by Rj Barker
Joron took a deep breath.
“Safeharbour is gone.” He searched Karrad’s face for reaction but the man was a spy, his features betrayed nothing. “And worse, our people are taken, to be worked to death to make the poison for hiylbolts, together with some of the gullaime.”
Karrad stared at him. “And you know this how?”
“There was a brownbone, name of Maiden’s Bounty, under a shipwife called Golzin. We intercepted it but the charts were burned before we could find out where it went. Then we returned to Safeharbour to find it gone, and that brownbones had taken our people too.”
Karrad continued staring at him.
“Meas has been busy,” he said. “But you did not fully answer my question.”
“And you do not seem concerned about Safeharbour.”
Karrad tapped his desk. “As deckkeeper of a fleet ship, I thought you would know there is a time to grieve and a time to act.” He took a breath, stood. “I have heard rumours, about disappearances on the streets of our towns and villages. I had put it down to people leaving to join Meas, but it seems it may not be so. Whoever is doing this is good at keeping secrets.”
“The Thirteenbern,” said Joron.
“Well,” said Karrad, “there are few other suspects. I will find out where these brownbones are heading. You must come back tomorrow.”
“I cannot.”
“Why?”
“I am in the hagbower, they keep us drugged. I must leave there tomorrow or I may never leave at all.”
Karrad chewed on the inside of his mouth.
“If Safeharbour is gone then it may be Meas will be discovered too,” he said. “Go back to the hagbower tonight and have yourself discharged in the morran. They cannot stop you walking out but if you simply vanish it will raise questions. Tell Meas that I will leave her what information I can get on our island. She will know what I mean. Share this message with Mevans in case something happens to you, he can be trusted.”
“I am not so easily overcome.” Karrad stared at him, no expression on his face.
“You can go now,” said Karrad. And Joron did, thankful to be away, pleased the meeting had been so short.
Outside he met Mevans and the others, told the hatkeep the message Karrad had shared with him. “Make sure this gets to Meas.”
“Ey, D’keeper. Back to the bower now?”
“No, one more stop to make. Mulvan Cahanny.”
“I told him you may call,” said Mevans. Joron raised an eyebrow. “There are few in Bernshulme I do not know somehow,” said the hatkeep, and he led them down back alleys, round through the darkest and foulest-smelling areas of Fishmarket to the drinking den named Boneship’s Rest where Cahanny held sway. Just like on Joron’s first visit there were two huge guards on the door but this time they did not turn the small group away.
“Mevans,” said the woman on the left, “he’s expecting you and the deckkeeper. The others have to wait here. Go straight to the back, the barwoman will let you into his sanctum.”
“Do you want our weapons?” said Mevans.
“Cahanny ain’t scared of you,” said the man on the right as he pushed open the door.
When Joron had come here with Meas the bar had been full, now it was empty apart from a few obvious bodyguards scattered around the room. No braziers burned and the air was not thick with narcotic smoke, only the scent of spilled drink. Mevans walked up to the bar and Joron followed, as the woman behind the bar leaned against the barrels, watching disinterestedly. Then she walked to the end of her bar and opened a door, motioning Mevans and Joron to walk through with a jerk of her head.
The room inside was far nicer than the bar, panelled and with two padded chairs sat before the desk where Mulvan Cahanny waited.
“So,” he nodded at Joron, “it’s the man who stole my bird. Never thought I’d see you again if I’m honest, Birdman. The weak don’t tend to last long on the black ships.”
“Maybe I’m not weak,” said Joron, and he took the seat opposite Cahanny uninvited. “Sit, Mevans,” he said, “I am sure Cahanny would not mind.”
Cahanny watched as Mevans sat; his little eyes sparkled and a small smile grew on his face. “Seems you’ve been learning manners from Black Orris, eh, boy?” He poured a shot of alcohol for himself, one for Joron and one for Mevans. “Drink,” he said.
