50

The Taking of the Gate

Garriya eyed up the taller woman, swaying from side to side as she did, like a bird guarding its nest, puffing up her layers of ragged clothes.

“I have dressed the wound, and done good work. To disturb it will not help the shipwife. What he needs is rest.”

The new hagpriest pushed back the hood of her robe. Joron almost gasped, a tide of shock washing over him. She had Meas’s face – oh, not as scarred by sun and wind and age, but the same face nonetheless.

“I am a hagmother of this island, old woman,” she said and now he had seen her face he heard echoes of Meas in her voice. “And though it may seem to be nothing but a cold and lonely rock, it is a place of high honour, higher than you know. I do not change dirty bandages or look over deckchilder’s wounds, there are others here for that, though you saw fit to send her away. But worry not, I will have your work checked as all know the work of ship’s hagshand leaves much to be desired. For now, I only wish to talk to your shipwife.”

“He is sleepy with drugs, and—”

“Did I ask your opinion?” said the hagmother. She had the same quality of voice as Meas, commanding, powerful. Garriya bowed her head, turned to Joron and leaned over him.

“Take care,” she said, and he felt her hand slide under the covers and push the familiar shape of a bone knife against his thigh. Then she stood, gave the hagmother a glance, a sneer, shrugged and muttered something Joron did not catch, before leaving the room.

Beneath the thin cover Joron wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the knife.

“Shipwife Tinner,” the hagmother said, and pulled over a seat so she could sit by him, folding her hands in her lap.

“Hagmother, you have a look of Meas Gilbryn.”

Something cold passed across the her face.

“I saw her once at a parade,” Joron said.

“I do not talk of the coward, Meas, nor claim any kinship.” Her voice had all the icy chill of the Northstorm “But I am of the Thirteenbern, and the stamp of her strength is on the faces of all her daughters. You are honoured to be in my presence.”

“Indeed,” he said. The bone hilt warmed in his grip.

“Though of course,” she said, “I call you Shipwife only as a courtesy, for we both know that is your position no longer.” She pointed at the space beneath the covers where his lower leg should be.

“Then to what do I owe this honour, Hagmother?”

“Well,” she leaned forward, “yours is an old and powerful family, Shipwife Tinner. They, and you, have given much honour to the Hundred Isles. I would have you think about your position.”

“My position?” he said.

“Let us not be delicate, for we are not a people of delicate places and do not live delicate lives.” She put her hand on his thigh, just above where his leg had been severed. From experience, Joron knew that had the wound been fresh, her touch would have been agonising. “A shipwife without a leg is not a shipwife, and as a Tinner you can hardly go back to Bernshulme and find work on Hoppity Lane making shoes, can you? It would not be fitting.”

“No,” he said. “Of course not.”

“And it must gall such a man as you that you cannot serve on a ship, and you will never be one of the Kept now either. So you must throw yourself on your family’s charity.” Her eyes searched his face. “I do not mean to be cruel. I only think it is best I am honest with you. Truly honest, as few people will be.” She leaned in closer. “But you have chosen a life of honour and service, Shipwife,” she said. “What if I were to tell you that you may continue to serve, that you may make a sacrifice? And though it may sound great, it is simply the same one you have already agreed to.”

“What do you mean?” he said.

“Death,” she replied.

“You threaten me? I am a Tinner and—”

She lifted a hand to stop him talking. “It is not a threat,” she said. “You are free to leave this island and return a cripple to live off your family, if that is what you wish.”

“Why would I take your offer?” he said. “Death is a poor reward for service, and my family would find me a place.” He knew the reality was that there was no family and nowhere for him to go, but they felt like the things a man in his position would say. A proud man. A man with a heritage.

“I am sure your family would,” she said, and sat back. “If a life in a corner being disregarded is what you wish for. I offer you a chance to do something that will resonate throughout the Hundred Isles for lifetimes.” He stared at her. She leaned further forward, gaze intense, burning into him. “I offer you a chance to change our world, to hand the entire archipelago to the Hundred Isles. To crush the Gaunt Islanders.”

“How?” He said it in a whisper, and though he suspected what was coming, what she would say, he was entranced by her words. He felt the power of them, like she wove some strange magic about him, and he could not help thinking this was something she shared with her sither, Meas. This magnetism.

