by Rj Barker
I feel sure they will land. I feel it in my bones the way I feel the rising of the sea. It is too late and dark now for them to do anything but send a flukeboat, and that would be foolish. Were it me I would wait until morran and come in close, land as much of my crew as I could.
We will leave here tonight on the flukeboat. All of us. We will make for Indyl’s island, though it seems foolhardy. This could get us all killed if we are caught between islands – there is not enough wind to escape and we cannot out-row a boneship powered by gullaime.
Should I wait them out?
Second guessing myself? That is no good and no use. I must act.
Hagsday
Weather – Still. Unseasonably hot, like a storm is gathering his anger.
Cloud cover – None.
Visibility – Good.
Swell – Small.
We made land on Indyl’s island last night and I will find a way to reward every woman and man who is with me. Not a complaint, not a moment when they did not jump to the orders given. I watched Hassith’s Spear on its fifth journey round our island in the darkness. Then with all the energy we had we pulled the gion off the flukeboat and got it back in the water. We followed the course of Hassith’s Spear and when we were in the channel between islands, and could see the rumplights of the boneship, we rowed for all we were worth for Indyl’s island. Never have I been so sure I would hear the call of “ship rising” and see that boneship turning. But it did not (which speaks poorly of the crew of the Spear, but that is what happens when a shipwife is overly harsh). We made landfall at the rear of the island and hid the flukeboat once more under a gion cut by Coughlin and his men. We found plenty to eat (among the smaller plants some fine berries). I told the crew to get what rest they can. Coughlin has posted sentries. I have sent Narza to the quiet bothy on the east of the island. It was my and Indyl’s most secret place and I do not want my crew trampling around in it. If the message is not there it must be in the larger shack, which is a pity as I suspect that will be well guarded.
The crew scratch freely at their insect bites while I feel close to madness.
Menday
Weather – Howling winds. A storm is coming.
Cloud cover – Thick grey.
Visibility – Poor.
Swell – High.
Damn Indyl. Narza found nothing. The weather has turned and the winds are fair set to rip the gion forest apart. I was right about Hassith’s Spear, he has dropped his staystone by the island we were hiding on previously, if he lands crew I do not doubt he will find evidence of our stay. Narza has been to look at the shack and says there is almost an entire crew posted around it. Well, not posted, asleep mostly, but there is upwards of a hundred of them. I will not throw my life, nor the lives of my crew away trying to get into the place, but at the same time I cannot risk Indyl’s message being found. I have instructed Narza to get in and set the place alight. Such things are as easy to her as climbing the side of a boneship is to me.
Things are not entirely bleak, though. The boneship in the island harbour is there for a reason – it appears to have lost its rudder and is going nowhere until it has a replacement, which is good. Once I am back on board Tide Child we will have little choice but to follow up on what Cahanny told Joron about the isle where gullaime are being sold. If nothing else we can wipe the place off the map, such places disgust me. (Ah Meas, and how many gullaime have you driven thoughtlessly to death?)
I must stop writing. Smoke rises above the gion.
Hagsday
Weather – Brisk winds.
Cloud cover – None.
Visibility – Good.
Swell – Small.
I thought our escape clean after days of empty horizons, but they have found us. Now it is a straight race, and one that we are sure to lose. Joron, I hope you have your keenest eyed topboy up the spine.
29
The Consequences of Command
She had called him to her cabin. He wondered if she would take his hat from him. Oh, she had not obviously been looking at the state of the ship, seeing the scars from battle with the mutineers, seeing the depleted crew on the slate of the deck. He knew she had noticed these things because she was Meas Gilbryn. Even tired, even bedraggled, even looking like she had not slept for a whole week and had been cruelly treated by merciless seas; she would notice these things.
