stations aboard ship, and they left Meas standing next to Joron, speechless.

  “They barely know me,” she said quietly. “And yet they rise whenever asked.”

  “They know enough,” said Joron. She nodded. Swallowed.

  “To your station, Deckkeeper,” she said, “I would be alone a moment.” He nodded, almost as overcome with emotion as she so clearly was.

  Tide Child cut through the sea. The islands bracketing Barcles Bight growing, a low and hazy rough line across the horizon. Before the islands the tower of white wing that was the Arakeesian Dread at his seastay and the smaller towers of its consorts by him. Beakwyrm’s Glee came alongside, behind them a line of black ships, behind Tide Child the same. Meas came to join Joron. Looked up into the tops. Looked down the ship at her crew, busy in the running of him.

  “Are you ready, Deckkeeper?” she said.

  “Almost, Shipwife
,” he replied and he stared up into their tower of black wings. “Topboy!” he shouted. “Flags!” And from the spinepoints of Tide Child long thin flags of black material were loosed, and upon them writhed the sinuous stylised form of a keyshan with an eyepatch. Then a call came from the tops.

  “Keyshan flying!”

  A moment later he heard the same from Beakwyrm’s Glee as his flags were loosed. And all up and down the line, on warship and brownbone alike, they let loose their pennants and the cry of “keyshan flying!” echoed back and forth across the water

  Meas stood, watching; he heard her sigh, a smile upon her face.

  “This is your doing, Joron?”

  “Not mine, Shipwife, this was your crew. It was all of the crews.” She wiped at her good eye, some fluke of the wind or bit of dust causing it to water no doubt. Then she stepped forward.

  “We fly the keyshan flag!” she shouted, then raised her voice further. “Look to our flag, my girls and boys! And let us be as keyshans among our enemies. Let us reave and let us destroy like the force of nature we are, for you are the fleet of Lucky Meas, you fly with the Black Pirate and the witch of Keelhulme Sounding! Now, prepare to untruss your bows and get ready to serenade me with the warmoan. And you show no quarter and you show no mercy, for they will show us none. We fly for hope!” she shouted. And it was shouted back to her, the words full of energy, the women and men too. And that cry – “For hope!” – echoed across the water from every ship that streamed a keyshan as its pennant. Meas stood watching, imperious on the rump of her Tide Child. Then she looked over the seaward side of the ship at the Gaunt Islands fleet. Glanced over her shoulder, at the Hundred Isles fleet. Looked to landward where the Arakeesian Dread waited before Barcles Bight with his consorts. As Meas looked, Joron saw, and only because he knew her so well and had known her for so long, how much the last days had taken from her. Saw a barely noticeable change in her posture and her face. But she did not give in, she stood, letting the wind blow her hair and tangle it with the tails of her hat, watching her crew.