The Bone Ships

by R J Barker

  A huge cry of affirmation in return.

  “So what we are tasked with is to keep the beast alive, and doubt not, the Gaunt Islanders will come for the wakewyrm. Raiders will come for the wakewyrm. Fools from islands we pass will come for the wakewyrm. Maybe even some of our own, ignoring the orders of the Bern back home, will turn traitor and hunt the beast.” Again that gaze, pinning each woman and man to the deck. “But will we let them take our future?”

  “No, Shipwife.” Little more than a murmur.

  “I said, will we let them take our future?” Her voice rising.

  “Come on, my girls and boys!” shouted Mevans

  “No, Shipwife!” Louder.

  “Will we let them, my deckchilder? Will we let them?”

  And in reply a great cry:

  “No, Shipwife!”

  “Then to your places. Pull tight the topwings and keep your eyes open, for a sea dragon awaits us, and a sea dragon we shall find!”

  The roar in reply hurt Joron’s ears, and for the first time he truly understood, as he shouted and waved his hat in the air, carried on the current of the shipwife’s words, what his father had meant by being part of the fleet.

  Up Flensechannel flew three ships, though from where Joron stood on the deck the seas looked as empty as he had ever seen them, a shifting landscape of grey water cut with the lines of white breakers. Only the topboys were in contact with Tide Child’s consorts. They had travelled like this for two days and Skearith’s Eye had dipped on the third. The sandglass was tipped every ten minutes and when it was, the shout went up: “Tell of the sea, Topboy!” A single, lonely voice in the darkness. The replies came down from the spine-points of the ship: “Ship rising to seaward, ship rising to landward.” Then Joron would nod and remind himself they were not alone.

  A deckchild – Hamrish? – he was almost sure that was the name – manned the steering oar behind him and Farys was in the tops. Meas no doubt worked below with Aelerin the courser, and dotted about the ship Joron saw others, but only as hints, impressions of movement in the inky blackness. Tide Child was lit of course – rump and beak held large lights – but they did not throw much light on to the decks. Wanelights marked the rails but also gave little light. It was all too easy to believe himself lost and alone, so he took comfort from those small and shadowy movements that let him know he was not, and he took comfort in the the sadly tolling bell on the slate, and and he took comfort in the hiss of water passing underneath Tide Child, which told him his world travelled and that he was not lost, but on a journey with purpose and destination.

  Between the three ships they could scan almost ten hunths, one complete passage, from the small islands on the seaward side to the shores of the larger islands, asleep and unseen, to landward. The night was clear. Skearith’s Bones shone wanly down from above and all seemed good to Joron, or as good as it could for a condemned man on a ship of the dead, standing under the light of Skearith’s Blind Eye. He could see no way something as huge as an arakeesian could pass between the ships without them noticing, assuming the topboys on the other ships were as attentive as the ones on Tide Child, and he had no reason to believe they would not be. This was history they made.

  His comfort was stolen when one of the quiet shadows resolved itself into Cwell, the pale light of the Blind Eye pasting her pale skin and sharp face with highlights, illuminating the scabbed knuckles of her hands. Joron did not want to talk to her, found her intimidating. He had noticed she had started spending time around Coughlin and his men, and this reminded him he had done nothing, so far, about the task that Meas had given him, of finding out what it was they were smuggling for the Bernshulme crime lord. He recognised that part of this was because he feared Coughlin, feared the violence in the man. He felt that same fear around Cwell.

  “Is what she says true?” said Cwell.

  “Her?”

  “The shipwife.”

  “You should call her that.”

  Cruel eyes glinted in the wanelight. A space in the air where the waves rushed against the ship, once, twice, three times.

  “Is it true what the shipwife says?” Her mouth twisted the title, making it sound somehow less than it was.

  “What part of it?”

  “You know what part,” she said, her hand resting on the hammer she carried slung from her belt. To carry a blade on deck was forbidden to all but those who trod the rump, but her bonehammer was as good a weapon as a tool. “The arakeesian. Is it true? Does one swim through the islands?”

  “If the shipwife says a thing on her ship,” said Joron, “then it is a true thing.”

