The Bone Ships

by R J Barker

  “A fool’s custom,” she hissed under her breath and pushed a passing juggler out of the way.

  “But it keeps our ships safe,” said Joron.

  Meas stopped. Turned to him.

  “Does it? Or are they just pretty lights that people like?”

  “No,” said Joron, “they are the health of a ship. At lastlight, the yellow, we know a ship is dying and must be appeased with another life. The lights are his soul. That is why the black ships are dead: they cannot hold corpselights.”

  “And yet, Joron, they still fly and they still fight, do they not?” She did not wait for an answer, only walked away.

  He watched her go. The corpselights above a ship had always been something merry to him, something to be celebrated. Those given to the ships were the chosen of the Sea Hag, guaranteed a place by the pyre and passage beyond the storms that circled the world, and yet Meas had no respect for the lights. Maybe because of what had happened to her as a child? Maybe she was bitter at being denied the Sea Hag’s favour?

  They rounded a corner and found themselves on the docks. Directly in front of them and strewn with flowers – though they could not hide the blood – was the committing block where the child he had seen earlier would have been sacrificed. Behind the block rose the scrap-built five-ribber Hag’s Hunter, its sides rising like white cliffs. The crew could be heard, singing as they worked. They were drunk, no doubt. A committal day was always one of celebration, and when Joron looked up into the web of ropes and varisk and gion spars he counted eight blue corpselights dancing above the ship. On its pristine white side was a long streak of crimson blood.

  A face appeared over the rail and just as quickly vanished. A moment later the shipwife of Hag’s Hunter appeared, standing on the rail and holding on to a rope with one hand to keep her balance. If Joron had thought Meas’s clothes fine, they were nothing to this woman’s. She was festooned with shimmering feathers.

  “Meas!” she shouted, her voice ruddy with false bonhomie. “I am glad to see my sither on this celebrated day.” Meas cursed under her breath but did not look up.

  “Arse,” said Black Orris.

  “I seem to remember, Meas” – as they walked along the dock the woman above followed them, balancing on the rail – “that you said I would never make shipwife. But here I am!” They reached the end of the ship, Meas pointedly ignoring the woman, who nevertheless continued to harangue her. “So what do you say now, Meas! Ey? What do you say now that you are shipwife to the dead and I am married to this fine beast, ey?” She stamped her foot on the rail of the ship.

  Meas stopped and looked up at her.

  “I never said you would not make shipwife, Kyrie; I said that would you never make shipwife through skill.” She let her eyes run down the length of the Hag’s Hunter. “And I was right, was I not?” She turned her back on the other woman and walked away. Joron followed and behind them the Shipwife Kyrie Gilbryn shouted after them.

  “I only told Mother the truth, Meas! I only told the truth!” There was a note of desperation in her voice but Meas did not turn. “It seems we both go a-hunting Meas. Let us see who brings home the prize. Do not doubt I am a better shipwife than you. We shall see who really deserves Mother’s favour!”

  When Joron caught up with Meas there was no mistaking the smile on her face.

  “Kyrie thinks, Deckkeeper,” said Meas quietly, “that being shipwife is all about the enemy ships you bring back or sink. But she is too impulsive and too desperate to prove herself, it will get her in trouble.”

  “Arse,” said Black Orris, and Meas reached up, stroking the bird’s chest and making him coo with pleasure.

  They walked further along the docks, seeing fewer and fewer people. Meas led them up a filthy alley, empty apart from rubbish and the thick smell of rotten fish. Without warning – and Joron had no idea how she knew her moment – Meas whirled around. Joron did the same but saw no one. The alleyway was empty. Completely empty.

  “You can come out,” said Meas. “I know you are there.”

  “Who is there?” said Joron.

  “That I don’t know, but an alley like this should be full of skeers looking for food, and none have flown in behind us.” She raised her voice. “So come out. Do not make me come and find you.”

  Out of a doorway stepped Anzir, and if Joron had held anything at that moment he was sure he would have dropped it.