“You have heard,” she said, “that the arakeesians have returned?” He nodded. “Small numbers. Only two have been seen so far. But whoever can hunt them will rule the Scattered Archipelago.”

“Surely our ships are already out there?” he said. She nodded.

“Oh aye, they are indeed. But hunting keyshans is not like hunting longthresh. You cannot simply fill them with harpoons. We have learned this to our cost.” She shuffled nearer, smiling. “But there is a way.”

He knew, of course, but could not say it, played the fool.

“You would have me hunt them?”

“In a way.”

“In a way?”

“There are old secrets, buried within the records in Bernshulme that tell us how these creatures must be hunted. There is a poison that kills them quickly. Using it will save thousands of lives.”

“And?”

“Sacrifices are needed in the making of it.” She stopped, her mouth slightly open. He saw the tip of her tongue touch her front teeth. “It is not a kind process. We need help.” He recoiled – even though he already knew, he recoiled. It was not even the words, or the horror of it. It was that she did not feel it. That she was inured to it, seemed almost entranced by it. “Oh, I know how it sounds,” she cooed, like a mother with a babe. “I do know how it sounds. But if we do not do it, the Gaunt Islanders will, eventually.”

“So I escape death on the sea, only to find it here,” he said.

“The recipe we have found is old and incomplete. So we make batches of the poison, and even that uses up bodies faster than we can find them. Then we send out a ship to try it. And of course, they must first find the keyshan. Then a report must come back from the companion ship on whether it worked or not before we go into production. It is a lengthy process, Shipwife,” she said, then sat back.

“You want me to help make this poison of yours, which uses people up so quickly?” he said.

Her eyes widened. “Of course not. You are from an old and honoured family.” She leaned in a little closer. “But we need crews for those ships, see? Experienced crews. Oh, it is dangerous work, I will not lie. Often not even the companion ship makes it back. But when you are not at sea you will live here. In luxury. You will want for nothing. We will inform your family you died on your ship, and you will, in necessary secrecy, provide a service that will ensure the strength of the Hundred Isles for generations.” Her eyes searched his face, looking for understanding.

“What of my crew?”

“We are always in need of soldiers and deckchilder. Though, of course, it is likely they will find out about what we do here. Some struggle with it. And I am afraid they cannot be allowed to leave. You understand. The Berncast may not understand.”

“Of course,” he said. She smiled.

“Well?”

“May I have some time to think about it? It is a lot to take in,” he said.

She stood. “I will give you an hour, then return for your answer.” Though of course, he knew what she did not say. That he was as doomed now as any Berncast, and that this hour was simply a courtesy.

Once the hagmother had gone Garriya returned. “What did she want?”

“My service,” he said. “Send word to Farys, Mevans, Coughlin and Cwell. We have an hour to prepare.”

But they did not need an hour. Mevans and Farys and Coughlin and Cwell had long been ready: seaguard and deckchilder had been moved around the town until they were all in the places it was judged best they be. The majority of them in or around the tower and the infirmary. Coughlin and a few volunteers hidden within the town, as near to the great mangonel as they could get. So, when the time came and Garriya hissed at him, “Be ready, Caller. She comes,” he was entirely ready. It felt like every sinew and muscle in his body was wound tight, waiting for the moment. And when the hagmother once more came into his room, this time followed by the younger priest who had been first to attend him, his hand was around the warm hilt of the bone knife beneath his covers.

“Shipwife Tinner,” said the hagmother. “Have you come to a decision?”

He nodded. “I will take your offer,” he said as she sat down by him. “But tell me truth. Once you had told me of what you do here, I had joined those who would never leave, had I not?”

She smiled at him, that mouth, so similar to Meas.

“Yes,” she said and leaned in close. “It is good you chose to serve. You would not have enjoyed the alternative.”

He nodded. Hand tightened on the blade.

“Neither will you,” he said. With one hand he grabbed the back of her head, and with the other brought the knife up, still with the thin sheet wrapped around it. A white wave rising from the bed. That wave only to be crowned in red, slick and wet, as he drove the blade beneath it into the side of her neck. Never giving her time to scream. Pulling the blade out. Thrusting it back into flesh. Never giving her time to shout. Pulling the blade out. Thrusting it back in. Never giving her any time at all. Behind her Garriya held the younger hagpriest, her sharp hagshand’s blade at the girl’s throat.

