by Rj Barker
The hagpriest nodded her head. “Her foot was amputated. It is a hard thing to go through and the wound now sours. But do not worry, she will not disturb your rest. I bring medicine.” She lifted the jug to show him. Then she poured out a measure. “You should get into bed, Deckkeeper,” she said. “while I see to Ashand here, then I will pour your measure.” He did so, and the hagpriest lifted up Ashand’s head. The woman kept saying, “Don’t . . . don’t . . .” but the hagpriest gently shushed her, like one would a child, and then managed to pour the liquid down her throat. That done she carefully wiped around the woman’s mouth, blessing her in the name of the Mother. “Now,” she said, pouring another shot, “your turn, Deckkeeper Twiner.” She held up the cup. He remembered Garriya’s warning, not to take the medicine offered.
“Please,” he said, “leave it by my bed and I shall take it before I sleep.”
She shook her head. “Oh, no, the Hagmother of the bower would not have that. I must watch you drink it, Deckkeeper.” She smiled, then handed him the cup. “Please, do not make me call our seaguard. It is unpleasant when our patients are difficult.” The smile again, and now he saw her in a different light, her beauty and gentleness a ploy to ensure he was likely to follow her advice.
Joron realised he had little choice, not at this moment and not if he wished them to believe he was really ill. And besides, what could one dose of medicine do? If he must take this so the hagpriest would leave then that is what he must do. Come true night he could find a way to escape from here and meet Mevans, Farys, Anzir and Hastir. He took the cup, knocked back the liquid – far more pleasant than the mulch Garriya provided for him. It was flowery, perfumed and sweet. Easy to drink and he finished the entire cup in one swig.
“Well done, Deckkeeper,” said the Hagpriest and she ran a smooth cold hand over his brow. “Well done.”
19
The Sleeper
“D’keeper? D’keeper?”
A face. Skin like the rime of ice on a water bucket, wrinkling with each word, not like real skin. What face was that?
“D’keeper?”
From beneath the sea. From the cold to the warm. Up and up. Whose face was that?
“D’keeper?”
“Slap him.”
“Anzir! I cannot, he is the D’keeper.”
“I’ll do it.”
Those voices. Echoing down a tunnel, cascading from curved walls, losing form and twisting and twining until they were barely understandable and then, the song. He heard the lilting song of the windspire. The words reformed in his mind. The face remained in his vision and recognition came.
“Farys?”
“Ey, D’keeper. We thought you dead when you did not turn up.”
“Dead?” Something was different in the room. What was it? “What time is it?”
“Skearith’s Eye has just risen and those that worship go to the hagpriests.”
He forced himself to sit up. Found it hard. The world swam; he felt as if he moved through clinging sand. Farys before him. Anzir and Mevans sat on the bed behind her.
“I have slept through the night?” A shard of pain in his back.
“Ey, you have, Deckkeeper,” said Mevans. He seemed unable to keep still, shifting from side to side. “We took the gullaime to the spire yesterday, Had we known you was having a sleep we would have hit the taverns and the stews, but we waited.”
“I am sorry, I did not mean to . . .” He remembered the hagpriest and the drink she gave him. And then nothing else, not even sleep. “I think I have been drugged and . . .” The bed. The empty bed.
Before he could frame another thought the young hagpriest came in.
“It is good you have visitors, Deckkeeper,” she said, “but they must not tire you out. They cannot stay long.”
“Where is . . .?” The name escaped him and his mind felt as if it were fogbound. He pointed at the other bed.
“I am afraid your companion died in the night, Deckkeeper,” she said, “but do not worry, you shall not be alone for long. Now, you must take your medicine.” She poured a cup of drink from the jug she held.
“I found it made me sleepy,” he said, “that is not to my liking.”
“That is the night drink, and it can make you a little woozy. This is day medicine, Deckkeeper,” she said. “But your wound will make you sleep anyway, the healing of it, not what we give.” She took a step closer and he shrank away from her.
“No, I do not want it, I . . .”
“Do not be difficult,” she said, and her face hardened. “Do not make me call the seaguard.”
