48
The Killing Time
The killing started early. The rise and fall of knives, the blood, the bodies falling to the deck, and still there was more to do. Every kivelly in Meas’s fleet had been rounded up, caged and brought to Keyshantooth for execution in the name of Meas’s plan. And, though there had been much grumbling about the coming lack of eggs, the butchery of the kivelly was viewed as a game more than anything. The small birds had been running round the deck, squawking and fluttering in panic while laughing deckchilder pursued them. Several were lost over the side only to be quickly snatched from the water by hungry beakwyrms. Despite Joron’s shouting the games had carried on until he had threatened the crew with the cord, then they had calmed and the butchery of the small frightened birds became a production line.
Pull them from the cage.
Cut off the heads.
Hold the twitching body over a barrel to drain the blood from it.
A team of pluckers, spreading white feather across the deck like snow.
Slit ’em and gizzard ’em.
Occasionally the gullaime would dart in and grab one of the kivelly corpses, gulping it down whole while yarking to itself as deckchilder chased it away, and this was also seen as a merry game until Joron spoke severely to the gullaime. Though it complained at being told to stop, it did not complain too hard and sloped off to its cabin to sleep. Joron thought it had probably eaten too much and made itself feel ill, as the gullaime was not a creature that usually took well to being told no.
How odd it must seem, to those unaware of the ruse to be played, that the morran before a battle they spent it butchering birds for food. Though, of course, it was not the flesh they really wanted. It was the blood.
When Aelerin quietly came on deck and whispered to Joron that they neared their destination, the barrels of salted kivelly were put over the side onto waiting flukeboats, to be distributed among the fleet, and on the last boat Joron sent Aelerin and the gullaime with Madorra, back to Meas on Tide Child, as he would not risk them within Sleighthulme. Then all that could be done was to fly before the brisk wind, order his deckchilder to chase every feather from the deck, and wait.
Wait while they pulled ropes and tautened wings.
Wait while his stump throbbed.
Wait while the blood thumped through his body.
Wait while he tensed and slackened his muscles, all the while appearing to stand still and calm.
Wait while a feather whirled around the deck, rose into the air and escaped the ship.
Wait through those moments of inaction, pressed between fear and flight.
“Sleighthulme rising!”
He sent Farys up the spine, not ready to go up himself yet. Probably never would be. His leg ached and he could feel dampness in the cup that held his stump. No matter how thickly he wadded it with material it was never truly comfortable, and he hoped that dampness was sweat, not blood.
Though, given their plan, it might be that blood would serve him well.
“They’ll see us soon,” said Farys as she jumped from the bottom of the spine.
“Very well,” said Joron, then he raised his voice. “Prepare the ship, loosen the wings, make us fly a little ragged.” Wings were furled and new ones let down, these prepared with holes and cuts as if the ship had been under shot. This together with a ship already damaged from its escape at McLean’s Rock made Keyshantooth look a sorry state, but not sorry enough, and it was to complete this illusion that Joron’s crew had spent the morran killing. “Bring out the blood!” he shouted, and the barrels of kivelly blood were rolled up. Two barrels, the blood of the birds diluted with seawater and with dye and a little ground seed to keep it thick. When forming this plan, Joron had briefly wondered if dye alone would be enough to create the illusion they required, but Farys had pointed out that one taste by someone on land would give lie to their ruse, so kivelly blood it had to be. Once the barrels were on deck Jennil and two chosen deckchilder took buckets and scooped blood out, pouring it over the side of the ship as if the Hag had cast her eye over Keyshantooth, bursting bodies and taking her due. When Jennil was satisfied with her work she came to Joron.
“It is your turn now, Shipwife,” she said, standing before him with her bloodied bucket.
“Ey,” he said, “I suppose it must be.” He reached down to undo the buckles around his leg, but before he could start Cwell was already there.
