by Rj Barker
Boneships – a four-ribber at the staystone, and a pair of two ribbers. One was under way, women and men crawling through the rigging, wings falling and filling with wind, blowing outwards to show a huge and staring eye painted on it. Behind the boneship were wingflukes similar to his own, and two of these were making ready to follow the boneship. He counted all in the harbour quickly, including those leaving. Three boneships, eight Wingflukes. It was a formidable force, more than was really needed to hold Safeharbour. He did a final quick scan. Noticed the towers on the ends of the harbour piers had been burned, probably by the defenders when they realised all was lost. Noticed how well Safeharbour’s walls continued to defend the ships within it, the curve of the island gathered around them like a protective skirt, the long stone piers ready to crack unwary hulls. Then he placed the nearglass back in his coat and descended the shifting spine.
“Farys,” he shouted, “they have seen us. Get us under way, all speed we can make.”
“Can we outrun them, D’keeper?” said Vosar.
“Not unless the wind changes . . .” He glanced at the cabin where Aelerin hid in the shadows and saw the gentle to and fro of the courser’s hood as they shook their head. “And it seems that is unlikely. My hope is they do not drive their gullaime too hard or at all, and are not on us by nightfall. Then we can extinguish the wanelights and escape under cover of dark.”
“And if that is not what happens, D’keeper?” said Farys.
“Then we must hope Cwell’s tongue is quick.” Cwell, from her place in beak of the boat, looked up, her ice-blue eyes squeezed into slits against the brightness of Skearith’s Eye, reflected back from the water in a million winking glints.
She cut a slice from her wizened fruit and placed it in her mouth.
Then all was work. Wings were rigged and ropes pulled taut, the little wingfluke heeled over and sped across the choppy sea but its speed was illusory, as it moved forward in huge zigzags so its speed toward its intended destination was slow, achingly slow. Constantly re-rigging and jigging of the ship and the pulling on the steering oar. The shouting of orders.
“Heel!” As the boat began to turn and the deck leaned over at a precarious angle.
“’Ware yer heads, boom coming over,” as the wind caught the wing on its moveable spar and the boom that held the bottom of the wing moved across the deck, always ready to clout an unwary deckchild insensible.
In the moments when he was not pulling on ropes or leaning against the side of the ship to stop it capsizing, Joron would pull the nearglass from his jacket and scan the horizon.
First, a clear sea, only the smudgy column of smoke showing where Safeharbour had once been.
Zigzagging onward, all hands to the ropes.
And they turned the boat. “Heel!” “Ware yer heads, boom coming over!”
Bringing out the nearglass once more. A dot on the horizon, a nothing to those not looking for it. Could merely have been a seabird. But Joron was looking for it and knew what he saw, the tip of the mainspine of a boneship. On it would be the topboy, scanning the horizon for the wingfluke and he had the advantage of height over Joron, who had no doubt they were already spotted.
All hands to the ropes.
And they turned the boat. “Heel!” “Ware yer heads, boom coming over!”
Now more than a dot, a vague shape, a blot, a sparkle of white against the grey sea, heeled over slightly to Joron’s landward.
All hands to the ropes.
And they turned the boat. “Heel!” “Ware yer heads, boom coming over!”
Now bigger, no longer needing the nearglass to make it out. A tower of white wing coursing across the grey water toward them. All its varisk canvas out and even the flyer wings out to the side, a ship rigged for best speed. A beautiful thing, but less attractive to Joron’s eye, knowing it came for him.
All hands to the ropes.
And they turned the boat. “Heel!” “Ware yer heads, boom coming over!”
In the nearglass he could see the crew scurrying up the rigging, checking the ropes, pulling them taut where needed, loosening them when not. The shipwife stood on the beak of his ship watching. Behind him two bowcrews stood by the for’ard gallowbows. Behind them on the deck stood a courser and in front of the mainspine a gullaime, head bowed as it brought the ship the wind.
All hands to the ropes.
And they turned the boat. “Heel!” “Ware yer heads, boom coming over!”