“Ey, D’keeper,” said Farys, “we want you well. Do as the priest says.” He glared at Farys, saw that Mevans was grinning at her and Anzir was looking puzzled.
“I will not take orders from . . .”
“Let me help, priest,” said Farys and she stood, reaching for the cup and then stumbled, managing to knock the cup and the jug from the priest’s hand to smash on the hard floor.
“Oh!” said Farys, “I am sorry, priest, Mother’s blessings on you, forgive me.”
“Foolish girl!” shouted the hagpriest. “Remove yourself from here!”
“I’s just trying to help, priest,” said Farys. “Let me stay and I will make sure the D’keeper takes his medicine and—”
“You will leave!” The two women began arguing and behind them Joron saw Mevans elbow Anzir in the side, who looked at him, confused until Mevans nodded at Farys and Anzir stood, grabbed Farys, who started to struggle and fight like a wild bird in the claws of a sankrey.
“I will remove her, priest,” Anzir said, “all our apologies. For the fuss.”
The hagpriest stood back, straightened her robes, dark fingers against white material. “I should think so. Come, I will take you out the back way, so we do not disturb the other patients.” The hagpriest left, taking Anzir who was carrying a struggling Farys. Mevans remained and when they were gone he crossed over and knelt by the bed.
“You chose well there, Deckkeeper,” he said. “She’s a clever one, that Farys. Stay strong and I will bring you some hurrock.”
“Hurrock? I am not a man who cannot handle his drink, Mevans.”
He grinned. “Ey, but I reckon that if hurrock stops a man getting drunk too quick it might slow whatever it is the hagpriests are doling out to you, dull its effects. I doubt they will let Farys back in to throw their poison on the floor again.”
“Slowing is not stopping, Mevans.”
“No, Deckkeeper, it is not. You will have to make yourself vomit, and not be found out. And we cannot return until tomorrow as these priests have more rules than a shipwife, so for today you must take their drugs.”
“And hope I do not die in the night,” Joron said, staring at the other bed.
“I suggest getting out of this room, Deckkeeper,” he said. “Walk about. Too easy for the Hag to find a man who never moves.” Joron nodded, and tried to stand, finding his body unsteady, as if there was a lag between him wishing his feet to move and them actually moving. He felt like an overladen ship, slow to the steering oar.
“You may have to help me, Mevans,” he said. The man offered his arm and assisted Joron, who limped and hopped and stumbled out into the long, hot corridor. In the communal area in the centre of the hagbower, two women and one man were on the couches. Mevans helped Joron to an empty one and sat him down. He glanced at the others but they paid him no mind, did not even seem to notice him.
“What is he doing out of bed?” Joron’s head slowly turned to see an elderly hagpriest, the same severe-looking woman who had escorted him from Tide Child to the hagbower.
“’Pologies, Priest,” said Mevans, “only the Deckkeeper said he fancied a change of scenery and some talk so I brought him here to be among officers, for Mother knows I am not the type of man can talk to an officer fit to interest him. Can barely talk at all, for truth. My old mam, she were almost a Bern she were, only I ’ave a toe missing, see, and because I ’ave a toe mi
ssing she were not Bern, but that were good for me as I were the first child and if she were Bern I would be riding a ship as a corpselight, eh? Well . . .”
“Enough, deckchild,” said the hagpriest. “I have no interest in your woes. Leave your charge there and stop flapping your mouth like a wounded bird’s wing. I am sure your shipwife has duties for you.” She pointed at the door and watched, stony-faced, until Mevans was gone. Then she strode over to Joron, pushed his head back by placing a hand on his forehead, used a thumb to lift his eyelid and stared at his eye. “Not had your medicine yet then,” she said. “All that commotion was you, was it? Well, you will find I do not stand for it. You are here for a purpose and you will take your medicine. That is my word and that is what you will do.” She managed to sound disapproving of both Joron and the medicine. “Hagsither,” she said, “bring me a jug for Twiner here, let us give him his dose. I would not want him getting sick.” Another hagpriest brought over a jug and poured a shot. They can tell if I do not take it. And yet I must find a way not to, he thought.