When she had come aboard, followed by her crew, all living but looking half dead, she had ordered they all be fed, and that somewhere dry and warm and quiet be found for every one of them to get a good long sleep, even if it meant the officers gave up their cabins and slept on the deck. Then she had vanished below. After her went Mevans, Gavith, Coughlin and each and every woman and man who had accompanied her, all looking as though they had lost everything. But not for one moment did Joron even consider that she may have failed in her task, for she was Lucky Meas, the witch of Keelhulme Sounding, and she did not fail.
His hand fell to his hip, where the sword she had given him should be but was not.
He failed.
So when the gullaime hopped over to him he barely heard its words.
“She is sad.”
He did not understand why that would be. And when she called him to her cabin, he twisted it into worry about himself, about his shortcomings. Because surely she may be a little sad that she had chosen him and he had failed her. He had almost lost her ship. He had left her without enough crew to fight and crew it. What a poor commander he had been, and whatever judgement she had, he was ready for. So he stood before her desk, which stood in the long-worn ruts on the white floor. He stood and she stared into the pages of the small, sea-worn book she took everywhere with her, its cover tattered, filled with tiny handwriting in her own secret code. And had she been anyone but Meas Gilbryn he would have thought she swayed slightly in her seat because she was fighting sleep.
“Cwell finally made her move then,” she said quietly.
“Ey,” he said. “I should have—”
“Been told,” she said, still in that quiet voice. “You should have been told.” She stopped. Shut the book. “I should have told you. I have spoken with Dinyl already.”
“It was not his fault . . .”
“You are right,” she said. “It was not. And neither was it yours.” She tapped a finger on the desk. “A shipwife can be too clever, you know, Joron. Too sure of herself. That you brought my ship to me at all, given what happened . . . well, it makes me wonder if the Mother has a special place in her heart for you.” He did not know what to say. “How many do we have left? How many loyal?”
“Seventy-three, not including those you brought back, Shipwife.”
She smashed her right fist onto the top of the desk, making him jump, making everything on the desk jump. Then she pulled her fist back, cradling it in her left hand, rubbing the edge she had slammed into the hard varisk of the old desk.
“It is not enough,” she said, more to herself than to him. She looked up and he saw how tired she was. “You have been through much, but so have we. That ship, Hassith’s Spear, pursued us without let-up or sleep. Had it not been wary about use of its gullaime we would not be having this conversation, Joron, I assure you. I used every trick I knew to escape. But I am here more through luck than any great skill and . . .”
“You should sleep, Shipwife,” he said, and realised as he spoke that he was shaken. Because this was not the woman he was used to. Then, as if sensing his thoughts, that woman returned. He saw her temper and her pride rise up within, indignation that he had not only interrupted her, but seen fit to tell her what to do. And just as he braced himself for the squall of her temper, it vanished.
“Ey,” she said quietly. “It is the duty of the deckkeeper to tell the shipwife what she needs to be told, even when she may not like it.” Meas stood. “And you are right. I must sleep.” She came round the desk and put a hand on his arm, looked up into his face. “The crew of that ship, Hassith’s Spear, they saw me. M
y mother’s suspicions cannot be confirmed. It ran and it has a start on us, right enough, but we must follow that ship, Deckkeeper, we must not let it escape.” He nodded and she walked away from him, then turned. “Well? Why are you still standing there? See to it.”
“Ey Shipwife,” he said. And he turned to take his leave, stopping only at the door when she spoke again:
“Joron. I am sorry about Anzir.”
He turned back to her, tried to smile. Failed.
“I did not realise how much I would miss her until she was gone.”
“Ey,” Meas nodded, “it is often the way. Now go.”
They set course in the direction that Hassith’s Spear had taken but Joron knew the likelihood of them catching the smaller ship was slim. As a two-ribber it was lighter and faster than Tide Child, unless the seas were particularly rough. The crew assured Joron, and had many upon many times, that Tide Child was as fast as any in his class, faster even. He considered using the gullaime to speed them on but decided against it. Tide Child had lost precious hours getting Meas and her crew back on board and settled. It was likely Hassith’s Spear had changed direction to lose them as soon as he was out of sight. Joron did not want to tire the gullaime on a wild chase for no purpose. Instead he set their course for the island Meas had escaped from, reckoning that the ship was most likely to head back there, and they barrelled through the darkening night and growing seas, and he felt the song of the windspires in his mind, growing in volume, and he wondered what that meant. When the night bell rang Dinyl came up so Joron could sleep.
