Chapter 21
as you move north, the landscape becomes
not wilder, but looser
the flowers leashed haltingly to the cliffs
the cliffs only reluctantly touching the sky
—What Is Born Beyond Blades, Heartshamer
Strong arms around him. The scratch of stubble on his cheek, and somewhere nearby, the sound of running water.
A clear sky, blue with the first hints of northern ice and a familiar voice in his ear. ‘Bad dreams again Fish?’
Quickfish sits up, rolls his neck, feels fingers start working at the knots and twists in his muscles. He turns to look over one shoulder and smiles.
‘Not bad. Just lively.’ As he says it, he feels his palm ache. Roofkeeper, kneading his shoulders with all the practiced firmness of his stable hand days, smiles a broad, white smile, like the first cut into a new tree.
‘Must be the only time you’re lively then.’ The fingers stop, flick dark hair out of laughing eyes lined with creases, and Quickfish thinks again how very lucky he is.
‘Hold up and I’ll brew up some kind of potion to wake sleepy fish.’
Quickfish scratches his own mousey hair and yawns. ‘Thanks Roof.’
Roofkeeper moves to the remains of their fire and works his magic.
A few soft, precise movements and the embers cough out a hot glow.
He sets a tin can over the flames, fills it with water from the stream and crushes herbs rapidly between his palms. The smell is incredible, sharp and fresh.
Quickfish watches him as he works, his sharp jaw thick now with a good few weeks of road beard, a strong back hunched with care over the bubble and simmer.
Levering himself up from the grass, he walks across and runs his fingers down the thick curve of Roofkeeper’s spine. ‘Put a top on, slut.’
The taller man laughs, spins, tackles him to the grass and kisses him furiously.
‘Typical highborn. Always telling us commoners what to do.’
Roofkeeper grins again, swift and easy. Pins Quickfish under his legs and looks down mockingly. ‘How else may I serve you, Lordling of the Grey Towers?’
Quickfish laughs, a little, but it dies in his throat.
Roofkeeper bites his lip and looks away, out into the forests that sketch the first stage of their climb, a pang of regret skirling around his mind. ‘I’m sorry, Fish. Me and my mouth.’
Quickfish shakes his head, forces a smile on to the lank sadness he feels in his head.
‘No, no. It’s fine. I just … miss them.’ A pause, a sly smile. ‘Besides, I like your mouth.’
Roofkeeper bends, kisses his neck, speaks along the collarbone. ‘Do you think your dad’ll come for us?’
Quickfish wriggles, only half-pleasurably.
‘I hope not. How long have we been on the road now? A month? More? Hopefully we got him good and pissed enough that he won’t think to come chasing after us for a while. Safer for him. And Mum.’
Roofkeeper stands, stretches, heads to the fire and gets two mugs from their packs. ‘Do you honestly think we can find someone to help her?’
Quickfish shrugs himself into a shirt, and buttons it thoughtfully. ‘I hope so. We’ve got a better chance the further we get from Astic. And you know, there’s stories about the mountains.’
Roofkeeper strolls across, sipping pensively. ‘There’s always stories about the mountains, Fish. No one would bloody go there otherwise.’
Quickfish snorts in exasperation. ‘Well, if nothing else, we’re a step ahead of the mess brewing back home.’
Roofkeeper sits next to him, cups the mug to his chest. ‘You sure of that?’
Quickfish’s arm takes in the river, the trees, the sky. ‘You see any fucking crows around here?’
Roofkeeper laughs. ‘Point taken. Drink your tea, love.’