Joron was faintly surprised to find that it was Menday – he had lost track of the days and never regained it – and that familiar cycle: Madenday, Toilday, Mareday, Clensday, Hagsday, Menday, had been denied him ever since. He had felt that to ask such a simple question as “What day is it?” would have been to admit just how lost he had become since his condemnation. It had not occurred to him, until this moment, how that lack of order had subtly affected him in other ways. Knowing what day it was again felt like being bound to the sea a little more, as if the deck beneath his feet took on a little more solidity, as if the bones of Tide Child somehow pulled themselves a little more watertight, and his position on the chart of his life became a little clearer. He knew what would come next today, knew it from every fleet story he had heard on his father’s knee – Meas would read the Bernlaw.
And every Menday, boy, the shipwife reads the Bernlaw so the crew will know their duty. And you will listen and you will obey and one day you may be oarturner or purseholder. Imagine that! The boy I raised on the rump of a fleet ship, ey? Corpselights dancing for joy above your head as you sing and work.
The feel of his father’s hand on his head, ruffling his hair.
Strong fingers, Warm hands.
There were seventy-two crew assembled. None slept when the Bernlaw was read and even the ship’s pumps were left unattended. There were three missing, two lying in the hagbower below the underdeck where wounds taken in fights on board slowly festered and they could die out of sight, and the gullaime, which still refused to leave its cabin. Them aside, all stood before Meas. Not enough, not really, not a big enough crew for a ship this size; a hundred and fifty was the minimum complement, one hundred and thirty sailors and twenty soldiers. Two hundred to really run the ship. Joron had never thought about it before, how woeful his ship was, how little he had in common with the actual fleet of the Hundred Isles. Maybe he had been the shipwife the ship deserved, but now Tide Child had Meas Gilbryn, Lucky Meas, the witch of Keelhulme Sounding. Fierce, gifted, storied Lucky Meas.
What had she done to deserve this?
What had any of them done? Himself apart, he did not know.
He should have known.
“Stand upon the slate, my children.” All here but him were of the fleet, and it was as if the ritual of the words was burned into them. Their reaction, the turning to the rump and the woman stood upon it, was involuntary and inescapable. Not one could resist the draw of it, even those who had their own power. Barlay, Cwell and Kanvey were drawn to her. Oh, with distrustful, calculating eyes, and maybe she saw the same calculating gleam in him when she talked, but still they listened, as if they could do nothing else.
She read the Bernlaw in a harsh staccato voice, the list of rules that must be obeyed, and at the end of every line she paused and barked out, “To go against this is punishable by death.” And this was met with a solemn nod of the head by every woman and man among them. Even though those deaths were already certain.
“Shall keep themselves in good health. To go against this is punishable by death.”
And it did not matter.
“Shall obey those the Bern put above them. To go against this is punishable by death.”
And none found humour.
“Shall pay true honour to the Maiden, Mother and Hag. To go against this is punishable by death.”
And none made light.
“And woman may lay with woman and man may lay with man, but woman may not lay with man and risk a child aboard ship. To go against this is punishable by death.”
In that death was always the intended destination for this crew and this ship.
Only at the very end did Meas’s voice waver. At the end of the Bernlaw the last words were always the same: “May the Maiden play no tricks, may the Mother hold us close and may the Hag look away. So says the Bernlaw. So say us all.” And the crew repeated the words back.
But aboard Tide Child the words were changed to reflect their condemnation, and though Meas read loudly, “May the Maiden play no tricks,” her voice quietened at, “may the Mother hold us close,” and did she almost falter at the last? Did something almost crack in her voice as she read the words unique to those condemned to a black ship? “And may the Hag welcome and forgive us.”
Did it?
He was sure it did, just a little. And if he noticed he knew every other aboard the ship would have too. But the crack was papered over quickly; the weakness did not last, and when she read the final words, “So says the Bernlaw. So say us all!” she was as strong and fierce as ever, glaring at them as they returned the words to her. Then she walked from the rump commanding the first watch to break their fast below and the second to take their places on the ropes and the spines and the deck.
“Clean my slate! For I’ll not have it run with filth!” she shouted. “Barlay, what stand you there for?” she bellowed at the huge woman. “Can you not see the oarturner is practically asleep on his feet? Take your place and steer us straight.” Barlay nodded and made for the rump. Meas turned as she passed Joron. “Deckkeeper, to my cabin, and I will speak with you of where we go and what is expected. Bring me the masters of your bowteams – I’ll know the bowsells afore we fight.” She stopped, feeling his hesitation. “You do have bowsells assigned?” He did not, had never given such a thing as much as a thought, but already he felt Meas’s wrath and knew her well enough to not chance an answer she did not want to hear. At the same time he did not wish to tell a lie she would easily see through.
“Not full teams, Shipwife,” he said, “only two.”
She sniffed at him, unimpressed.”And their names?”
Names? He had none to give to her, then, with a rush he realised he did know two names, though nothing of the men in question. He hoped they would serve him well.
“Farys and Hilan.”
“Well, Deckkeeper Twiner, let us hope they know their craft. I will pick some others once we have spoken.”
He joined her soon enough, after a quick whispered conversation with Hilan and Farys, eyes widening as he told what he had said of them; eyes narrowing, smiles appearing at this little shared subterfuge.
“Shot me a gallowbow aboard the High Riding Wyrm, I did,” said Hilan. “Never aimed the team but I know enough.” He nodded to himself. “Oh I know enough.”
“And I loaded on two ships,” said Farys, “before . . .” And her voice faded away at the memory of her disfigurement.
“Well, you are my aimers now. Lead your teams and we will do as best we can for Meas, right?” They nodded. “Stand firm, my crew,” he said, and they rewarded him with smiles.
In the great cabin the smiles were gone. Meas sat at her desk, the courser to one side, head bowed, hands behind their back while Meas stared at her book, open on the desk before her. She gave them just long enough for the nerves to build before she spoke.
“So you are Joron’s bowsells, ey?” Farys and Hilan nodded, voices stolen by the presence of a woman such as Meas Gilbryn. “Your names?”
“Hilan, Shipwife.”
“Farys, Shipwife.”
Meas nodded.
“I wanted to see you, to know you before we fight today.” A shock went through Joron at that, though he had known it was coming, must be coming. If the same shock went through Hilan or Farys he could not tell. “And we will fight today, so tell your crews to ready themselves. And if you know others who can work a gallowbow then pick two more teams and do it in the deckkeeper’s name, right?” They nodded. “Very well. Go to your work.”