If Meas worried she gave nothing away. She strode to the bottom of the mainspine to stand next to the gullaime, who was lost in its own world, bringing the wind that powered Tide Child forward. The chest beneath its robes rose and fell as the pressure in Joron’s ears ebbed and flowed, making the sound of the sea around him pulse like waves on a shore. When Meas was happy with Tide Child’s course, she had Barlay straighten the ship, and the creaking and moaning from the ship’s bones stopped.
Meas returned to the rump and stood by Joron.
“Now we will see if you were right, Deckkeeper,” she said. “Aelerin!”
“Shipwife.”
“If Hag’s Hunter follows us, in the state we are in I do not think we can outrun them and Tide Child will not take any hard manoeuvres, so I need something else. Get to the charts and find me shallow water where Hunter cannot follow.” Meas waited for Aelerin to vanish towards the great cabin, where the charts were kept, but they did not. “Well?” said Meas.
“Forgive me, Shipwife, but I reckoned on you wanting that or somewhere to hide. The islands here in the north are not kind to us in that way. The water is deep, the Islands low, not tall enough to hide us from Hag’s Hunter.”
Meas nodded, her eyes unfocused as she thought.
“Very well. And no sign of a storm. What chance of mist do you hear sung?”
“The Northstorm is brisk now as it runs up to the time of tempers. It sings only a slow gaining of anger in the winds.”
Meas nodded.
“So, no mist, nowhere to hide and nowhere to play clever tricks.”
“What do we do?” said Dinyl.
“We string them along,” said Meas, “for as long as we can.”
“But our mission,” said Dinyl. “The keyshan must die in the Northstorm, and—”
“Quiet yourself, Deckholder,” she hissed.
Dinyl stared at Meas, and Joron saw suspicion return to his face.
“You do remember our mission?” he said quietly.
“Do not think to remind me of what I do or do not remember,” said Meas through gritted teeth. “Ask such questions in front of the crew again and I will break you to the deck, do you understand?”
Dinyl bowed his head, took a step back.
“Of course, Shipwife,” he said.
They flew on, the ship skimming across the waves, and after ten turns of the glass the call came from above.
“It follows! Hag’s Hunter follows!”
Meas walked to the far rear of the ship and raised her near-glass.
“It is already larger in the glass than I would like. Kyrie must be showing her gullaime no mercy.”
“How long?” said Joron. He had no need to give any further detail.
Meas gazed through her nearglass, taking her time. The sea rose and fell without care.
“Not long enough, Deckkeeper. Not long enough. Go below, Joron, find the crate with the hiylbolts and make sure they are readily accessible. And put three wingbolts in the crate with them. If it comes to it, the crate goes over the side. We will not give Kyrie more ammunition.”
Joron glanced around, making sure no crew were near.
“Why not just do it anyway? Now.”
“Because Dinyl was right: we have our duty, and I have not given up all hope. I am a better shipwife than my sither. We may yet carry the day.” She raised her nearglass again. “You have work to do, Joron,” she said, and he knew himself dismissed.
It was hard work in the hold, damp and stuffy and stinking, but the crate of hiylbolts was eventually found. As he was struggling to drag the box up the stairs, he found himself face to face with the gullaime.
“Joron Twiner,” it said.
“You are not needed on deck?”
“Wind shifted,” it said. Then it sniffed twice. “Smell death, Joron Twiner.”
“This is why Hag’s Hunter chases us, and not the arakeesian.” He nodded at the box. “It is bait.”
The gullaime took a step closer.
“Not lie, Joron Twiner,” it said, then touched its open beak with a wingclaw and Joron was enveloped in the smell of hot sand. “Tasted your blood.”
A sudden shift, a scent of rain on the air, a knowledge of the currents moving around the ship that was not his, all experienced with senses he did not possess, and then he was looking at his own face. Dark skin, wiry hair escaping the one-tailed hat that clung tightly to his skull, and the lie was there on his face as bright as paint splattered on a doorway. Then he was back, staring into the painted eyes of the gullaime’s mask.
“It is not my decision,” he said.
“Is hers?”
“Yes.” And he felt the gullaime deserved an explanation. “She wants to save lives.”
“Many lives need saved,” it said, then shuffled past him him and down the narrow stairs before turning at the bottom. “Gullaime live too.” It vanished into the gloom, but its voice came sailing back, though not its voice as he had known it, not the harsh croak he was used to, something different and sweeter, something he felt sure only he could hear:
“You know the song, but you would lose it for ever.”
And he did know the song. The song had been growing in his mind since he had touched the windspire on Arkannis Island, but he did not know what it meant or what it was for – or if it was for anything at all.
“Joron!” The call came from above and he returned to his shipwife. A brisk wind filled the wings of Tide Child, pushing him over the water at a speed that, if not breathtaking, was impressive.
It was not enough.
Behind them, Hag’s Hunter loomed. How long had be been in the hold? Ten, twenty turns of the glass? When he held up his hand and looked back, the topspines of Hag’s Hunter stuck up above his fingers.
“Impressive, is he not?” said Meas.
“Yes,” he replied. Because it was true. Blue corpselights burned above the ship, bone-white hull smashing through the sea, sending up great clouds of spume. Vast wings caught the wind, a tower of white cloud above the ship.
On the rump Coxward stood by Meas.
“We cannot outrun it, Shipwife,” he said. “Tide Child’s bones simply will not take much more.” Joron glanced up into the sky. Skearith’s Eye was well down in its journey to the horizon. “The Hunter will not catch us before night though,” the bonemaster added. “Tide Child does what he can.”
“Will they attack at night?” said Joron.
Meas nodded.
“If Kyrie wants me, and to get back to the keyshan before it makes the high northern currents, then she must.”
“So we run on?”
Meas closed up her nearglass.
“No, Joron. We are tired, and as Coxward says, the ship is tired also – we have flown across the entire Archipelago and we will only get more tired. If I thought we could run, I would run. But Kyrie will catch us.” Meas placed the nearglass inside her coat. “For as long as I have know her, Kyrie has desired our mother’s favour more than any other thing, and here she sees her chance to win it. She will show no quarter.” There was an alarming groan, and Meas put her hand on the spine, as if to comfort the ship. “Tide Child has served us well, and I had hoped to lead the Hunter on for longer. But it seems we do not have that luxury.” She glanced at Coxward, who bowed his head as if shamed at his inability to do more for the ship. “To have any chance, I fear we must turn and fight, Joron. While we still can.”