“She is not happy, Joron,” said Dinyl quietly.
“No,” said Joron. “And half dead on her feet.”
“Did she tell you what happened on the island? She did not tell me,” Dinyl looked away, as if ashamed.
“She did not share it with me either, Dinyl, but I think it was nothing good. She did not seem . . .”
“Herself? No. And now she has us chasing this two-ribber with scant chance of catching it.”
“You question her orders, Dinyl?”
The deckholder looked up, a hint of humour in his eyes at Joron’s playful pretence at anger.
“I think she is tired, as are you, Joron. Go get some sleep.”
“Ey, me and the whole ship.”
“Well,” said Dinyl, “I will shout at the topboys and threaten to throw them to the longthresh if they do not find me that ship. That should keep them busy.”
“Careful, we do not want one falling asleep and out of the tops, Dinyl. I suspect Meas will be angry if she wakes and any more crew are missing.”
“Well, then they had better stay awake,” he grinned. And then he was striding down the decks, shouting, “Tell of the sea, Topboy! And if I think you’re asleep I’ll throw you overboard myself!”
Knocking woke Joron. A gentle knocking on the door of his cabin and, as he forced open gluey eyes, he knew Skearith’s Eye had risen. Diffused light was pushing in around the bones of the bowpeek. He took a great sniff of air, a moment to work out what was wrong.
They were still. No whistling wind. No water rushing along the hull. And the moisture he could smell in the air could only mean mist. Becalmed. Meas would be furious. But if they were becalmed then so was the ship they chased. There was that at least.
The knocking came again.
“Yes?” he said
“The shipwife wants us all on the slate, D’keeper.” He recognised the cabin boy’s voice.
“Very well, Gavith, give me time to get dressed.”
“Shipwife is fair champing at—”
“I will be but a moment, and I imagine the shipwife will be even more angry if I go on deck without my trousers.”
“Ey D’keeper,” said Gavith. Joron heard him walk away.
It did not take him long to dress, and when he was decked out as he should be, in the blue jacket, one-tail hat and boots of the deckkeeper – a uniform to which he had added fine feathers from the gullaime and trinkets and memento mori of those slain, so he did not forget them – he made his way to the deck of Tide Child.
Oh, and what a solemn ship he found. Couched in mist, cocooned in grey air with every deckchilder loyal to the shipwife arrayed along the sides to seaward and landward. And all of them dressed in their best blues. At the far end of the ship, before the rump stood Meas, and Dinyl and Mevans and Solemn Muffaz. Coxward, Aelerin, Fogle, Coughlin and Berhof of the seaguard, looking a little green with seasickness, and all the petty officers of Tide Child, each in their best. Even eccentric Coxward had changed his bandages for less bloody ones than usual.
Above them, hanging from the spars of Tide Child, were five nooses, dripping moisture collected from the mist. Joron took his place by Meas, on the opposite side to Dinyl, and he knew what those carefully knotted ropes meant. Meas had decided it was time to deal with the mutineers. When he was in place, Meas nodded to herself.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
“Deckmother,” she barked. “Bring the prisoners up.” And Solemn Muffaz marched down the length of the ship and down the stairs into the underdeck. And Joron heard his voice barking out orders. When he returned he brought with him those women and men who had betrayed Tide Child and those who had followed them. The group – Joron counted nineteen in all and was surprised, he had not thought so many had survived – were quickly flanked by Berhof and Coughlin’s seaguard, again in their best clothes, and brought before Meas, where they were made to kneel on the deck. Joron hoped the cold damp slate beneath them felt like shame as water soaked through the knees of their clothes.
