by Rj Barker
“Seakeep, throw the rock! I’d know how much speed we make for when the shipwife is back aboard.”
“Ey Deckkeeper,” said Fogle and she scurried past, holding the rope with the rocks woven into it. She threw them over the rear of Tide Child, counting off as the water pulled them through her hands, watching the sand pass through the glass. Joron barely heard her call out the speed, barely saw Aelerin note it down. His mind was full of battles past, how he had watched flukeboats crumple and spill their crew into the sea with just one gallowbow hit. He tried to think of less drastic battles, of how a bolt could pass right through a flukeboat above the waterline and barely damage it. How the pursuing ship would have to slew to one side to bring its gallowbows to bear and how that would inevitably slow the bigger ship down. Unless they had rigged a gallowbow for’ard, but again, that would take time and such temporary riggings were never stable, never quite as easy to aim. And of course, if that boat did have the shipwife in it, she was Lucky Meas, beloved of the Sea Hag. Would the Hag have saved Meas from the knife all those years ago just to have her go under in an unimportant sea lake near some unnamed islands? No. Of course not.
But who could ever truly know the will of gods?
He turned to find Fogle grinning at him. “I said sixteen rocks, D’keeper.” He nodded, pretended he had not been far away in thought and as so missed her first words.
“Sixteen,” he said. “Well, that will have the shipwife in a good temper when she comes back aboard, Seakeep.” He gave a fierce smile. “I do not think Tide Child has ever made such speed.”
“I think he is eager to have his shipwife back,” said Fogle. Then her face fell, as if she realised the insult she had just done her deckkeeper. “Not that you are not—”
“Peace, Fogle,” said Joron, “I am eager to have our shipwife back too.” He smiled and the seakeep turned, making her way down the slate of the deck to ensure all was as it should be.
“There they are, D’keeper!” The cry from the beak of the ship. Joron raised the nearglass to his eye, seeing through the dirty circle the two-ribber and the flukeboat. Some on the two-ribber’s deck were pointing at Tide Child but the two-ribber, Hassith’s Spear, was doing what he expected. Having loosed from its seaward bows it was now steering to seaward, the ship’s beak tracking across the water as it brought its landward for’ard bows to bear, but in doing so it was losing water on the flukeboat.
“Too soon. Their shipwife is too eager,” said Joron to himself. Then he closed the nearglass and raised his voice. “Barlay, steer three points to landward of that ship. I’ll not give them a free loosing down our decks and I want enough room to swing Tide Child about and bring the landward bows to bear.”
“You think that ship’ll stand, D’keeper?” said Dinyl as he came to stand by him.
“Sense would say not; a two-ribber against a four ribber is a poor match. But we are a black ship and they may think that makes us an easier fight.”
“They would be wrong in that,” said Dinyl.
“Ey,” said Joron, and neither of them spoke of how short-handed the ship was.
As the two-ribber grew, and the flukeboat grew, Joron walked down the slate deck, wind catching at the braids of his hair and the tail of his hat, until he found the gullaime. “You are well, gullaime?” It yarked at him. “Not windsick, friend?” It shook its head. The crest of feathers, a recent addition to its plumage, lifted a little, showing bright red and blue feathers below.
“Not tired. Not sick. Plenty wind.”
“Good,” said Joron, “but don’t run yourself empty. That’s not what we want from you.”
“Eight,” said the gullaime.
“Eight, Gullaime?”
“Eight of mine aboard that ship, sick and pained.”
Joron put out a hand, rested it on the shoulder of the crouched gullaime, felt the thin and delicate bones beneath the robe. “I will do what I can not to hurt them if it comes to it, but Tide Child is not a precise instrument.”
“Gullaime knows,” it said quietly, and let out a mournful call. Joron was sure he did not imagine it, that the wind powering them along became a little brisker, a little colder.
“They’re breaking off, D’keeper,” came the call.