“And this one, Caller?”

She was young, terrified.

The fiery projectile coming down on Dinyl’s ship.

“No quarter, Garriya.”

Garriya’s blade bit. The girl’s mouth opened in a perfect “o” as if she were simply surprised by the sudden turn of events, and as the sheet of blood spilled down the front of her white robe, Joron could almost believe it. Garriya’s blade was so sharp he thought the young hagpriest may not even have felt the blade bite home before life fled from her. He tried to believe it, as he had given the order which took her life. He tried to believe it as she looked so young.

But he knew the pain of the blade.

He knew you always felt it, eventually.

“Come, Caller, you’ll need your leg and your sword.” She pulled them from his pack under the bed and started fixing the leg on to him. Practiced hands moved quickly as she clamped the leather and buckles around his thigh. He felt the familiar pain in the stump of his leg as he moved his weight off the bed. Then Garriya was buckling on his sword belt and he found himself staring at the bodies. The hagmother he felt nothing for, despite that her blood was drying, bright red to russet brown, on his hands, but he could not tear his eyes away from the girl’s body.

“Feel no pity, Caller,” said Garriya, “what happens here is monstrous, and all who support it are monsters. We both know that.”

He pulled his gaze from the dead girl.

“Let us leave this place.”

Outside he found Farys and Cwell waiting for him. And behind them almost the entire crew of Keyshantooth filled the corridor.

“Mevans has wandered up to the room used by those on guard here,” said Farys, “with Jennil and Jirrid. When we arrive they will attack.”

“How many are there?”

“Ten in the room now, and another ten up the tower. I will leave Panir here with twenty to barricade the doors and hold the rear, though I think five could hold it.”

“Better to be sure, Farys,” he said. “Once they realise what we are about, then they will throw everything they have at that door.”

“My deckchilder will hold it, Shipwife,” she said.

“I know they will,” he replied, and clapped her on the arm.

“If the congratulations are over,” said Cwell, “there is plenty killing to be done.”

“Ey, that is true.” He drew the sword from his scabbard. “Now come,” he said to the others, “Mevans awaits us.”

With that his crew ran ahead, leaving Joron behind. He knew how they were used to shouting and whooping when battle came and felt inordinately proud that not one of them made a noise as they made their way, barefoot and almost silent, through the infirmary. At the corridor leading to the guardroom they stopped. Joron pushed through the throng of warm bodies, peered around the corner. Saw Mevans sharing a drink with the guards. Laughing. Occasionally he would glance down the corridor and when he saw Joron they shared a look. Mevans gave him a short nod. Joron breathed in a deep breath. Shouted, “Now!” Attacked. Closely followed by Cwell. Closely followed by Farys. Closely followed by Camin and behind her another and another. Running down the corridor. Now was the time to shout and to scream and to make a noise. Before the guards could close their door Joron was through. A straight lunge took a woman running at him in the throat. Cwell passed him, going to landward. Farys went to seaward, cutting out with her curnow, slashing and hacking. With a roar, Mevans attacked. Blood flew. Death came quick, and these were women and men they killed, not girls who were little more than childer themselves. And then they were done. Finished. Breathing heavily, the smell of blood hanging in the air, blood sprayed from cut arteries like paint left for luck on the walls. Mevans grinned at him.

A figure appeared in the arch at the bottom of the spiral stairwell that lead up into the tower. A look of shock, almost comically exaggerated as he stared up the room toward where Joron stood. One of Cwell’s knives flew across the room. Not quick enough. The knife hit only stone as the observer ran back up the spiral.

“After them,” shouted Joron.

“I will lead,” shouted Jennil, “I am landward-handed, easier for me to fight up a spiral stair.” Then they were running again, up the tight spiral, feet slipping on worn stone steps until Jennil met resistance at the entrance to the next floor. The clash of arms. Shouting. Pushing. A curse from Jennil and she fell back, a nasty cut to her arm.