Drip.
Meas did not speak, not immediately. She let silence fall, let the mist envelop them. Let the ties that bound the wrists of each prisoner behind their back bite a little deeper. When she did speak he expected her to shout.
She did not. She spoke quietly.
Drip.
“A ship, a fleet ship, is a thing of trust,” she said. She walked forward and stood before the kneeling mutineers. Joron picked out Cwell in the first rank and felt a prickle of hatred. “Every one of you has betrayed that trust. And every one of you deserves to die. And it is my right, as shipwife, to take your lives. There is no question of that, none at all. But I need crew. Now, I have no doubt that many of you were brought into this through weakness as much as wickedness. So some of you will live, though I will break those that do. You will have no rank until you earn it. You will be lower than stonebound on the deck of this ship. You will jump to the orders of Gavith the cabin boy. Any seniority you may have earned is gone. You come back to my deck as nothing.” Such venom in that last word, somehow amplified by the fact she did not raise her voice. Not one woman or man who knelt before her raised their head. “You hear me? Nothing.” She walked up and down the line of prisoners. “But I want the ringleaders,” she said, and stamped her way back up the line until she stood before Joron. “You hear me? I want the ringleaders. Their necks, I will stretch. And their bodies will go to the beakwyrms and longthresh and the Hag will never receive them at her fire.”
Drip.
“Shipwife,” said Joron quietly, because he had promised some their lives and, though he partly regretted it, he could not keep quiet. But Meas held a hand out behind her back, a signal unseen by all but him and Dinyl that bade him be quiet, and so he was. Not because he was worried about speaking up, but because he knew he must trust her.
Drip.
“Speak quietly amongst yourselves,” said Meas to the mutineers, “then give me five names.” She turned away and came to stand by Joron. “I know of your promise,” she whispered. “This is all about timing.” She leaned in closer, “We will rid ourselves of Cwell once and for all here, and I will make sure you keep your honour about it.” Then she turned to watch the prisoners as they talked amongst themselves, all except Cwell, her face badly bruised and swollen, who remained kneeling on the deck. Joron wondered why, then realised he knew. There was no point in her joining the quiet and intense discussions behind her,
for what could she say? How could she deny her part in the mutiny, or that she had been the wellspring behind it?
Drip.
Then Cwell stood.
Drip.
“Shipwife,” she said.
Drip.
“Ey, Cwell?” said Meas.
Drip.
“These fools” – she gave a jerk of her head at the women and men behind her – “could not organise a drunk in a hold full of anhir. Stretch all their necks or none, for they all just followed me in search of what they thought was an easy life.” She took a step forward. “You are no fool, never have been. So you must know what the deckkeeper promised me, and I know you are too full of your own sense of right to go against it. So let us ignore this charade and I will make it easy for you.” She took another step forward but it was to Joron, not the shipwife she went to, and she knelt before him. “My actions took your shadow, Deckkeeper.” She looked up into his face. “You have no reason to trust me, I know, but I offer myself in the place of your shadow. And I also free you of your promise to me. Should you prefer me to hang, then stretch my neck and I will go to the Hag and suffer her judgement, whatever that may be.”
Drip.
Joron stared at her. His mind awhirl.
Drip.
Was this some game she played?
Drip.
Was this what Meas planned? How could she have known? And what did she want him to do?
Drip.
Everything in him said Cwell must die. Everything. He glanced over at Meas but she stood, eyes straight forward, giving no clue to what she thought. Behind her stood Narza. Narza who generally took no interest in the doings of the ship. Narza who followed her shipwife and killed, or not, on her order. But now she was watching Cwell, watching as if some creature had suddenly appeared on the deck that she understood, and Joron was unsure why he thought this until he noticed her head was slowly nodding. Not as a signal to him, she cared nothing for him. Nodding in understanding, or maybe even approval?