Was there a desperation to those words now? Was there a certain worry that fouled fingers when they pulled at the knots? Was there a desperate look in the eyes of Anzir as she leaned into the steering oar? No, not that he could tell at least. If the crew felt the same way he did, if their hearts fluttered in their chests then they did not show it.
So he did not.
Or hoped that was the case.
All hands to the ropes, it was.
And they turned the boat. “Heel!” “Ware yer heads, boom coming over!”
No escape, no chance of it or thought of it. The boneship was outpacing them without even really trying; its flyers had been taken in now and its shipwife had clearly decided a leisurely pursuit would still haul in their prey before darkness. And Joron knew them to be right – oh, what he would have done for the Hag to send a sea mist at that moment, but the Hag rarely listened to deckchilder in their desperation, for if she did she would be deafened as there was no more dangerous place than the sea.
Tired hands on the ropes.
And they turned the boat. “Heel!” “Ware yer heads, boom coming over!”
“Bring us to a halt,” said Joron. “We’ll not outrun him.” He stared at the ship approaching, getting bigger every moment, the beak of the arakeesian skull on the front staring sightlessly at them, the ram pointing at their target. That head, so much smaller than the keyshan that Tide Child had protected – the skull of the wakewyrm would have built an entire ship, and now more of the beasts had returned. All they had done, all the sacrifice and fear, for nothing. War would never stop.
It was with a solemn heart that he helped bring down the wingfluke’s wings, that he helped push the seastay over the side, that he turned to Cwell and for the first time was forced to speak to her.
“I will be in the cabin while you speak to the shipwife. I will keep my crossbow on you, Cwell,” he said, “and if I think you intend to betray us you will die first, understand?”
Cwell stared at him, narrowing her eyes as if he were too bright to look at.
“Ey, Shipwife,” she said, and her mouth was twisted into a mocking smile.
“It is Deckkeeper.”
“Oh,” said Cwell, “So it be, I forget, I do. Always remember the happy days wi’ you as our shipwife.”
To Joron’s credit he did not blush or splutter or lose his temper when she tried to focus on the wreck of man he had been, rather the fleet man he had become. “Remember what I said, Cwell.” He held up the small crossbow. “Get us out of here, do whatever it takes.”
“Whatever?” She smiled at him, not a pleasant sight.
“Ey.”
“You have my word on that,” she said. “And my word is always good.” A promise that sounded like a threat and he turned away from her before she had time to say anything more, to attempt to put him down. But she said nothing, only chuckled as he walked away and settled himself in the small cabin, the scabbard of his sword rubbing against his leg as if to cut through it, the handle of his small crossbow warming in his hand. Behind him he felt the gaze of the courser alight upon him but he said nothing to them, did not know what he could say.
It did not take long for the boneship to draw up, its shadow falling over the wingfluke, blocking out the heat of Skearith’s Eye and sending shivers through Joron.
“Master of the flukeboat,” came the shout. “I am Barnt Amstil, Shipwife of the Keyshantooth.”
“Is Cwell, Shipper,” shouted Cwell in reply, winding a rope into a spool as she spoke, “is Master ’f
this ’ere boat, much thanks and break your bows for luck, ey?” Joron glanced out through the gap between door and jamb, sighted along his crossbow, but if Cwell intended to betray them then there was no sign of it. She made no signal to the shipwife of the boneship, only carried on winding up the rope as if she had no care at all in the world.
“You approached the town back there but turned away. In the name of Thirteenbern Gilbryn, what business did you have?”
“I hear in the Maiden’s soaks of Bernshulme that good coin were to be made for those who will travel a bit a farther under the godbird’s eye, and I am ever a traveller.” She laughed. “Ever a traveller.”
“And yet you turned away from that coin,” said the shipwife.
“Saw through ’em nearglass were only ashes to be handed out at that place over yonder, ain’t no great call for ash in trade.”
Silence then, and Joron wished he could see the shipwife but all he could see was the white spines and hooks of the boneship’s side.