  “No ship-like talk from you – we all know you are not up to it.” She took a step forward and the boom on the mainspine moved, bringing the midwing round and blocking out the gentle light of Skearith’s Blind Eye, dropping Joron and Cwell into deep darkness. “Is there an arakeesian?”

  “As far as we know, yes,” said Joron quietly. It took all he had not to step back from the woman. “But we have not seen it with our own eyes yet.”

  “Turning the glass!” The call came from the rump, and Joron was glad of it. It gave him an excuse to step back from the woman, into the light, and stare up into the tops of the mainspine.

  “Tell of the sea, Topboy!” he shouted.

  “Ship rising to seaward, ship rising to landward, D’keeper. All else is clear.” Joron hoped, as he brought his eyes back to the dark deck, that Cwell would be gone, but no, there she stood, at home in the shadow.

  “Lot of money in an arakeesian,” she said.

  “You heard the shipwife talk.”

  Cwell spat on the deck.

  “Ey, I did. She gambles on what might be, what may happen, and if there’s another arakeesian then maybe there will be more. I only know what is. One beast could leave every woman and man on this ship set for life.” She raised her voice a little as she said that. “Coughlin has the contacts to make us all rich, Twiner,” she said. Did Joron imagine it or did the small amount of activity on the deck cease then? Did the women and men going about the constant tasks that kept a boneship afloat pause in what they were doing at Cwell’s words? Was that Sprackin who lifted his head before going back to his work? Was that Hasrin, once a deckkeeper, now a lowly deck-child, and resentful with it, who paused in coiling a rope? Was that Coughlin, violent, angry Coughlin, who slipped back into the darkness?

  “If you only deal in what is, then why talk of this, Cwell? We have seen no arakeesian. For all we know we chase rumour and fancy, and they will set up no woman or man.”

  “Ey,” said Cwell. “You are right. But if it is a keyshan, then its jointweight makes what Coughlin has in the hold look like spoiled meat.”

  “So it’s arakeesian bones we move for Cahanny, is it?” Cwell’s eyes narrowed, realising she had said more than she should, and for a moment Joron thought she would move against him.

  “Keep your nose out of my business, Twiner,” she said. “Play at officer and keep out of my way.”

  “Deckkeeper,” said Twiner. He was almost surprised that he had correcteded Cwell, a woman from whom violence rolled off the way black rainclouds rolled from a stormfront.

  Cwell smiled, the ends of her mouth turning up, but it was mockery not humour Joron found there.

  “I said, keep your nose out of my business, Deckkeeper. And we will get on just fine.”

  “Cahanny’s business, those bones, surely.”

  “If you will,” said Cwell. She turned, walked away, leaving Joron relieved twice over: once that he had one less task to mark off now he knew what Cahanny smuggled, and twice that Cwell had left him alone. But Joron could not lie to himself. He felt fear too, because he knew a threat when he saw one, and Cwell was exactly that.

  “She hates you.” The quiet voice came from behind Joron, and he turned to find Aelerin, the courser, face hidden beneath their cowl.

  “I do not expect a criminal to like me, Courser.”

  “No, but she really hates
you. She will hurt you given the chance.” A shudder down Joron’s back. “She hates Meas more though, and I reckon she probably hates Coughlin and the man on land who sent him too.”

  “Cahanny?”

  “Ey,” said the courser softly. “Cahanny. She is some relative, niece, I heard, but it is authority she hates. She was once part of Cahanny’s gang. That is why she gets on with Coughlin. But she will not move against the crime lord or the shipwife. She is scared of Cahanny, and she is scared of Meas.”

  “But not me?”

  “No, so she gifts you the hate she feels for Meas and her authority on the ship. I think she sees opportunity in the arakeesian and in the violent men Cahanny sent aboard. She probably thought she could scare you into helping her, but she failed, and that will make her hate you more. Be careful of her, Deckkeeper, and those she chooses to be with.” Joron looked around, suddenly aware of the absence of Anzir behind him. She had struggled to come to terms with the strange timing of a ship’s life, and he let her sleep through the night or she was of no use in the day.