“Let them run, we concentrate on our people.”
His gaze was pulled from the gullaime to the Hassith’s Spear, coming full about now. As it did it loosed off all eight of its small gallowbows at the flukeboat. Not all hit, but at least three did. Two punctured the wing, which the wind then ripped apart, while one hit below the waterline. Oars sprang from either side of the flukeboat immediately, though the sudden loss of speed was notable. Someone aboard was bailing, water being thrown over the side but, even as Joron watched, the boat began to sit lower in the sea.
“It’s sinking!” A voice from above.
“I think I see the shipwife!” came another voice.
“Gullaime,” said Joron, watching the Hassith’s Spear as it dropped all its wings and they filled with wind to drive it away from the larger Tide Child, “how exact can you be with our wind?”
The gullaime looked up, stared with masked eyes over the beak of the ship toward the sinking flukeboat. “Ship woman?” it said.
“I think so,” said Joron.
“Exact,” said the gullaime. The wind howled, forcing Joron to take a step back.
“Brace!” he shouted. “Brace!” The flukeboat was going down. Could he already see white shapes in the water? Longthresh in their incessant search for prey? “My crew! Get wyrmpikes and spears from the armoury, put ladders over the landward side and get ready to bring the ship about.” He leaned in close to the gullaime. “If we get this wrong, we will crush them.”
The flukeboat getting lower in the water. Growing larger as they sped toward it. Crew aboard bailing frantically.
“Not get wrong,” it said. And just as quickly as the wind had come up, pushing the ship on, it fell away completely, and Tide Child was coasting forward. Joron watched the sinking flukeboat as it came nearer, and nearer, and nearer. Still Tide Child carried too much speed. He glanced up the deck.
“Barlay! On my mark, bring us round to seaward!” A nod from the oarturner.
“You get wrong,” hissed the gullaime, “crush them.”
The masked face focused on him. He grinned at the gullaime.
“Then I’ll not get it wrong,” said Joron, through a savage grin. Hag’s tits, the boat was nearly under now. But he could not risk more speed or he would risk overshooting them, or smashing them beneath the hull. He took a deep breath. “Now Barlay!” he shouted. And Tide Child came about in a huge circle – not a violent motion, he was wary of stressing the hull too much – and when it seemed they would not make the turn the gullaime screeched into the air. Joron’s ears hurt with the changing pressure as the wind came and the big ship heeled over, the turn becoming tighter. The wind died. Tide Child righted himself. And with another fierce call the gullaime brought the wind from head-on, bringing the black ship to a shuddering stop. Before he could congratulate the gullaime and his crew he heard the sound of boots on the hull of the ship as someone climbed it. A head appeared at the rail and he recognised the face, wanted to jump for joy despite how tired and angry that face looked.
But he was an officer.
So he did not.
Instead he stood as straight as he could, brought his hand to his breast in salute and croaked out the words:
“Shipwife on deck!”
28
What Meas Did
(Taken from the journals of ‘Lucky’ Meas Gilbryn. It should be noted that she had entirely stopped making navigational notes by this time. It is presumed she did this separately, and unfortunately those records are lost.)
Toilday
Weather – Brisk winds, south-easterly.
Cloud cover – Sparse.
Visibility – Good.
Swell – Small.
We left Tide Child and though the weather
treated us well I feel as if I left Joron under the threat of a storm, and one he knows nothing about. I cannot doubt there are those who will try to take advantage of my absence. I hope Joron and Dinyl are ready. I have done all I can.
Menday
Weather – Brisk winds, changeable.
Cloud cover – Thick.
Visibility – Middling.
Swell – Medium.