  “If you have come to avenge your defeat,” said Meas, “then you will have to face us both, and I am a little more skilled then Joron with a blade, and a lot less merciful.”

  Anzir looked confused.

  “He beat me,” she said.

  “She sounds surprised,” said Joron.

  “Can you blame her?” said Meas. “Even wearing your shoes I thought she would kill you.”

  “Thank you, my Shipwife.”

  “I have come to offer him my service,” said Anzir.

  “What does Cahanny think of that?” said Meas.

  Again Anzir looked confused. “He only pays me; this man bested me. I am his now.”

  “I don’t want you,” said Joron. It sounded far more harsh than he meant it to, but the woman did not appear offended.

  “You send me away then?”

  “I—”

  “Wait.” Meas’s hand flashed up.

  “You may need a protector. You are no great bladesman and it is no shame to have a shadow to protect you.”

  “You have no protector,” snapped Joron.

  “I do not need one, but you are wrong in that also. It is only my protector has not returned to me yet, but she will. It would do you no harm to have someone you trust at your back in a fight.”

  “I do not want to be responsible for another life,” said Joron.

  “And yet you are.” She turned to Anzir. “Where are you from?”

  “Clavill Isle, in the north.”

  Meas nodded at that.

  “Joron,” she said, “it is your decision whether to take Anzir on board or not. I will not press anyone unwanted upon you as you cannot force a trust nor a friendship. But you should know that to turn Anzir down is to shame her. And it is the custom of the Clavill Isle that the shamed take their own lives.”

  Joron looked from Meas to the hugely muscled woman down the alley and back again.

  “I don’t have to marry her, do I?”

  “I doubt she would offer to serve you if that were the case, Deckkeeper.”

  “Arse,” said Black Orris.

  In the week preceding the relaunch of Tide Child Joron worked harder than he had ever done in his life. Hands that had become hardened in youth from years of pulling on the ropes of a fisher boat were bloodied and ripped. Feet torn by unfamiliar boots added an unfamiliar ache, and when not working, he seemed to fall straight into sleep, being woken rudely and far too early to begin one of the thousands of tasks Meas had lined up for him before Tide Child could be relaunched.

  It was not all grim work. Joron found a strange solace in being around Coxward, the bonemaster. The man was odd, as Meas had said, opinionated and often short-tempered, but he clearly loved his craft, and his way with the bones of the ship was a joy to watch. And Joron warmed to Mevans and those members of the crew of Meas’s old ship who had found their way, through many and varied misdemeanours, to Tide Child’s decks. To those she trusted Meas had added Aelerin the courser, Barlay and Farys from the original crew, and a few others, but Joron did not know their names, not, not yet – though he would learn them. Joyfully, he recognised Old Briaret, who had survived her wound and was back on deck. And as he worked, what Meas had promised came to pass. Her old crew, though suspicious at first, quickly warmed to him as the tale spread of his fight to bring the foul-mouthed bird, Black Orris, back to them. His word was never questioned, and the tasks he ordered to be carried out were done quickly and efficiently and in a way that made him realise just how very poor the crew of Tide Child had been compared to what Meas was used to. Mevans had quick
ly taken Muffaz, the Maiden-cursed giant who Joron had renamed Solemn Muffaz, into his work crew, and his sheer size and melancholy demeanour had a way of making sure Joron’s orders were carried out without the man even having to speak.

  Anzir had worried him at first. She was his silent and looming shadow. When he needed to pick up anything heavy and required help, she was there. When he was tying a knot and needed a hand to hold the rope in place, she was there. When some harbour bonewright spat upon him, or questioned his orders as he was from a black ship and nothing to them, she was there, and whatever he wanted done was quickly done. And though he could not prove it, from the way the deckchilder acted around her, he felt sure that, in the underdecks, Anzir had twisted more than one arm and blackened more than one eye in his cause.

  In the end he had asked her to be a little less present, realising that he could not function as an officer if his authority was based mainly on fear of her. When he had explained this to Anzir she had accepted calmly, and Joron had turned to find Meas, making one of her rare appearances on the deck, appraising him.

