“You have no protector,” snapped Joron.
“I do not need one, but you are wrong in that also. It is only my protector has not returned to me yet, but she will. It would do you no harm to have someone you trust at your back in a fight.”
“I do not want to be responsible for another life,” said Joron.
“And yet you are.” She turned to Anzir. “Where are you from?”
“Clavill Isle, in the north.”
Meas nodded at that.
“Joron,” she said, “it is your decision whether to take Anzir on board or not. I will not press anyone unwanted upon you as you cannot force a trust nor a friendship. But you should know that to turn Anzir down is to shame her. And it is the custom of the Clavill Isle that the shamed take their own lives.”
Joron looked from Meas to the hugely muscled woman down the alley and back again.
“I don’t have to marry her, do I?”
“I doubt she would offer to serve you if that were the case, Deckkeeper.”
“Arse,” said Black Orris.
In the week preceding the relaunch of Tide Child Joron worked harder than he had ever done in his life. Hands that had become hardened in youth from years of pulling on the ropes of a fisher boat were bloodied and ripped. Feet torn by unfamiliar boots added an unfamiliar ache, and when not working, he seemed to fall straight into sleep, being woken rudely and far too early to begin one of the thousands of tasks Meas had lined up for him before Tide Child could be relaunched.
It was not all grim work. Joron found a strange solace in being around Coxward, the bonemaster. The man was odd, as Meas had said, opinionated and often short-tempered, but he clearly loved his craft, and his way with the bones of the ship was a joy to watch. And Joron warmed to Mevans and those members of the crew of Meas’s old ship who had found their way, through many and varied misdemeanours, to Tide Child’s decks. To those she trusted Meas had added Aelerin the courser, Barlay and Farys from the original crew, and a few others, but Joron did not know their names, not, not yet – though he would learn them. Joyfully, he recognised Old Briaret, who had survived her wound and was back on deck. And as he worked, what Meas had promised came to pass. Her old crew, though suspicious at first, quickly warmed to him as the tale spread of his fight to bring the foul-mouthed bird, Black Orris, back to them. His word was never questioned, and the tasks he ordered to be carried out were done quickly and efficiently and in a way that made him realise just how very poor the crew of Tide Child had been compared to what Meas was used to. Mevans had quickly taken Muffaz, the Maiden-cursed giant who Joron had renamed Solemn Muffaz, into his work crew, and his sheer size and melancholy demeanour had a way of making sure Joron’s orders were carried out without the man even having to speak.
Anzir had worried him at first. She was his silent and looming shadow. When he needed to pick up anything heavy and required help, she was there. When he was tying a knot and needed a hand to hold the rope in place, she was there. When some harbour bonewright spat upon him, or questioned his orders as he was from a black ship and nothing to them, she was there, and whatever he wanted done was quickly done. And though he could not prove it, from the way the deckchilder acted around her, he felt sure that, in the underdecks, Anzir had twisted more than one arm and blackened more than one eye in his cause.
In the end he had asked her to be a little less present, realising that he could not function as an officer if his authority was based mainly on fear of her. When he had explained this to Anzir she had accepted calmly, and Joron had turned to find Meas, making one of her rare appearances on the deck, appraising him.
This apart, Meas he barely saw. It could not be claimed that she let her crew work and did nothing herself – she was never there when he fell into his cot to sleep, and her bed was empty when he woke, though there were definite signs it had been slept in: food left by the bed, the covers arranged slightly differently, dirty clothes left there one morning and gone the next. He found lists of tasks written in her perfect, curling handwriting on his pillow each morning.
One day Joron saw a woman sitting on a wall near Tide Child – small, dark-skinned with dark hair and keeping her head bowed, as if she did not wish her face to be seen. He stopped Mevans as the man passed, balancing a spar on his shoulders.
“Who is that, Mevans? Should they be here?”
“That is Narza, D’keeper. I’m surprised she did not appear sooner. She is the shipwife’s shadow.”
“I should speak to her,” said Joron and started towards the woman, but Mevans grabbed his arm.
“No,” he said, then let go of the dark blue material of his coat. “Apologies, D’keeper, but Narza does not take kindly to strangers. I would let the shipwife introduce you first.”
He stared at Mevans, then gave him a short nod.
“Very well.”
Occasionally he would see Meas, now shadowed by Narza, and he got the feeling that if Anzir was dangerous then Narza was doubly so. Joron had never seen anyone like her before. She never raised her head to meet the gaze of another; in fact he was not entirely sure Narza even saw other people. In some he would have taken this as shyness, an attempt to escape the inquisitive gaze of those wanting to pry into her life, but he got no sense of that from Narza. It was more that she seemed not to find anyone else interesting or worthwhile enough to raise her head and look at them. At one point he had seen Meas stride across the shipyard followed by Narza and found himself pausing in his task of shifting crates to the dockside to watch them.
“What do you think she did?” said Mevans from by his side.
“Punched an officer, like you, Mevans.”
Mevans was shaking his head.
“Nish on that, we of the Dread planned what we did together, Narza joins herself with no woman or man but the shipwife, nor cares for them.” He glanced at her just as Narza vanished around a corner after Meas.
“Murder then,” said Joron. “She has the air of it about her.”
Mevans grinned.
“Something funny in that, Hatkeep?”
“Only that you imply it in the singular, D’keeper. From what I hear she left a trail of bodies.”
“Why?”
“Why?” He lifted a spar of wrapped varisk stalks. “You’d have to ask her, but if you do you’re a braver man than I.” He walked away with the spar over his shoulder whistling happily.
The entire week was one of little more than hard physical work. Rough hands became rougher, tired bodies became tireder, minds dulled by monotony became duller. The tedium of the work was broken only twice. First when Hag’s Hunter left dock. This was done with all the pomp and ceremony the Hundred Isles could muster. Every bonewright in the yards downed tools and streamed over to the deep-water dock. As did every woman and man of the town – except the crew of Tide Child, who were pointedly not invited, so they worked and listened as everyone else celebrated for the day. While every deckchild from the Hunter found a partner to share a bed with, they worked. While people danced and sang to the drums, they worked. While the Bern and the hagpriests shouted blessings over Hag’s Hunter and sang of the spirits of those sacrificed for the ship, they worked. While bright paint was spattered over the bricks of the docks, they worked. Only when Skearith’s Eye began to close, darkness enveloped the docks, and a great shout went up from the town did they pause. Joron stopped what he was doing, as did everyone else, experiencing a peculiar sensation. His ears felt blocked, like someone held pillows either side of his head, and above the roofs of the buildings a bright blue glow momentarily appeared.