34
The Interloper
He returned to the slate of the deck, to the brisk wind, to the kiss of spray and the scent of the sea. To Dinyl on the beak watching the wyrms and Meas at the rump of the ship, staring at the brown and wilting island through her nearglass. She paid Joron no attention as he approached. He waited, squinting at the island and looking for movement among the dripping gion and varisk, but if anything moved he could not see it. If anything peered back at him it was well hidden. Occasionally he saw what looked like a building, hastily made, hidden within the brown vegetation, but as the ship moved on it vanished and he wondered if he had imagined it.
“Do you see anything Joron?” She lowered the nearglass.
“No.” He squinted again. Skearith’s Eye was rising over the island, half blinding him. “A building maybe, but no sign of any people.”
“I saw nothing either.” She handed him the nearglass. “Keep looking as we come around. The wind is with us now and I have stared so long I begin to doubt my eyes.”
As they passed the island Joron watched it through the glass, searching for signs of movement. Once a shiver went down him as he thought he saw a tunir, striding through the wilt, but the ship moved on and he hoped it only a shadow. He picked out the spike of a windspire on the crest of the island; silhouetted against Skearith’s shining eye it made it look like a slitted pupil. But he saw no sign of people, no sign of movement. Only the thick, decaying vegetation, and as Tide Child came back around to the inner crescent of the island he found himself humming the strange and twisting song of the windspire.
“See anything yet, Joron?” He shook his head. Passed her the nearglass back.
“Nothing.”
“Ey,” she said, and folded up the nearglass, placing it carefully within her coat. “And yet . . .”
“And yet?”
“I feel something is wrong.”
“Why?”
She stared at the island, the wind twisting her hair, winding it into the fluttering tails of her hat.
“Because there is nothing there, Joron. No caretakers on the beach, no scavengers. Nothing.”
“There are many islands, Shipwife. Some must be empty.”
“Ey, but activity attracts scavengers, Joron. Always.” She walked to the rail and leaned her weight on it. Staring out over the sea at the island. “Had we time I would wait in hope for Snarltooth.” She sighed, bowing her head and staring at the water rushing along the hull. “But time is a luxury we do not have. Every day we pass is a day they have our people. A day they can put them to work to make their poison.” Joron nodded, not wanting to speak in front of the crew of how short and lethal they knew that work to be.
“Shipwife,” he said, coming to stand by her at the rail. “There is no guarantee there is anything on the island. Maybe we should take the time to wait for Snarltooth?”
She shook her head. “I close my eyes and see the hold of that brownbone, Deckkeeper. I cannot bear the horror.” She did not look at him. Dropped her voice so her words were only shared between the two of them. “When I was young, Joron, there was little place for me in the world. So I was raised in one of the seacave houses.”
“But they are for outcasts.” He said it too quickly, without thinking.
“Ey, they are. For outcasts.” She did not look at him, but he thought he sensed a certain bitter humour in her voice. “The woman who raised me, she had been a hagpriest, had spoken against me being sacrificed after the raiders took me and the sea returned me. They cast her out for it – it does not do to lose an argument among the hagpriests. After the waves saved me a second time, she took me in, as a babe.”
Joron felt lost, unsure what to say.
“That was . . . kind of her?”
“There was nothing kind about Mabberlin, Joron. Nothing soft. Even the other outcasts hated us so we were in the very lowest of the seacaves. Shipshulme has very little tide but there is enough that twice a day our cave was flooded and the entrance . . . Well, even on a good day you had to crawl in, through a puddle of seawater. We slept on shelves that were usually above the waves, not always, mind. During the day Mabberlin would go out and beg food for us, leave me there while the tide came in. She said it made me safe, but when the water came it covered the cave entrance and the light went. That was my childhood, Deckkeeper. Long hours alone in the darkness, no explanation, little comfort and only the sound of the sea for company.”
“It must have been frightening.”
“Eventually I became numb. Mabberlin said I needed to be hard, but I do not think she could tell the difference between hard and numb.” She paused, continued staring at the brown and wilting island. “When I dream of that ship hold, I hear the sound of the sea in that cave.”
“We will find them, Shipwife.”
She nodded. “We will.” She stood, smoothed her jacket. “But we will not take Tide Child into the harbour and drop the staystone. We will take the flukeboats. You will command a small squad and take the gullaime to the windspire. I will take Coughlin and the seaguard and we will search the buildings in the harbour for papers or charts.”