  “Do you think she seeks to prise Coughlin away from Cahanny?”

  “Coughlin is probably scared of Cahanny too.”

  “Then surely he will obey the orders he was given.”

  “Cahanny isn’t here, Deckkeeper. And an arakeesian is a big temptation, would make a deckchild rich enough never to be under another’s authority again.” The courser turned away, going to take their place by the rumpspine, to listen to the storms sing and to study the northstone in its bowl of seawater.

  “Turning the glass!” came the call from the rump.

  “Tell of the sea, Topboy!” shouted Joron, and he was almost surprised that his voice did not waver or fade like a sea mist on a hot day.

  “Ship rising to seaward, nothing rising to landward, D’keeper.”

  “Say again, Topboy?”

  “No ship rising to landward!”

  Joron turned to Aelerin.

  “You have the rump, Courser; I will go up the spine.” And then he was climbing the rigging. Finding sure holds for feet and hands, feeling the rope through the soles of his boots. Making his difficult way up to the top of the ship, where the wind whistled and the wings flapped and snapped in the night breeze.

  “When did it go, Topboy?” Hamrish was tall and thin and had to fold his body up to fit into the basket of the topspine. He was Berncast and the muscles on the left side of his face did not work, which made him seem permanently gloomy.

  He stared into the distance.

  “Not long afore you called, D’keeper. I reckon they either dipped below the horizon or their light went out.” He tapped the gently swinging lantern by him. Below, the wanelights of the ship glowed, and Joron felt disorientated, like he and Hamrish floated amid Skearith’s Bones rather than above the ship, and he fancied he heard the faraway, musical call of great birds. “I was waiting a turn to see if it reappeared afore I said of it.”

  “You did right.” From his coat Joron took out Meas’s near-glass, being more careful with it than he could ever recollect being with anything before. “Show me the ship to seaward, so I know what to look for.”

  Hamrish nodded and pointed.

  “Follow the line of my arm and you’ll see the light, not as cold as Skearith’s Bones, but warmer, so you know it’s women and men live below it.” As Joron put the nearglass to his eye the world changed, jumped and grew, the light of Skearith’s Bones becoming brighter than he had ever known it. “Lower, D’keeper. You’ll see only sky that way,” said Hamrish gently, for he knew it did not do to correct an officer.

  “Thank you, Hamrish,” said Joron. He lowered the lens, finding the almost imperceptible line between sea and sky in the darkness. Somewhere a skeer called. Joron scanned along the line of the horizon, occasionally opening one eye to ensure he had not passed the line Hamrish pointed out. Then he found the ship. A fuzzy glow in the night signalled the presence of Cruel Water and all the lives aboard it. “Got it,” he said, then took the nearglass from his eye and swung around, only realising as he moved how small the space was, how low the rail around it, how precarious this perch and how far away the deck. He thought of falling. Of plummeting down through the air. He thought of what the deck would do to a body that hit it and shuddered, tightening his hand around the nearglass so as not to drop it.

  A breath. Take a breath.

  Lifting the lens to his eye again, he found the subtle line of the landward horizon. Letting the nearglass drift along it, he found only the cold light of Skearith’s Bones and his stomach sank. One ship out of formation or worse, lost, meant a huge area with no eyes on it. More than enough sea for the beast they hunted to slip past. He found himself whispering quietly to the wind, “Come on, come on,” as he stared through the nearglass. But nothing. He found himself haunted by all the terrors the ocean held and all the misfortunes that could befall a ship, but he would not borrow trouble. More likely Snarltooth was simply a little off course. Surely that was it?

  “What to do, D’keeper?” asked Hamrish.

  Joron took a breath. This would be his first true command decision, or the first of any import at least. He could order Tide Child landward, and if Snarltooth had simply gone off course a quick signal would bring him back. But that risked losing contact with Cruel Water. In the night a signal was easy to miss, as was another ship. There was no guarantee they would spot Snarltooth.

  “We will continue to turn the glass every ten minutes and we will keep our course for the night and stay in sight of Cruel Water. If Snarltooth has lost his way he will be easier to find by day. Signals are often overlooked at night.” He tried to sound surer than he felt.

