They bowed their heads and quickly left the cabin, Joron almost feeling their relief at them doing so. Meas let silence fall in the cabin, left him standing there until he cleared his throat.
“You did not say where, or why, we fight,” he said.
“You are not of the fleet, Deckkeeper” – she did not look up from her book – “so you will not know that I do not need to. Deckchilder are there to fight, why and where only concerns them if it will affect their tactics. Otherwise I point them, they loose bolts, they stab and kill. That is their place aboard a ship – to do and to die. Especially aboard a ship like this.”
“And a deckkeeper’s place?” he said. It felt almost a brave thing, to question her. She looked up from her book.
“Well, you must know a little more, so I will tell you where and why. And then point you to loose or stab or kill, and do or die, ey?” He did not speak, had no reply and could not stop a rush of fear, for if he were to loose or stab or kill and do or die, then others would be coming to do the same to him. She sat back in her chair. Raised her hands above her head and stretched out some ache, then shrugged her shoulders and relaxed. “Each year at the hot bonetide the isle of Corfynhulme has a festival of the children. It is a dull thing meant for the stonebound, for farmers and fishers.” Did he bristle a little at having his father’s profession lumped in with those of the land? “They parade their children around the isle and dance and feast and do the things the stonebound do.” She stared at him as if waiting for a challenge and when none came carried on. “It used to be that the festival was raided regularly, not by the Gaunt Islanders – Corfynhulme is too close to Bernshulme for them to risk a ship on that – but by raiders, the dregs of the sea. For nigh on a decade now the festival has been safe, but the Hundred Isles has seen reverses – our fleet has had losses and we do not patrol as often as we once did.”
Something went cold in him at that. He had, ever since his youth, taken it for granted that the inner isles were safe – the great fleet kept it so – and to hear that this was no longer the case felt almost like Meas spoke treason. But she did not look shocked or like she imparted some great and terrible secret. If anything, she simply looked tired.
“At the moment the majority of our fleet is drawn south. The Gaunt Islanders have been massing on their side of Skearith’s Spine, and the Bern and Kept are sure they plan action of some kind. And, though you may not know it if you have not been paying attention to Skearith’s Bones, today is the hot bonetide. The water will rise; Skearith’s Eye will burn, and the children of Corfynhulme will walk their island. But it has come to me that they will not be safe this year. Raiders have been growing in strength in the warm seas of the western isles, and they are finally strong enough to attack. Corfynhulme is an easy target. They have no walls, no gallowbows to guard their harbour and few soldiers. From what I hear their barracks are on the point of falling down.”
Another shock. Joron’s picture of the Hundred Isles came from his father’s stories. They were a string of island fortresses, walled and armed against the rapacious appetites of the Gaunt Islanders, a people whose whole culture was that of the raider, a people who had forced the Hundred Isles to become hard. “So Joron, we fly fast, and when those raiders, so brave in the face of the defenceless, turn up they will find themselves facing Tide Child.”
He wanted to tell her that Tide Child was not ready, to expose the lie of his gallowbow teams, to tell her this was foolhardy, but when he spoke those were not the words that fell from his mouth. “I have never been in a battle,” he said.
She stood.
“And you may not be today. If we arrive in good time, then it is likely the sight of a fleet ship, even a black one” – she paused, sighed – “especially a black one, will be enough to make them think twice.”
“And if we are not in good time?”
“If we arrive after the raid has started we will fight. There is only one way in and out of the harbour bay, so the raiders will have to come through us to leave.” She smiled at him but there was little happiness there. “They will be in flukeboats. A few decent gallowbow shots will finish them. It will be no great battle.” He should have said it then – that they would be lucky to get even one decent gallowbow shot from Tide Child. He did not. “If we arrive too late, Joron Twiner, the raiders will have the children, and they will sell them and get rich. The Gaunt Islanders will buy them and sacrifice our children for corpselights instead of their own, and they will get stronger and the Hundred Isles will get weaker. So it is important we are not late.” He nodded. “So rig the ship, make us fly, Joron Twiner. Make Tide Child fly, and then sharpen that curnow on your hip.” As he turned she spoke again. “If it comes to a fight, Twiner,” she said softly, “it is a chaotic thing to fight on a ship. Stay by me and keep your own crew at your back.”
“And that is all there is to it?” he said.
She laughed.
“No, that is more complicated than it really is. Kill the enemy and stay alive is the crux of it. That will be the only thought in your mind in your first battle.”
“I thought you were a tactician, Shipwife Meas,” he said.
She nodded.
“Oh, I am, Deckkeeper, I very much am. But that is because I have seen many battles, too many maybe.”
“My father made battles sound like glorious things.”
“That is for stories,” she said quietly. “We fight in the hope that others will not have to, and we fight to keep those we have come to care about safe. We fight even for those who do not deserve it. There is no honour or greatness in what we do, except among fools. I fight, in the end, because I have no other choice” – she held his gaze with hers – “and neither do you. So remember this, if you hear tales of bravery and greatness, they are nearly always told by people who have only watched battle from afar. Those of us who have suffered through it know such stories as a skin over the horror of what is true. No sane woman or man wishes for war, and those that do never would if they thought it would leave paint on their doorsteps.” He was shocked by how bitter she sounded, and what she said cheapened the memory of his father, made something dark rise within him.
“My father fought. And he wanted me to go into the fleet. He was no fool.”
“No, I do not say he was. But he was poor, Joron Twiner, and what other route do the poor have to any riches in the Hundred Isles, ey? They fight or they are nothing. Now go. Ready my ship for me.” And she returned to her desk, sat and stared at her book, leaving him wondering who she was, this warrior who spoke like she hated war.
Was that why she was here?
He did not know, and he dared not ask.
The winds treated them kindly if not keenly. Tide Child danced across a sea that barely swelled and the beakwyrms twirled and danced before them. Meas Gilbryn paced the rump of the boneship, twice sending Joron with some crew into the hold of the ship to re-stow the supplies in the hope of altering the balance of the black ship and squeezing a little more speed out of him. But no matter how much they sweated and swore as they dragged the stores about in the dark heat of the hold, it seemed to make little difference. The ship had found a speed he was comfortable with, and the deckchilder, though competent, were never quite efficient enough to wring the last drops of speed from the wind.