“Hagmother.” The voice came from a woman across the small communal area. She lay on a couch, staring at the smoke rising from the pipe in her hand. “That fellow seems sparky enough. Would it kill you to hold off on the languor water so I can have a companion?”
“All patients are to be medicated, Deckkeeper Gueste, you know that.”
“All, ey?” She turned her head to Joron and rolled her eyes. “Well, should you delay this fellow’s medication for a short time, I am sure I can arrange some sort of stipend to the donation I pay your order, ey?”
A quiet fell then, the hagmother seeming wary of taking such an obvious bribe in front of Joron. Then she smiled at Gueste.
“Well, I would be foolish to turn down a donation to the bower. What do a few moments matter if it will help us care for all of those in our charge a little better?”
“Exactly what I was thinking, Hagmother,” said Gueste, and then watched the woman walk away. “Knew she’d go for the money. Woman has two Kept in their own rooms in the town, thinks no one knows but everyone does. She sneaks them in here once in a while, she’s a screamer that one. Fair wears them out.” She took a drag on the pipe, watching smoke bubble through the water in the bulb. “Deckkeeper,” she reached out a hand for him to clasp. “Alson Gueste, formerly of the two-ribber, Spitewing. Who knows what I am of now.”
“Joron,” he said. “Joron Twiner of the Tide Child.”
“The black ship?” Her gaze seemed to drift away. “Truly the Maiden laughs every time I open my mouth. I pay for a companion and get someone unworthy of my station.”
Joron wondered how Meas would reply to such rudeness, for he did not have the first idea of how to react. Gueste took another drag on the bubbling pipe then closed her eyes and turned back to him. “My apologies, Joron Twiner, that was rude of me.” She laughed. “Truth be told, I should be on a black ship myself, instead I am here.”
“Why?”
“Got myself pregnant by a deckchild on my ship. Lost the child, but too late in term to pretend it never happened.”
“But you are not condemned?”
Gueste smiled. “My mother is a Tenbern, and just strong and rich enough to ensure everyone pretends it did not happen, though our family’s fortunes wane. So I sit in this place to recuperate until the gossips find themselves a new scandal.”
“And the deckchild goes to a black ship,” said Joron.
Gueste shook her head. “Oh no, my mother had him drowned in case he talked. A pity as he was an athletic fellow. But let us not talk ourselves into the Hag’s black moods – what brings you to this place, Joron? Some derring-do? Or did you fall over a spar and break your leg?”
“Took a sword blow to the back,” he said. “We intercepted Gaunt Island raiders, didn’t even know I’d been hurt until afterwards.”
“You’ve seen action then?”
“Plenty of it.”
“I haven’t, just endless safe patrols. My mother has plans for me and a few years in the fleet are part of it. Then she’d like me to choose myself a few Kept and start on my way to being Bern.” She was very young, Joron realised, maybe not even twenty yet. “I’d love to see more action, experience the glory and all. I’m a fighter not a politicker. I want to make myself a name.”
“Careful what you wish for. The fight, when it happens, is terrible,” said Joron. “And frightening. And people talk of skill but as far as I have seen survival is more about luck. I have seen seasoned deckchilder, fierce women and men, snatched away by bowshot, or cut down by a lucky strike. If you can stay on boring patrols then my advice is to do just that.”
Gueste stared at him as if he had changed into some strange sea creature right before her.
“Indeed,” she said, and went back to staring at the smoke rising from her pipe while silence squatted uncomfortably between them. It occurred to Joron that he could ask her just what it was Meas had done to get herself condemned to Tide Child, for as a daughter of the Thirteenbern Meas surely could have bought herself out as this woman had. He opened his mouth, closed it again as he realised that he would forever feel like he had betrayed his shipwife if he went searching for answers from others. And what would it say of him to Gueste? That his shipwife did not trust him enough to confide her sins in him? No, he could not ask, and yet he did not want this silence to last.
“Why is the town so morose?” he said.
