“Aye, and when Bassa is in her bothy she will tell the Thirteenbern I am the father and choose me as her Kept.”
Meas put a hand on his shoulder.
“I have a harsh truth for you, Gavith, and one that will be hard to hear. Someone at the bothy will tell Bassa when she arrives never to ask for you or mention you again, and that she must choose her Kept from those who are already there, already favoured.”
“She will not,” he said. “We have loved each other since we were—”
“Look up there.” Meas pointed at the statue. The three Kept were still there and were staring at Meas, Joron and the boy. “They have no wish for competition. The Bern advance through bearing children. And the Kept seek the favour of those women who breed well and navigate the court with ease. Now, Bassa is only firstbern. She has no importance yet and the court will be a stormy sea for her, as long as she lives. But if her strength holds and she makes fourthbern? Or fifthbern? Every man among the Kept will want to be with her. And they know the ways of the court, they know about power.”
“I will learn.”
“You will never get the opportunity,” she said, harsh now. “You have seen your face in the water. You are Berncast.”
“It is only a mark. It will fade. My mother says it will—”
“You will never be Kept, boy.”
“Not if I go to sea with you.” He tried to escape her grip.
“They will kill you,” she said.
As he was about to reply – indignant, furious – they were interrupted.
“The boy is to come with me.” The seaguard was a big man, armoured and threatening. One hand rested on his curnow. “I am to take him to his woman.” Gavith looked at the seaguard and Joron could see the war on his face. He wanted what the seaguard said to be true, but Meas had sown a seed of doubt.
Kept Tassar appeared from the crowd.
“Shipwife Meas,” he said, “and my friend Joron, how good it is to meet you both again.” He sketched a small bow with his head. “I am afraid I must take this boy with me.” Now Gavith’s face changed, for there was no hiding the threat radiating from Tassar. It was as if the man could not control what he was, the darkness emanating from him. “I wish to teach this boy the ways of the Kept. I wish him to know – the sort of things a man needs to do to survive in the spiral bothies.”
“I am afraid this boy has signed on with my crew,” said Meas. “He is mine now.” The boy was like a kivelly locked by the glare of a predatory sankrey, unable to talk or move.
“Well,” said Tassar, “in that case I will not stand in your way. The outcome will be the same for him either way, eh?” He turned and walked away. “Saffin, come,” he shouted, and the seaguard followed him.
“What did he mean,” said Gavith, “the outcome will be the same?”
“I am shipwife of a black ship,” said Meas simply.
The boy’s face fell as the truth of his situation came home.
“He was going to kill me.”
“Ey,” said Meas.
“And now you will do it instead.”
“Maybe,” she said, “but I do not intend to die, and you should not either. Take what life you have and enjoy it. Now, you must come with us. I do not trust Tassar – he rose far and quickly, which means he is ruthless. He may still decide to make sure of you. He has always been a thorough man, if an unpleasant one.”
They walked through the back alleys of Fishmarket until they arrived at a drinking den named Boneship’s Rest. A sign above the door showed a boneship wrecked on rocks. A huge woman and man stood before the door, both all muscle and with long black hair that had been elaborately braided.
“I wish to see Cahanny,” said Meas.
“And I wish to grow wings, fly and escape my fate as much as any gullaime,” said the woman. “Don’t mean it will happen.”
“I am Meas Gilbryn.”
“Fancy names sink nothing here, Lucky Meas,” said the man.
“I have a ship,” she said, “and I understand Cahanny needs a ship. So there may be a deal to be done.”
“Toth,” said the woman, “go see what he thinks.”
They waited in uncomfortable silence in the alley, Joron pretending an interest in the various bones and fish heads that littered the ground.
The man returned. “He’ll see you,” he said, holding the door open. “Not the boy.” He nodded at young Gavith. “He waits here.”
“You will protect him?”
“Aye,” said Toth, “and if you don’t come out we’ll find a use for him. Have fun in there, Lucky Meas.” Joron did not think he meant it.
Inside the Boneship’s Rest Joron could not tell if the place was dim because it was badly lit or dim because it was full of smoke from the gossle burners in the corners. Smoke leaked from the braziers, curling up into the air like the long graceful necks of courting laybirds, twisting and dancing around one another in delicate spirals as they filled the room with pungent, narcotic fumes. He found himself transfixed.
Meas nudged him.
“Try not to breathe in too much gossle, Twiner. It can be disorientating, at first anyway, and it is known to make people foolish. We will need our wits about us.”
Cahanny, and Joron had no doubt it was him from the way he held himself – he strutted like a fighting bird – came forward. A small man dressed in tight fishskin and with his right arm missing below the elbow, Joron wondered whether he was born so or if he had lost the limb in a fight. He had a face like an eating root, that fat round kind that sometimes came out of the ground looking like a wizened human head. Joron wondered how old he was. Cahanny brought up his one hand and tugged on his left ear, an ear that stuck out nearly as much as the right one, and then coughed.
“Lucky Meas.” A voice like a hinge creaking, and now he was nearer Joron could see he had the tight shiny skin of someone who had been badly burned. Two of the fingers on his left hand were also fused together. “I never thought I would see Lucky Meas walk into my drinking hole.”
“Well” – Meas shrugged – “then we are as surprised as one another, ey?”
Cahanny laughed, but there was little humour there. His eyes roved over Meas, appraising her, but not as a woman or man appraised another, more as a trader appraises goods before making an offer.
“So then, Lucky Meas” – Joron wondered if everyone in the Hundred Isles now made her name sound like a joke – “how can Mulvan Cahanny help you?”
“I think it’s how I can help you, Mulvan Cahanny.”
He took a step towards the bar, a plank balanced on two barrels in front of a stack of eight, shaking his head as he did.
“Oh no,” he said and picked up a beaker from the gion-stalk plank, taking a sip from it. “Sooner see a keyshan breach in Bernshulme Bay than expect Lucky Meas to help a man like me. You must be wanting something, unless you’ve come to close me down.” He put his cup down. “But I reckon you’ve come a little short-handed for that.”
“I have heard you have a cargo that you wish transported,” she said. He said nothing, only stared. “And as I now command a black ship, I have a little more autonomy than most shipwives.”