“I do not need a drink,” said Joron and his stomach, that hard ball of pain and nausea, threatened to rebel. Mevans’ eyes moved from one shot glass to the other. “Take them both, Mevans,” said Joron and the hatkeep took a shot glass in each hand, knocking them both back with a grin.
“Thank you kindly, Mulvan.”
“It’s Cahanny to you, Mevans,” he said.
“Whatever you say, Mulvan,” said Mevans, and he held out his shot glasses. Cahanny shook his head and then filled one of them.
“You never did know when to stop. Now, let me talk to the deckkeeper. I cannot imagine he would come here without good reason.”
“I do not,” said Joron.
“You seem a mite less scared than last time.”
“Let us just say, Cahanny, since last we met I have faced things far more terrifying than you.”
Cahanny raised an eyebrow, then nodded. “I must be honest, I am seeing you more out of curiosity than anything else. I have no real wish to help you, Birdman.” Joron watched him – he was not a big man and his burns and missing arm did a good job of masking his body language.
“Meas says nothing goes on in Bernshulme without you knowing about it.”
“Nothing illegal, aye. Second to Indyl Karrad, I suspect I know more about Bernshulme than anyone.”
“I’m looking for information on brownbones,” said Joron, “and I have little time.”
“Ey, you look a little peaky.” Cahanny sipped from his drink. “I did not think it was my place to say.”
“These brownbones would be outfitted strangely, with shelves within. The one we saw had its hold split into three. They may take on gullaime.” Something shifted in Cahanny at that, some windchange in his face. “You know something?”
“It seems you really have grown under Meas, eh, Birdman?”
“Tell me.”
“I give nothing for free,” said Cahanny, “you know that. And as I reckon it you already owe me for stealing my second in command and fifteen of my men.”
“Or you owe us.”
Cahanny paused in drinking. Licked his lips and stared at Joron.
“And how do you work that one out, boy?”
“Do you know how we got your man, Coughlin, to come over to us? To stay on Tide Child?”
Cahanny nodded. “Some trick with beasts, I heard.”
“Aye, exactly. Not a great trick either, and I cannot imagine it fooled him for long. He must know by now what we did. And yet he does not return to you.”
“Probably feels foolish.” Cahanny looked away. “I would.”
“And yet,” Joron leaned forward, “he holds no malice to the shipwife, serves her well even.”
“Man needs a home.”
“You wanted him gone,” said Joron.
Cahanny leaned back. “I did?”
“He was too ready to believe you would double cross him,” said Joron. “And I wondered, for a long time, why you would send your second in command and fifteen good men to guard a box of old keyshan bones. They aren’t worth that much. So either he was planning to double cross you, or you him. Whichever, he must have suspected something was coming and so, when Meas pulled her trick, he was primed and ready to believe.”
Cahanny tapped his small cup on the table, then he grinned.
“You’re a thinker,” he said. “If you ever run from the fleet, Birdman, I’d find you a place in my organisation.” He drank from his cup, poured himself another. “How is Anzir?”
“Well,” said Joron, surprised by the sudden change in Cahanny. “She protects me. Now, the brownbones, what do you know?”
“Little, Bi
rdman. It is just the talk of the gullaime that pricked my ears. No ships matching your description have left Bernshulme, I can tell you that. But the refit you describe is the sort of change that could be done to a ship at sea – and if I wanted it kept secret I’d do it there and throw over the bonewrights.” A grin, a flash of teeth. “There was an island, Birdman, it was used by those who wanted to move cargo that ain’t generally allowed. Living cargo, you understand?”
“You mean slaves?”
“Human cargo, aye. Not much call for it here, if I am honest, but there are those in the Gaunt Islands who use slaves and sometimes I may have done some trade with ’em.” He stared at Joron. “Do not dare judge me, Birdman. The fleets take children for the hagpriest’s knives, and yet you would look down on a little slavery.” Joron said nothing, only met the crime lord’s gaze where once he would have turned away. “Anyway, the island was shut down, half a year ago. Not a shock really, those places are always transient.”
