by Rj Barker
“There will be no betting,” said Meas. “This is a council of war. Not a games room.” Turrimore leaned back in her seat with a shrug, then gave Meas a small nod of assent. “Brekir, please carry on.”
“Well, back to our numbers. We have five of the shipwives gathered here. Then seven more, though Bonebore lacks a shipwife – and, of course, the ship you bring, Keyshantooth, though it is in poor repair.”
“Twelve warships. It is a fleet,” said Sarring of the Hag’s Maelstrom, one of the two pure white boneships that had come across from the Hundred Isles fleet. By her sat her Deckkeeper, Lellyn, a woman so small that Joron suspected her family must be extremely rich to have kept her in among the Bern. She was barely over the height of Joron’s hip.
“Albeit a fleet of the dead,” said Chiver, shipwife of the Last Light, the second of the fleet boneships that had come over to Meas. His deckkeeper, Tona, sat beside him. He still wore the leather straps and sculpted trousers of the Kept and he nodded as he spoke.
“A black ship fights harder than any pretty fleet boneship,” growled Adrantchi. “Pretty lights above the deck do not make a fighting ship.”
“No, they do not,” said Chiver lightly. “It is about discipline, about having the Bernlaw on the deck and following it and—”
“Enough!” shouted Meas. “Chiver, stop talking afore you drive your beak into the sea and drown in your own words. You chose to come join us, so your ship is black in all but paint, for now.” For a moment the threat of violence filled the room, then Chiver nodded.
“Ey, you are right.” His words were almost a sigh. “I am a fighting shipwife. I suppose it is in me to fight and this is not the place.”
“Save it for those set against us,” said Meas.
“Ey,” said Adrantchi, “it will be a hard fight, and we will need all the fighting shipwives we have.”
“We also have five brownbones,” said Brekir. “Big ones.”
“That is good,” said Meas, “we will need them.”
“For what?” said Chiver. “That is the real question.”
“To take our people back.”
“You have found them then?” said Adrantchi. “I am glad. It will shut the mouths of those who doubted you.” He glanced at Chiver but the shipwife ignored him. “Do they use them as slaves?”
“In a manner,” said Meas. “It seems that hiyl, for hunting the keyshans, is not made from the beasts as we thought, but the process of making it is so poisonous it kills the workers in a matter of days.”
“And this is what they take people for?” said Turrimore. “It makes a certain sense I suppose. Why look after them well when they are destined to die so quickly?”
“It is barbaric,” said Brekir quietly.
“We will take our people back,” said Meas, “and more than that, we will destroy my mother’s ability to make hiyl.”
“No hiyl, no keyshan bone,” said Brekir. “No bone, no ships. No ships, no war.”
“They will only set up again somewhere else,” said Chiver.
“That is a problem for later,” said Meas. “This is a wound we can make now, and it will be a deep one.”
“Where though?” said Turrimore. “That is the question. I hope it is not Bernshulme, as I doubt twelve ships will be enough.” She grinned, and her joke was met with smiles and laughter.
“No, not Bernshulme,” said Meas. “Sleighthulme.”
The laughter stopped.
“Sleighthulme cannot be taken,” said Adrantchi. Meas shook her head.
“No, Sleighthulme has not yet been taken, it is different.” She looked around the table, serious faces considering her words. “Keyshantooth’s deckmother, Anopp, had been sorely treated by his shipwife. He was more than glad to tell me what he knew of Sleighthulme. It was not much but it is enough. He knows the signals needed to get inside.”
“I doubt they will open their gates for a fleet of black ships, Meas, no matter what signals we have,” said Sarring. “And good though you are, Sleighthulme is a natural fortress.”
“A fortress is only as strong as its doors,” said Meas with a grin. “Joron will fly in Keyshantooth. We will be chasing him, and it will look like he is seeking safety. Then that night he will take the gatehouse and open the gate for us. That is how we take Sleighthulme.”
“Surely they will know the crew of Keyshantooth,” said Black Ani.
