11

The Blackest Crew Afloat

Tide Child sat at his seastay amongst a small flotilla of ships, three of them boneships, and two of those in a poor state of repair indeed, the sort of sorry-looking tubs that had Bonemaster Coxward sucking in air through his teeth and twitching his hands for wont of “a go at ’em, Shipwife, just a few days is all.” But Meas had no time for such things. She had the shipwives of her small fleet in her cabin sat around her desk with their deckkeepers.

Stood with her were Brekir and Vulse of the Snarltooth, Tussan and Binin of the Skearith’s Beak, and Coult and Rulfar of the Sharp Sither, each shipwife in their colourful finery and still with the paint of welcome beneath their nails; their deckkeepers, those slightly drabber consorts, stood behind them while Meas commanded their attention. They had eaten at Meas’s desk, cleared and with supplemental boards of gion added to provide room to sit, and now she had arranged plates and gravy boats and cups and knives into an approximation of Safeharbour.

“There is our target, my girls and boys,” she said. “Joron saw a pair of two-ribbers and a four-ribber. With them about eight flukeboats. So, say a crew of at least a hundred and fifty for each two-ribber, and two hundred and half again for the four-ribber. Add another two hundred for the flukeboats.” She looked around the table at the serious faces. Brekir looked miserable, her long, dark features drawn into a frown. Tussan was hard to read; the man was round-faced and jovial as always but talk was that his wits had deserted him after a particularly fierce battle and that his deckkeeper, Binin, was all that kept the battered Skearith’s Beak afloat. Coult of the Sharp Sither was his opposite, with everything he thought flying across his weathered and craggy face, and none of it good. He was a fighter, maybe too fond of it, and his deckkeeper never spoke, only stood behind him looking fierce. There was something brittle in that relationship, something overly stressed.

“Eight hundred,” said Tussan, with a giggle. “And we can add maybe a hundred seaguard to that, for you only talk crew. We have maybe four hundred if we commit all we have. And only Tide Child and Snarltooth are capable of any sort of fight.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Coult. He rolled his head around on his neck – a thin man, small, but made of almost pure muscle, he was as hard and as taut and as weathered as old rope. “Sharp Sither may be down and damaged but he ain’t out. My crew will fight.” He sucked on his teeth; one of his canines was missing and had been replaced with metal. Behind him his deckkeeper, Rulfar, looked at the floor.

“It all sounds perfectly splendid to me,” said Shipwife Tussan with a huge grin, the many feathers sprouting from his two-tail bobbing as he spoke. “And what a wonderful dinner Shipwife Meas put on for us. I think we should all compliment her on that.” Only silence met his remark as it had not been a wonderful dinner at all. The food had been old and the conversation stilted by news of Arrin’s death – though those gathered may be disparate in personality they had all respected the man.

“I think,” said Meas, “my mother has underestimated us. And I think, despite what many would believe, we can take Safeharbour for as long as our purposes require.”

“Why do you think we are underestimated?” said Binin.

“My mother thought so little of Safeharbour that she only sent her men to take it.”

“You think men cannot be good shipwives?” said Joron, perhaps too sharply as, though Meas had said nothing about it, he felt the loss of the sword keenly, felt he had let her down. Felt she must feel let down.

“No, I think men can be great shipwives, Joron. However, my mother is more old fashioned.”

“All this talk of your mother,” said Coult. “Do you wish to raid Safeharbour only to bloody her face, Meas?” His gaze passed slowly around the table, meeting each eye there. “I have no problem with that, you understand. Vengeance is as good as any reason to fight.”

“But not a good reason to throw away all we have worked for,” said Binin. “Coult’s love of a war is famed, but it does not make our little collection of ships in any better condition to fight such a force as is gathered at Safeharbour, and for no gain I can see.”

“It would be a glorious victory, Binin,” said Tussan to his deckkeeper. “Skearith knows why you must try to spoil everything.”

“I tend to agree with Binin,” said Brekir.

“Well, you would,” said Coult, and there was nothing friendly in his words.

“We should gather the rest of our fleet. We are not all in such a rush to throw our lives away, Coult,” said Brekir, and if Meas had not interjected at that moment Joron felt it would have come to drawn swords.

“Brekir is right, we cannot win a straight fight,” said Meas. “Though Coult, you are also right, in that it would be good to give my mother a bloody face over this. I plan to do that, without us facing the force camped in Safeharbour in a ship-to-ship battle, one which we would lose.”

“It is still a huge risk,” said Binin. “Why not just fly away? That is why Arrin sent warning.”

“But Arrin did not know about the brownbone we tow, Binin, or what was on it.” She met each face around the table with her gaze. “That ship, and its terrible cargo, was expected somewhere.”

“You think they hit Safeharbour because it did not turn up?” said Tussan. All turned to him. His face, momentarily serious, returned to a vacuous grin. “Was a passing fancy to say so, is all. I act upon all my whims.”

