Go down, you vein flowers, go down.
And it’s mighty draughty around Northstorm –
Go down, you vein flowers, go down.
Oh, make all my cuts and misery known –
Go down, you vein flowers, go down.
My Berncast mother she wrote to me,
My darling girl come home from sea.
Half the crew to Hag have flown –
Go down, you vein flowers, go down.
And it’s mighty draughty around Northstorm –
Go down, you vein flowers, go down.
Oh, make all my cuts and misery known –
Go down. you vein flowers, go down.
Oh it’s one more pull and that will do,
For we’re the childer to kick her through.
Traditional rowing song
In the morning Joron strapped the inert body of the gullaime to his back and gathered his crew. Anzir stood by him, Farys to her side with Karring and Old Briaret. He had ten. Meas had changed her mind at the last minute about who she would send, and Hasrin was with him. Joron did not like it it, but no matter how the ex-deckkeeper might sneer under her breath at him he knew he would have no real trouble from her, as the rest of his band were loyal to Meas.
Meas had gone ahead with Coughlin. There had been talk, back on Tide Child, of splitting Coughlin’s men between them, but now she had seen the tower Meas had decided to take them all. Meas and Joron were both sure Coughlin had once been seaguard, and as such would have knowledge of siegecraft – not that Meas was completely ignorant of such things, but she was not foolish enough to turn away expertise when it was on hand.
Joron peered into the thick forest, and the thought that the tunir may be somewhere in there made him shudder.
“How do we find the windspire, D’keeper?” said Farys. How indeed? Joron did not know the island, had no maps of it, and this was the time of year when the colourful forest was at its peak, growing so fast he imagined he could hear roots squirming through the soil.
“Meas said it is on the highest point of the island, so we will head upwards, and the Mother will guide us, I am sure.”
“Arse!” Black Orris fluttered down, landing on Farys’s shoulder and dipping his head twice. Beady black eyes considered Joron, eyes that reminded him of Narza. Then the bird dipped its head once more and began to preen the feathers of its wings.
“Was the bird not with Mevans?”
“Black Orris has brought us his luck, D’keeper,” said Farys. Around her heads nodded, women and men looked a little brighter. “Maybe the Maiden’s bird will guide us, though she’s as like to trick as to triumph, ey?”
“Indeed, Farys.” Joron stretched his shoulders, getting the ropes of the gullaime’s harness comfortable. “Who among you knows the land well?” None answered, and Joron almost kicked himself. He may as well have accused them of being stonebound – no deckchild would admit to that. “Are there those here who Meas trusts to hunt when her ship needs food?” A man, Cruist, stood forward. His left ear was misshapen, almost non-existent.
“Meas sometimes sends me. My father was a hunter, though I am not like him; I am of the sea.”
“I do not doubt it, Cruist,” said Joron. “I have seen you fly up the rigging like a bird.” The man nodded, a small smile spreading across his face. A woman from Tide Child’s original crew, Ganrid, stepped forward. Behind her was her brother, a small, stooped man called Folis who Joron had never heard speak. Ganrid, Joron was sure, could have been one of the Bern, but her brother was judged imperfect and that had tainted her. Or maybe she chose not to leave him – Joron had never thought to ask.
“Sometimes, when my brother and I were unable to find a ship, we have made our money hunting.”
“Good,” said Joron. “Then you, your brother and Cruist will go ahead and alert us to any danger.” For a moment he had an image of the creature he and Meas had seen on the beach last night, and it was all he could do to keep speaking. “Meas says there are many dangers on these isles, so keep yourself alert. The rest of us will follow. Farys, take two and watch our rear. I want nothing coming upon us unaware. The rest of you, string your bows and have your curnows ready.”
“Ey, D’keeper,” came the replies.
And so they moved into the forest. Violently purple leaves as big as shipwings fought for the light of Skearith’s Eye, and it filtered through them, hitting the pink leaves of the varisk lower in the canopy so they were covered in an ever-changing patchwork of pink, blue and purple light, as if bruises crawled across their flesh. Curnows rose and fell, cutting back the foliage to make a path – a path that swiftly closed behind them. From the front, they were warned of other plants: hurss, with poisonous spines, hierthrews, which, if disturbed, catapulted out barbed spines that were almost impossible to remove from the flesh and would then fester and sour, sending the afflicted mad with poison and pain. Add to this biting flies and small but fierce Gorrus birds, likely to dive out of their burrows and slash with clawed feet, and it was a slower and harder climb than Joron would have liked. Sometimes they had to take detours around impenetrable thickets, and once some trick of the light had Joron thinking he saw the black, light-absorbing shape of a tunir above them in the gion, but it was only a hole in the canopy. Still, it took a moment for the beating of his heart to slow and he paused. He felt overwhelmed, paralysed. Where to go? What to order? What if he got them lost? What if they went in circles?
Then Black Orris took to the air in a whirr of wing and feather, distracting Joron from his burgeoning panic. He breathed out, following Black Orris with his eyes. In the fleshy gloom of the forest he saw a bow. Saw a nocked arrow. Saw a hand draw back a bowstring . . .
And then he was shouting.
“Down! Get down!” throwing himself face first into the litter of broken vegetation. The arrow streaked out of the undergrowth. Others came, singing through the air, clattering against gion and varisk, and at least one found a target – Joron well knew the sound of flesh being punctured now. A short scream followed, then there was roaring, and women and men running towards them. They were barely dressed, skin painted in the same blues, pinks and purples as the vegetation, faces stretched by fury, clubs and curnows held high. A man threw himself at Joron, bringing down a curnow. Joron, face down on the ground, could do nothing but roll. To avoid crushing the gullaime on his back he was only able to roll on to his side, and in doing so trapped his own curnow beneath himself.
He thought of the quick-release move Meas had taught him.
“When you really need the skill, Deckkeeper, I am sure you will get it right.”
But that was no use now.
I have let you down, Shipwife, he thought. What a way to die.
The curnow was intercepted by Anzir, who snapped out her small shield, smashing the blade to the side, and thrust with her own sword, driving the blade into the attacker’s chest. A woman came at Anzir from behind. Farys leaped on her, a small bone dagger in her hand which she drove into the woman’s neck. Joron pulled himself to his feet. All around him there was struggling, fighting, screaming, shouting. He pulled one of the primed crossbows from where it hung on his jacket, shot an attacker in the back, reloaded it and shot another in the head. He unhooked his blade. It felt like he walked through a terrible dream. A man came at him – naked, painted, furious – and as he swung his curnow, the muscle memory of all those long hours on deck took over. He dodged to the side and took a step back, and the curnow whistled past his shoulder. Joron slashed sideways, letting the weighted end of his blade pull it round, and it bit deep into his opponent’s side. For a moment the man looked surprised, then he fell to the ground, holding the gaping wound and screaming for the Mother to help him.