“Anopp assures me they never landed, only escorted the brownbones to the island then left and I do not think he ever knew what horrors were aboard. The ship is all that is familiar to them.”
“What if it is a trap?” said Chiver. “What if that man was left for you to find?”
“The man was half dead when we found him.”
Chiver shrugged and Joron wished Coult, the fierce shipwife he had fought with at Safeharbour, had come instead of this fleet shipwife. He was beginning to dislike Chiver. But Coult had been out on patrol and was not back yet.
“You think a shipwife would not throw a man’s life away if it meant victory?” said Chiver.
Silence.
Faces around the table.
Some blank, hiding their opinions.
Some angry.
Some thoughtful.
“Maybe a poor shipwife would,” said Meas, “but my mother would not risk an entire ship to set up a trap. How could she know we would take it?”
Chiver kept Meas’s gaze for a fraction too long, then nodded.
“How indeed,” he said, breaking off his stare.
“Can you bring the keyshans, Meas?” said Adrantchi. “To help us?”
Meas glanced for the briefest second at Joron, then tapped the table.
“What makes you think anyone can do that, Adrantchi?”
“Oh come, we’ve all heard it. When you fought Hag’s Hunter, and then at McLean’s Rock, the keyshans come when you need then. We all talk of it, even Brekir there, but no one else will say it. I think we should put all we have on the table and it is a mighty weapon, to have the sea dragons come when you ask.”
Something in Joron ran cold at this. And yet, he was strangely glad that they had put their expectation on Meas, who had never raised a sea dragon, and not on him, who he was very sure had, even if he did not really know how.
“They do not come when I ask,” said Meas. “I just happened to be where they were, that is all. We can bank on no arakeesians as allies.” Adrantchi nodded, as if he had thought this all along but Joron could sense the disappointment that hung in the air.
“If that is all then?” said Meas. No one spoke. “Well, we leave in the morran. You have tonight to load what you need on to your ships. Chiver and Sarring, we can do nothing about your corpselights but you are to paint your ships black. You are of us now.”
Joron expected argument from the two fleet shipwives but they simply nodded and the meeting broke up. Only Brekir hung back, making an excuse of a personal matter and waiting until the others were over the side of Tide Child and on their way back to their commands.
“What is it, Brekir?”
“I only wish to say two things, and I did not wish to say them in front of the others.”
Meas gave her a curt nod. “What is the first?”
“The two fleet shipwives. They only left because they felt they could get nowhere under your mother. They came to us not knowing Safeharbour was lost, thinking they had a future. I am not sure they can be trusted.”
Meas picked up a knife from the table and ran the tip along the bone surface, making a long scratched line.
“Were it only Chiver, I would agree. He has a mouth and a temper on him. But Sarring is the more forceful personality between them and I know them both from Bernshulme. Chiver’s family are poor, and owe their place to Sarring’s. Sarring’s family, in turn, owe their own fortunes to the family of Lellyn, Sarring’s deckkeeper. Now that family, were it not for their vast holdings, would not be counted among the Bern for many of their children are smaller than the hagpriests woul
d say is right. I think it is Lellyn’s family that both of them serve, and our way would be good for them. So, we trust them for now. It is politicking – those two boneships are someone’s outside bet. We will watch them, though, do not worry.” Brekir nodded. “And the second point, Brekir?”
“A harder one, shipwife,” she said quietly.
“One does not become a shipwife by making easy decisions.” Meas smiled as she spoke.
“Ey, that is ever true.” Brekir took a deep breath. “We must be very sure of what we do next, Shipwife Meas.” She licked her lips, chapped by salt winds. “These ships we go to Sleighthulme with, they will carry all we are. All our women and men are needed to crew them, and as the children cannot be left alone they will be brought along in the brownbones. We leave none behind at Leasthaven. If we fail, Meas, all we are is finished.”
“We are that badly depleted?”
“Ey,” said Brekir, “We are.”
“Well, Brekir, and I tell you this as a friend not a commander, we have no choice, do we? We cannot leave our people to die.”