  This apart, Meas he barely saw. It could not be claimed that she let her crew work and did nothing herself – she was never there when he fell into his cot to sleep, and her bed was empty when he woke, though there were definite signs it had been slept in: food left by the bed, the covers arranged slightly differently, dirty clothes left there one morning and gone the next. He found lists of tasks written in her perfect, curling handwriting on his pillow each morning.

  One day Joron saw a woman sitting on a wall near Tide Child – small, dark-skinned with dark hair and keeping her head bowed, as if she did not wish her face to be seen. He stopped Mevans as the man passed, balancing a spar on his shoulders.

  “Who is that, Mevans? Should they be here?”

  “That is Narza, D’keeper. I’m surprised she did not appear sooner. She is the shipwife’s shadow.”

  “I should speak to her,” said Joron and started towards the woman, but Mevans grabbed his arm.

  “No,” he said, then let go of the dark blue material of his coat. “Apologies, D’keeper, but Narza does not take kindly to strangers. I would let the shipwife introduce you first.”

  He stared at Mevans, then gave him a short nod.

  “Very well.”

  Occasionally he would see Meas, now shadowed by Narza, and he got the feeling that if Anzir was dangerous then Narza was doubly so. Joron had never seen anyone like her before. She never raised her head to meet the gaze of another; in fact he was not entirely sure Narza even saw other people. In some he would have taken this as shyness, an attempt to escape the inquisitive gaze of those wanting to pry into her life, but he got no sense of that from Narza. It was more that she seemed not to find anyone else interesting or worthwhile enough to raise her head and look at them. At one point he had seen Meas stride across the shipyard followed by Narza and found himself pausing in his task of shifting crates to the dockside to watch them.

  “What do you think she did?” said Mevans from by his side.

  “Punched an officer, like you, Mevans.”

  Mevans was shaking his head.

  “Nish on that, we of the Dread planned what we did together, Narza joins herself with no woman or man but the shipwife, nor cares for them.” He glanced at her just as Narza vanished around a corner after Meas.

  “Murder then,” said Joron. “She has the air of it about her.”

  Mevans grinned.

  “Something funny in that, Hatkeep?”

  “Only that you imply it in the singular, D’keeper. From what I hear she left a trail of bodies.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” He lifted a spar of wrapped varisk stalks. “You’d have to ask her, but if you do you’re a braver man than I.” He walked away with the spar over his shoulder whistling happily.

  The entire week was one of little more than hard physical work. Rough hands became rougher, tired bodies became tireder, minds dulled by monotony became duller. The tedium of the work was broken only twice. First when Hag’s Hunter left dock. This was done with all the pomp and ceremony the Hundred Isles could muster. Every bonewright in the yards downed tools and streamed over to the deep-water dock. As did every woman and man of the town – except the crew of Tide Child, who were pointedly not invited, so they worked and listened as everyone else celebrated for the day. While every deckchild from the Hunter found a partner to share a bed with, they worked. While people danced and sang to the drums, they worked. While the Bern and the hagpriests shouted blessings over Hag’s Hunter and sang of the spirits of those sacrificed for the ship, they worked. While bright paint was spattered over the bricks of the docks, they worked. Only when Skearith’s Eye began to close, darkness enveloped the docks, and a great shout went up from the town did they pause. Joron stopped what he was doing, as did everyone else, experiencing a peculiar sensation. His ears felt blocked, like someone held pillows either side of his head, and above the roofs of the buildings a bright blue glow momentarily appeared.

  “It is the gullaime, D’keeper,” said Mevans from by him. He grinned but it was not at the look of puzzlement on Joron’s face, it was simply Mevan’s ever-present expression. “The feeling in your ears is the gullaime changing the air. The crew will want to watch Hunter leave.”

  “Ey,” said Joron. “Well, they have worked hard; we should reward them.”

