“What are you standing about for?” shouted Meas. “Spin that bow up, Mevans, and cinch the cord as far as it will go. I care not if we risk it snapping.”
“They will loose again soon,” said a voice from behind them.
“And they may well miss,” snapped Meas. She put the near-glass to her eye. “Spin it!” And the process started again, a little area of furious activity around the bow while everyone else could only stand and watch, trapped on top of the tower and with nothing to do but wait for the inevitable shot from across the strait. “Skearith’s Broken and fiery heart!” Meas said. “They mock us.”
“What?” said Joron.
“They are about to loose,” she said, “and they are waving at us. Any who wish to lie down to meet the bolt may. But I will stand here and meet it head on.” She gazed across the sea, and if a look could kill then the tower across from them would have been stricken. She raised her nearglass. “Here it comes.”
It seemed a bad day to die. The air was so clear, the sky so blue and the sea so clean and cold. But this was the way of the Archipelago: this was how the Maiden liked to trick, how the Mother taught hard lessons and how the Hag loved to mock. They had fought so hard, done so much, but it meant nothing. A breeze caressed the back of Joron’s neck. He heard the cry of a bird.
The wind brought the faint shouts of triumphant women and men and the cough of the other tower’s gallowbow as it launched.
He heard the bird cry again – this time louder – and it seemed like time atop the tower slowed.
Black Oris landed on Joron’s shoulder. Joron turned to look at the bird.
And there, climbing over the edge of the parapet behind him, was the gullaime windtalker. It hopped across the broken roof on to the great bow and from there on to the one of the crenellations of the tower. All watched in silence, some confused by its sudden appearance, some shocked, some pleased. It snapped its beak at the air. At the same time it flapped its robed wing across the front of its body, as if batting away some troublesome insect.
Joron heard the whistle of the incoming bolt, and Black Orris flew from his shoulder.
Did he imagine it, or gestured did he actually see the bolt swerve? See it caught in a gust of wind. See it tumbling and spinning though the air until it landed in the clearing below the tower, throwing up a great splash of earth and carving a huge divot. The gullaime turned its head – but not its body – to face Meas.
“They miss,” it said. “Don’t you miss, ship woman.”
“Load the bow,” she shouted. Coughlin and Anzir were there. Mevans had already spun it back and then the bolt was in. “Loose!” And all those on the tower rushed to the parapet to watch the bolt.
It fell. Just like the first bolt.
The gullaime let out a furious screech and threw both its wings forward. From far below and to seaward its call was answered by the deeper, multi-toned shout of the approaching arakeesian. Joron’s ears hurt, and he thought he heard the song of the windpsire, loud and triumphant and beautiful as it twisted in and out of the call of the gullaime and the call of the keyshan. Then the windtalker raised its wingclaws above its head, wind howled around the tower and out to sea. It lifted the falling bolt, raising it higher and higher higher on invisible currents, far above the height the bow could have taken it to. Then the gullaime let out another screech, one full of fury, and once more it was answered by the sea dragon far below. Then the windtalker brought its wingclaws down.
The bolt dropped like a stone. The impact of the wingbolt on the opposite tower was so powerful it seemed to explode. The bolt smashed through the platform, the scaffolding and the floor below, sending varisk and bodies flying through the air, cascading down the cliff face to splash into the uncaring sea below.
Silence.
The gullaime turned, hopped down from its perch, walked across the tower and jumped up on to the opposite parapet. It glanced towards the missing corner where the stairs should have been and shook itself.
“How you get down, Joron Twiner?” it said. Then it climbed head first down the outside of the tower. From out of the sky came Black Orris, landing on Joron’s shoulder once more.
“Arse,” said Black Orris.
Bird take an oar.
Godbird lights the way.
Maiden take an oar.
Trick for the Maiden.
Mother take an oar.
Duty for the Mother.
Women take an oar.
Honour for the Bern.
Men take an oar.
Coin for the Kept.
Pull for the Hag.
The Hag takes all.
Traditional rowers’ chant
Ropes, that was how they got down. Farys and the others Joron had left at the base of the tower had survived the bombardment and found ropes to throw up. Once everyone was down, Meas ordered the tower to be burned. As they left the island in the flukeboats Joron looked back to see the fire do its work and watched the tower as it crumbled into the sea, sending up great plumes of water as Cruel Water and the arakeesian passed.
The gullaime rode on Joron’s flukeboat, perched on the prow like a particularly ugly figurehead. It did not speak, only stared forward. The rowers looked tired, and Joron knew how they felt. His muscles ached, he stank of fire, and when he closed his eyes he would see one of the many moments when he had come close to losing his life: The first strike of the wingbolt, one moment, Kanvey and his raiders the next, the fires of life extinguished in the blink of an eye.
He looked at Farys, who led the rowing, calling out the stroke using an old song, and though tiredeness was writ in her every movement she found time to smile at Joron.
“We did a good job, D’keeper?”
“Ey,” he replied, straightening where he sat on the rump of the boat, “and I am rightly proud of you all.” Heads went down in the boat, as if it was difficult for them to hear his praise, but he felt they were pleased by it. He sat back and let them row, aware, in a way he never had been before, that his rank created some impenetrable barrier between him and those who were under him. He would, must, rely on them, be prepared to put his life in their hands, but he would never get to call them his friends. He would always be apart from them and they from him. Some of those in the boat had been with him when he had called himself shipwife and would once have laughed at the thought of following any command from his mouth. They should still see him as a fool, but they did not. Meas had wrought some strange magic, and he had been reborn through her.
The flukeboats met up with Snarltooth, which followed the tail of the sea dragon. The two-ribber’s shipwife, Brekir, ordered the boats to be taken in tow, so the deckchilder put up their oars and got some longed-for rest.
They passed between the cliffs of Arkannis Channel, black to seaward, white to landward, and Joron stared up at the smouldering wreck of the tower and quietly asked the Sea Hag to look after those who had fallen there. He was awed by the mountains of Skearith’s Spine, from their base, where waves crashed and foamed against the rock to the almost-lost-in-the-clouds splashes of snow on the summits. His crew saw no wonder there, they demonstrated one of the great skills of the true deckchild – the ability to sleep anywhere, and the fluke-boat was pulled through the sea to a chorus of snores.
Later, and safely back on board Tide Child, Meas congratulated him and poured him a cup of akkals, the harsh spirit beloved by the rich on Bernshulme. It had been a long time since Joron had touched alcohol, and though the warmth of it in his gullet was welcome it brought back unpleasant memories of the man he had been, hiding in the derelict flensing yards and trying to drink himself to death. He did not ask for another glass, though neither did Meas offer.