The Bone Ships

by R J Barker

  “We must lie to our crew.”

  “Ey.”

  “To win them a peace they do not even want.”

  “Does a child wish to know what it means to be born Berncast, Joron, or to grow up? Ask yourself that. Or would they rather spend their time not knowing a deformity will keep them hungry, or fearing that a babe will grow within them that will leave them dying in a pool of blood, or that a gallowbow shot will take an arm or leg and leave them begging on the streets of Bernshulme?” She waved at the chair before her table and began rolling up the charts.

  Joron was surprised that the stone, the seemingly ordinary stone, she was very careful to place in her sea chest where it would be safe; the rest of her chart weights she discarded recklessly about the cabin as if they did not matter.

  “Sit then,” she said. He did. “Tomorrow we start to train on the gallowbows. I have bought enough shot for us to have plenty of practice. We need it. The team who does best will have the pick of the fresh eggs from the kivelly on board, which will please them, and action always cheers a crew.” He nodded. “We shall train on the bows every day until we are proficient. We shall also have training in arms – in the curnow, the wyrmpike, bow and crossbow – and I will teach you how to handle a straightsword.”

  “But I do not—”

  “You are my deckkeeper; you have no choice. You have a quick mind, and that is half the skill of swordcraft. You start late, right enough, but between me, Anzir and Narza we can make you competent if not great, and competent will be enough if you have a loyal crew around you.”

  “Where do I find that?”

  “You are already on the way, Deckkeeper. Mevans likes you. I think Gavith feels some kinship also. The burned girl . . .”

  “Farys.”

  “Ey, her. She is definitely loyal to you, and I hope she has skill with the gallowbow as it would be good that a deckchild who has come to you through you, not me, keeps her place.” He nodded again. “The swimmer too. Kelling?”

  “Karring,” he said.

  She smiled to herself.

  “Ey, Karring. Well, on the morran we will re-stow the cargo. Tide Child pulls to landward still. It may be something to do with the keel. but I will have Coxward fit shot racks in the hold and the underdeck. Gallowbow shot is heavy, and racks allow us to move it about easily, to change the way the ship steers. We will be busy, you and I, but watch for crew who are struggling. You will be surprised how often an unexpected hand can win a woman or man’s heart over. Apart from that, you will not be doing the physical work, only giving orders.”

  “Very well.”

  “And last, I want you to make friends with the gullaime.”

  “Friends?” If he had not been sitting he would have needed to. “With the beast?”

  “Ey. I cannot. I am shipwife and it will see me as a figure of authority whatever I do. But, as I said before, this ship will run differently.” She leaned forward, her grey eyes earnest. “Listen to me, Joron. What we have been tasked with doing – fighting ships to stop them taking an arakeesian – you and I both know it is a mind-fled task. Both the Hundred Isles and the Gaunt Islands may bring entire fleets to bear on this if – when – they learn of it. I already suspect that my mother knows something and that is why Hag’s Hunter flew north. We will have to be aware at every moment. Every ship that could take a message telling of what we are about we must destroy if we can. Every action we undertake must be ruthless. None can escape. No mercy can be given. My greatest hope is that word reaches the fleets in the south too late for them to act, and Karrad will do all he can to make this so. Then we shall only face smaller ships.” She ran her hand across the smooth top of her desk. “But even then . . .” she sat back “. . . with a ship like Tide Child, after two or three actions I would expect to dock and refit before carrying on, and that option is not available to us.” She sat in silence for a moment. “Well, I suppose they do not call this a ship of the dead for no reason.”

  “You do not think we can succeed?”

  She tapped the desk before her – once, twice, three times.

  “I did not. Joron. Not at first. But if what that gullaime says is true, that it has not touched land for six months and yet it can bring up a wind like it did to take us out of the harbour? Then that may change our chances.”

  “Why?”

  She stopped her tapping.

