It was not lost on Joron that the Thirteenbern’s firstborn, a child who should have gone to the ships, had somehow survived to attend the spiral bothies and be trained as fleet. He did not believe all the talk of miracles around Lucky Meas Gilbryn’s survival. The Gilbryns were an old Bern family and those raised among the Berncast in the wharves and sea caves knew the truth. Nothing was fair in the Hundred Isles. Only strength was respected, and few were stronger than the old Bern families.
Tide Child slowed and Joron glanced at Meas. He followed her gaze until he found himself looking at the ochre block on the harbour side that commanded her attention. Three steps that went nowhere, built from the white limestone only found in the sea stacks along Skearith’s Spine that were as likely to wreck the ships of those coming to quarry them as give up stone. But the stone was white no longer; it had been stained ochre by the blood of the firstborn, sacrificed to float as light above the boneships.
“Get Tide Child ready for the cradle,” said Meas quietly. “I want everything that can come loose tied down and then tell the crew to put on their shackles. I’ll give no seaguard an excuse to wet their spear on my crew.” Joron nodded and set to work, though there was little to do. Everything not essential had been thrown overboard on the journey to lighten the ship and keep him afloat. And the women and men of the crew were so tired they had no energy to argue with Joron when he ordered they be shackled like gullaime leaving the lamyards; they simply put out their hands to be cuffed by their fellows, Barlay and Cwell. Then the two women came to Joron, who secured them in turn, Barlay resigned to the fact of her bondage and Cwell staring at him as he tightened the hasps around her wrists, mocking him without ever speaking. By the time Tide Child came to rest in the cradle, the shore workers sweating and grunting as they took up the slack in the ropes and lifted Tide Child just out of the water, the entire crew was shackled.
Seaguard surrounded the ship, stone-tipped spears held aloft and armour of silver-painted leather shining. Behind them the women of the lamyards waited to take the gullaime. Meas climbed down the side of the ship and went to the seaguard commander and nodded at something he said. The crew were formally given into the care of the seaguard, gangplanks were then placed against the side of Tide Child, and the commander led his troops on to the ship. The crew, meek as children, marched off the ship and along the harbour front watched by townspeople who jeered and spat at the condemned.
“Come,” said Meas. “Even dead officers get their own quarters in Bernshulme, though given where the seaguard commander told me they’re located, I dread to think what state they’re in.”
They were billeted in Fishmarket. No place in Bernshulme stank like Fishmarket. The beehive-shaped bothies that surrounded market square had been tunnelled through to allow access in and out of the market squares. Bit by bit a mixture of neglect and utility had turned these tunnels into passages, so each bothy was cut in half. The work had been done poorly. The roofs regularly collapsed, and the stone – always valuable – rather than being used to rebuild the bothies was simply spirited away and the roofs patched with varisk and gion leaves, badly cured ones, as was proved by the leak above Joron’s bed. It was not a large leak, but large enough to leave the bed he slept on – dreaming of high seas and engulfing waves – as damp as any bed aboard ship.
But he was tired, and neither the wind creeping in through the holes, nor the overpowering stink of rotting fish from the market, nor Meas’s obvious contempt was enough to stop him sinking straight into sleep in the dark room atop the half-bothy in Fishmarket.
But he did not sleep for long.
“Twiner.” A whispered word, heard from a long way off in the pitch darkness of the room. “Joron Twiner.” Harsher words. Was he drunk again? Was that why he felt so cold, so shivery? “Wake, Deckkeeper.” Then he was awake. Eyes wide though there was no light to fill them. He felt her near him, the movement of air as she moved.
“Meas?”
“Ey, and it is ‘Shipwife’ to you, on land or sea. Cover your eyes.” He did, heard the spark of flint on metal and and then gradually uncovered his eyes to the warm glow of the wanelight she held in her hands.
“What is—”
She covered his mouth with her free hand.
“Shh.” She glanced at the flimsy door. “Someone comes – more than one – and from the sound they are armed.” It felt as if icy seawater ran down his back. “Pick up your curnow.” She took her hand from his mouth and pulled one of the small crossbows from its cord on her coat. “Take this. Do not loose unless I do.”
“Have they come for me?” he said.
She smiled, a slit in her face.
“Possibly, Twiner, but I have many enemies too.” The smile widened. “More than you, I imagine.” And he felt foolish. “Now listen, Twiner. Stand ready by me, hold your sword like you know what it is for, right?” He nodded, listening to the faint sound of feet making their way up the steps of the bothy from below. “I reckon you have time to put on some trousers too, if you hurry.” He nodded, struggling into damp clothes, the comfortable feel of old fishskin around his legs, the illusion the cured material would give some protection.
By the time he was dressed and standing ready behind Meas, the sounds moving up the bothy’s tight staircase were louder. “You out there,” shouted Meas, “if you come to rob us then know we are awake and we are armed before you come through that door.”
There was only silence.
Then.
“We do not come to rob you,” came a woman’s voice, “and for the Hag’s sake, Shipwife Meas, keep your voice down.” Meas lowered her sword, its tip coming to rest pointing at the floor as if disappointed to be denied action.
“So, she cannot leave me alone, even here.” He heard her say those words and was sure he was not meant to; they were little more than a sadness breathed out. “Put up your weapons, Joron Twiner, and accompany me. If I am to die tonight then you are the nearest I have to a friend just now.”
“So you will take me to die with you?” he said. He had seen little that made him believe they had any sort of friendship, but this seemed little thanks for it.
“They would only kill you here otherwise.” She sheathed her sword, raised her voice. “Enter then, and take me where you will.” The door opened to reveal two of the Grand Bothy’s guard, a man and a woman, decked out in their finery: glittering fishskin and feathers, chestplates of shining metal – a fortune’s worth just there – and helmets of hard birdleather sculpted to look like vicious sea creatures.
“You are to come with us, Meas Gilbryn,” said the man. They were armed only with the daggers at their sides.
“Very well,” she said, straightening up. “Come, Twiner. We will let these fellows escort us and keep us safe from bandits.”
“Nothing was said about bringing him.” The man pointed at Joron.
“Were you told not to bring him?” said Meas.
“No, but—”
“He is my deckkeeper, and a shipwife goes nowhere without a deckkeeper.” She took a step towards the guards. “Of course, you are not fleet, so you may well not know such things.” If the man recognised this as the insult it was he did not show it. “But no doubt the person who sent you did and would have said were I not to bring my deckkeeper.” The man looked over his shoulder at the woman behind him, who shrugged.