29
The Consequences of Command
She had called him to her cabin. He wondered if she would take his hat from him. Oh, she had not obviously been looking at the state of the ship, seeing the scars from battle with the mutineers, seeing the depleted crew on the slate of the deck. He knew she had noticed these things because she was Meas Gilbryn. Even tired, even bedraggled, even looking like she had not slept for a whole week and had been cruelly treated by merciless seas; she would notice these things.
When she had come aboard, followed by her crew, all living but looking half dead, she had ordered they all be fed, and that somewhere dry and warm and quiet be found for every one of them to get a good long sleep, even if it meant the officers gave up their cabins and slept on the deck. Then she had vanished below. After her went Mevans, Gavith, Coughlin and each and every woman and man who had accompanied her, all looking as though they had lost everything. But not for one moment did Joron even consider that she may have failed in her task, for she was Lucky Meas, the witch of Keelhulme Sounding, and she did not fail.
His hand fell to his hip, where the sword she had given him should be but was not.
So when the gullaime hopped over to him he barely heard its words.
“She is sad.”
He did not understand why that would be. And when she called him to her cabin, he twisted it into worry about himself, about his shortcomings. Because surely she may be a little sad that she had chosen him and he had failed her. He had almost lost her ship. He had left her without enough crew to fight and crew it. What a poor commander he had been, and whatever judgement she had, he was ready for. So he stood before her desk, which stood in the long-worn ruts on the white floor. He stood and she stared into the pages of the small, sea-worn book she took everywhere with her, its cover tattered, filled with tiny handwriting in her own secret code. And had she been anyone but Meas Gilbryn he would have thought she swayed slightly in her seat because she was fighting sleep.
“Cwell finally made her move then,” she said quietly.
“Ey,” he said. “I should have—”
“Been told,” she said, still in that quiet voice. “You should have been told.” She stopped. Shut the book. “I should have told you. I have spoken with Dinyl already.”
“It was not his fault . . .”
“You are right,” she said. “It was not. And neither was it yours.” She tapped a finger on the desk. “A shipwife can be too clever, you know, Joron. Too sure of herself. That you brought my ship to me at all, given what happened . . . well, it makes me wonder if the Mother has a special place in her heart for you.” He did not know what to say. “How many do we have left? How many loyal?”
“Seventy-three, not including those you brought back, Shipwife.”
She smashed her right fist onto the top of the desk, making him jump, making everything on the desk jump. Then she pulled her fist back, cradling it in her left hand, rubbing the edge she had slammed into the hard varisk of the old desk.
“It is not enough,” she said, more to herself than to him. She looked up and he saw how tired she was. “You have been through much, but so have we. That ship, Hassith’s Spear, pursued us without let-up or sleep. Had it not been wary about use of its gullaime we would not be having this conversation, Joron, I assure you. I used every trick I knew to escape. But I am here more through luck than any great skill and . . .”
“You should sleep, Shipwife,” he said, and realised as he spoke that he was shaken. Because this was not the woman he was used to. Then, as if sensing his thoughts, that woman returned. He saw her temper and her pride rise up within, indignation that he had not only interrupted her, but seen fit to tell her what to do. And just as he braced himself for the squall of her temper, it vanished.
“Ey,” she said quietly. “It is the duty of the deckkeeper to tell the shipwife what she needs to be told, even when she may not like it.” Meas stood. “And you are right. I must sleep.” She came round the desk and put a hand on his arm, looked up into his face. “The crew of that ship, Hassith’s Spear, they saw me. My mother’s suspicions cannot be confirmed. It ran and it has a start on us, right enough, but we must follow that ship, Deckkeeper, we must not let it escape.” He nodded and she walked away from him, then turned. “Well? Why are you still standing there? See to it.”
“Ey Shipwife,” he said. And he turned to take his leave, stopping only at the door when she spoke again:
“Joron. I am sorry about Anzir.”
He turned back to her, tried to smile. Failed.
“I did not realise how much I would miss her until she was gone.”
“Ey,” Meas nodded, “it is often the way. Now go.”
They set course in the direction that Hassith’s Spear had taken but Joron knew the likelihood of them catching the smaller ship was slim. As a two-ribber it was lighter and faster than Tide Child, unless the seas were particularly rough. The crew assured Joron, and had many upon many times, that Tide Child was as fast as any in his class, faster even. He considered using the gullaime to speed them on but decided against it. Tide Child had lost precious hours getting Meas and her crew back on board and settled. It was likely Hassith’s Spear had changed direction to lose them as soon as he was out of sight. Joron did not want to tire the gullaime on a wild chase for no purpose. Instead he set their course for the island Meas had escaped from, reckoning that the ship was most likely to head back there, and they barrelled through the darkening night and growing seas, and he felt the song of the windspires in his mind, growing in volume, and he wondered what that meant. When the night bell rang Dinyl came up so Joron could sleep.
