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She left her Kept to shipwife be To fly across the shining sea To walk the slate, the shining bone With promises she’d soon come home She flew up high, she flew down low Heave on, crew, heave on. From north to south she flew the storms Heave on, crew, heave on. She flew to east, she flew to west Heave on, crew, heave on. And always thought of home, hey! She always thought of home. From “The Black Pirate” – traditional ballad
Tired after days of this, weeks of this, a lifetime of this. But no rest, because one moment of inattention was all that was needed and then the ship would be gone.
Orders given, stolen from his mouth by freezing wind, ice in the corners of his eyes making the shape of the descending Meas waver in his vision.
We shall attempt a rescue then?” “Or die trying, for that is our lot.”
No storm could hold her words, no wind could steal them nor woman or man deny them. For she was Lucky Meas. She was the greatest shipwife who ever lived, and she would be a legend.
“A shipwife only ever moves forward,” she had said. “I’ll not look to the errors in my wake, Twiner, not once I have set my horizons straight by ’em.”
Help, Shipwife? No, Arrin did not sent us out to bring help, not in the end. He sent us out to tell you Safeharbour is lost, he sent us out to warn you. He sent us to tell you to run.
He knew he was unlikely to die in this first rush. Knew few of them were. Maybe one. Maybe two. But this was the first engagement, muscles were fresh, minds were working. The death came later, when you were tired, or worse, if the wall broke – but these were Brekir’s hand-picked seaguard and deckchilder, her finest. And Brekir served Meas. They would not break.
All was chaos in the dark. Joron saw vague shapes. Was it gion, was it a woman? Was it varisk, was it a man? Was it a sword, was it a branch? Was it? Was it? Was it? Keep. Going.
Flags were everywhere, coloured rags strewn between buildings – but they had clearly been there a while and were no longer bright and gay; instead they were dirtied, filthy, some missing from the strings so they looked like broken teeth in the slack jaws of the last fish in the market.
“You have no clue where these brownbones are taking these people?” “What would you do if I did?” he said softly. “Take your black ship to save those who are dying anyway? I would not throw away Meas’s life to save them even if I knew where they were taken.” “Then,” said Joron, “are you any better than them?” Yirrid chuckled, far from the reaction Joron expected to his insult. “Of course I am no better, child.” He heard the officer in the voice once again, the core of keyshan bone that ran through the man. “I was a Hundred Isles shipwife, boy. How many innocents do you think fell to my blade?
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“Are you are always destined to bring me bad news, Twiner? It seems to be your lot in life.”
Now Mevans was an old sea hand with all the experience and cunning such a thing brought. He knew many a thing, and one of those things he knew many things about was officers. He had particular, and very certain, beliefs about officers. He knew that when it came to directing a ship and directing a battle and formulating a tactic and such things, an officer was as fine as the Mother’s breasts, but he also knew that without a crew to look after them, an officer was often likely to trip over some Maidentrick as would never gull a sensible fellow like Mevans.
Though he had been given an order. But Mevans was an old sea hand with all the experience and cunning such a thing brought. He knew many a thing and one of the other things he knew many things about was orders. He had particular and certain beliefs about orders. Now an order was to be carried out to the letter, and he had been ordered to take the information he had back to Meas and to wait there for the d’keeper. To many, this would seem a right specific order but Mevans was not so sure, and he felt it important that before he return to the ship, he clarify with his fellows just what they
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“Well, Bowsell Farys,” said Mevans, “it appears you have the casting vote here.” “Ey,” she said. “Well, though I have no doubt that Hastir is right and the d’keeper did mean us to go back, as it sounds like what it is you know is right important, I wondered if only one of us could go back?” There were nods of agreement from Anzir and Hastir. But Mevans shook his head. “No, that cannot be,” he said. “For that is as good as saying we know what we was ordered to do and decided not to do it. No, it is an all-or-nothing deal, the interpretation of an order by a deckchild, see.”
