“Arrin,” said Meas, clasping the man’s forearm.
“Meas.” He returned the gesture. “I fair did not believe it when I was told you commanded a black ship.”
“Well, life is full of surprises, Arrin, as you well know.” She turned to his deckkeeper. “Oswire,” she said. “Well met.”
“Well met, Shipwife,” said Oswire, but there was frost in her words.
“Shipwife Brekir comes across from the Snarltooth.” Arrin leaned in close to Meas but Joron caught his words on a tricksy zephyr of salt-rimed wind. “She knows who you are, but not what we are about, not yet. And neither do my crew outside of Oswire and a few I trust.”
Meas nodded, and as she did Shipwife Brekir, a tall woman with a scarred, dark-skinned face, climbed over the rail. That surprised Joron too – to see the mirror of his own skin when he had thought all Gaunt Islanders were pale as clouds.
“Do you plan without me?” she said, her accent strange in Joron’s ears, her tone morose as if she believed the world existed simply to put obstacles in her way.
“Not at all,” said Arrin. “We wait for you, and now you are arrived I will have my hatkeep bring food and drink to my cabin.”
The meeting was swift, the food good, though Brekir was a damp presence at the table and talked of little but what her ship and crew were lacking, and how this held her back. However, when Meas told Brekir what they searched for he saw the woman’s eyes widen, and her face – which had borne an expression that seemed frozen at some particularly trying part of her life – showed some excitement.
“Well, I see why we must protect it, though I reckon every woman and man with a ship will be set against us.”
“You are right in that, Brekir,” said Meas. “But I can help us in that. Tide Child carries a gullaime of rare power, and against all but fleet ships that will give us the advantage once we have found our quarry.”
“And how do we do that?” said Arrin.
“I shall show you.” And then it was all charts and talking. Meas explained how she intended to find “the quarry” as they quickly decided to refer to the sea dragon. “See here.” She pointed at the chart with a knife. “From where we know the quarry was first sighted it will stick to deep water where it can, for that is where its prey is: saw arms, sunfish, hullbiters and the like.”
“Hag save us from hullbiters,” said Arrin, “I once had one attach to Cruel Water, and it was half through the hull before we got it off. Killed four of my crew too.”
“A hard way to die,” said Brekir, “but is there any other way in the isles?”
“The only deep-water channel in this areas is here, at Flensechannel, which runs toward Skearith’s Spine, and if we search, line abreast, I reckon our topboys will be able to see the ship nearest to them and cover the channel from isle to isle.”
“We will have to tell our crews what we look for,” said Arrin. “Otherwise they may not believe their eyes. It is not a thing we can keep secret.”
Meas nodded.
“You are right, Arrin. And that excitement may stop them wondering too much about the other black ships. It could work to our advantage.”
“If they believe us at all,” said Brekir.
“What crew does not believe the words of its shipwife, ey?” Meas smiled at Brekir who nodded back, though with little commitment.
“Time is our enemy now,” said Arrin.
“It is indeed,” said Meas. “Joron, ready my flukeboat. We return to Tide Child and start the search here. We will sail between Cruel Water and Snarltooth. Our ship is the tallest and our topboys can cover the greatest area of sea. It’ll be a day until we reach Flensechannel so that will give us time to practise flying in formation.”
“And what of night?” said Brekir.
“We’ll slow but all have lights and oil so we can make sure we are seen. And I reckon a keyshan is big enough to show up even at night.”
“Dangerous to have fire and oil so near a ship’s wings,” said Brekir.
“Dangerous to be on the crew of a black ship – lethal, most would say,” said Arrin.
Brekir stared at him, tapping the table.
“What if the mist comes in?”
“We must simply hope it does not, Shipwife Brekir,” said Meas, “or our mission could be over before it even starts. Now, I first heard this creature called the wakewyrm, which is as good name for it as any other.”
“Wakewyrm,” said Arrin, standing. He winced as he transferred his weight to the wooden leg to give Meas a salute, hand across his breast. “It is a good name.” Then he turned to Joron. “You are wondering about my leg? Why I am not a tailor or stonebound?” Joron nodded at the Gaunt Islander shipwife. “We do not cast away our damaged and wounded like you do.” Was this an insult? Joron did not know the man well enough to read him, not yet.
“Do you say you are better than us?” he asked.
Arrin smiled and shook his head.
“There are those on this ship who definitely believe so.” His eyes flicked to his deckkeeper but his smile did not falter. He laughed quietly at the look Oswire gave him.
With that the meeting was over. Meas flung herself down the side of the ship with her usual abandon. Joron followed, careful with his feet and hands until he sat safe in the fluke-boat and Mevans gave the signal to leave.
Four oars cut into the water, stirring the surface and sending the life beneath darting away in terror at this strange, large creature that passed over them. The crew of the flukeboat remained unaware of the fear their passage caused the tiny creatures of the brine beneath, and if they had been aware they would have been uninterested. They may not have known what was to come, but they were experienced deckchilder and knew the feel of action, knew something was coming, how it made the air come alive with tension. They felt that and it pleased them. Mevans glanced at the woman who rowed opposite him and they shared a smile and a nod because, though action brings its own terrors and the possibility of pain and maiming and death, it can also be addictive. It is a feast that once tasted is never forgotten, and the women and men of Meas’s crew had supped at that table often. Since losing her they had been starved.
Up the tumblehome of Tide Child, Joron a mite more comfortable with the climb, a little more familiar, and when they stood on the slate deck there was a small contingent ready to meet them, led by Dinyl.
“Welcome back, Shipwife,” said Dinyl, hand to breast and a small bow which Joron did his best to memorise, the formalities of the Bern as much a mystery to him as the bottom of the ocean. If Meas noticed the bow she gave no sign.
“Pull up the seastay,” she said, striding past him to the rump. “Let out his wings.” She glanced to seaward where the pair of two-ribbers were already filling their wings with wind, slowly turning, voices calling back and forth as heavy booms came over and the ships leaned into the air “Put us between those two ships. Cruel Water is nearest; the other is named Snarltooth. I want the sharpest-eyed topboys on the spinepoint, Deckholder.”
“Ey, Shipwife,” Dinyl said. “Hasrin says she knows Cruel Water from when she was deckkeeper, says it was lost to the Gaunt Islanders.” He licked his lips, the warning given to Meas. “She also has been wondering about the other ship, saying she does not recognise it from her time in command.”