Call of the Bone Ships

by Rj Barker

  Nearer he could see the smoke, columns of grey rising straight up from the settlement at the bottom of the mountain only to be caught by the wind, pushed against the rock to crawl up it in runnels and webs of grey. It was as if filthy water ran up the mountain to escape what happened below, where the slate was cut and the ore was smelted. Closer still he could see the castellated harbour walls, built from the same black stone as the island. Two huge and round towers, even higher than the tallest boneship, and between them sat the bonegate, a sea gate made of two giant pelvis bones from ancient arakeesians, the thickest and strongest bones bound together with boneglue and rope and precious iron, into a barrier that could be raised or dropped to allow ships to pass in and out of the harbour. On top of the towers fire burned, and Joron was sure he could see the outline of the great gallowbows mounted there to protect the precious resources that Sleighthulme produced.

  “Farys,” he shouted, and she came running to squat beside him. “Get up the spine, start making the signals for help. Remember the codes and do it yourself. I trust no other like I trust you.”

  “You do not trust Mevans, or Gavith?” she said.

  “Of course I do,” he said, “but I trust you more.”

  “Yes, Shipwife,” she replied. Then he heard the whistle of something cutting through the air and heard a splash as a bolt landed in the sea by them. Specks of water wet his face.

  “Well, it has started now.” Another whistle and splash of water over the deck as a bolt from the black ships behind them was launched. “I knew Meas would make it look real,” he said, “but that was closer than I would like, Farys.”

  She grinned at him.

  “Best we escape then, eh Shipwife?”

  “Best indeed,” he said, and watched her as she turned and ran up the rigging as if she had not a care in the world.

  The island before them grew, gatehouses like jutting teeth, and he could see the town beyond through the holes in the gate. In the town was a distant shape he recognised, and yet could not quite understand. He went to reach within his jacket but remembered he no longer wore it – it had been taken off at Mevans’ insistence, the better to look like he was wounded, and because, as the man said, “Blood is the very arse to get off, Shipwife.”

  “Cwell,” he said, “bring me my nearglass.” She vanished, returning quickly and passing him the instrument. He brought it to his eye. A flash of the white bone of the gate, a flash of the black stone beyond. Trying to keep the nearglass still to see through the gate while the ship moved up and down on the waves was almost impossible.

  White.

  Black.

  A glimpse.

  The smooth roundness of bothies – some small, some huge. Blocky buildings that must be foundries, belching smoke. Some spines of ships in the harbour – a huge space, quarried out of the island. Cranes for unloading and . . .

  White.

  Black.

  A glimpse.

  There!

  White.

  Black.

  A glimpse.

  What was it?

  White.

  Black.

  A glimpse.

  A tripod, taller than the bothies. Something like a crane but not a crane. Hoisted into the air on it was a huge block of rock, but for what purpose? Why would such a great weight be hanging in the air in the very centre of the town? And behind the tripod a fire, a huge fire.

  White.

  Black.

  A glimpse.

  “Shipwife,” said Cwell, “what do you see that concerns you?”

  White.

  Black.

  A glimpse.

  “Mangonel,” he said quietly, lowering the nearglass. “A massive one, a siege catapult of the like I have never seen, Cwell. They must have scrapped an entire boneship to build it.” All that he was wanted to race up the spine and signal Meas behind him – Retreat! Scatter! But he knew he could not: physically could not, his body would not let him; and if he did such a thing, then all would be for nothing as it would betray their ruse to Sleighthulme. It would ruin the illusion of a ship pursued by enemies entirely. All he could do was raise the nearglass, watch through the jerky lens.

  White.

  Black.

  A glimpse.

  Movement near the bottom of the giant catapult, shadows in the fire.

  White.

  Black.

  A glimpse.

  The great block began to fall, a slow motion. The arm rising, pulling behind it the rope and the cradle for the burning missile, up and up.

  White.

  Black.

  A glimpse.