“It has been months, Meas. The growing is finally upon us again. No one may even have survived this long from Safeharbour.”
“I cannot believe that, Brekir. We cannot fail our people so fully. What are we if we do not even try?”
Brekir stood for a moment, as if lost. Then she put out her arm and clasped Meas by her forearm as one does an old and respected comrade.
“We are nothing, Shipwife,” she said. “If we do not try we are nothing. You are right there. Better to lose it all for what is right than to live in fear.”
As Brekir left Joron went to follow her, his movements slow and careful on the bone spur; one hand ever ready to reach for something to steady his walk.
“Joron, stay a moment,” said Meas. “I would speak with you.”
He nodded and once more took a seat at the table. “If it is about what Brekir said, then you are right. We cannot leave our people.”
“It is not about what Brekir said,” returned Meas. “You look troubled, Joron, and I would know why.”
“It is only the coming action – and, well . . .” He glanced down, at where the table hid his leg and that which had been severed from him. Meas held up a hand.
“Do not tell me it is fear of action, for you have seen plenty. And do not say it is only your leg. You have made great progress in the past weeks and I am not a fool.” He nodded. “Something else weighs on you, and it has weighed heavy on you for a while now. So, tell me what ails you.”
He leaned forward and sighed. Tried not to look at her, for whenever he put what he had been told into words it sounded like a madness.
“Do not make me order you to speak, Joron,” she said, a familiar hardness in her voice, though when he looked up that hardness was not in her grey eyes. “I can, of course, if it would make speaking easier.”
“No, you need not do that.” He leaned against his chair. “Have you heard Madorra, and before that, Shorn, refer to our gullaime as Windseer?”
“Ey, on occasion I have. It is some gullaime thing, I have heard others of their kind say it before. What of it?”
“It is a name of power to the gullaime, a name of prophecy. They believe the Windseer will come and free them all.”
“And that is no bad thing for them to believe. They will fight harder in our cause for it.”
He leaned forward and whispered to her.
“The Windseer frees the gullaime by killing everything, Shipwife. Everything. Fire and blood, they say. Humans and gullaime all die as the world and Skearith are reborn.”
“And you believe this?”
He stopped. Did he? Under Meas’s cold grey gaze he was not as sure. Was it only superstition and was he being as foolish and gullible as a deckchild fresh off the slate?
“Our gullaime is like no other,” he said, his words slow. “We know that. And now the keyshans return just as the gullaime believe they will.” Meas sat back. “Our gullaime says it will not do this thing Madorra believes in. But if the prophecy is real, what if it has no control?”
“Have you told anyone of this, Joron?”
“No, and I have sworn the gullaime and Madorra to secrecy.”
“Will they keep this secret?”
Joron thought for a moment and then nodded. “Ey, our gullaime wants nothing to do with being the Windseer. And Madorra, well, it is a fanatic and will do anything to protect the gullaime. We should be careful of it, I think.”
“Fanatics can be useful Joron.” She paused. “Do you believe it?”
He shrugged. He did not know. Silence, gently resting between them in the cabin.
“Do you know the story of the Tide Child, Joron? That this ship is named for?” He shook his head. “Of course not. It is not a story my mother or the Bern before her have ever wanted told. But I will tell it to you. The Tide Child is a babe brought to land by the sea, a lost daughter of a powerful family. Unable to die on land, or by the blade of woman or man. She sweeps all foes before her. Sound familiar, to you, Joron?”
“It is you,” he said, in wonder, and fear – a tide of fear, washing over him. “Do we live in an age of prophecy?”
She smiled and shook her head. “There is more to it, yet. Eventually it is said the Tide Child will unite Gaunt and Hundred Islander in peace. War will end.”
“It really is you,” he said. She chuckled, shook her head.
“Do you see any sign of war ending, Joron?” Meas stood, walked to the back of the cabin where the great windows looked out on the bleak sea. “I believed it once: Lucky Meas, the greatest shipwife who ever lived. But look at us now, Joron, struggling for enough crew to fly our ships. Outcast and outlawed. And even if it were true, then how could this prophecy and the windseer prophecy be true at the same time? Ey? They cannot. They are all lies. Stories to make children feel good about themselves, to give hope to the lost.”
