Chapter 34 #3
Barely a thing that could be won, he’d said. But, sometimes, there were fights you fought because not fighting was worse. The sour scour of his stubble curling around the scars on his face as he smiled.
Because they had won, because the Lord of the Grey Towers and his Lady had taken the field. And they had brought allies.
His grandfather would talk about the Fallons like he talked about storms. Something unstoppable. Sometimes he even talked about the people who became the Shipwright and the Shroudweaver, and he scratched his ruined hand, even as a half-smile balanced on his jaw.
And sometimes, beyond those, his grandfather would talk of the south. Of the fleet, and the opening sky. Of sending his son away on the promise of another righteous war. Of cursing his own injuries that wouldn’t let him join the golden fleet.
Of seeing his heroes at the prow of a wondrous ship.
Of days on the dockside, watching the salt sea.
Of watching the light that blossomed in the south. Of smelling the sky burn and watching it blacken with the burnt bodies of crows.
Of seeing the Shipwright, the Shroudweaver, Fallon limp home alone.
Of course, after Crowkisser took his only child, he talked of nothing, until weeks of quiet ended in a long drop and a sharp stop.
It takes Roofkeeper a second to feel Quick’s fingers on his arm. ‘We’re here.’ A buzz of tension in his voice.
Roofkeeper meets his gaze, smiles. ‘Yeah, sorry.’
Icecaller shoots him a glance, her hard eyes lingering on his for a long time. ‘Daydreaming of building, were you?’
She turns before he can answer, flicking her fingers dismissively over her shoulder.
Roofkeeper puts a hand on Quickfish’s shoulder, steers him forwards. ‘Keep your head, OK? I’ve got you.’
Quickfish nods, but Roof can see the breath flickering in his chest.
The room they enter is narrow, but impossibly tall. Seats and benches carved into its dark rock, winding one above the other, losing themselves in the shadows at some point before the light filters down from a ragged hole far above.
An old volcanic vent perhaps, Roofkeeper thinks, but sculpted and worked beyond anything he’s ever seen.
On its lowest ranks are a scattering of wary looking men and women.
In the centre, a beast of a man, stoop-shouldered, his eyes flat-lidded under heavy brows, hands clasped in front of him.
He watches the three of them enter with studied care.
Icecaller keeps her voice low. ‘That’s father dearest. The Kinghammer. We’ve had a chat.’
‘A chat?’ Quickfish hisses.
She fixes him with a flat look. ‘Yes, as we discussed, over tea. Like civilised people.’ The words sliding out between gritted teeth. ‘Pay attention. You need to know who you’re dealing with.’
Next to Kinghammer, a lean woman, her skin like burnished wood, one hand toying fitfully with a web of beads which clack softly as she rolls them over her knuckles.
Icecaller’s chapped lips brush Quickfish’s ear. ‘Belltoller.’
Belltoller seems anxious. Her dark eyes track Quickfish as he walks closer, like an oarsman watching a shark cut through water.
He wants to say something, speak up. A little spark of his mother’s fire lighting in his soul.
He feels Roof’s hand tighten on his shoulder and thinks better of it.
Icecaller flicks a glance at him, mouthing one word. ‘Good.’
On Belltoller’s left, two other women. Old, sharp-boned, their grey hair pulled back from the broad planes of their faces by bright ribbons, their right hands thick with stark, black geometrics. They watch Quickfish enter with sharp eyes, passing whispers between each other like gifts.
Icecaller’s hand grips his arm, her fingers tight and hard. ‘The Deadsingers.’
Quickfish nods, watching the Singers’ hands dance. Little flurries of bird-like movement. He’s old enough to know he’s being weighed, parcelled, assessed. He pulls his eyes back to the council, to the others, blood rushing in his temples. A red push like the sea.
To the right of Icecaller’s father, a man sits slumped. At least, Quickfish assumes they’re a man. They are swathed in so many layers of coloured fabric that there is only the briefest suggestion of a body beneath.
Ragged yellow and red strands flutter as they move, bringing two broad hands forwards to rest on their knees. Quickfish has seen the pose before, many times, in the stables with Roofkeeper. Watching the old hands scan horseflesh as it shivered in front of them.
In the hollow of their hooded face, a pair of eyes catch the light briefly.
Icecaller’s fingers dig deep, the message obvious. ‘There they are. Skinpainter. Knew your mother. Owes your mother.’
Quickfish glances at her, and she flicks her fingers expectantly at the row of waiting bodies. ‘Time to shine, pup.’ Then softer. ‘Got your back.’
Nice words. It doesn’t feel like it. The dark walls of the council chamber stretch up and out, thronged with the shadows of strangers. People who don’t know him at all. Or worse, people who think they do, and fear him for it.