  “I forget you are not fleet, and not familiar with the gullaime. What our windtalker did today, for a ship this size? That would usually take three or four gullaime, and they would scream out their pain as the magic drained from them. Tide Child should have eight windtalkers in that little cabin, some to use for wind when needed, some to guide home wingshot and protect the ship. But they are generally only good once before needing a windspire to recharge. Very occasionally there are more powerful ones that are good for longer and go to the biggest ships. I had one once on Arakeesian Dread. But what our gullaime did after so long away from a windspire? It is remarkable.”

  “Then why is it on our ship?”

  “Because, I imagine, someone is frightened of it.”

  “Why not just kill it then?”

  “Because, Twiner, even powerful women and men can be superstitious. Now gather the things the beast wanted. Find out what can be done for your new friend.”

  In the morning the calling bell rang and Joron slid from his hammock, rested for the first time in so long that he wondered what this feeling was: this lightness of head, this spring in his step, this clarity in the air.

  Before dressing he took a scoop of cooking fat from the pot by his tiny desk. Barlay had noticed his uncomfortable walk and told him cooking fat would protect his skin from the rough fishskin of his new trousers. He slathered it on the tops of his thighs, then, although it had not been suggested but surely could not hurt any worse, he covered his aching feet in it before sliding on the long boots Meas had bought him.

  His thighs hurt considerably less. It did not help his feet much.

  On deck Skearith’s Eye had already brought the godbird’s heat to the air, though it was still low on the horizon. They had made good distance while he slept, and when he pulled the brim of his one-tailed hat down to shade his eyes he could see the faraway silhouette of Skearith’s Spine.

  “We have made good time, ey Joron?” He turned to find Meas, she seemed more alive on board the ship than she had been back in Bernshulme, her skin less grey. “The Eaststorm has been kind with winds through the night. We’ll steer away-spine for the next two days and keep our course south-west, then turn south-east for our rendezvous at Skeerpass when we see the Featherspike.”

  “Ey, Shipwife,” he said, then stared into the sky, blue and clear. “The winds should hold. Not a cloud in the sky.”

  “Ey, so the courser sings it. Put out the call for breakfast. We’ll feed the crew, clean down the decks and strip the ship for action afterwards. Then we’ll let fly the gallowbows. If there is time afterwards we’ll train with blades.” She gave him a smile, calculating but not cold, more amused. “You’ll be on a bowteam first. I’ll be mixing those who know the drill with those who don’t.”

  “So I’ll be commanded by someone else?” It felt like an affront. He had begun to feel that he was developing the veneer of the commander over the skin of the man he was, and here she was, stripping it away.

  “Ey, but do not worry that it will diminish you, for I shall be bowsell to all today.” She leaned in close. “And it diminishes no commander to learn from those which know more. Weak commanders dare not ask. Strong commanders know no fear of learning.” She stood back. “And, just so you know, Joron, if I am in a competition I like to win, and as you are my second in command I expect you to win for me. So do not expect me to be soft on you.” She turned away and went to lean over the rear rail next to where Barlay leaned into the steering oar.

  Joron sidled over to the gallowbow nearest him. Tied down on the deck it looked like a bird trussed for the pot. The post that m
ounted the mechanism, rising to the gimbal which allowed the great bow to swivel, was carved to look like a bird’s legs springing from the deck. The bone arms that propelled the bolts were currently roped back, and what would be the front of the bow, when in action, was tied to the post so it pointed at the deck. The locking mechanism was hidden from him, while the winding mechanism that drew back the firing cord was raised, its twin handles like offset feathers in a quizzical head. Something was loose on the gallowbow, and its winding handles rocked as Tide Child pushed through the sea. Joron, aware that such a thing was a likely target for Meas’s wrath, took pity on whichever crew member was in charge of the bow and tightened the knots that held the handles in place. Then he glanced over his shoulder, almost guiltily, to see if anyone had seen him from further down the deck, but the crew were all busy.

  If he had looked up the deck he would have seen Meas smile and nod to herself before turning away.

  But he did not, and he did not. So that was that.