  Hamrish nodded, as if Joron’s words were wise and spoken by a man who had commanded ships all his life.

  “Ey, D’keeper.”

  With that Joron worked his slow and careful way back down the rigging to the slate of the deck, much happier when he felt the stone beneath his aching feet. He found Aelerin waiting for him.

  “Courser, you were in the underdeck with Meas before taking your post here,” he said. “Do you know if the gullaime is awake?” He hoped it would not be.

  “I do not think it ever sleeps, Deckkeeper, not truly.”

  “Oh,” said Joron. “Well, there are things it requires. I have been gathering them in my cabin and must take them to the beast. We have lost sight of Snarltooth, but I have decided to keep course until the Eye rises.” Aelerin nodded. “You maintain command of the rump while I am below. Deckmother, Solemn Muffaz, is at the beak. Call him should you need him.”

  “Very well, Deckkeeper,” said the courser. As Joron turned away they added, “I understand Meas wishes you to befriend it, the gullaime.”

  “Ey, though Hag knows how a man befriends such a creature.”

  “It is lonely, I think,” said the courser.

  “Lonely? It is an animal.”

  The courser shrugged, and again Joron felt the desire to lift their cowl and see who was beneath.

  “It is the only one of its kind aboard the ship. No one talks to it, no one gives it any of their time unless they need it. But if you believe it cannot feel loneliness then I cannot convince you otherwise.” The courser hugged themselves, wrapping their arms tightly around their midriff. “But I would say it is lonely.”

  Joron was unsure what to say.

  “Thank you, Courser,” he said eventually. “I will keep that in mind.” Then he turned, raising his voice, “The courser has the rump!” and headed into the underdeck, where the heat of the air was joined by that of the bodies packed into swaying hammocks.

  In his cabin he gathered together what he had managed to find of the gullaime’s list of needs and stowed them in a variskweave sack. String had been no problem; all he had done was unwind some rope. Cloth was similarly easy to find on board Tide Child, and he had convinced one of the wing-wrights to give up, grudgingly, a couple of his exquisite bone needles in exchange for extra rations of eggs fr
om the kivelly kept on board. Dust had stumped him until he had realised it was everywhere, and he had asked Gavith to keep the sweepings he collected as he went about his duties. So now he had four great fuzzy grey balls of filth that Joron could see no use at all for, but he was not a gullaime, so why should he know how its strange and alien mind worked? The other thing he had found, and had been strangely proud of finding, from the gullaime’s long list of objects it had recited, was a comb. It had some teeth missing but was a comb nonetheless. It had been lying in the darkness of the hold as if waiting for him to find it, and he had remembered the gullaime’s request.

  He breathed deeply before knocking to enter the creature’s quarters, steeling himself for the dry smell of it, the way the atmosphere changed around the beast, became something so strange that he was sure his senses sought to reject it – like he stepped into a dream, at once familiar and strange. To be close to the windtalker was to touch the other, to take a step towards Skearith the godbird, the creator, who hatched the gullaime for the Mother, who in turn gave them to woman and man to use. Joron, like all right thinkers, was wary of the gods and the cruel games of the Maiden, Mother and Hag, and he was afraid of Skearith’s ghost most of all, for men had killed her and men had most to fear.

  Within the cabin all was dark. There was no sign of the creature in the barely-there light of the wanelights.

  “Gullaime?”

  Nothing, for a moment. Then his name was given back to him from the gloom, said as if by a creaking door.

  “Jo-ron. Twi-ner.”

  From the seaward corner of the room the gullaime unfolded itself. He had thought it part of the mess in the room, a ball of dimly seen rags. Then the rags grew long and spindly legs ending in three-toed, powerfully clawed feet. There was a hint of wings, maybe, or was it an illusion created by the gullaime’s ragged clothing? Last, a head on a thin neck that kinked halfway along. The gullaime rose in a way that look unnatural, impossible. A woman or man would have had to put a hand down to push themselves up, but the gullaime needed no such assistance to stand before him. It opened its beak and made that noise again, that rasp of saw-on-varisk noise: “Jo-ron. Twi-ner.”