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“Joron!” Meas’s shout came from the rail of Tide Child as the bigger ship came closer, white water rushing along the hull. “How does it feel to wear the two-tail, Shipwife Joron?” She was grinning as she stood on the rail, one hand on a rope, the other holding on to her hat.
“Good, Shipwife Meas,” he shouted back, “I would wear it longer, maybe?” He said it as a joke, but there was nothing of the joker on her face when she replied. “A shipmother needs a shipwife, Joron, for she cannot be both. So maybe start thinking about saving for a tailor, eh?
“One comes. More come,” said Madorra. “The sither will rise.” Had he done this? Had he started this all that time ago by singing to the wakewyrm? By waking the islewyrm had he sent some signal out across the islands that would bring them all crashing down? “Not rise, Joron Twiner,” said the gullaime quietly as it came to stand by him. “Not rise. Come when called. When needed. Not destroy, not kill,” it whispered. “Not want.” “No,” said Joron, “not want.”
He is lucid now.” “Lucid? I thought he was healed?” She stared at him, piercing eyes beneath a mop of filthy curls, in a way she reminded him of Meas. “Keep your voice down. A great part of healing is to believe you can heal.”
“I thought he was well, that he was up and about.” “Aye,” she said. “He was, but you have the skin removed from your back and see how you fare. I chase the filth from one wound to another, but always something is leaking or suppurating. Sew him up, open him again.” She shrugged. “It is a race I am losing.”
“Then you are welcome to stay,” said Joron. “I think we both know I will be staying,” he said softly, “whether I wish to or not.” And Joron felt the shadow of the Hag over them and, despite the brazier, he was suddenly cold in the small room.
Jennil who artfully splashed blood around him on the deck, then, with an apology, over his clothes, spattering them with the mixture of blood and seawater. What better to baptise a shipwife, he thought, than with the two elements that would soak their command.
“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.”
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.”
“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.
He lived by the blade and when that was your profession the now was the only guarantee you had, for the future may not exist, as it no longer did for poor Berhof, and the past was a place full of sorrows and lost friends.
When he reached thirty-two, he judged it a good amount of time, partly because he knew how twisty the streets were around here, and that those who had run must be out of sight by now. And partly because that was as far as his numbers went.
Coughlin held up the flint and sparker. The figure drew back their arm, ready to throw the spear they held. “Stop,” said Coughlin. The figure did. “You are their leader,” he said. Coughlin nodded. “My people,” said Coughlin through a mouthful of blood. “They are all dead?” The figure nodded in return. “They took all my men with them, though. They fought well.” “They were good, my seaguard.” “As were mine.” The officer hunkered down a little, getting ready to throw. “Do you think you can make the spark before I can kill you?” There was no threat in the question, only curiosity. “Whether I do,
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“So, you have the island’s commander?” “The island was led by a hagpriest.” A pause. “She is dead.” “What are you not saying?” How to answer that? “She was your sither. I had to kill her. I have laid out her body and—” “I have no sithers.” Said just too quickly. Meas straightened the cuffs on her jacket, any trace of feeling gone from her face. “And no need to see the body. Have it thrown off the walls for the longthresh.”
“What will you say to those of Sleighthulme, gathered in the bothy and waiting?” he said. Meas stopped on the stair. Turned to him. “Say?” she said. “I will say nothing.” She was shaking, anger held in a tight knot within her.
She stared out at the ships. “Some prizes, Joron, are worth sacrifices.”
“A price has been struck,” she said. “And what is the cost?” “The brownbones can leave, unmolested.” “And what is the cost?” “The fleet also.” “And what is the cost?” “You are to take command of my fleet, Joron. I will speak to all the shipwives. There will be no argument.”
“No one is immune to torture, Joron. I say I would not do what she wanted if I could.” Another smile, one that quickly fled. “That is bravado. All give in eventually, and so would you. It is no dishonour. But me? Even when I break, and I will, I have nothing to give her.” “You cannot do this.” “I have already done it.”
“What is to stop them destroying us as soon as we leave Sleighthulme?” “I am, Joron,” she said. “I will stand atop the tower and watch you go. And if so much as one of their ships makes to go after you then I will throw myself into the sea. I am the prize my mother wants. They will not risk losing me.”
“I am putting my trust in you, Joron Twiner, to look after my people. Our people. They have been treated sorely here.” She came around the desk and put a hand on his arm. “What I must do is hard enough, do not make it harder.” She looked away from him, and did her voice crack when she spoke the next words? Did the cold grey facade of the shipwife fall away? “Obey my order, Joron. Obey it, please. For it is harder to give than you know.”
He told himself the tears streaming from his eyes were because of the wind, and the crew of Tide Child must have known it was so because they did not comment on it, nor make a ribald joke behind their hands.
And though he did not know how he would return Meas Gilbryn, Lucky Meas, the witch of Keelhulme Sounding, to the deck of Tide Child, he knew he would do anything to make it happen. Anything.
As ever, when I write I am supported by my wonderful wife and (somewhat) helped by my son and definitely given no help at all by our cat.
Life is hard, look after one another.