“Have Garriya see to that,” shouted Joron, and he pushed himself past on the stairwell, straightsword held out. The enemy clustered in the doorway, pushing him back down the stair. As he stepped back he sensed something above him. Cwell, using a deckchilder’s trick in a tight space to move up the low, curved ceiling, arms and legs wedged against the curved stone. The defenders of the tower were not deckchilder, and were unprepared for such tactics. All eyes were on the man before them, not on the woman who appeared from above. This furious, spitting, screaming, fighting creature suddenly among them. The space she made gave Joron room to advance and he pushed forward, then it was as if a boneboard in a ship’s hull had broken and the deckchilder were water, rushing in, cutting and killing until another room fell silent. “We do not stop,” shouted Joron. “We do not stop until the top of the tower is ours.”

They met no more resistance – everyone had been pulled down into the tower by the noise of the attack, and all that waited for them at the top was the giant gallowbow. Across from them was the other tower and its crew, gathered around their own bow. Alert, waiting. Aware something was wrong. When Joron’s women and men appeared on the top their tower a shout went up: ‘Enemies, on the seaward tower!’ Then he saw furious industry and they started to work on their gallowbow.

“Mevans!” shouted Joron, “we need to bring the bow around!”

And Mevans was there by him. Standing back, rubbing his chin and looking at the great bow.

“Problem is the track, see, Shipwife,” he said, pointing at the wooden rails the bow sat on. “Ey, that it is. See, it don’t go far round enough to target the other tower.”

“I do not want an explanation of the technicalities,” said Joron, “I want a solution,” and he heard the echoes of Meas in his voice.

“A solution, ey?” said Mevans. He scratched at his cheek. “Well it does happen, Shipwife, I reckons I have one.”

“And it is?”

“One moment,” he said, and vanished back the way they had come. Joron glanced at the tower opposite where much shouting and pointing was happening around that gallowbow, then he ran to the door, shouting down the twisting stair to Mevans. “Will you hurry on, Mevans? They’re hardly sat idle and waiting our leisure on that other tower.”

“Don’t worry yourself, Shipwife,” he shouted back, “for we have a great advantage over them.” He appeared around the curve of the stair.

“And what is that, Mevans?”

“Well, Shipwife, they will want to take care of that weapon. And us?” He grinned as he pushed through the doorway and held up a great hammer. “We have no such concerns.” He ran over to the gallowbow and starting enthusiastically smashing away the bone and stone around the end of the track. On the tower opposite voices were raised, there was more pointing and Joron heard the sounds of hammering drifting across to them.

“Seems them lot have caught on.” Mevans glanced over his shoulder, “Well,” he said to the other deckchilder, “push it round, we’ll need everyone spare to catch it at the end of the track and handle the thing into position.” Then it was all about who was the quickest, which deckchilder were more efficient, and as Joron stared at the other tower it became clear there was little in it.

“Come on!” shouted Mevans. Shoulders put to the weapon. Grunts and groans as they pushed the bow around. All mirrored on the opposite tower.

With a crash the gallowbow came off the track, and then with much swearing and cursing of the Hag it was made stable and pointed at the opposite tower.

“Spin!” shouted Joron, and he heard his word echoed from across the gate. “Spin for your lives!” And they did. Two towers, mirrors of each other, two great bows inching back cords, filling them with violent intent. Two sets of loaders struggling with stone wingbolts.

There could only be one winner.

The warmoan of the bow.

“Loose!”

Stone smashed into the great bow, scattering those around it, throwing them out into the empty air. A shout of triumph went up from those around Joron while he sent up a silent prayer of thanks to the Mother that Lucky Meas had trained her bowcrews so well. There were none faster and he was well glad of it. He pulled his nearglass from his jacket, a brief look at the ruined bow opposite, the dead scattered around it. Then swinging the nearglass so he looked out to sea.

“Where is the shipwife?” said Mevans.

“I do not know,” said Joron, “but get a team down into the winding room and lift that gate. And another team to drag this bow right around, so we can loose on anyone in the town who tries to get a ship out.”

“We need some sort of signal,” said Cwell.

“Ey,” said Joron, and he looked around, and seeing the great brazier for signals, but either the crew were lax or deliveries had not been made yet as there was no fuel for it. “We must think of something.”