“You do not know?” She frowned, puzzled, then tapped the stem of the pipe in the air making little Z’s of smoke. “Of course, a black ship, you will know little. It is the arakeesians. Such joy when we heard they were back, such opportunity for glory when we have more ships. All those almost-forgotten industries coming back. The heart-burriers, flensers, bone softeners, and oil corers – so many trades ready to spring back to life.” She sat up a little. “We had quite the celebration I tell you,” she said. “Every woman and man thought they would never be poor again. I don’t think anyone in Bernshulme was sober for a whole month.”
“But?”
“Ey, always that isn’t there? The Maiden loves her tricks. We had our party, sent out three ships, two three-ribbers and a two-ribber. Loaded ’em up with the best of everything we had, sent two brownbones after ’em, to tow the cargo back once they caught them.” She took a drag on her pipe, a long one. Then let the smoke out slowly through her nose. “Only four people lived to tell the tale – three deckchilder and a deckholder made it back in a flukeboat.”
“What happened?”
“They loosed the gallowbows and the creature wrecked them. It was the work of minutes. The only silver lining on the cloud was that our ships had been followed by a Gaunt Island fleet, four boneships they sent, and they fared no better.”
“I thought the keyshans were hunted from towers?”
“Oh, it had passed through the towers, had a few big bolts sticking out of it but they didn’t seem to slow it at all. Some say we need bigger bows,” Gueste leaned closer, now whispering, “but the talk on the docks is of some forgotten magic that allowed us to hunt them, something we need to get back.” Joron remembered the hiylbolts Tide Child had carried – rare and ancient weapons once used to hunt the beasts – and how they had cast them into the sea. Remembered how glad he had been that they had done that; not glad for all the lives lost protecting the sea dragon, but glad the keyshan swam free.
“Deckkeeper Twiner.” He turned to find the hagmother stood behind him with her medicine. “It is time for your dose.”
“Better do as she says,” said Gueste, raising her pipe as if in salute. “Here’s hoping you can do your bit toward bringing the Hundred Isles its glory, ey?” She grinned. “It’s been nice knowing you, Twiner.”
He took the glass from the hagmother and she watched as he drank. The liquid sweet and pleasurable as it slid down his throat. He had a moment where he considered what Gueste had said, the implied finality of it. Then his day dissolved into pastel shades and soft f
eelings and he lost himself in contemplation of the whirling stone that made up the roof.
“Deckkeeper? Deckkeeper?”
He awoke to a fog, the stinging slaps of a hand against his cheek barely registering through the thick blanket of numbness that surrounded his mind.
“Mevans?”
“Ah, you are back with us, D’keeper. Skearith’s Eye is near to closing.”
“What?” He looked about. Back in his room. So much time had passed. “How?”
“You have slept, D’ keeper, and I could not waken you.”
Joron tried to sit, and a searing pain ran down his back. Mevans leaned in and pushed him gently back onto the bed.
“Your wound has re-opened,” he whispered. “I have bound it, but the hagpriest was not pleased.” He lifted a cup. “Now, drink this. It is Garriya’s concoction.” He helped Joron to drink the medicine, it tasted no less foul than ever. When it was done Mevans produced a bottle from his coat and filled the cup with a milky liquid. “If you think her medicine tastes bad, D’keeper, she assured me this is worse. But she thinks it will protect you from the drug they give you. She thinks they are using sopweed.”
“That is a poison.”
Mevans nodded. “So is this,” he said with a grin, and forced the cup against Joron’s mouth. The liquid was acrid, stinging his tongue and burning his throat as he choked it down. Everything in him rebelled against drinking any more, but Mevans was having none of it and was far stronger than the weakened deckkeeper. When Mevans had forced the contents of the cup into Joron’s mouth he placed his hand over it, pushing him down onto the bed, and with his other hand he pinched Joron’s nose. “I am so sorry, D’keeper. Have me corded for this if you must but we cannot lose you. Garriya says one dose is all she dares give you, so you must find a way out of this place tonight. We will be waiting for you.”
Joron swallowed. It felt like forcing hot coals down his throat and it burned into his gut. When the liquid was gone Mevans removed his hand.
Joron breathed. Swallowed anger bitter as any medicine.
