“Yes, Shipwife.” he said. Meas walked away from him to continue staring out at the grey, and greying, sky.
The glass continued to turn. The sky continued to grey. The men of the rock continued to vomit. Meas continued to become more and more worried by the sky, and rain spotted the skin of Joron’s face with cold wet dots. He paced up and down the ship, finding endless small jobs for the crew. His father had always told him that keeping a ship afloat was an endless task, and that the Hag had made it so because idle deckchilder found nothing but mischief.
If Hassith the spear thrower had been set to work, then the godbird would still fly, boy, so you mend those nets and stop your complaining.
And if there were snide looks and unpleasant words said under the breath of women and men and sent in Joron’s direction, they were fewer than they had been, and he thought it best to ignore them.
“Ship rising! Ship rising to the north-west!” This brought Meas from a statue on the rump to a figure of action. She was across the deck and climbing the spine.
“Say again, Topboy. I said say again!”
“Ship rising to the north-west.”
“It is not the Cruel Water?”
“No, Shipwife.”
“And not the Snarltooth?”
“No, Shipwife.”
“How many?”
“I count four, Shipwife.” Then Meas was lost among the billowing mass of black wings, no doubt staring through her nearglass, while Narza lounged at the bottom of the spine, idly picking at something in her shoe with a knife. Joron stepped nearer the mainspine to ensure he heard anything shouted down.
“Oarturner! Send us three points of shadow for’ard to the north-west. Joron, brace the ship for action!”
And Joron was turning, repeating the words.
“Oarturner, three points of shadow for’ard to the north-west. Deckholder! clear Tide Child for action.” And Dinyl, just appearing from the underdecks passed the command to Solemn and solemn Muffaz stepped up, bellowing out the words. Behind him Gavith beat the drum.
A bevy of excited deckchilder ran for the gallowbows at the first beat of the drum.
“Not the bows, my girls and boys, not yet!” shouted Joron. In the back of his mind a little voice whispered that he had at some time taken on Meas’s inflections and patterns of speech. “Not yet. Wait for the shipwife to get down so we know if we run or fight.” He strode forward, raising his voice into the wind. “Clear the underdeck. Stow the hammocks. Stack bolt and shot. Tie everything down that is loose.”
Meas was climbing down the rigging with all the ease of a child skipping along a path. The moment her feet hit the deck she was shouting once more.
“Four flukeboats on the horizon, Deckkeeper. Raiders from the look of them. It’s time for us to put some blood on Tide Child. We’ll need some speed, Twiner.”
He nodded and turned.
“More wings,” shouted Joron. “For’ard jib up, bottom wings up. Hold the flyers in reserve for now.” And as if it were the most natural thing in the world, women and men were scuttling up the spines and loosing swathes of black wingcloth to flap and crack in the wind. Something in the ship let out an alarming creak, and with a shock – like cold water running down his back – Joron worried if he put too much pressure on the damaged keel. The bonemaster, Coxward, ran past without a word, and Joron felt a little calmer at that, for he knew the man was not afraid to speak his mind if he thought the ship in trouble.
Tide Child leaped forward, parting the water with new ferocity. Meas stood by Joron, staring up at the mass of black wing that caught the storm’s gift and pushed the ship on. Joron realised he was grinning, feeling a fierce joy. He had done this. His words had sent the great black ship racing through the sea, and though he knew what he flew towards was sure to be danger – his father ground between the hulls – . He would enjoy this moment – the wind, the smell of the sea, the ship and the crew moving as one unit – and at the end? Well, he would deal with that when it came, though it filled him with a fear and excitement that he barely understood.
“He flies well, does he not, Joron?” said Meas, and she breathed deep, as if the sudden speed of the ship had outrun some terrible fate that haunted her.
“Ey, Shipwife, he does,” said Joron, “he does indeed.”
A hurried series of flags had let the other two ships know that Tide Child was going to break formation but that they should keep station, course and speed.
“Deckkeeper Twiner,” said Meas, “let’s see what your overtures towards the gullaime have bought us. Bring it up.”
“Call the gullaime,” shouted Joron, and from him the call went to Deckholder Dinyl and from there to Solemn Muffaz, who shouted the same to the seakeep, who relayed it down into the underdeck cabins.
Joron held his breath, waiting to see if the creature would respond. He was not the only one. As Tide Child raced on, it seemed the whole crew paused; even those throwing up at the rail seemed to still their aching guts. Then, as Joron was beginning to feel he must have failed, it appeared, predatory beak rising above the slate of the deck as if testing the air, head bobbing as it came up the steps, body hidden by robes that it had embellished with thread and needle, strange and beautiful patterns embroidered on the material, rips and tears fixed. Badly sewn, poorly repaired, but still fixed. The gullaime had changed. It was less messy, less unkempt, but there was more to it than that, although Joron could not quite grasp what; it was something he could not put into words.
The beak opened. The voice emerged:
“What you want, Joron Twiner?”
“We want wind, Gullaime,” said Meas, striding across the deck towards the creature. “Wind to take us north-west, wind to carry us quickly. Can you . . .” And Joron saw Meas pause, not her voice, but her body. There was a stutter in her step as if some unfamiliar thought upset all she was. And when she spoke she asked, she did not command. “Will you do that for us, Gullaime? Will you bring us the wind?”
“For why, Meas, for why? So you make war in your boat?”
“For the last arakeesian, Gullaime.”
The windtalker’s posture changed, tightened. Its head darted forward.
“Say words again.”
“The last arakeesian, Gullaime. It swims northward.”
“You hunt?”
“No. I have seen raiders on the horizon armed for war, but what war waits out here? Nothing human, I reckon, Gullaime. At this moment the wakewyrm may be under attack, and we intend to protect it.” The gullaime was across the deck in a flash. In front of Meas. Narza’s hand went to the blades on her hip, but Meas opened a hand behind her. “No.”
“Truth?” The gullaime almost stuck its beak into Meas’s face.
“Truth.”
Not truth, of course. A lie. Joron knew that. A lie but a necessary lie. But if the raiders were in fact hunters, then their quarry must be near.
Could that be true?
Could the creature be real?
The gullaime turned from Meas towards the north, then it shook, a small but intense shudder as if it rid itself of dust or insects. The robe lifted, exposing rope-thin legs and clawed feet, and it pointed its beak towards the north-west.
“Sea sither,” it said quietly. Then raised its head to the sky and let out a cry that hurt Joron’s ears – hurt everyone’s ears, had people ducking as if under attack. Before they had recovered there was a hollow boom, and it was as if a great foot stamped on Tide Child, pushing him into the water and sending a huge circular wave roiling out from the ship. A howling wind sprang up, flattening the grey water, and then gone was the circle of water, gone was the criss-cross of waves that made the stonebound aboard so sick; instead Tide Child powered forward in a pocket of sea flattened by the howling wind.