“She is not happy, Joron,” said Dinyl quietly.
“No,” said Joron. “And half dead on her feet.”
“Did she tell you what happened on the island? She did not tell me,” Dinyl looked away, as if ashamed.
“She did not share it with me either, Dinyl, but I think it was nothing good. She did not seem . . .”
“Herself? No. And now she has us chasing this two-ribber with scant chance of catching it.”
“You question her orders, Dinyl?”
The deckholder looked up, a hint of humour in his eyes at Joron’s playful pretence at anger.
“I think she is tired, as are you, Joron. Go get some sleep.”
“Ey, me and the whole ship.”
“Well,” said Dinyl, “I will shout at the topboys and threaten to throw them to the longthresh if they do not find me that ship. That should keep them busy.”
“Careful, we do not want one falling asleep and out of the tops, Dinyl. I suspect Meas will be angry if she wakes and any more crew are missing.”
“Well, then they had better stay awake,” he grinned. And then he was striding down the decks, shouting, “Tell of the sea, Topboy! And if I think you’re asleep I’ll throw you overboard myself!”
Knocking woke Joron. A gentle knocking on the door of his cabin and, as he forced open gluey eyes, he knew Skearith’s Eye had risen. Diffused light was pushing in around the bones of the bowpeek. He took a great sniff of air, a moment to work out what was wrong.
They were still. No whistling wind. No water rushing along the hull. And the moisture he could smell in the air could only mean mist. Becalmed. Meas would be furious. But if they were becalmed then so was the ship they chased. There was that at least.
The knocking came again.
“Yes?” he said
“The shipwife wants us all on the slate, D’keeper.” He recognised the cabin boy’s voice.
“Very well, Gavith, give me time to get dressed.”
“Shipwife is fair champing at—”
“I will be but a moment, and I imagine the shipwife will be even more angry if I go on deck without my trousers.”
“Ey D’keeper,” said Gavith. Joron heard him walk away.
It did not take him long to dress, and when he was decked out as he should be, in the blue jacket, one-tail hat and boots of the deckkeeper – a uniform to which he had added fine feathers from the gullaime and trinkets and memento mori of those slain, so he did not forget them – he made his way to the deck of Tide Child.
Oh, and what a solemn ship he found. Couched in mist, cocooned in grey air with every deckchilder loyal to the shipwife arrayed along the sides to seaward and landward. And all of them dressed in their best blues. At the far end of the ship, before the rump stood Meas, and Dinyl and Mevans and Solemn Muffaz. Coxward, Aelerin, Fogle, Coughlin and Berhof of the seaguard, looking a little green with seasickness, and all the petty officers of Tide Child, each in their best. Even eccentric Coxward had changed his bandages for less bloody ones than usual.
Above them, hanging from the spars of Tide Child, were five nooses, dripping moisture collected from the mist. Joron took his place by Meas, on the opposite side to Dinyl, and he knew what those carefully knotted ropes meant. Meas had decided it was time to deal with the mutineers. When he was in place, Meas nodded to herself.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
“Deckmother,” she barked. “Bring the prisoners up.” And Solemn Muffaz marched down the length of the ship and down the stairs into the underdeck. And Joron heard his voice barking out orders. When he returned he brought with him those women and men who had betrayed Tide Child and those who had followed them. The group – Joron counted nineteen in all and was surprised, he had not thought so many had survived – were quickly flanked by Berhof and Coughlin’s seaguard, again in their best clothes, and brought before Meas, where they were made to kneel on the deck. Joron hoped the cold damp slate beneath them felt like shame as water soaked through the knees of their clothes.
Drip.
Meas did not speak, not immediately. She let silence fall, let the mist envelop them. Let the ties that bound the wrists of each prisoner behind their back bite a little deeper. When she did speak he expected her to shout.
She did not. She spoke quietly.
Drip.
“A ship, a fleet ship, is a thing of trust,” she said. She walked forward and stood before the kneeling mutineers. Joron picked out Cwell in the first rank and felt a prickle of hatred. “Every one of you has betrayed that trust. And every one of you deserves to die. And it is my right, as shipwife, to take your lives. There is no question of that, none at all. But I need crew. Now, I have no doubt that many of you were brought into this through weakness as much as wickedness. So some of you will live, though I will break those that do. You will have no rank until you earn it. You will be lower than stonebound on the deck of this ship. You will jump to the orders of Gavith the cabin boy. Any seniority you may have earned is gone. You come back to my deck as nothing.” Such venom in that last word, somehow amplified by the fact she did not raise her voice. Not one woman or man who knelt before her raised their head. “You hear me? Nothing.” She walked up and down the line of prisoners. “But I want the ringleaders,” she said, and stamped her way back up the line until she stood before Joron. “You hear me? I want the ringleaders. Their necks, I will stretch. And their bodies will go to the beakwyrms and longthresh and the Hag will never receive them at her fire.”
Drip.