Four days. The winds are no longer kind to us and the motion of the sea is much magnified on this smaller boat. Coughlin is as seasick as I have ever seen a man be, but the rest of his men hold up well and are even beginning to understand the workings of this boat in a passable manner. They may even be decent deckchilder one day (though I would never tell Mevans that, he would be most upset). I cannot pretend I am comfortable doing such a journey in a flukeboat. It is a brittle thing and I long for the hardness of slate beneath my boots and the stout walls of bone – but I do not have them, and it is a fool who wishes for what they cannot have. I fear my estimates of the time this would take were overly optimistic. I have set the beak toward Skearith’s Eye and must hope the Hag has no wish for my company.
Maidenday
Weather – Winds, gusting, changeable. Constant thin rain.
Cloud cover – Thick.
Visibility – Middling to poor.
Swell – Medium, becoming large with some waves breaking.
Sink Karrad to the depths for sending me on this foolishness. Could he not simply have given Joron a clear message? He has always been overly careful, but that is what comes from dealing with spies. We have been beset by squalls and rain and if did I not know better I would say the Southstorm haunts us. This little boat has very poor cover for its crew and all is misery. Each time I am forced to take a voyage of more than a few hours in a flukeboat I rediscover my respect for the fishers who brave all weathers in these things to feed the stonebound. I would rather face off the Hag’s Hunter again – without the wakewyrm at my back – than weather a storm in this. Where a fisher at least brings joy with a cargo of food, our cargo is only misery. We are all wet, we are all uncomfortable, we are all miserable. Faces are drawn and slow to smile. Except Narza – if she feels anything I have been unable to divine it; she sits like a rock in the belly of the boat, occasionally sharpening her bone knives. But for that, I would not know she lives. We are maybe a day away from the island. It is seldom visited by most but I am well familiar with that place.
The skies are grey. I feel sure they always used to be blue.
Toilday
Weather – Light winds, changeable.
Cloud cover – Thick.
Visibility – Middling.
Swell – Small.
Hag curse my mother. And Hag curse Indyl Karrad too, so sure his spy network is impenetrable and so slow to listen to me when I say he underestimates her. If not for Gavith’s keen eyes we would likely be locked in the brig of a boneship right now. Three of them are here, moored up in the harbour crescent of the largest island of the three here, though there is no true harbour to speak of, only a shallow area where the sand shoals gently down to water that is warm and good for swimming.
I do not recognise the ships, two-ribbers all, and I can only think that there are three because my mother suspects I may come here in Tide Child. This island has no strategic value. What I had hoped would be a simple case of landing, getting to the centre of the island and then getting out is now more complicated than I wish for. We dropped the spine on the flukeboat and rowed ashore, on the nearest to us of the two smaller islands, the other is slightly smaller, though flatter, and lies to landward of the main island where we need to be. Thank the Mother for lazy topboys as we were not seen. Then hours were spent crawling through greasegrass to the top of our island and slightly over, so we were not silhouetted against the skyline. While I watched these ships, I swear every creature that can bite has found its way to my skin and I itch like the filthiest bilge-laying deckchild, though I cannot let myself scratch in front of the crew so must bear it. I can only think the ships are sent to spring a trap, but they do it poorly. Were these shipwives mine to command I would break every one of them down to deckholder. What fools, bringing in their boneships for all to see – the spines are higher than the island. They make a racket landing their seaguard too, there is little discipline and much jollity. Had they a brain between them they would have loaded them all onto flukeboats and landed them at night, then I would have flown straight into their arms. Though it is just as likely that they are simply here for stores. Still, it is a chance I cannot take. If Karrad’s network is compromised it is all the more important that I find whatever message he thinks so important he has to hide it all the way out here.
I took Gavith out with me today, his eyes are sharp and he is picking up good habits from spending time with Mevans here, and Barlay and Solemn Muffaz back on Tide Child. He talks of Farys often, I will have to watch that. They are of an age and it would not do to have to hang them if their friendship becomes anything more than that. They are both popular among the crew.
The boy scratches freely at his itches.
It is hard not to snap at him.
Mareday
Weather – Brisk winds, changeable.
Cloud cover – Thinning.