  And it launched. The arm swung lazily forwards, though he knew there would be an army of women and men at the bottom, ready to fight with ropes to bring it back under control.

  White.

  Black.

  Lowered the nearglass.

  Something roared overhead, a fiery star that lit the deck of Keyshantooth as if Skearith had opened a second eye and stared down at them. He waited, holding his breath, listening for the splash and a hiss as the sea extinguished the flame of the missile, swallowed the projectile.

  A crash.

  Screams.

  He knew what it meant, and could not help – though he should lay still – rolling over to see the damage. The fleet splitting in two behind them. It looked so orderly, as if every ship knew its place, but he knew it would not be. Every woman and man would be scrambling to put space between them and the giant catapult.

  Between the two arms of the fleet was a burning wreck. Prone as he was, he could not see well enough to recognise the ship.

  “Was it her?” he said, barely able to breathe.

  “It was not Tide Child,” said Cwell from by him.

  “Who then?”

  “I am sorry, Shipwife,” said Cwell, and at that moment he knew he could trust her, as he heard his coming pain echoed in her voice and there was no joy there. No gloat nor sneer. “It were the Bonebore, Shipwife.”

  And he nearly broke in that moment, was nearly overwhelmed by emotion. That Cwell, of all people would recognise his loss. Hag’s mercy, he hoped it had been quick. Hoped that Dinyl had never seen the missile, never had time to think about it before it hit. To cover the wetness in his eyes he lifted the nearglass once more, found the gaps in the gate.

  White.

  Black.

  A glimpse through tears.

  The mangonel was already wound halfway back down.

  “Hag take you all,” he said under his breath, rubbed at his wet eyes. “I’ll send every single one of you to her if I have to send you myself.”

  “Will they loose again, Shipwife?” said Cwell.

  White.

  Black.

  A glimpse through tears.

  “Yes.” He rolled on the deck, looking back at the ships now heading away. “But I imagine Meas will have the fleet out of range by the time they do.”

  “Signal, Shipwife!” was shouted down from the tops, and did he imagine it, but even in that shout did Farys sound a little gentler than usual? “They say, ‘Hove to outside the gate’.”

  “Cwell,” he said softly, lowering the nearglass. “Have Farys reply that we will. I would do it myself but I find my voice is not as strong as I would wish.” And with that order Keyshantooth came about, slowing to a stop before the great gate while all those they knew, trusted and loved flew away, or sank beneath the sea, never to be seen again.

  “What do you want here?” was shouted from the tower. And Farys, dear Farys, shouted back:

  “Entry and help. My shipwife lies broken upon the deck.” And Joron – a lancing pain in his heart and the fading image of Dinyl, stood in his shipwife’s finery upon the rump of Bonebore while the fiery missile came down – thought that she spoke even truer than she could know.

  49

  The Enemy Within

  There was much toing and froing, much exchanging of codewords and much anger that Keyshantooth was here when the Bern of Sle
ighthulme did not think it should be. At one moment Joron was sure they would not be let in, and there were many questions as to why Shipwife Barnt was not in command. The agreed excuse – that he had moved to a bigger ship – was given by Farys. Joron was introduced as Shipwife Tinner, a name near enough his own to forgive any slip of the tongue amongst his crew, but also the name of a rich family back in Bernshulme, which would more than explain the rapid rise of a shipwife they had never heard of. Eventually, grudgingly, it was decided that Keyshantooth should be let in and the great bone gate was lifted from the sea, its bottom thick with green weed and encrusted with shells. Two pilot boats rowed out and were swiftly tied on to the front of Keyshantooth so he could be towed into the harbour. Joron was pulled from his place, leaving a smear of red on the deck, so he sat against the bottom of the mainspine in among spatters of red and blue paint. From there he could watch the harbour and town of Sleighthulme and the giant mangonel that sat wreathed in the smoke of Sleighthulme’s foundries.

