“We are rather occupied just now, Bonemaster. Hauling the ship out of the water is a little impractical.”
“Anything I say would be a guess,” he said.
“Your guess is worth any other’s certain knowledge.”
He scratched at a sore on his neck.
“Yes, then. That is my guess, but if you do it now you will not get to do it later. The keel will not take it.”
Meas nodded.
“Well, I’ll not save for later what will serve me today.” She walked forward. “Bring in the flying rigs. I want all spare women and men ready to run for the landward rail when we come about. Barlay and Solemn Muffaz, I’ll want all your strength at the steering oar.” Crew scuttled across the spars to bring in the rigs, and Tide Child, moving at a speed so ferocious that Joron saw the beakwyrms now spun through the water at Tide Child’s side, unable to match him as he drew ahead of the enemy ships to seaward of them.
“They are not as fast as us, Shipwife!” shouted Dinyl.
“Few are, Deckholder,” said Meas, “few are.” She glared across at the enemy ships. “Barlay, angle us in towards them. Let them think we are getting ready to come in for a broadside. Bowsells! To your bows!”
“Shall we untruss to loose at them?” said Joron.
“No,” said Meas, putting her nearglass to her eye. “We shall not waste ammunition, but they watch us as surely as we watch them, so let us put on the show they expect to see and they will not think far past that.” She folded the nearglass. “Complacency is the enemy of every officer, Joron. Keep that in mind when you see how we surprise them.”
With a whistle like a man hailing a friend, though its intent was never so amicable, a bolt cut through the air over the rump of the ship, punching through a taut wing with a sound like a hand on a drum.
“Well,” said Meas as she took a step forward to stand between Joron and Dinyl, “it seems their bowsells have finally got their eye in.” As she placed the nearglass within her coat, Joron noticed her hand shook slightly, and there was a thin sheen of sweat on her top lip despite the cold of the day. Meas took a deep breath, seemed to steady as the ship rocked then shouted, “It begins now, my girls and boys! Now our real work starts! So stand firm!”
As they angled towards Wavebreaker and its consorts, Joron watched the corpselights dancing above the Gaunt Islands ships, four in all – one the blue of firstlight, three the yellow of lastlight – bobbing and weaving in the topspines. Deckchilder crowded the spars and formed little knots around the bows. He knew that sand would have been scattered across their decks to provide grip and absorb blood, just like on Tide Child. Knew that deckchilder would be dipping their hands into red or blue pots of paint at the base of the mainspines and spattering paint there to ask the Hag’s favour. Some would be scared and pretending they were not; some would be filled with joy at the thought of battle; some would be trying to find jobs belowdeck where it was safer, and all would be dreading being taken down to the hagbower, where the hagshand waited to do what they could for those wounded in battle.
He saw the Wavebreaker’s bows launch, the action of the bone arms, their sound stolen by the wind. Bolts flew towards Tide Child. One hit the hull with a solid boom, the others hurtled through his rigging, doing little damage, and flew on. Another volley of bolts, again causing little damage, and it seemed to Joron that Tide Child was still. Oh, the ship moved, almost skipping across the waves, but all aboard were unmoving, waiting, dreading, knowing.
“Stand steady,” shouted Meas. Across from them, the quickly growing Wavebreaker opened his underdeck bowpeeks. “Now he shows his teeth, ey?” said Meas to Dinyl.
“Bravado,” said Dinyl, “Underdeck bows cannot hit us yet.”
“No, they cannot.” Then she added more quietly: “I would have you two move around the ship a little. Let the crew know we go among them, that we do not stand here aloof.” Joron and Dinyl nodded and set off down the ship, as if strolling on a pleasant day. Another round of bolts hit Tide Child. Most were high, but the crew around ducked instinctively, as they heard the whistle of approaching bolts. It took all Joron had not to do the same. He locked his sweaty hands behind his back, holding the fingers of his one hand so hard with the other that they throbbed for want of blood.
“I reckon about five loosings per three-quarter-turn of the glass, Joron,” said Dinyl. “Passable, if not extraordinary. Is that how you count it?
“How do you stay so calm?” said Joron quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“Just letting them loose at us, having to wait?”
Dinyl gave him a small smile.
“I have no other choice, and neither do you. Nor them.” He nodded at the crew. “Experience helps. Knowledge too – the reality is there’s little chance of a bolt killing you, not at this range. Sweeping the deck bow to stern? A bolt is a fearsome thing then, but right now we have little to fear.” More bolts hit, and Dinyl glanced over at the enemy ships. “Three more volleys, Joron,” he said, and there was a waver in his voice that spoke of suppressed fear. “Three more rounds of bolts, and we will be near enough for them to load wingshot and cutters. That’s when it really starts, that’s when you know you’re in a fight, that’s when you find out if you will break.” He laughed quietly. “So don’t break now, Joron. If you must break then at least wait until they really mean it.” He clapped Joron on the shoulder and leaned in close. “When she tells the crew to lie down, stay on your feet but stand behind the spine as it will provide some cover. We do our duty, ey?”
Joron nodded, and Dinyl walked on down the deck, sand crunching beneath his feet as he made his way to the beak, exchanging words with deckchilder as he passed.
Another round of bolts.
Tension building like a wound bow arm.
Another round of bolts.
The sea sliding by, the air filled with the spume of Tide Child’s passing.
Another round of bolts.
The wind plucking at Joron’s coat.
“Lie down!” The shout came from the rump, and all around Joron crew hit the slate. He took a step back, so the mainspine, as thick as any two women and men, hid the enemy ships from him. He heard the wingshot come in, making a very different sound to bolts, a hollow howl, and the noise when they hit was deafening. Rocks smashed through rigging and spars, crashed into the hull. A rain of broken varisk fell from above.
When Joron looked up he expected the whole spine to have been shattered, but it still stood. Ropes fluttered in the wind; the corner of one wing had been torn loose, and the end of a spar smashed, but deckchilder were already lashing on varisk, retying ropes, hanging as if weightless from Tide Child’s rigging. He heard sobbing and turned. A wingshot had hit the landward rail and smashed it into splinters. Two of the team for bow six lay dead, the third sobbing and holding his gut, from which a splinter of bone protruded.
“Get him to the hagbower,” shouted Meas. One of the crew Joron had thought dead picked himself up and shook his head. “They did not kill you, Vedin?” shouted the shipwife.
“Nay, Shipwife,” he said, “though Cassit is done for.” As he finished speaking two deckchilder joined him at the bow. The dead woman was thrown overboard and the wounded man taken below for the hagshand to ease him into death, for his was a wound there was no recovery from.