“Berhof will be glad to be off the ship, I dare say.”
“Ey,” said Meas quietly, but she did not laugh or smile. “Tide Child will stay out at sea under Dinyl. Solemn Muffaz is a good man, but if a ship turns up I want someone on deck who knows tactics.” She turned, a gleam in her grey eye. “Have them spatter paint upon the spines and clear the ship for action, Deckkeeper. It is best to be prepared.”
And the call went out and the drums beat and the bells rang and the deckchilder ran to their stations. Joron walked among them, choosing his people, his special few that would accompany him. And he set them to readying boats for both him and Meas. As Tide Child slowed to let them off – a brief clasp of arms with Dinyl, the sound of the bonewrights hammering as they took down the internal walls of the smaller cabins on the underdeck – he loaded the unconscious gullaime onto the boat. The ship was still readying for action as he stood in the beak of his flukeboat and Farys sang out a chant to time the oars that bit into the water, sending a million little fish scurrying for the depths and bringing them closer to the stinking, weeping island.
Meas’s wingfluke was first to land, she jumped off the beak, followed by her ten deckchilder and Narza. Coughlin quickly followed, and then his second, Berhof and the rest of the twenty seaguard who helped pull the boat up the beach. A moment later Joron’s boat jarred against the shallows and Farys and Cwell were over the side, quickly joined by the six rowers and four deckchilder they had squeezed in the rowboat, pulling it up past the tideline of broken shells on the wet pink sand. While their boat was dragged further away from the water, Joron pulled on the harness containing the gullaime and when he picked up the windtalker it felt dead in his arms. He was sure it was not, simply unconscious from drugs given to it by Garriya – drugs they had been forced to administer as the gullaime had fought and bit in delirium when they had tried to move it.
The windshorn fussed and tried to assist Joron, mostly just getting in the way, but he let it feel like it was helping, and once the harness was secure he hopped over the side of the boat, feet sinking into wet sand, and jogged up the beach with the wide-legged gait of one who suddenly felt the world moving beneath him. It was not just the change, sea to land, but the song of this place, shockingly loud.
“There are paths here, Deckkeeper,” said Meas from the edge of the gion. “One leads up the island and the other away along the beach.”
“I will take the gullaime to the windspire.” He started to turn but she grabbed his arm.
“No, come with me. The gullaime sleeps, and I am unsure about this place. For now I would rather we stayed together as we moved through the forest. It is a ripe place for an ambush.” She turned from him to Mekrin, one of her more seasoned deckchilder and a sturdy and sensible hand. “Stay here with ten deckchilder, keep an eye on the boats but if something happens do nothing overly brave.”
“Ey, Shipwife.” She turned from her.
“Coughlin, take the front with ten of yours, Berhof the rear with the rest, we proceed up the beach.” They did, foot in front of foot, the straps of the harness cutting into Joron’s shoulders and the curnow beating rhythmically against his thigh, and as he walked the song beat at his ears. Around him the gion wilted and the ground became slippery as the path wove in and out of the edge of the dying forest. He preferred to walk on the sand, the footing was easier and he had to concentrate less. A building appeared from the forest, the brown cured slats of its sides and roof difficult to see against the vegetation. Coughlin held up a hand. When everyone stopped he held up three fingers and went forward with three of his men into the building. A moment later he reappeared, wiping sap from his forehead.
“Empty, Shipwife,” he said. “But you should come and look in here.” Joron moved to the side, feet slipping on rotten vines, so he could see through the door as Meas entered. Within the building it was dark, out here bright, though a chill hung in the air. Squinting, he watched Meas in the darkness of the building as Coughlin moved with her, talking and gesturing with his hands. She crouched down, touching something on the floor and bringing it up to her face. To see it better? To sniff it? He did not know. When she came out she looked troubled.
“Keep your eyes open,” she said. “Someone has been here recently.”
Joron hurried to catch up with her. “What did you find?”
“Nothing useful. The hut has been used by scavengers or to billet those trading slaves here. It is filthy and long abandoned, but there are signs that there has been someone there recently. Camping out.”
“So not an army then?”