  While he watched the hateful machine Joron found that if he took the icy, gnawing pain within and twisted it up as hard as he could, like a deckchild drying their clothes on washing day, he could wring out the pain and distil it into hate, and it was that towering siege weapon that he aimed his hate at. The weapon, and those that operated it. It sat at rest now, long throwing arm in the air, the sling hanging down, pushed slightly from the stained bone of the arm by the wind. Two thirds of the way down it was the axle which it moved on, and below that the huge weight that gave the projectile its power and range.

  “That’ll have to go,” said Coughlin as he came to stand by Joron.

  “Ey, and it will give me great pleasure to see it fall.” Then he took a breath, and pushed back his hate. “But Meas may think it worth weathering its shot to have it intact when we take the island, in case Sleighthulme is the trap some fear.” Coughlin shook his head. “You disagree, Coughlin?”

  He bit on his lip and nodded. “Were it I in command of that giant, Shipwife,” he said, “then I would know exactly how to aim it at the gate we just passed through. Wreck one ship in the gate and you as good as block it.”

  Joron nodded, absorbed the sense in his words.

  “Then the weapon must come down,” said Joron. “That makes our job harder. Where is the map that Anopp drew for us?”

  Coughlin took a beautifully drawn map of Sleighthulme from inside his robe and passed it to Joron. “Aelerin embellished it,” he said.

  “Then we should thank the courser. Now, see here,” said Joron, and he pointed at the map. “We are here, coming through the gate and just passing the infirmary of Sleighthulme, built into the same building that gives access to the landward tower and the winding mechanism for the gate.”

  “That is often the way,” said Coughlin, “to put those worth least as a buffer against the places a besieger would be sure to attack.”

  “Well, you are right, but space is at a premium here and as no one has ever managed to get in, maybe they do not think it will ever be a problem?” He gave Coughlin the sort of grin a longthresh would give a drowning deckchild. “Now, Anopp tells us that their gallowbows are built in such a way that the weapons cannot be turned on one another. They are confident they will only ever be loosing outward. I had hoped to take the bow on our side and use it on the other.”

  “There will be a way,” said Mevans. “There always is.”

  “Well, Mevans, when the time comes, that will be your job. A race between your expertise on our side and their knowledge of their own weapon on the other. It must come down or it will do fearful damage to the ships coming in.”

  Mevans nodded and turned to a deckchild. “Tell one of the bonewrights, we will need saws and hammers on land.”

  “Now . . .” Joron took a stick of charcoal from an inner pocket, and wondered what it looked like to those on land, so many gathered round him. They must think him close to death. “Here is the town centre where they have built the mangonel.” He drew an X on the map and his voice became quiet, the words dying in his mouth. Dinyl. He took a breath. Fought back the sudden pain in his throat and tear in his eye. “There are many entrances to this square. If they have enough deckchilder and soldiers taking that catapult will be hard.”

  “I will take a look when we are on land,” said Coughlin. “It is still your plan to wait until night?”

  “It is what Meas wants. Unless we are forced to move before then we will stick to her timetable. We will need to find a way to send her some sort of signal too.”

  “I’m sure there will be a way,” said Coughlin.

  “Let me through,” said a voice, “all you big ones barring an old woman from her charge.” Garriya pushed into sight past Coughlin and Mevans. “Would you have us killed before we even land? To have a wounded shipwife unattended by a hagshand? What sort of ship would that be?” She groaned as she squatted by Joron’s stump and produced some bloody rags from the healer’s bag she carried.

  “What is that?”

  “Subterfuge,” she said. “A kivelly’s corpse. Managed to stop that Hag-cursed gullaime eating this one. I cut it and mangled it, so it looks like bloody flesh and bone.” She pulled off the rags and showed him the wet red-and-white mess in her hand. “See? Now I just need to attach it to your stump.” She pulled at the ragged trouser leg. “You have not been keeping this clean enough.”

  “I have had a ship to command.”