  Meas had the crew eat, a meagre but filling breakfast of porridge called fossy pet made from gion pulp and dried fish. When all were fed she called them together on deck. Joron watched as Indyl Karrad’s man, Dinyl, took his place opposite him on the rump. As the crew assembled, Bonemaster Coxward, together with Gavith and a few other crew, started bringing a strange assortment of flotsam, ropes, worn shipwings and odd rubbish out of the hold and on to the deck.

  “Today,” shouted Meas, “we will exercise the great bows. We have loosed them once before, and we did our ship no credit. Shamed him even.” She stopped, glaring at the gathered crew, and even those who had not been there for the shambles at Corfynhulme looked ashamed of themselves. She raised her voice. “This will not happen again!” Meas did not move, but her stillness was the same stillness the sea had when becalmed, a surface stillness only, and below remained the depths, full of danger. “But I realise skill does not come without practice, so all who have worked a gallowbow stand to seaward.”

  A good half of the crew moved to the seaward side of the ship, all of Meas’s old crew among them. It was easy to tell them, for her people were bright, sharp, while the rest were slovenly, meandering the short distance across the deck as if resentful of even those few steps. “Sharp to it now!” shouted Meas. The pace picked up. “Form me two lines,” she said. “On seaward those who have worked a great bow, on landward who has not.” The lines formed quickly. “Four it takes to fire a great bow,” said Meas. She came down from the rump and walked down the deck touching every second woman or man standing to seaward on the shoulder. Some crew she changed around, some she left in position. Then she returned to the rump of the ship. “Those I touched on the shoulder will be the bowsell of a crew, and every woman and man aboard will learn to crew the gallowbows, because in the end a ship can only win a battle if it looses its bows well. This morning we will strip and set the bows; this afternoon we will loose them.” She paused as if waiting for some reaction to her words, but the ship remained silent apart from the creak of the spines, the flap of the wings, the hiss of water passing along the hull and the gentle whistle of the wind. “Would you like to loose the bows?”

  “Ey, Shipwife.” Quiet words spoken by a man with a crooked smile on his face, as if remembering long-ago glory.

  Meas shook her head.

  “Mevans,” she said to her hatkeep, stood at the end of the line nearest to her. “Did that sound like a crew who wishes to loose its bows?”

  “It did not, Shipwife.”

  “If you would like to loose the bows,” said Meas, louder, “then I need to hear it. Do you want to loose the bows?”

  “Ey, Shipwife!” Now they all called; even resentful Cwell looked interested.

  “Shout it like you mean it!”

  “Ey, Shipwife!” thundered across the deck, and as they shouted they smiled, glancing and grinning at one another.

  “Good. Now, Joron, you will join Dinyl, Barlay and Farys. Barlay, tie off the steering oar – we are unlikely to run into anything out here.” She went among the deckchilder, choosing three other teams and sending the rest of the crew to mind the ship and keep the wings trimmed. “While you work,” she shouted to those disappointed souls who were not chosen, “do your best to watch as it will be your turn later, and I will expect you to be ready.”

  She returned once more to the rump of the ship and addressed the six bow teams. “The bow before you is tied down – we call it trussed. You may hear a trussed bow referred to as a bird. There are three commands to untruss a bow. ‘Knot!’ is the first. You untie the ropes that tie the bow to the legs. We call the bow and loosing-shaft the body. Be careful, for the body is heavy, the winding mechanism and loosing triggers are not balanced and are as dangerous as any club used in anger. When I shout, ‘Knot!’ one of you will untruss the body. Two, and I advise the strongest two, will hold the body.” She glared up into the fierce light of Skearith’s Eye as if waiting for a sign, but none came and she continued. “The next command is ‘Lift!’ After the trigger and winder on the body you will see there is a bulge – that is the socket. Those holding the body will pull it up, bringing the winding mechanism and trigger up and over the legs. Let the weight of the body pull it down. The next-strongest member of your team should be ready to catch the heavy end and help until the socket lies over the gimbal at the top of the legs.” She smacked the gimble joint that sat at about the height of her chest. “Then pull the body down so the socket locks over the gimbal. This brings down the locks around the gimbal and forces the arms out. Once the retaining pins” – she held up two varisk pins, each about as thick as two fingers – “are in, the bow is in place and balanced. You understand?”