“A very small one, maybe,” said Meas. “Looked like no more than one person.” Joron felt an itch in the place between his shoulder blades, the one just out of reach of his hands and currently covered by the gullaime. In turn, this set the tops of his arms itching and he wriggled a little to try and alleviate the discomfort. “I doubt they are out there with a bow ready to pick us off, Joron. All signs are that they left in a hurry.” She stopped talking, stared over his shoulder. Joron turned to see what it was that had stolen her attention. Tide Child had pulled up its staystone and begun its patrol of the waters. Wind filled black sails, and to an outsider it would have appeared they were being marooned, though Joron and Meas knew different. On the rump stood Dinyl and Joron saw him raise his good hand, as if in farewell. “I hope he takes better care of my ship than he did last time,” she said. Then turned away from Joron. “Onwards. We follow the path.”
They wound along the pathway up into the forest proper, making their gradual way in snaking single file. Joron inwardly cursed the constant soft noise of the dripping jungle, as it made good cover for hidden footsteps, or rustling bushes.
They broke into another clearing, this one with more large huts. Joron counted ten in all, though three were on the point of falling down, and four were not truly huts, only roofs over the bars of cured varisk making up their sides.
“The slave pens,” said Coughlin.
“You have been here before?” said Joron. The big soldier nodded.
“Aye, Cahanny had more than a few dealings with these people. I had little appetite for it myself. Probably why he sent me. It hurts none to have your negotiator surly.”
“He told me he had little appetite for slavery,” said Joron.
“Of course he did, he knew what you wanted to hear,” said Coughlin. “The middle cabin, Meas,” he shouted. “That was where the headwoman lived. Calla, she was called. Hard as a bag of rocks, uglier too. If there is anything to find it will be in there.”
“Set two thirds of our number in a circle around these buildings,” she said. “I’ll not have anyone sneak up on us.”
“As you say,” he said, and orders were quickly given. That done Meas gave Coughlin a nod and together with him, Berhof and Narza, she went into the main hut. Joron waited, listening to the slow breathing of the gullaime on his back and twice having to bat away the windshorn, who was trying to reach up and fuss over it.
“Leave it alone.”
“Is uncomfortable.”
“It is asleep, Shorn, leave it.”
“Is uncomfortable.”
“Leave it, Shorn.” The smaller gullaime hissed at him and hopped back a few paces as Meas emerged from the main hut, looking as dejected as he had ever seen her. When she came within a few steps of him he heard her sigh.
“There is nothing there, Joron, the place has been cleared out.” She raised her voice to the deckchilder around her. “Rip this place apart! Find me something.” Women and men stood about staring at her. “Get on with you, I’ll have no slatelayers. Work, or I’ll have Solemn Muffaz cord the lot of you when we return to Tide Child!” Joron was about to speak, to reassure her they would find something when she bit out, “And you. I do not give you permission to stand about either. Find me something that points to our people!”
“Ey, Shipwife,” he said, stunned by her sudden bad temper, though he understood it. Since Safeharbour had been lost it seemed like the world was set against them.
As the nearest huts were already being ripped apart, Joron headed for those furthest away, still wearing the gullaime on his back and followed by the windshorn, Farys and Cwell. Something in him thought it was not sensible to head to the loneliest place with Cwell – he could not and did not trust her yet and no doubt she knew it. She kept her face straight, gave nothing away, but his wariness around her must be evident. Their relationship was as uncomfortable as it was new. So he kept his distance from her as they made their way around the farthest hut and comforted himself with the thought there were guards near, in the skirts of the forest. The building they approached was falling apart, one corner smashed by a fallen gion trunk, now slowly turning to slimy brown liquid and leaving a faecal smear down the side of the wall. Inside nothing but more mess, old blankets where women and men had slept, food so rotten and hard that even the vermin had decided not to bother with it. No sign of paper, no hint of charts. He turned to find Cwell stood in the doorway, a dark figure against the light. He flinched. Silently cursed himself for it and walked out. Wordlessly, she moved aside to let him pass and he headed to the next hut.
Out of the corner of his eye.
A flash of white.
“Did you see that?”
“What?” said Cwell. As much a challenge as a reply. Did she stay monosyllabic because she saw him as this nervy stonebound man, unworthy of more of her words?
“I saw something white, it went under the hut we just left.”
“I don’t know.”
She stared at him, gave a small nod and walked back toward the hut, four steps backwards, keeping his eye before she turned. Walked away, stopped by the front of the hut. Slowly she leaned over to one side, putting a hand on the crumbling wall to steady herself.