  “No excuses, there are ulcers. Don’t look after it and I’ll end up cutting more off.”

  Foolish to argue with her, he thought, and it was plain on the faces of those around him they agreed, for no woman or man aboard had ever won an argument with Garriya.

  “It will look like a fresh wound?”

  “Aye – to those who just glance, anyway.”

  “And those who look deeper? I am sure their hagpriests will not leave us alone for long.”

  “There’s many a healer would be fooled by this,” she cackled, tucking the cold flesh around the end of his leg. “But the hagpriests, Mother curse them, well, they tend to look a little closer.” She looked up, her eyes suddenly intense. “We may have to kill them, Caller.”

  A fire descending from the sky.

  “I have no qualms on that front, Hagshand.”

  “Good,” she said. “We should kill a lot more hagpriests, make the world a better place, I say.” She shuffled back so she could admire her handiwork, then returned, tugging and pulling on the corpse attached to his leg before she was finally happy. “I’ll keep them from you as long as we can. But you have taken an important name, and they will want their important priests to look at you, Caller. Nothing I can do about that in the end. Fierce as I can be, would look strange if I did not eventually comply. Me being a lowborn know-nothing and all.” She cackled and backed away.

  “No plan survives contact with the enemy, Garriya,” he said. And she chuckled once more.

  “Let’s hope we survive though, aye? Garriya may be old but she’d like to see a few more years out yet.” Then she was gone, back into the depths of the ship and Joron was forced to wait and feign illness as Keyshantooth was towed into the harbour.

  From there a small force of seaguard came aboard and he was picked up, moaning and groaning. His pain brought curious looks until he let a different pain rise up, let grief overwhelm him, and the sobbing began. Such pain in a shipwife made the seaguard about him far less curious, and they turned away in embarrassment. He was put into a hammock that was swung over the side by a hastily erected crane into a waiting flukeboat. Mevans, Farys and Garriya accompanied him to the quayside and from there he was carried through gloomy streets to the hagbower.

  Everything within him wanted to scream. Here the bothies were built close, and the tenements were built close, and when you moved between them, through the streets, the light of Skearith’s Eye was blocked. It was like being once more imprisoned within a box. He found it hard to breathe, found himself panicking. Found his mind going down
dark paths: imagining Dinyl, thrown overboard by the missile from the mangonel, sinking into black water, drowning, while the many and varied toothed and tentacled beasts of the sea circled and—

  He felt a hand on his arm.

  “Calm, Caller, calm. The pain will be over soon. You just breathe for old Garriya, you breathe.”

  He did. Focusing on the in and out of air through his lungs. And while he did that his thoughts calmed a little, and he concentrated on the stones and blocks that made the buildings, on the shadows formed by Skearith’s Eye above and he told himself he was not within the box. Told himself that the obstruction in his throat was not swelling from the garrotte but something put there by his grief. When his mind had quietened a little more he noticed something else about this place, this bleak and black island – it did not sing to him the way the others did.

  Silence.

  He had not felt a silence in his mind ever, now he thought on it. The song had always been there, and it had only got louder since he had met the gullaime – when the creature was about, the song ran on and on in counterpoint to the many other melodies in his mind. Now it felt as if some vast hand had dampened the constantly vibrating strings within him. This silence felt as dark and as oppressive as the shadows, as waking within the box with his voice crushed from him, as being held down by unseen hands and powerful drugs while they cut off his leg. The panic started to rise again.

  A cold white hand on the warm brown skin of his arm. He felt a song within him, a quiet one, only a whisper of the greater melodies that had always been there, but enough.

  “Be calm, Caller,” said Garriya. “This dead island taxes us all.” And he tried to breathe and listen to the quiet song of his blood and his body. Garriya kept her hand on his arm for the rest of the short walk to the hagbower. That place also held its terrors for Joron, as it was in a hagbower where mind-numbing sedatives had been fed to him and he had come close to joining those taken away, stowed in tight racks on dark ships.