  The woman and men watching nodded.

  “Good. The last command is ‘String!’ You run the cord from the seaward arm through the spinner, through the trigger mechanism, making sure the grippers bite, then to the landward arm. Lock the cord in the cincher and twist it tight. Generally these commands will come from your bowsell, but today we make it a race so you jump to my command. Are you ready?”

  “Ey, Shipwife!”

  “Then to your bows.” She waited until the four teams were standing at each of the great bows on the landward side of the ship.

  “Knot!”

  Joron let Farys dart in while Barlay and Dinyl grabbed the main shaft of the bow. The knots came loose easily in Farys’s nimble fingers, and she pulled the rope free. From the corner of his eye Joron saw the look of surprise on Dinyl’s face as the body seemed to come alive in his hands, its great weight eager to crash down, but with the assistance of Barlay he held it steady.

  “I had forgotten how heavy they are,” said Dinyl, sweat starting on his brow.

  From further down the deck Joron heard a dull thud, and as he took the rope from Farys, winding it around the keeper at the bottom of the legs, he glanced down the slate to see a woman laying supine on the deck, blood pooling round her head.

  “Someone get her to the hagshand below,” shouted Meas. “You will lose people in battle, so this is not a reason to stop. We carry on.”

  The next order came.

  “Lift!”

  Barlay and Dinyl pushed up the body of the bow, bringing the winding and trigger mechanisms over while Farys kept low and Joron, his stomach aching at the thought of the damage the weapon could do to him if he mistimed his actions, made a grab for the end of the bow. The handles on the spinner moved aimlessly with the body’s movement, making Joron’s job harder, but he managed. When the main part of the bow was almost flat, he let it slide towards him until the socket lay above the gimbal ball, but it did not click into place as Meas had promised.

  Barlay glanced at Dinyl, unsure what to do.

  “There is an old trick, Oarturner.” Dinyl grinned. “If we pull the bow arm out a little then get in so we can put our backs to the bow and push out, it will slip on to the gimbal far more easily. But we have to do it together.”

  “Be quick,” said Joron. “I
t’s heavy.”

  They nodded, counted to three and, together, pulled the bow arms out and slid in behind, using all their strength to push the arms out until they locked behind the holding pins. Joron felt the body shudder as it fell and the locks engaged around the gimbal. Farys slipped in and fixed the retaining pins. At that moment the bow turned from something wild that could lash out and smash bones and bodies into something tame. Balanced on the gimbal it could be guided with one hand and would stay exactly where it was aimed.

  “String!”

  This was the command that had tripped them at Corfynhulme. But without the panic of battle and with the ship stable beneath them, it was relatively easy. Joron stepped back; Dinyl passed the cord to Farys, who quickly threaded it through the spinner and the trigger mechanism before passing it to Barlay, who slipped it through the other arm of the bow and cinched it tight so the two arms of the bow quivered, ready to loose at the enemy.

  “Now,” shouted Meas, “we do the same but backwards. Watch your hands as we do this. It is an easier task to put the bow to sleep, but even a sleeping beakwyrm bites.”

  And that was how they spent the morning. Ever-changing teams practising the routine of trussing and untrussing the gallowbows until their palms bled from the run of the cords and their shoulders ached from the weight of the firing shafts. But it felt like good work. And when it was coming up on time for them to eat, Meas set them in races against one another, and Joron was pleased to find that, although his team did not win, they came in the top six and so would be one of the first to loose in the afternoon.

  Earlier he had wondered what they would loose at, but the longer Coxward and his crew of bonewrights worked with the flotsam on the deck the more obvious it became.

  They were building a target.