The first thing that Mevans noticed was that the place below was peculiar in its set-up. He took for granted that those with him also noticed, for they had not just walked off the stone and onto the deck of a ship that day and, truthfully, would he, Mevans, Hatkeep to none other than Lucky Meas herself, bring anyone with him who did not know their business?
“There is a lot going on down there, but not many people doing it, Hatkeep,” said Farys. “Ey,” he said, and oh, she was a clever one. “Makes me think what is going on is secret,” she said, and oh yes, she would go far.
Though he knew it may have been a little bit of a stretch, he was willing to bet his own favoured stinker coat, the one that he would let no other wear, that his deckkeeper was – for whatever reason, no doubt a bad one– in that box.
The only odd thing that happened was as they went up the gangplank to Tide Child, Joron noticed that Farys, Anzir and Hastir hung back while supporting him, as if they wanted to ensure that Mevans was the first back aboard and Joron could not, for the life of him, work out why.
With that sixth sense she possessed, to know just when to appear, Meas opened the door of his cabin.
A slow gathering of cloud menaced the horizon, lines of rain as dark streaks against the sky. “The Hag furrows her brow,” said Solemn Muffaz to Dinyl, and the deckholder stared across the sea. “Ey,” he said, “and blood follows.”
As my laying night drew closer, the more afeared I became, because it seemed my parents had begun to hate me for not being something they could understand.
The common Berncast, Deckkeeper, as you well know, are not meant to be capable or intelligent. We are meant to know our place.
“Where is Anzir? We could do with her arm.” “Dead stabbed in the back by Sprackin,” said Joron and from the look that crossed Barlay’s face he knew he should have been kinder, that the two women had been closer than he had thought.
“Wait,” he whispered. “What?” said Dinyl. “I have been thinking like an angry man, not an officer.”
“Death is always the punishment for a mutineer,” said Cwell. “Only the shipwife can defer it.” “True,” said Joron, turning back to her. “But I give my word I will vouch for you, and tell her that, in the end, you chose to put down your weapons rather than kill more of her crew. I cannot promise she will let you live. As you say, it is her choice. But she may choose to let you off on an island or some such.” Silence. Waiting. Then Cwell spoke, very softly. “That is death in all but name.”
A head appeared at the rail and he recognised the face, wanted to jump for joy despite how tired and angry that face looked. But he was an officer. So he did not. Instead he stood as straight as he could, brought his hand to his breast in salute and croaked out the words: “Shipwife on deck!”
The skies are grey. I feel sure they always used to be blue.
He knew she had noticed these things because she was Meas Gilbryn. Even tired, even bedraggled, even looking like she had not slept for a whole week and had been cruelly treated by merciless seas; she would notice these things.
“Cwell finally made her move then,” she said quietly. “Ey,” he said. “I should have—” “Been told,” she said, still in that quiet voice. “You should have been told.” She stopped. Shut the book. “I should have told you. I have spoken with Dinyl already.” “It was not his fault . . .” “You are right,” she said. “It was not. And neither was it yours.” She tapped a finger on the desk. “A shipwife can be too clever, you know, Joron. Too sure of herself. That you brought my ship to me at all, given what happened . . . well, it makes me wonder if the Mother has a special place in her heart for you.”
“And, of course, if she was marooned with the rest of the mutineers I doubt she would last long. When food ran low they would eat her first.” Joron searched Meas’s face for some hint of a joke. Found nothing.
“Not drinking, Vulse?” said Brekir. “Someone must make sure the shipwife gets back to Snarltooth,” he said with a smile. “Ten cordings for you when we return,” she said. “If you remember, Shipwife.”
“You know, Brekir, in this wish to name me Shipmother, I get the distinct feeling I have been outmanoeuvred and outmatched as surely as if my ship were sinking into the sea below me.” “I would never presume such a thing, Shipwife,” said Brekir, but she hid her smiling mouth with her cup.