It’s just him though. And he’s a Fallon, whatever that means.
He takes a small, shuddering breath. It means he can see the stark line of his mother’s bones whenever he closes his eyes. It’s just him. And this is her only chance.
When he speaks, his voice feels thin and naked in the stomach of the mountain. ‘Greetings, my lords, ladies.’
Stupid. Empty. He can do better. He has to do better.
They watch impassively. Icecaller leaves his side on soft feet and slides behind her father’s brooding shoulders, words skirting the edge of his ears. Doing what she can. He’s pathetically grateful. He has to try.
Quickfish clears his throat. ‘I’m …’
‘Fallon’s kid.’ When Icecaller’s father speaks, he seems an easy part of the mountain.
Dusty, deep, forceful. His smile when it comes, is like his daughter’s, bright with a cutting edge.
‘We know who you are, Quickfish. Everything filters down into the depths of the mountain. And we remember your father. Your mother.’ He sits on that for a second.
Glances to his right, at the Belltoller.
She stiffens. Barely. Enough that Quickfish can read it. He’s seen it in the horses, back in Hesper. Roof taught him to look for it. That tension that runs through the bones when stray dogs are sniffing round the stables. That widening of the eyes that speaks to the promise of teeth. Or fire.
Quickfish watches her face. She’s looking at him. She’s deliberately not looking at Kinghammer.
Quickfish wants to say something kind, but he has no idea what that would mean to her. So he waits.
Not for long. Something shifts in her body. Just the faintest twitch in the fold of her dress, until her face focuses on him fully, her dark eyes running the length of him. He can feel the pressure of her gaze. Deep, black water. He tries to hold his nerve. Tries to keep breathing.
Eventually, Belltoller tips her head at him. The gesture feels grudging, somehow, but her voice is strong and clear, ‘We remember your father. Your mother. We remember what they did. And there are many debts owed to them. The question is: why are you here?’
More interest than he’d expected. More of a hearing, at that.
Maybe there is a chance. He has to be careful, has to think back to all those days spent with half an ear on the diplomacy of the sea rolling behind the tapestries while he fumbled with Roof and kissed the salt of his neck.
There’s a language for this; he can use it.
Quickfish nods respectfully. ‘A fair question. I need help for my mother. There’s no other help to be found. She was taken a while ago. By Crowkisser.’
Belltoller nods. ‘I know the witch.’
Skinpainter laughs. ‘We all do.’
Icecaller squeezes in next to her dad as they talk. The Deadsingers shuffle ruefully aside as she wriggles her hips. She shoots Quickfish a stealthy thumbs up. Mouths, ‘Keep going.’
Quickfish coughs. ‘Thing is. Crowkisser’s magic. It takes names. And when it can’t take the name, well, things go wrong.’
He clears his throat. He can feel the panic rising. ‘My da stopped her. But …’
His shoulders drop. ‘But she’s gone, beyond the physickers and the saltwitches, and anyone else my da could find.’
He looks at Belltoller’s long face, at Skinpainter’s golden eyes. ‘But maybe not beyond you.’
‘Maybe not,’ Belltoller says. ‘Why is your father not here though?’
‘Because he respects our boundaries,’ Skinpainter cuts in. ‘Fallon can take a cue.’
‘Maybe that,’ Quickfish nods, surprising himself. ‘But he doesn’t know I’m here.’ He smiles, ‘Wouldn’t like it, I suspect.’
Belltoller smiles back. A half-moon, but a smile. She leans towards him. ‘Just you. All this way?’
Quickfish turns. ‘And Roofkeeper. My partner.’ He blushes, a little.
Icecaller makes kissy faces again.
Belltoller’s eyebrows raise. ‘It’s a long way. And we have made it clear that we do not welcome visitors.’
Quickfish nods, ‘Yep. I got that. Lots of spears. Lots of warnings.’ He straightens a little. ‘But it’s my mum. And there’s nothing else. Nowhere else.’
Belltoller taps her fingers on the haft of something beneath her robes. Glances at Kinghammer, Skinpainter, then the Deadsingers.
‘Fine.’
Kinghammer looks at her, and even Quickfish catches the flash of surprise, like a salmon in a river. It’s gone quickly. Caught and beaten on the rock of his expression. Icecaller takes a second longer, but the grin she shoots him is wild. No one saw this coming.
Kinghammer senses the momentum, and rolls with it. ‘Well, if Bell is willing, so am I. I’ve been waiting for your mother to come collect for a long time.’ He pauses. ‘It figures she’d find some awkward way to do it.’
Quickfish breathes, a little. ‘Thank you. Thank you.’
Kinghammer raises a hand. ‘We’re not done, lad. There’s more than me here.’
He looks at Ice and she shrugs.