Something exploded from underneath the hut, knocking Cwell on her back and making a noise like nothing Joron had ever heard. He brought his curnow up – heart racing, breath rasping. The white thing, a ball of feather, mud and fury swerved away from him and toward the gap between the broken hut and its neighbour. The windshorn was there, behind it Farys, running toward them. The windshorn brought its wings up under its cloak, hissing and screeching and the thing turned around, finding Cwell on its other side. Then and only then did Joron realise that the filthy creature and the windshorn were making exactly the same noise, using exactly the same postures to make themselves bigger. But where the windshorn wore a robe and had its face hidden behind a mask, this gullaime did not. All it wore was a piece of dirty wingcloth wrapped around the tops of its thighs, exposing the dark scales of its lower legs, the huge fighting claws, a sparsely feathered, barrel chest and the stubby wings it held out from its body to try and make itself look bigger. It bobbed from side to side, snapping at the air, screeching and crowing. Joron was sure it was windshorn as it had eyes – or rather it had one; the other was a raw wound, bisected by a slash that had opened the creature’s face to the bone and leaked a clear liquid that had left a yellow stain on the remaining feathers of its chest.
“We will not hurt you,” said Joron. The wild gullaime screamed at him, a wordless, noisy fury that twisted and twined around the ever-present song in his mind. The creature made a dart for Cwell, trying to pass but she was too fast. Her sword and knife out, dancing through the air. The wild gullaime hissed and looked past Joron, toward where the rest of the crew were running toward them, then toward the forest where the guards Coughlin had posted were emerging.
“Not go back,” it hissed, and made a dart toward Joron. He held his arms and curnow out, blocking. “Die first.”
“Shorn!” shouted Joron. “Tell it we will not hurt it.”
Shorn let out a stream of sound in the gullaime’s musical language. The wounded creature replied, a darker counterpoint.
“Thinks we take it. Thinks we kill it,” said Shorn. “Says make you eat sword.”
“No,” said Joron. He stepped back, his steps slow, his heart beating frantically. He spread his arms wide and slowly laid his curnow on the damp ground. All the time he kept eye contact with the wounded windshorn. He waited, let his heart slow. Took a step forward. The moment he did he knew it was a mistake. In his time on Tide Child he had come to understand the gullaime’s body language, to know what to expect from its positioning and speed of movement and he knew this wild windshorn thought him a fool. That the way it held its head to one side, beak slightly open, meant it thought itself cunning beyond compare. It had no interest in his attempt to make peace. The creature was about to launch itself at him, its scythe-like claw extended to rip him open. Behind it Cwell, realising what it intended and already moving.
He knew he was lost.
“What is happening here?” The voice a roar. Like storm waves breaking against a cliff. All the power of a shipwife, of years of straining to be heard above wind and rain and battle pushed out into the air. It stopped the one-eyed windshorn right on the point of launching itself at him. Stopped Cwell on the point of defending him. Meas marched forward, jostling Joron to one side. “What is happening here?”
The scarred windshorn hissed at her.
“It thinks we want to take it away,” said Joron.
“We do not,” she snapped the words out. “We have questions though. Did you come on a brownbone?” said Meas. “Did they bring you here with others like you, and sick women and men?” In reply she received only hisses. “We are not those people. See who travels with us?” She pointed at Shorn, at the gullaime still sleeping on Joron’s back. Her gaze rested on the supine creature for a moment and then she turned back to the tatty windshorn, now held at bay in a circle of blades as more deckchilder and seaguard arrived.
“Not go back,” it hissed. “Die first.”
“No one needs to die,” said Meas. She reached up and took a feather from her sash, holding it out.
“I give you this gift, from me to you.”
It blinked its single eye. Then screeched and hissed, and danced about in a circle making a racket, pulling its own feathers out by the beakful.
“What want feathers? Have plenty feather? Plenty feather!”
Meas took a step back, shock on her face, but behind it there was also amusement.
“Well, if we know what you don’t want,” she said, “what do you want?”
And the dancing and the plucking and the screeching stopped.
“What Madorra want?”
“Yes. Is Madorra your name?”
“Name name name,” it said, and ran a long wing feather through its beak, pausing to bite at some itching creature on its skin. “Madorra want string.”
“Well, I am Shipwife Meas, and on my ship, Tide Child, I have plenty of—”
“Want string now!”
It seemed there was an impasse. But Meas was not to be beaten so easily and she knelt. Unlaced her boot and pulled the lace free, holding it out. Madorra snatched it with its beak.
“Mine!” it said.
“Will you speak with us now, Madorra?” said Meas. “Will you trust us now?”
“Speak. Yes.” The creature tucked the string away within its sparse breast feathers. “Trust, no.”