“Safeharbour was a town of traitors.” The shipwife spoke slowly, seriously. “And as you intended to trade with them, I reckon you a traitor too. Which makes all you own forfeit to me. Your boat, your cargo. I will have them and you will return to Safeharbour as a traitor to be dealt with as such.”
Joron shivered. He did not think Cwell had betrayed them, or if she had then he had not seen it. No, they had just come across all the things he had once believed fleet officers to be – women and men out to make what they could from those less fortunate, and uncaring of the rightness of it.
“Oh Shipper, Shipper,” laughed Cwell. “I are a trader’s master, I walk the Maiden’s line with all my kind and all know this. Surely there is no need for you to—”
“Aim!” came the call and Joron imagined the ship’s great gallowbows swinging round to aim at the wingfluke – as no doubt they did.
“One moment Shipper,” said Cwell, and now her voice was deadly serious. “One moment afore you send me to the Hag, it will cost you nowt, right?”
“You have your moment,” came the reply.
“Aelerin!” shouted Cwell.
Behind him Joron felt the courser freeze at the mention of their name. He turned, but they did not move, only sat there.
“Aelerin!” came Cwell’s voice again. “Get out here!”
“Go,” said Joron.
The courser remained frozen in place.
“I know you fear her,” said Joron, as gently as he could, “most aboard do. But we all may be about to die, Cwell included, and the shipwife has said we must trust her. If she has some plan to save us and it requires you, we must chance it.”
“I . . .”
“It is what Meas would want and it is my order.” Was his voice unnecessarily harsh then?
The courser sat, stock-still, then gave a small bow of their hood and stood, going out to join Cwell on the deck.
“A courser,” said Shipwife Amstil.
“Ey,” said Cwell.
“Not many traders have coursers.”
“As not many can as afford ’em, Shipper,” said Cwell.
“Why should this interest me? Apart from to think your cargo may be a worthy prize, ey?”
“A pail o’ reasons, Shipper,” said Cwell. “First, ’tis almost as poor luck to kill a courser out of battle as it is a gullaime; even in battle ’tis something to think twice about. Second, as I said, I ’as a courser cos I can afford it. And there are those in Bernshulme, both family and trade, who know the keyshan road I fly. And rest assured, if I do not come back, they ’as friends who will find out why and whatever great family you come from, well, is likely it will find itself at a disadvantage in trade it can sore afford.”
“So you threaten me, trader?”
Cwell laughed again, shook her head. “’Tis only a fool threatens a fleet shipwife. I am a trader’s master, so I offer a trade, Shipper.”
“And what trade would that be?” The shipwife sounded cold, disinterested.
“One moment, Shipper,” said Cwell. Then she turned, leaving Aelerin stood uncomfortably on the deck and entered the cabin where Joron sat.
“Give me that fancy sword, Twiner,” said Cwell, her voice harsh as the weather in the far north. He felt his face freeze in place.
“Meas gave it to me,” he said.
Cwell’s eyes sparkled, a rising tide of malice. “Ey, so it will be good quality. A man like that shipwife will recognise that. He’ll like the fancy drawings on it too.”
“We have coin,” said Joron, quietly, firmly. “Meas gave us plenty of it for just this eventuality.”
Cwell leaned in close, Joron could smell her damp clothes, the sickly sweet juice of the fruit she liked to chew. “The Amstil are an old and rich family, they will care little for coin. Novelty, that is what will hook this fish.”
“Try the coin first,” said Joron.
“If you wish to argue,” Cwell grinned as she spoke, “I will argue my point all day but that shipwife out there will get bored of us and loose his bows, or come aboard, one or the other.”
Joron knew himself caught in her words. Trapped by her. He began to unbuckle the sword.
“I will not forget this, Cwell. You do this to humiliate me.” He thrust the sword in its scabbard into her hand.
“I would never do such a thing, Shipwife,” grinned Cwell, then she was gone, back out to the deck.
“I have this blade, Shipper,” she said, “it is a fine one.” Then she threw it across to the other ship. Joron heard the shipwife catch it, draw it. Draw his blade. No doubt inspecting it.