“But it is true, Shipwife,” he said.
“What?”
“You have united Gaunt and Hundred Islanders in peace, on this ship, in our fleet. Among our people.”
“That is only a small thing, Joron.” She looked down at the white boards of the deck. “Maybe that is the true nature of prophecy – we can only change what is within our reach. So do not worry about the gullaime, do not worry about their prophecy. Hold close those you care for. Worry only about tomorrow, and the day after. Think not on the day after that for we fly a ship of the dead, and the Hag calls us all. To plan far ahead is to ask for the Maiden to thwart all you are. We live in the now. We fight for what we believe is right. We can do nothing else.”
He nodded, struggled to stand, the unfamiliar bone leg working against him and he almost tripped. But she was there, a steadying hand. “Thank you for telling me, Joron,” she said softly. “Thank you for trusting me.”
He nodded, unsure how to reply.
“Send Dinyl to me,” she continued. “It has been a bleak day and I would put a little joy in it. Bonebore needs a shipwife, and it is about time Dinyl was rewarded for his loyalty.” And with that glad news, Joron left her cabin a little lighter of heart.
47
The First Command Is the Hardest
It was a bright day, and some of the bite had left the wind so it was easy to believe the dying season had really ended and the growing time was about to start. Though for those who trod the slate decks of the Hundred Isles’ fleet ships the dying season never ended – the green shoots of growth began, only to be cut down by gallowbow or curnow or straightsword.
This was the hardest time in the Hundred Isles: the stores of crops and food were running out, and the ground was not yet yielding new grain or roots. Fish had gone deeper to escape the cold currents coming from the north and south storms, and the only sea creatures that could still be hunted were the hardiest, largest and fiercest. But there was hope now – in the cleared ground and the fixed and cleaned nets that lay drying on docks; in Skearith’s Eye which shimm
ered on the wavelets, making the deckchilder and the officers squint against the brightness, promising that the heat and the growing would come.
Joron may have been physically diminished by the constant fight, but he had grown in other ways and now, as a result of that growth, he stood on the rump of his own ship. Oh, it was not a permanent command, the ship was not nearly as grand as Tide Child, not as great, as well kept or as loved. This ship was a patched-together wreck, but the Keyshantooth at least had spines now, sheeted with white wings taken from Hag’s Maelstrom and Last Light, done under sufferance of their shipwives, who had already suffered the indignity of painting their ships black and being told to bring up the rear of the convoy. This so the corpselights floating above the ships did not give away that they were fleet ships, as for Meas’s ruse to work Sleighthulme must believe one of their own ships was in danger from a whole fleet of attackers. If, as it seemed, it was known in the Hundred Isles that the black ships no longer served Thirteenbern Gilbryn, then Joron’s ship must appear to be running from those same black ships.
His crew was not large, but enough to keep the ship running. Farys was here, and Mevans, to act as his command crew along with Aelerin, who had hidden themselves away with charts below. Jennil stood as deckmother and somewhere the gullaime, accompanied by Madorra, gave full rein to its curiosity and explored the dark bowels of the ship. Meas had also sent Coughlin and his seaguard aboard as she foresaw most of Joron’s fighting would be done on land. Despite the sad state Keyshantooth was in he flew well, was a well-made ship, if small as most modern ships were. Beside them flew Tide Child, like the shadow of the white ship. Behind them Borebone with Dinyl – full of joy at his new, and permanent, command. No doubt also complaining of a headache from the late night of drinking that, despite Joron’s warnings, he had indulged in to celebrate their new positions. Joron could still hear Dinyl shouting, “Join me in a drink, to celebrate!” as he had thrown an arm around him. But Joron had been too deep in thought about the coming action, too desirous of a clear head and had instead only promised to join his delighted shipfriend in a drink when they returned from Sleighthulme.