“Let me, Shipwife. I will keep the spur close for when it is needed.” And though he still felt uncomfortable with the woman so near to him, he nodded, knowing it would do him only good for the crew to see the woman who had once tried to overthrow him and Meas now acting as his servant. Once the spur was unbuckled – he felt strangely naked before the crew – Cwell carefully unfurled the rolled-up end of his trouser, that he had cut ragged with his bone knife, and helped lay him on the deck. Then she produced a thin birdleather cord and wrapped it around his leg above the knee, tight enough that it appeared to be a tourniquet. That done she looked up and nodded at Jennil who artfully splashed blood around him on the deck, then, with an apology, over his clothes, spattering them with the mixture of blood and seawater. What better to baptise a shipwife, he thought, than with the two elements that would soak their command.
The fleet of black ships fell behind and Keyshantooth cut through the sea. Joron had them untruss the gallowbows, had crews standing around them as if ready for action. Two bows had been smashed escaping McLean’s Rock and they were left to swing wildly. Some of the deckchilder lay on the deck around them and, though Joron was sure it was partly an excuse for them to do nothing, it added to the illusion of a ship badly mauled.
And he lay on the deck.
And he lay on the deck and waited.
And he lay on the deck and he waited to see Sleighthulme rise.
Up it came, from the water, breaking the horizon with staggered, vicious promontories – black claws scratching at the sky and sucking in the light of Skearith’s Eye. Sleighthulme was nothing like the other islands of the Scattered Archipelago. No white rock, no windspire, no varisk or gion growing on it. The only native life was the cruelly beaked skeers which fed on carrion and the helpless. As he lay on the deck and watched the pyramid of basalt grow from the sea he wondered how it had come to be, this lonely black island ringed by white breakers and sharp rocks. The only other place in the archipelago like this was Skearith’s Spine, and it was as if part of the Spine had been picked up and thrown, to land here in this cold and lonely part of the sea. And though Meas and every ship and every woman and man that followed her was behind Joron, and though he was surrounded by those loyal to him, he still felt cold and lonely himself as they raced toward Sleighthulme.
Nearer he could see the smoke, columns of grey rising straight up from the settlement at the bottom of the mountain only to be caught by the wind, pushed against the rock to crawl up it in runnels and webs of grey. It was as if filthy water ran up the mountain to escape what happened below, where the slate was cut and the ore was smelted. Closer still he could see the castellated harbour walls, built from the same black stone as the island. Two huge and round towers, even higher than the tallest boneship, and between them sat the bonegate, a sea gate made of two giant pelvis bones from ancient arakeesians, the thickest and strongest bones bound together with boneglue and rope and precious iron, into a barrier that could be raised or dropped to allow ships to pass in and out of the harbour. On top of the towers fire burned, and Joron was sure he could see the outline of the great gallowbows mounted there to protect the precious resources that Sleighthulme produced.
“Farys,” he shouted, and she came running to squat beside him. “Get up the spine, start making the signals for help. Remember the codes and do it yourself. I trust no other like I trust you.”
“You do not trust Mevans, or Gavith?” she said.
“Of course I do,” he said, “but I trust you more.”
“Yes, Shipwife,” she replied. Then he heard the whistle of something cutting through the air and heard a splash as a bolt landed in the sea by them. Specks of water wet his face.
“Well, it has started now.” Another whistle and splash of water over the deck as a bolt from the black ships behind them was launched. “I knew Meas would make it look real,” he said, “but that was closer than I would like, Farys.”
She grinned at him.
“Best we escape then, eh Shipwife?”
“Best indeed,” he said, and watched her as she turned and ran up the rigging as if she had not a care in the world.
The island before them grew, gatehouses like jutting teeth, and he could see the town beyond through the holes in the gate. In the town was a distant shape he recognised, and yet could not quite understand. He went to reach within his jacket but remembered he no longer wore it – it had been taken off at Mevans’ insistence, the better to look like he was wounded, and because, as the man said, “Blood is the very arse to get off, Shipwife.”
“Cwell,” he said, “bring me my nearglass.” She vanished, returning quickly and passing him the instrument. He brought it to his eye. A flash of the white bone of the gate, a flash of the black stone beyond. Trying to keep the nearglass still to see through the gate while the ship moved up and down on the waves was almost impossible.
White.
Black.
A glimpse.
