Chapter 26
the body can be enumerated in several ways
by the crenelations of the teeth
by the wet tumuli of vein and artery
—Redwork and Bonework, Wicktwister
Quickfish’s first few hours in Thell prove how inadequate a statement that is.
Icecaller is an unforgiving tour guide, seemingly taking great delight in hurrying them through a whirl of unfamiliar sites with nothing but a few cryptic remarks flung over her shoulder.
They crest the low-slung mounds that hide Thell’s dead, marked with intricate boundary posts and hung with brightly coloured flags which snap and bite in the freshening wind.
The land stretches out for miles to east and west, peppered with small homesteads, framed by raised cairns with deep defiles between, where the grass lingers dark and weak, mixed with never-quite-thawed ice.
The buildings become sturdier the closer they draw to the mountain. Squat, scalloped structures, that might be forges or tanneries, and some that he doesn’t recognise, their walls slashed with broad strokes of paint in deep red, burnt black.
‘Inkworks,’ Icecaller says, unhelpfully, gesturing to great pots which seem to roil ceaselessly over stretched fire pits. The air above their rims is thick with fumes. His eyes sting.
The inhabitants of the cottages watch them pass with flat eyes.
Their hands twisting the necks of speckled mountain birds, plucking feathers from their breasts with quick, practiced movements, driving their fingers down the throat to remove guts, innards.
The most wretched scraps are tossed to the animals that root around the mire of the cairns, squat as houses, bigger and wider than a cat, their shoulders and hips armoured with some kind of cartilage that shifts and clacks as they waddle about industriously.
The cottagers chuckle as their striped jaws wrap around old bones, cracking down into the marrow, and pulling it out with strong, black tongues.
That morbid little feast merits more comment.
‘Bonebadgers,’ Icecaller says, toeing one out of the way to a chorus of yips. ‘Ornery little shits.’
She stoops, throws a scapula low, underhand, and watches them race off, grinning. ‘My sister loves them.’
She wipes her bloody hands on her trousers. ‘You’ll see why. Come on. A ways to go.’ Quickfish tries to hang onto the brief enthusiasm in her smile as he slips over the half-thawed mud. Behind him, meat is skinned and the air simmers.
Even the geography of Thell leaves him feeling like an outsider.
The curves of the outbuildings fade back into the hills as they grow closer.
The scent of ice is sharper as they thread their way higher, towards a brutal edifice that clings to the mountain like a scab on a wound.
Pocked with shadowed chambers and walkways, it looms imperious; a ravaged, many-eyed face looking down on the dreaming dead.
‘The Stump,’ Icecaller says, her blue eyes bright and fierce. ‘This is where the magic happens. And I mean that very fucking literally.’
She laughs a thin, sniggering laugh as she looks at their blank faces.
‘No? I’m wasted on you, pups. You’ll see. That’s Skinpainter’s thing. They basically’ – her fingers wriggle – ‘made it all up.’
She cocks her head, pouts. ‘It’s cooler than it sounds. Just you wait.’
Roofkeeper finally finds his voice. ‘Don’t they need you on the perimeter? We probably shouldn’t take you away from your post.’
She raises an eyebrow at that. ‘My post? Oh, southerners. I’m on the Council for the next three years. As long as I don’t stab anyone or fuck anyone over, I can pretty much work where I please.’
More blank faces. Icecaller throws her hands up in exasperation, her spear whistling unnervingly through the air.
‘God, what do they teach you down there? We’re a me-rit-o-cracy, pups. Ever since the birth of the Republic. If you can pull your weight, and everyone knows it, you get into power. Just you, not your spawn. Minimises a prevalence of cunts in charge.’
She smiles.
‘Not like you savages with your manycockracy. Inheritances, titles, power based on who you’ve come inside? Uh. No thanks.’
She shrugs, and her spear waggles. ‘No offense, pup. I’m sure you’re a perfectly adequate little spunkpocket.’
The next hour passes in much the same fashion, Quickfish and Roofkeeper speaking in a code of shared glances and rueful looks, Icecaller throwing sentences which explode in a series of barbs that seem half-affectionate, half-serious.
As they enter the shadow of the Stump, their guide holds up a hand. ‘Wait, wait. Hold up. Come see this.’
Icecaller ducks into a jagged crack at the mountain’s base.
They leave its dark body stretching far overhead, slipping down a flaw in the rock lit with softly glowing panels, that pick out the jut of the stone.
As they walk, Quickfish begins to hear noises – sharp cracks, yelps of pain, shouting.
He throws another worried glance to Roofkeeper and receives another shrug in response.
In short order, the twisting path opens up into a low curved cavern, shot with light which filters down from high above.
The mountain must be huge. Quickfish can distantly make out galleries filled with laughter and movement, spanning heights that make him dizzy.
Most of the space below is taken up with a tiled circle marked precisely with blood-red geometrics.
A few of Thell’s great and good stand around the edges, watching the events inside with quiet interest, save for the occasional whoop of victory or shouted encouragement.
Inside the circle, two small bodies move and spar with sharp, fierce precision.
A boy and girl, maybe six or seven, their heads and cheeks tattooed, brightly coloured hair clinging to their half-shorn scalps like the flags clung to the cairns.
Their dark skin catches the light as they duck and turn.
As Quickfish watches, the boy dashes in, arms swinging wildly, small teeth split on the edge of a smaller battle cry.
The girl meets him with a wide stance, her palms open wide.
As he swings, she ducks, her right palm hitting him squarely between the legs, the left catching his jaw, sending him up and over her dropped shoulder. The boy hits the ground with a wet slap and a ragged burst of air. Quickfish winces.
Next to him, Icecaller whoops and punches the air.
‘Yes! Get him, Nigh! Rip his nuts off!’ She smiles broadly at Quickfish. ‘That’s my little sister. She’s a nutter.’
In the circle, Nigh stops, looks down at the writhing boy.
The circle goes very quiet.
Her foot swings forwards with violent speed, and stops just short of the boy’s recoiling chin, one scuffed toenail tapping lightly on his lip.
A sniggering, snorting belly laugh falls out of Nigh, even as she helps the boy to his feet.
She shoots a glance at her sister, and sticks out a small pink tongue.
Quickfish looks at his guide. ‘What the fuck was that?’
Icecaller shrugs. ‘What was what? We’re at war, Pocket. You use what you’ve got.’