“It is a fine weapon indeed.” A pause. “Very well, trader, I imagine having to give up something as valuable as this will have taught you your lesson. Never come back here, do you hear?”
“I have no great wish to return, Shipper,” said Cwell. Then the shipwife was giving the orders to move on, to drop the boneship’s wings and for the gullaime to bring them wind to go about.
Joron imagined what it would be like to place his hands around Cwell’s thin neck and squeeze until she could no longer breathe.
11
The Blackest Crew Afloat
Tide Child sat at his seastay amongst a small flotilla of ships, three of them boneships, and two of those in a poor state of repair indeed, the sort of sorry-looking tubs that had Bonemaster Coxward sucking in air through his teeth and twitching his hands for wont of “a go at ’em, Shipwife, just a few days is all.” But Meas had no time for such things. She had the shipwives of her small fleet in her cabin sat around her desk with their deckkeepers.
Stood with her were Brekir and Vulse of the Snarltooth, Tussan and Binin of the Skearith’s Beak, and Coult and Rulfar of the Sharp Sither, each shipwife in their colourful finery and still with the paint of welcome beneath their nails; their deckkeepers, those slightly drabber consorts, stood behind them while Meas commanded their attention. They had eaten at Meas’s desk, cleared and with supplemental boards of gion added to provide room to sit, and now she had arranged plates and gravy boats and cups and knives into an approximation of Safeharbour.
“There is our target, my girls and boys,” she said. “Joron saw a pair of two-ribbers and a four-ribber. With them about eight flukeboats. So, say a crew of at least a hundred and fifty for each two-ribber, and two hundred and half again for the four-ribber. Add another two hundred for the flukeboats.” She looked around the table at the serious faces. Brekir looked miserable, her long, dark features drawn into a frown. Tussan was hard to read; the man was round-faced and jovial as always but talk was that his wits had deserted him after a particularly fierce battle and that his deckkeeper, Binin, was all that kept the battered Skearith’s Beak afloat. Coult of the Sharp Sither was his opposite, with everything he thought flying across his weathered and craggy face, and none of it good. He was a fighter, maybe too fond of it, and his deckkeeper never spoke, only stood behind him looking fierce. There was something brittle in that relationship, something overly stressed.
“Eight hundred,” said Tussan, with a giggle. “And we can add maybe a hundred seaguard to that, for you only talk crew. We have maybe four hundred if we commit all we have. And only Tide Child and Snarltooth are capable of any sort of fight.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Coult. He rolled his head around on his neck – a thin man, small, but made of almost pure muscle, he was as hard and as taut and as weathered as old rope. “Sharp Sither may be down and damaged but he ain’t out. My crew will fight.” He sucked on his teeth; one of his canines was missing and had been replaced with metal. Behind him his deckkeeper, Rulfar, looked at the floor.
“It all sounds perfectly splendid to me,” said Shipwife Tussan with a huge grin, the many feathers sprouting from his two-tail bobbing as he spoke. “And what a wonderful dinner Shipwife Meas put on for us. I think we should all compliment her on that.” Only silence met his remark as it had not been a wonderful dinner at all. The food had been old and the conversation stilted by news of Arrin’s death – though those gathered may be disparate in personality they had all respected the man.
“I think,” said Meas, “my mother has underestimated us. And I think, despite what many would believe, we can take Safeharbour for as long as our purposes require.”
“Why do you think we are underestimated?” said Binin.
“My mother thought so little of Safeharbour that she only sent her men to take it.”
“You think men cannot be good shipwives?” said Joron, perhaps too sharply as, though Meas had said nothing about it, he felt the loss of the sword keenly, felt he had let her down. Felt she must feel let down.
“No, I think men can be great shipwives, Joron. However, my mother is more old fashioned.”
“All this talk of your mother,” said Coult. “Do you wish to raid Safeharbour only to bloody her face, Meas?” His gaze passed slowly around the table, meeting each eye there. “I have no problem with that, you understand. Vengeance is as good as any reason to fight.”