“No windseer,” it said. “Just gullaime. Stand. Stand.” “Windseer,” said the windshorn, “have come to us. Windseer has come.” Once more the gullaime bowed its head. “No. Not windseer. Only gullaime,” it said. And Joron did not think he had ever seen a creature look so completely miserable.
“The Hag takes and the Hag gives, Shipwife,” he said. “Ey, that is right enough,” she said, words meant for herself and spoken so softly the lightest breeze could have stolen them.
“What is happening here?” The voice a roar. Like storm waves breaking against a cliff. All the power of a shipwife, of years of straining to be heard above wind and rain and battle pushed out into the air. It stopped the one-eyed windshorn right on the point of launching itself at him. Stopped Cwell on the point of defending him. Meas marched forward, jostling Joron to one side. “What is happening here?”
“Why only take their boats from them, Coughlin,” she said, and a smile grew on her face, “when we could take their ship?”
“Well, let us wish for luck then,” said Joron. “The Hag seldom grants wishes, and the Maiden loves a trick,” replied Berhof.
He had learned there was nothing more dangerous than his own kind. And nothing more likely to want to kill him. Even the myriad toothed and tentacled creatures of the sea’s hatred were not as bad. At least their anger made a kind sense to him, for women and men invaded their domain, or pulled them from it, and killed them to eat, or just because they could.
All his life Berhof had depended on the blade in his hand and it had never failed him, though he had failed it, and others that had depended on his strength to hold them safe.
Oh, he screamed and he swore and cursed them in Hassith’s name. In the Hag’s name. In the Mother’s name. In the Maiden’s name. But inside he was cold. Inside he was calculating.
“How is the arm, Joron?” said Meas. She had blood on her face. Not her blood. “Well, Farys will never be a tailor but she does the job.” “Sorry, D’keeper,” said Farys.
“But he wanted the hull checked for leaks and said he’d have no such defeatist talk, that’s what he called it. And when I pressed it, said we could move the stores about within the ship, he said it were too slow. And I argued and, well, now I lie here under the care of a traitor.” His eyes flicked to Meas. “Strikes me,” said Meas, “you have the sort of mouth gets you into trouble, Anopp.” “Has been said before.” He let out a long slow breath between his teeth. “Still, I am here now, so if you need me, I am yours.” “Well, I am not foolish enough to ignore good advice, or cord the skin off a
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Now, deckchilder are nothing if not inventive. Meas’s crew built a small tent to catch dew and funnel it into a large barrel, though there was never enough water and some of the crew took to swilling out their mouths with seawater, which made them thirstier, but gave them a little moisture in return. Others swore this was a way to madness and stayed thirsty, but Meas said, quietly to Joron, that both methods worked and both were their own particular torture. He noticed, however, she took no seawater.
That night, while she ranted and raved and sweated, Meas sat with her, a knife in her hand. And at the last, when Meas put the blade to the woman’s neck Mekrin had a moment of lucidity, the pain vanished from her eyes and she met Meas’s gaze. “Do it, Shipwife,” she said, “and I’ll thank you at the Hag’s fire.”
Given the calm, and that Aelerin felt it would last a long time, rather than replacing the tops he built flukeboats to replace the ones taken by you and the shipwife to the island. Now, you may never have seen uglier boats in your life, and I am certain that no more malformed and Berncast things have ever flown the sea. But they floated.
Then, as we had no gullaime, we had to tow Tide Child back towards the island, and of course it was gone. Though I found that hard to believe at the time and must apologise again, Courser, for my harsh words.” He leaned forward, “I nearly had poor Aelerin corded when they said we were at the island and nothing was there.” “It is understandable, Dinyl,” said the courser, “for it is not every day an island vanishes.”
“And what of Cwell, Dinyl?” he said, staring at the sword. “Ah well, Deckkeeper,” said Dinyl, “the news there is not as good, for I am afraid she survives also.”
“Leg gone,” it said again. “Yes.” “Hurts.” “Yes.” “Shorn gone,” it said. “Yes.” “Hurts,” it said.
“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?”