“Shipwife,” said Joron quietly, because he had promised some their lives and, though he partly regretted it, he could not keep quiet. But Meas held a hand out behind her back, a signal unseen by all but him and Dinyl that bade him be quiet, and so he was. Not because he was worried about speaking up, but because he knew he must trust her.
Drip.
“Speak quietly amongst yourselves,” said Meas to the mutineers, “then give me five names.” She turned away and came to stand by Joron. “I know of your promise,” she whispered. “This is all about timing.” She leaned in closer, “We will rid ourselves of Cwell once and for all here, and I will make sure you keep your honour about it.” Then she turned to watch the prisoners as they talked amongst themselves, all except Cwell, her face badly bruised and swollen, who remained kneeling on the deck. Joron wondered why, then realised he knew. There was no point in her joining the quiet and intense discussions behind her, for what could she say? How could she deny her part in the mutiny, or that she had been the wellspring behind it?
Drip.
Then Cwell stood.
Drip.
“Shipwife,” she said.
Drip.
Drip.
“These fools” – she gave a jerk of her head at the women and men behind her – “could not organise a drunk in a hold full of anhir. Stretch all their necks or none, for they all just followed me in search of what they thought was an easy life.” She took a step forward. “You are no fool, never have been. So you must know what the deckkeeper promised me, and I know you are too full of your own sense of right to go against it. So let us ignore this charade and I will make it easy for you.” She took another step forward but it was to Joron, not the shipwife she went to, and she knelt before him. “My actions took your shadow, Deckkeeper.” She looked up into his face. “You have no reason to trust me, I know, but I offer myself in the place of your shadow. And I also free you of your promise to me. Should you prefer me to hang, then stretch my neck and I will go to the Hag and suffer her judgement, whatever that may be.”
Drip.
Joron stared at her. His mind awhirl.
Drip.
Was this some game she played?
Drip.
Was this what Meas planned? How could she have known? And what did she want him to do?
Drip.
Everything in him said Cwell must die. Everything. He glanced over at Meas but she stood, eyes straight forward, giving no clue to what she thought. Behind her stood Narza. Narza who generally took no interest in the doings of the ship. Narza who followed her shipwife and killed, or not, on her order. But now she was watching Cwell, watching as if some creature had suddenly appeared on the deck that she understood, and Joron was unsure why he thought this until he noticed her head was slowly nodding. Not as a signal to him, she cared nothing for him. Nodding in understanding, or maybe even approval?
He touched the bone knife at his waist and walked around Cwell.
Drip.
“You do not deserve to live,” he said. He drew the knife. “But it is fitting you give your life in Anzir’s place.” Then he knelt down and cut the ropes binding her hands and whispered into her ear. “Betray me, and I will hang you myself.” Then he stood, making his voice as sure as sure could be while he felt nothing but confusion. “Now take your place at my back.”
Drip.
Then he returned to the rump, Meas watching him before turning back to the mutineers.
Drip.
“There may be those of you, in among the prisoners, who plan revenge on Cwell for bringing you low.” Her fierce gaze roaming among them. “Well, she has just bought all your lives, so you will not go anywhere near her.” She raised her eyes, looking past the mutineers and at her loyal crew. “And there may be those among you who plan revenge on Cwell. You will do nothing to her because I order you not to. Now, all those knelt before me, you are on punishment duties, manning the pumps and cleaning the bilges until I decide you are worthy of something better. The rest of you must have some work to do I am sure.” She gave them a nod. “This matter is done with. Now, return to your duties.”
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Later, he went to Meas’s cabin. He left Cwell on the slate, still uncomfortable with the idea of her at his back, through the decision had been made and he could not undo it.
“Come,” said Meas when he knocked.
“How did you know, Shipwife?” he said. “How did you know Cwell would do that?”
Meas grinned at him. “No one, Joron, was more surprised than I at what happened on deck. I planned to get right to the point of stringing up the conspirators before I let you interrupt and then I would decide to maroon them on some island.” She laughed. “Life is full of surprises, ey?”
She laughed but he could not.
“Why did she do it, Shipwife?”
Meas’s laughter died away. She sat straighter.
“Why?” She closed her book. “I suspect there is not one answer.” She moved the book, squaring its edge with the desk. “You beat her, I think is the feet of it. She had all the advantages, and you beat her. Then you offered her a way out that meant she didn’t lose face, kept her pride and her life.” Meas touched her book, very lightly, then smiled. “And, of course, if she was marooned with the rest of the mutineers I doubt she would last long. When food ran low they would eat her first.” Joron searched Meas’s face for some hint of a joke. Found nothing.
“How can I ever trust her?”
Meas shrugged, tapped on her desk. Moved the rock she kept on it.
“Look in the mirror when you return to your cabin. Ask yourself if people can change, ask yourself if people can surprise you.”
“And if this is just a ruse on her part?”
“Then I am sure Solemn Muffaz will be all too happy to throw her overboard.”