  Every woman and man Meas had trusted to work on Tide Child came with him. They streamed from the ship on to the dockside to watch Hag’s Hunter, huge and graceful, turning in the entrance to the harbour, a tower of billowing white. Joron caught the sound of gullaime calling as they pulled the air currents around to push the ship’s beak towards the open sea, a song both mournful and inhuman but also familiar, like it had a meaning just beyond his reach. When Hag’s Hunter faced the open sea, the gullaime’s calls changed, became something that sounded to Joron more ancient and more sad.

  For a moment he thought the earth beneath his feet shuddered, but no other seemed to feel it. Then there was a lull, his ears stopped hurting, and all noise ceased before the ache in his ears returned, bringing with it a fist of air that filled Hag’s Hunter’s wings and powered him out of the harbour on a tower of tight varisk weave. If Joron had not known it was the magic of the gullaime filling the ship’s wings he would have found it easy to believe it was the cheers of the town that powered him away. Or the shouts of the crews of the other ships as they lined the rails of their pristine white boneships and watched Hag’s Hunter, trailing eight blue corpselights, glide out of the bay before slowing to a stop and dropping its staystone outside the harbour.

  “I thought it was to go north,” said Mevans.

  “North? But I thought the trouble was in the south?”

  “Ey, as did we all. But the word of those I know aboard is that Meas’s sither goes north. Empty seas and easy duty that way, so it would not surprise me.”

  “Ey,” said Joron. But he was not so sure and wondered if all was what it seemed, for he knew Tide Child’s mission would eventually bring him north. There was no love lost between Meas and her sither, and all knew the Hag loved a reckoning.

  The other change to their routine happened on the very last day of dry dock. Of all the days it was the longest and the hardest as Tide Child was lifted from his cradle and gently lowered into the water – a task done professionally and quickly by the bonewrights, under the watchful eye of Bonemaster Coxward. In his youth Joron had seen the launch of a new boneship, the last to be built from the stock of bones kept under the spiral bothies, and he still remembered the joy of that day. The giant ship Bowwyrm, so white it seemed impossible, his sides streaked with red where blood ran down from the sacrifices that had provided the eight corpselights floating above.

  Joron remembered thinking it was all so beautiful – not the deaths, but to be the keyshan price and to live on as part of the ship, as part of the fleet his father always spoke of. It was an honour he could only dream of. As
the ship moved down the slipway, gathering speed until it hit the water and caused a huge wave that soaked the wildly cheering crowd in briny water, he had shouted as loud as he ever had. Later, his father had bought him a bit of meat on a stick and told him stories of the fleet and said he hoped that, one day, Joron would be part of it. His father had never imagined Joron would serve on a black ship. What parent would ever wish to see their child drowning in dishonour? But sometimes he could still taste that meat, savoury and wonderful in a way only a memory can be: a flavour lost to his tongue for ever the way the warm feeling of his father’s arms around him had become a cold place deep inside.

  The relaunch of Tide Child was nothing like the launching of Bowwyrm or Hag’s Hunter; if anything, it was placed in the water almost apologetically. The ship looked better than he ever had under Joron’s care – black as night from beak to rump – and smelled better – of sea and the eye-watering vapour of still-drying and extremely flammable boneglue. But there was a sadness to the launch, a lack of ritual. Women and men simply stood around watching as the huge crane lowered Tide Child, lacking spines and spars still, into the water. Placing him there with barely a splash, as though slipping him secretly into the sea and hoping it would not notice.

  “Well” – Joron turned on hearing a familiar voice; Meas was walking down the dock, Narza trailing behind her – “don’t just stand there. There are spines to go up, rigging to web, and those of you not up to such tasks can start carrying aboard our cargo and setting it in the hold.” She glanced around. “Solemn Muffaz! You are strong; you can lead the stowing. Tide Child pulls to seaward so load with that in mind, and show Gavith how and why you do it.”

  “May just have been loaded badly before, Shipwife,” said the huge man.

  “Ey, well, we’ll find that out when we fly. For now load as if he pulls.” She turned but Solemn Muffaz did not leave; he was almost hopping from one foot to the other in a slow and nervous way, and the cabin boy, Gavith, stood behind him. “You have something else to ask, Solemn Muffaz?”