A smile touched Meas face then left, a zephyr breeze of emotion. “No,” she said. “The timing is wrong, but if the people aboard were some sort of resource then that resource will still be needed. The fisher told us they had brownbones at the island so I imagine they will be expecting more to come back and pick up those who remain there. How many did you say, Joron?”

“I saw upwards of a hundred working,” he said.

“So we can reckon there are more. They would not let all out at once, only those they thought they could control.”

“So what?” said Coult. “You plan to fly our brownbone into the harbour and simply load up our people without so much as a sword drawn in anger?”

“Oh, do not look so disappointed, Coult, of course not. There will be code signals and flags expected from any ship coming in. No, my plan involves plenty of violence, don’t you worry about that. And as for me? Well, it does not involve me at all.”

“You are too precious to be put into danger,” said Tussan, and he fanned his face. He had been an attractive man once, a favoured Kept, but excess had stolen his looks, his body, and many said his mind, from him.

“Nothing of the sort, Tussan. But I am recognisable, as is Tide Child. This is a hit and run and we cannot risk Tide Child being identified by those that will remain. We are the only ship I feel safe sending into Bernshulme.”

“You presume she does not know about you already,” said Brekir.

“I have to,” said Meas. “Something is happening with those brownbones, something I cannot countenance. If we can find out what it is, show people this horror, then it may be enough to bring my mother down. Safeharbour will be avenged, we take a step toward change.”

“And win you no fair amount of acclaim, no doubt,” Coult sneered.

“Aye, it will, Coult. And with it maybe I can ascend to some sort of power in the Isles, and bring you lot with me. No more black ships for you. No more war.”

“No more war,” he said quietly. “And what am I for then, ey, Meas?”

“War will not go away too quickly, Coult, do not worry so. There will be plenty for you to do. But first, Safeharbour.”

“And what is it you plan, Meas?” Coult’s voice was a low growl.

“Tide Child and I will remain here with Skearith’s Beak and Sharp Sither. Brekir, Snarltooth we will rig for speed – it can be done, and we will need as many flukeboats as we can get, the big ones.”

“The Sither can fight, he need not be left here,” snapped Coult.

“But the Sither must not fight, Coult. If we end up fighting ship-to-ship we have failed.” She stared around the table. “Here is my plan. Brekir, you approach under cover of night on the far side of the island, then send a force to make its way across land until you are overlooking the town. It is foolish to let prisoners work at night, the darkness makes them bold and more likely to try an escape. I am hoping that if we go in at night then those of our people Joron saw working will be imprisoned once more.”

“And if they are not?” said Brekir.

“It breaks my heart to say it,” said Meas, “but we may not be able to rescue everyone. However, we shall do our best.” She looked around the table at those gathered. Met bleak and serious faces. “When Skearith’s Blind Eye is two thirds across its journey we will fly in the brownbone loaded with all the hagspit we have aboard.”

“A fireship,” said Brekir with a shudder. “It will be hard to find crew for such an endeavour.”

“We will only fully crew it until it is near enough the harbour for the gullaime to fly it straight in.”

“That beast is our greatest asset and you would risk it on this?” said Binin. Wanelight gleamed on her dark skin.

“If needed,” said Meas. “If the winds are with us then the gullaime will leave with the majority of the crew. It will need five, maybe ten to steer the ship into the harbour and set the fires. Then they must find a way to escape in the confusion.”

“Good luck to them,” said Coult. “Every deckchild in Safeharbour will be after their blood.” He looked around the table. “What makes you so sure the brownbone will make it into Safeharbour?”

“Greed,” said Meas. “The shipwife that stole Joron’s sword, Barnt, was greedy. I reckon they will let you in, thinking to take you as a prize. Then I am counting on every deckchild wanting to find who set their harbour alight.” She grinned at them. “While the attention of Safeharbour is on the fireship, Brekir and her force will hit the Grand Bothy. There is nowhere else large enough to hold our people. Take them back to the ships on the other side of the island and make your escape.”

“It would be folly to crew that fireship, almost certain death,” said Coult. “Who would command it?”

Joron reached down to touch his sword for comfort, found it missing.

“I will do it,” he said.

What was it that crossed Meas face then – relief? Fear? Sadness? He did not quite know. He only knew that once the words were spoken he wished he had not said them, but knew he could no more have escaped saying them than he could have stopped breathing. Although, the latter had suddenly become far more likely. Coult stared at him, an odd smile on the old man’s face, while Joron felt the cold of death fall upon him.

“You cannot give an inexperienced boy a job like this, Meas,” Coult said. “I will command the fireship.”

It seemed like the life flooded back into Joron; he felt weak, giddy, alive. “But do not look so pleased, boy,” Coult added, “for I will take you with me.” And Joron’s feet were once more heavy on the deck.

“One thing, Meas,” said Coult. “The minute they see this ship only has a tiny crew they will smell it is bad, like rot on a week-old kivelly corpse, and they will throw everything they have at us. We may well not even make the harbour entrance.”

Then Meas grinned again, a terrible thing to see.

“Oh, don’t worry yourself about that, Coult, I have a crew in mind for you, and believe me when I say they will be thirsting for vengeance against my mother.”