“Fret not, child, fret not. The Mother is waiting. The Maiden will welcome you. The Hag ensures your passage will be swift, the pain short, fear not.” She repeated the words, over and over again as the boy’s breathing became less laboured, his coughing slowed and his weak muscles gave up the fight until, eventually, he was still. The old woman’s mouth moved, somewhere between a smile and a grimace and she reached over and closed his eyes. “Sleep well, child,” she said, and gently laid the body on the floor.
“He could not be saved?” said Meas. Garriya bent over and swilled her hands in a water bowl, then took a rag from her pocket to dry them.
“On land, with plenty of food? Aye, I could have saved him, given him years of life before the rot truly took him. On the sea, in the cold and on deckchilder rations? No, he could not be saved.”
Meas nodded. “Can any be saved?”
“They had four hundred aboard, Shipwife, that were still alive anyway,” said Garriya. Then she chuckled to herself. “Aye, old Garriya can count, Shipwife, do not look so surprised. Old Garriya can do many things. But save all these wretches?” She pointed at the corpse of the boy. “Not here. There are maybe forty, out of all of them, who will be strong enough to pull through. It is a strange thing, this, Shipwife.”
“Why?”
“Many of those aboard were not far along in the rot. Had they been treated more kindly there was years of work in ’em.”
“They all have the rot?” said Joron. Garriya nodded. “Is there any clue as to where they are from?” Garriya shook her head.
“Even the strongest are barely conscious,” she said. “It will be days at best before we hear anything from most of them. The few that can speak, well . . .”
“What? Speak up, old woman.”
“One fellow croaked out a story. I reckon it is not helpful. Said they are the least wanted, the Berncast, picked up off the streets with promise of work, moved from ship to ship over weeks. Many on his ship were from Bernshulme though, the fellow said.”
“Where is he? I would speak with him.” Garriya let out a chuckle.
“With the Hag, Shipwife, gone to the depths with the rest of the dead.” Meas did not speak then, only stared at the hagshand, letting time pass while she thought through what had been said.
“Very well,” said Meas. She glanced at the corpse of the boy. “Make them as comfortable as you can, Garriya.” The old woman nodded.
They left the makeshift hagbower and made their way down into the stink belowdecks to see the windshorn.
Within the ship, the sound of hammering filled the air as Coxward’s bonewrights worked, taking down the shelves of cured gion that had once harboured people. The doors to seaward and landward had been removed and light streamed in through the bowpeeks, though it did little to dissipate the stink. At the end of the hold Joron saw piles of what he thought at first was old varisk, but it was not. Bodies, wrapped in wingcloth, and many of them, so very many. Joron looked away, forged himself a little space to think by re-tying the cloth wrapped around his face. Meas opened the remaining door into the central hold.
No light in here, only the faint glow of the wanelights that had been filled with oil and set burning. The windshorn waiting within for them, huddled together in a corner of the central space under the decks. They reminded him of the gullaime the first time he had seen it, sticks and bones beneath filthy and threadbare robes. As they approached he saw the windshorn existed in two groups – one, the larger, at the rear and a smaller group to the fore. Was it Joron’s imagination or were these gullaime smaller than he was used to? They were more timid definitely. He understood how much posture and attitude could affect appearance, but nonetheless he was sure they were smaller. As the first group of windshorn shuffled forward he noticed another difference: where his gullaime had a three-toed foot, each toe ending in a sharp claw, these gullaime’s feet had two outside toes the same, but the central one was truncated and ended in a much bigger, sharper, curved claw.
“I am Shipwife Meas. It is I that has freed you from confinement.”
The first of the small group came forward. It dragged one foot, approaching side on, keeping its head low and its masked face downcast. Only when it glanced up did Joron see that unlike most fleet gullaime it had its eyes – though they were not the burning orbs that hid behind the mask of the windtalker back on their ship. These were large black pupils in white eyes behind a mesh built into its mask; very human eyes.
“How serve, o’seer?” Its voice was a scratch on the air and it was careful to avoid meeting Meas’s gaze. Joron noticed it was larger than most of the others
“I wish to know how you came to be here.”
A shudder ran through the creature. Joron heard low noises, chirps and cracks from the gullaime behind them but their leader silenced them with a hiss. They were strangely unmusical, these gullaime.
“Lamyard o’seer say go ship. Gullaime go ship.” Meas stared. This gullaime had a following, three or four that stayed with it, close behind, while the others cowered back. Joron noticed the leading gullaime, despite the terrible conditions, had better clothes, was slightly cleaner and had more feathers on its neck.
“Our windtalker,” said Meas, “says you are traitors and that you can’t be trusted. It says you should be put to death.”
“No, no.” The windshorn came forward a step, cooing out the word. “Windshorn help. Windshorn help o’seers. Windshorn do good work.” Its voice dropped an octave, became full of threat. “Windtalker need cord. Need punishment.”
“Only I can order the cord used on my ship.”
“Yes, yes. Gullaime lie,” said the windshorn. “Not like us. Us better. Better than it. We know place. Windtalkers not know place without cord. Shipwife show place.”
Joron wondered if the windshorn knew enough about human expression to decipher the look of contempt on Meas’s face.
“Can you work?” she said.
“Yes yes, Work hard. Keep windtalkers in place.”
“Can you do other work?”
It stared at her and he saw the eyelids come down, a slow blink behind the mesh in the mask.
“Windshorn will do as told,” it said.
“And do they agree?” said Meas, tilting her head at the other group, the larger collection of bedraggled and beaten-looking windshorn.
“Will do as told,” said the leader.
“Are traitors!” This call came from one of the windshorn at the back and immediately, as if the creature was fire and those around it made of straw, a gap grew about it as the other windshorn moved away, quick to disassociate themselves from this lone voice.
“Quiet you!” came from the larger windshorn before them. It hopped over to the windshorn who had cried out, wings outstretched beneath its robe, and to all who grew up in the Hundred Isles and had a familiarity with birds, it was obvious it intended violence.
“Stop this!” roared Meas and the larger windshorn did. On the spot, as if rooted there. Then it turned, shrinking back down.
“Windshorn stop, windshorn do as Shipwife tells. Windshorn good worker.”
“I want to speak to that one,” said Meas, pointing at the windshorn who had spoken, so evidently out of turn.