Visibility – Good.
Swell – Medium.
From another sojourn up the island (and another losing battle with whatever finds my flesh so delightful) it looks like two of the boneships are getting ready to leave. Coughlin is of the opinion that anything that may have been left for me is likely gone, and he may well be right. But I have spent long days on Indyl’s island and know its paths and places as well as I know my own heart – those invading it (if they are) will not. I know the cabin at its centre well too and that it has many hidden places none would think to look. Ey, it is dangerous to go ashore and I have wrestled with this. I will leave most of my crew on this island and take only Coughlin, Narza and – though it pains me – Gavith. The boy’s senses are better than any others and such a small group can move quickly and silently through the gion. I am glad that the gion and varisk is not dying here yet – we will be thankful of the cover.
Clensday
Weather – Little wind. Rain.
Cloud cover – Thick, grey.
Visibility – Poor.
Swell – Small.
Two of the boneships left Indyl’s island while we stayed on ours and watched. The first left early in the morran while the wind still held, towed out of the shelter of the island by its crew until its wings filled and it heeled around to head south toward who knows what. The ship was handled well and there was little I found to criticise in the way the deckchilder worked. Possibly it only goes south in hope of picking up the currents or kinder winds, possibly it had orders and must follow them. It was called Sorrowful Bird. Why I spent time wondering on it I do not know as there is little I can do, no matter what its course may be. The second left later and that ship caused me considerable trouble. If not for the speed with which Coughlin and his men can work with an axe – they may never be deckchilder but they have a different sort of strength to my crew and thank the Hag for it – all would have been lost before it began. It left slowly, towed out of the harbour like its brother-ship, and I saw its name – Hassith’s Spear (if ever there were an unlucky sounding ship to serve upon then surely that must be it – who names a ship for the man that killed the God-Bird?). The wind gave it little energy and it moved with all the urgency of a woman in a warm bed heading for a cold bath.
However, the shipwife was clearly not pleased with this and all was action upon the slate, deckchilder running hither and thither (slovenly) and the coursers (two of them) brought up while the officers set to screaming at the crew in a way that made me think it is not a happy ship to fly within (the deckmother was far too free with cord and club). Then gullaime were brought up and were it not for Gavith and his good eyes, well, I dread to think what would have happened. (Am I slipping? Am
I?)
“Why does their shipwife spin his hands around, Shipwife?” he asked. Normally I barely hear his mumbles – he will not look me in the eye and is given to constant little complaints that I choose to ignore – but glad I am that I caught his words this day. Why indeed was their shipwife spinning his arms about and bringing the gullaime up?
Could be nothing, but more likely he intended to do a round of the islands just in case those he expected to turn up were hiding, as indeed we are.
Then we were squirming our way back and, as soon as we were over the brow of the hill, running for the little shelter we had made. We took the shelter down quickly and Coughlin felled a large gion in such a way it looked to have collapsed naturally, and that hid our boat. I do not know where he learned that but it is a useful skill and I will have him teach it to some of my deckchilder. Then we scattered across the island to hide in the brush which is where I write this and watch Hassith’s Spear as it circles the island. Occasionally I catch a glint from the ship’s deck as Skearith’s Eye is reflected off the lens of a nearglass. I worry that they may choose to send deckchilder or seaguard ashore. If they do we are lost.
I remain a feast for insects.
Clensday – Night.
Weather – Blustery. Rain.
Cloud cover – Thick, grey.
Visibility – Poor.
Swell – Small.
That Hag-cursed ship is still circling even as night comes in. Clearly my mother knows something is up, even if not what. We have full cloud cover and Skearith’s Blind Eye is closed. I cannot see the future or read fortunes in the eyes of a dead child like a hagpriest, but I think the shipwife of Hassith’s Spear is the impatient type. Four times they have been round this island, the first two times far apart with sojourns to the other islands, the last two close enough for me to think they concentrate on us.
