Joron stepped around the industry with his burden and into the gullaime’s cabin. It did not smell. He had always thought the scent was from the living quarters, that somehow it was imbued with the heat of the creature, but it was not. The smell of sand and heat came from the beast itself. Now it was gone. He laid the guillame in the nest it had constructed in one corner, near the bowpeek. When he put it down it sighed, and for a moment hope raised its head, but the beast made no other noise. Joron had tended corpses before and knew it was most likely he heard only the air leaving the body, the corpse sigh, the last exclamation made when a woman or man saw the Hag beckoning them into her domain.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and he did not know why. He had not made it raise the wind, he had not forced it aboard Tide Child.
“Skearith’s children are hard to kill, Caller.” He turned. The old woman, Garriya, stood in the doorway.
“What?”
“Water it. Feed it. Keep it warm.”
“It is dead,” he said.
“Is it, Caller? Many would think so, but do you not feel the heat?”
How did she know? What did she know?
“Why do you say that?”
“You feel the heat. You do, don’t you, Caller?”
“Why do you name me that?” he said. “Caller?”
She stepped back and the darkness of the underdeck swallowed her.
“You feel the heat,” she said.
Joron walked to the door but there was no sign of the woman. Farys walked past, rolling a water barrel.
“Water, please, Farys,” he said. She stopped and set the barrel flat, and he gave her his water bottle to fill from the spigot. He took it back, realising how thirsty he was once more, and drank a long swallow of the brackish water. It tasted brown, of dirt and land. He passed it back. “Fill it again, if you would.”
“Ey, D’keeper.”
When it was full he took it into the gullaime’s nest, shut the door behind him and knelt by the creature. He took its head – so light – and tipped it back, opened the hooked, predatory beak with his thumb, hissing as he caught himself on one of the spines within. A bead of bright blood welled up. He dripped water polluted with his own blood into the gullaime’s beak. Did he feel it swallow? Did something in its throat move? He didn’t know. But he kept dripping the liquid in until he judged it would have had enough. Then he went to one of the bowls on the floor and took dried fish from it. Flaking it into small bits, he dropped them into the creature’s beak, washing them down with more brackish water.
“Careful it does not choke. Rub its neck below the beak to make the food go down.” He looked up. Now Meas stood in the door. Stepped in, boots tapping on the bone deck. He nodded, rubbed the creature’s neck with his thumb, leaving smears of red on the pink skin, feeling nascent feathers as ridges beneath the flesh. “It lives then?” she said.
Joron shrugged.
“I give it water and food, but . . .” He left the sentence hanging.
Meas squatted by him.
“It may only be windsick.”
“Windsick?”
“The godbird’s spirit lets them control the weather, but they use it up. The godbird’s spirit dwells in the windspires. It fills the gullaime when they visit – do not ask me how; that is for those who run the lamyards to know, not for decent folk – but this one had not visited a windspire in an age.” She looked into Joron’s eyes. “It hurts them, to be empty of the godbird. And if it hurts too much they can fall into a state where they seem to die. I have seen shipwives throw them overboard, thinking them deadweight, only to have the gullaime start screaming when the longthresh take them.”
Joron dropped another flake of fish into the beak. Rubbed the throat. Poured the water.
“How do we tell the difference?”
“I do not know, Joron Twiner.” She leaned in close. “But if anyone asks, we will say it is windsick. You will come down here twice a day to feed and water it – the crew must believe it lives.”
“Why?”
She stared at him.
“To be shipwife, Joron, it is to juggle so much in the air. A crew, any crew, is held together by belief. They believe the shipwife knows best, so they follow me. They believe that the deckkeeper knows more than them, so they follow you.”
“Even me?”
“Even you.”
“Not all of them,” said Joron quietly.
“Enough for now, and the number will grow.”
“Will it?”
“Yes,” she answered simply, looking into his eyes. “You did well today, and what they believe, well, that will be different for all of them, but most believe you will bring them through safe.”
“And if they do not believe?”
“Mutiny, Joron, and you and I go over to feed the longthresh. It is harder on this ship because there will not be riches. The women and men aboard think they know why they fight, some because they want those they left behind to have their wages, most because they hope for freedom – to be off the deck of the black ship.”
“That will not happen.”
“And maybe they know that, somewhere deep down. In the end, do you know what women and men really fight for?”
“You said riches or freedom.”
“That is what they think they fight for.” Joron waited for her to finish her sentence while she waited for him to do the same. When he did not speak, she sighed. “If you saw someone attack Farys, would you stand back?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because . . .” He realised he did not know. Not really. He thought hard before he spoke. “Because she would not stand back if I was attacked.”
Meas nodded.
“Ey, that is it. Loyalty. That is what makes a ship work – ties of loyalty. To each other, to the ship. And every time we fight together, we are bound closer together. It is your nature, Joron, to like people and to be kind. Do not think I have not seen the leeway you give.” He was about to interrupt but she held up a hand. “It works well for you. Every officer is different, but that is not why I speak here and now.” Her stare unwavering. “Every woman and man, no matter what they think they fight for, or really fight for, needs one thing more. Hope, Joron Twiner, they need to hope. And when this gullaime flew us out of Bernshulme harbour by itself, having not been on land for months, oh, they may not have said anything. They may not have acted as if anything was different, but each one knew what I knew, that we have a creature of rare power aboard Tide Child, Joron. Our task is close to impossible, and they all know that. To take on eight flukeboats? That is nothing much. But bigger ships will come. I know it, you know it, the crew know it. They will have corpselights and they will have well trained crews. In that gullaime our crew see hope.”
“But what if it is dead?” She stood, her clothes creaking, feathers catching the dim light.
“Then you will still come down here, still make a pretence of feeding it, and we will have to find some way to mask the smell for as long as we can.” She turned and opened the door, pausing for a moment before she left. “And Joron, I meant what I said about your ways being good ones, but there are those who will mistake kindness for weakness and try to take advantage of you. Do not let them.” With that she left, closing the door behind her, and he fed more dried fish to the gullaime, his bloody thumb rubbing back and forth on the rough skin of the windtalker’s throat.