The smooth roundness of bothies – some small, some huge. Blocky buildings that must be foundries, belching smoke. Some spines of ships in the harbour – a huge space, quarried out of the island. Cranes for unloading and . . .
White.
Black.
A glimpse.
There!
White.
Black.
A glimpse.
What was it?
White.
Black.
A glimpse.
A tripod, taller than the bothies. Something like a crane but not a crane. Hoisted into the air on it was a huge block of rock, but for what purpose? Why would such a great weight be hanging in the air in the very centre of the town? And behind the tripod a fire, a huge fire.
Black.
A glimpse.
“Shipwife,” said Cwell, “what do you see that concerns you?”
White.
Black.
A glimpse.
“Mangonel,” he said quietly, lowering the nearglass. “A massive one, a siege catapult of the like I have never seen, Cwell. They must have scrapped an entire boneship to build it.” All that he was wanted to race up the spine and signal Meas behind him – Retreat! Scatter! But he knew he could not: physically could not, his body would not let him; and if he did such a thing, then all would be for nothing as it would betray their ruse to Sleighthulme. It would ruin the illusion of a ship pursued by enemies entirely. All he could do was raise the nearglass, watch through the jerky lens.
White.
Black.
A glimpse.
Movement near the bottom of the giant catapult, shadows in the fire.
White.
Black.
A glimpse.
The great block began to fall, a slow motion. The arm rising, pulling behind it the rope and the cradle for the burning missile, up and up.
White.
Black.
A glimpse.
And it launched. The arm swung lazily forwards, though he knew there would be an army of women and men at the bottom, ready to fight with ropes to bring it back under control.
White.
Lowered the nearglass.
Something roared overhead, a fiery star that lit the deck of Keyshantooth as if Skearith had opened a second eye and stared down at them. He waited, holding his breath, listening for the splash and a hiss as the sea extinguished the flame of the missile, swallowed the projectile.
A crash.
Screams.
He knew what it meant, and could not help – though he should lay still – rolling over to see the damage. The fleet splitting in two behind them. It looked so orderly, as if every ship knew its place, but he knew it would not be. Every woman and man would be scrambling to put space between them and the giant catapult.
Between the two arms of the fleet was a burning wreck. Prone as he was, he could not see well enough to recognise the ship.
“Was it her?” he said, barely able to breathe.
“It was not Tide Child,” said Cwell from by him.
“Who then?”
“I am sorry, Shipwife,” said Cwell, and at that moment he knew he could trust her, as he heard his coming pain echoed in her voice and there was no joy there. No gloat nor sneer. “It were the Bonebore, Shipwife.”
And he nearly broke in that moment, was nearly overwhelmed by emotion. That Cwell, of all people would recognise his loss. Hag’s mercy, he hoped it had been quick. Hoped that Dinyl had never seen the missile, never had time to think about it before it hit. To cover the wetness in his eyes he lifted the nearglass once more, found the gaps in the gate.
White.
Black.
A glimpse through tears.
The mangonel was already wound halfway back down.
“Hag take you all,” he said under his breath, rubbed at his wet eyes. “I’ll send every single one of you to her if I have to send you myself.”
“Will they loose again, Shipwife?” said Cwell.
White.
Black.
A glimpse through tears.
“Yes.” He rolled on the deck, looking back at the ships now heading away. “But I imagine Meas will have the fleet out of range by the time they do.”
“Signal, Shipwife!” was shouted down from the tops, and did he imagine it, but even in that shout did Farys sound a little gentler than usual? “They say, ‘Hove to outside the gate’.”
“Cwell,” he said softly, lowering the nearglass. “Have Farys reply that we will. I would do it myself but I find my voice is not as strong as I would wish.” And with that order Keyshantooth came about, slowing to a stop before the great gate while all those they knew, trusted and loved flew away, or sank beneath the sea, never to be seen again.
“What do you want here?” was shouted from the tower. And Farys, dear Farys, shouted back:
“Entry and help. My shipwife lies broken upon the deck.” And Joron – a lancing pain in his heart and the fading image of Dinyl, stood in his shipwife’s finery upon the rump of Bonebore while the fiery missile came down – thought that she spoke even truer than she could know.