“And you think these brownbones are operating out of there?”
Cahanny shrugged.
“I heard talk that someone was using them, and I heard talk they were smuggling gullaime.”
“That happens?”
“Aye, but I have nothing to do with it. Generally that sort of thing is fleet, some bigshot Bern or Kept making illicit money. It’s not worth my life to interfere in their business. I know my place.”
“Where is this island? What is it called?”
“It is called it McLean’s Rock, for a fellow who was gutted there, way back when,” said Cahanny. He opened his desk, took out a sheet of parchment. “I shall draw you a chart and write directions. If it was simple gullaime smuggling it will not help you, but if you have no other option it may be worth a try.” He drew on the parchment then slid it over the desk. Joron took it and rolled it up.
“Thank you, Cahanny,” he said.
Cahanny nodded. “Whatever you are involved with, if Meas thinks it important, I reckon it matters. But I also reckon you owe me a favour.”
“And what is it?”
“My niece is on your ship. Cwell, she is called.”
“I know her.”
“She is hard to like, but she is the only family I have left and precious to me. I only ask that you look out for her.”
“I am always looking out for her,” said Joron and he stood. “Now, I must get back to the hagbower before I am missed.”
“Good luck to you, Deckkeeper,” said Cahanny, and he watched them leave with bird-bright eyes.
In the lightening streets outside the hagbower Joron said his goodbyes.
“Tomorrow, Mevans, I will return to Tide Child. So be ready to cast off.”
“Ey, D’keeper, you looks after yourself,” said Mevans, then Joron slipped back into the heat of the hagbower.
As he walked down the dark corridor to his room he saw a figure appear from the shadows. Gueste.
“It seems you have been for an adventure, Joron Twiner,” she grinned.
“Ey, but it is over now.”
“Oh,” said Gueste, “it surely is.” She waved him past with a small bow. As he passed her he heard a whispered order, cloth brushing against cloth. Something flashed across his vision, and he felt a rough rope tighten around his neck, crushing his throat, choking off his airways and ushering him into a deeper darkness.
21
A Tale in Three Parts
How Joron Woke
It was early, the scent of fish filled his nose and worked its way into his stomach, awakening the burgeoning nausea. His head ached and his hands trembled in a way that would only be stilled by the first cup of shipwine. Then the pain in his mind would fade as the thick liquid slithered down his gullet, warming his throat and guts. After the first cup would come the second and with that would come the numbness that told him he was on the way to deadening his mind the way his body was dead, or waiting to be. Then there would be a third cup and then a fourth and then a fifth and the day would be over and he would slip into darkness.
No.
That was not him. Once him, not him any longer.
That was Joron Twiner the lost, Joron Twiner before Meas, before Tide Child flew the sea, before he sang a legend to the aid of his ship with the gullaime. That was not Joron Twiner the deckkeeper, that was Joron Twiner the broken.
He was Joron Twiner the deckkeeper.
The deckkeeper, Joron Twiner, tried to open his eyes, experienced a moment of confusion when he realised that his eyes were already open. Oh, he thought. He closed his eyes. Opened them. It made no difference. All was darkness.
Panic.
What was this, some dream brought on by the medicine of the hagpriests? He tried to sit, choked, a rope around his neck. Ropes around his wrists, his midriff, his legs and his ankles. Walls, close on either side, a roof so near he could feel the warmth of his own breath bouncing off it as he gasped. He was in a box. Why was he in a box?
Struggling, pain. Pain in his throat. Bruising.
He tried to shout.
Nothing.
Only pain. A croak. That voice of his, that deep tenor his father had loved. The voice that sang up legend.
Gone. A creak, like a boneship catching the wind.
Light streaming in, blinding him, forcing his eyes shut. Some of that light still bleeding through. Forcing tears into his eyes. Blinding him.
“Joron.” He knew that voice. “I’m sorry about all this, Joron. Just following orders, you understand?”
He let his eyes open, ever so slowly. The light was not bright, not really, not full daylight. Only lamplight, flickering and dim. But it still hurt. The air smelled of outside, the melting gion, old fish. A shadow loomed above him. He tried to speak, only a croak came out.
“Don’t speak, my man was a little too rough with the garrotte, I am afraid. Don’t be rough with him, says I. Joron is a good fellow, says I, but they did not listen. I imagine your throat will be sore for quite some time, though to be fair, it is the least of your worries.”
“Gueste?” The name slipped out. His words both quiet and harsh, a rasp in his throat. “What?”
A finger on his lips. “Shhh, do not speak.”
In the light, now the tears had flowed from his eyes, he could make out Gueste’s face, sardonic, smiling still. The glimmer of Skearith’s Bones in the sky far above her. “In a story, Joron Twiner, I would slip an old nail or a blade in for you, and you could use it to escape.” A little light, a little hope because he was beginning to realise why he was in this box, there could only be one reason. He was to be sent aboard a brownbone to wherever those who were to be sacrificed in the cause of the boneships went.
To die, that he was ready for, had been ever since he was condemned. But to go into the foetid hold of one of those ships, in a box like this? No, that was more than he thought he could bear.
Gueste leaned in a little closer. “You Berncast fool,” she said, and all hope died. “Take comfort that though you are a traitor, you serve a greater purpose. Your Berncast blood can do some good now, rather than simply dirtying up the deck of a fleet ship’s rump. Even a dead ship deserves better than you.” Joron tried to speak but his throat burned, his lips betrayed him. “You really think you can simply sneak out without being seen? You think you can meddle without others being aware?”
How foolish he felt – that he had thought he shared some kinship to this woman, sat and talked with her as if they could be friends. Not even considered that she may be there to spy upon him and all those in the hagbower.
“If you had any idea how much you are hated, Twiner, a Berncast officer raised on the whim of a disgraced shipwife, you would never show your face in this town, ever.” She leaned in closer. “I know, you must be a little worried about your future, Joron. So let me give you a gift, a little positivity. I am born to the Bern, and born to the slate of a ship, and we guard our places jealously. There is nothing we hate more than an interloper, and putting you in this box has fixed mor
e than a few bridges I may have previously burned. So, while you go to forward the cause of the Hundred Isles, in the best way for your kind, so shall I. I am to get my own ship.”
“Gueste,” he gasped out.
“Shh, shhh,” said Gueste, “save your energy for the journey, Twiner. You will need it. It is a kindness I do you, really, for I have seen the marks of the rot are already upon your skin.” And then she withdrew and the lid was shut, locking him back into darkness. Joron struggled, straining his muscles against his bonds and more than anything he wanted to give voice to his terror.
But he could not scream.
He. Could. Not. Scream.
What Mevans Did
Now Mevans was an old sea hand with all the experience and cunning such a thing brought. He knew many a thing, and one of those things he knew many things about was officers. He had particular, and very certain, beliefs about officers. He knew that when it came to directing a ship and directing a battle and formulating a tactic and such things, an officer was as fine as the Mother’s breasts, but he also knew that without a crew to look after them, an officer was often likely to trip over some Maidentrick as would never gull a sensible fellow like Mevans. And as such, it did not sit well with him to leave his deckkeeper behind to make his own way back to Tide Child, as Mevans believed it entirely likely that his deckkeeper would fall off a harbour or some other such foolishness.
Though he had been given an order.
But Mevans was an old sea hand with all the experience and cunning such a thing brought. He knew many a thing and one of the other things he knew many things about was orders. He had particular and certain beliefs about orders. Now an order was to be carried out to the letter, and he had been ordered to take the information he had back to Meas and to wait there for the d’keeper. To many, this would seem a right specific order but Mevans was not so sure, and he felt it important that before he return to the ship, he clarify with his fellows just what they thought this order meant in the most exact way.
