Chapter 42 #2
The room inside is small, a bar running along one side racked with bottles that gleam dully. Shonky wooden steps stretch up to a second level where a band hang like bats, sawing at fiddle and accordion.
Below that, a circle of seats around the fire, familiar shapes. Declan’s broad back, Shipwright’s golden hair, her head tipped back in laughter.
Shroudweaver feels a pang in his heart as he recognises the room. ‘The Harrowed Gull? I thought she’d burnt down long ago.’
Brim moves to the bar, leans over, fills a couple of tankards. ‘I think she’s too rotten to burn.’ She holds the cup. ‘Here, drink. Fallon suggested a little reunion.’
He chinks cups, swigs back, grimaces. ‘Still swill.’
‘Never stopped you before.’ The voice harsh as a rusted hinge, its owner rounding the bar, rubbing raw knuckles with a starched rag. His hair fading at the edges into two wild tufts, his mouth home to a few defiant teeth.
Shroudweaver’s heart leaps. ‘Swallowgut? Is that you? I never thought I’d see you again.’
The old man waddles over to the bar, folds his arms on it.
‘You’d have seen me sooner if you’d visited, you young rat.
’ His face breaks into a pink grin. ‘But better late than never. Look at you.’ He walks around the bar, reaches up to Shroudweaver’s shoulders.
‘Tall and thin as a fish-pole. And me remembering you in here, fresh-baked out the Aestering.’ He elbows Shroudweaver’s ribs.
‘Got yourself a lady, eh? And a title. The Shroudweaver. Very nice lad.’
‘Beats Swallowgut,’ Brim chimes in.
‘Says you, Brimlicker.’
Shroudweaver tilts his head questioningly. ‘I did wonder about that.’
She shoots him a look. ‘We can’t all have cool names, Shroudweaver. And no, I don’t really know where it came from.’ She pulls her hat down to her chin.
Shroudweaver taps the brim gently. ‘Come on, let’s go say hello.’
She fakes a pout, plants a kiss on Swallowgut’s liver-spotted head. ‘Yes, let’s.’
Fallon sees them coming and rises up, arms open. Shipwright next to him is beaming.
‘Ah, the last of our little party. Bring the good stuff, Swallow.’
Chairs scrape as they make room, and the pair settle down, Shroudweaver running his eyes around the circle.
There are a couple of faces he almost remembers, a silver-bearded man, gold jewellery bright against his dark skin.
He smiles softly as he catches Shroudweaver’s eye.
Next to him is a neat little figure, short hair dyed ruddy and cut close against their scalp, hooded eyes half-closed as their head nods to the fiddle’s skirl. They raise a lazy hand to Shroudweaver.
Swallow crabs across with the drinks. Fallon sweeps the bottles from the tray, pulling the old man into a space by the fire. ‘That’s enough, Swallow. Tonight you sit with us. You were there at the start of it all. You deserve warm bones and a sore head in the morning.’
Swallowgut sits, grudgingly, shooting a short smile at Shipwright when she claps him on the back.
Fallon stands again, clearly enjoying the attention. Cheeks flushed enough that he’s probably been enjoying it for a while.
‘Reintroductions, I think. We might all know each other by reputation, but it’s been a long time since Shipwright and Shroudweaver actually stopped in Hesper, and twenty long bastard years since we fought together.
’ He pours as he speaks, filling tin cups with an amber liquid that smells like burnt peaches.
When the last is filled, he raises a glass.
‘To the victors of Luss, to all that’s left. ’
‘To all that’s left,’ they chorus.
Fallon swigs it back, and Shroudweaver follows, his nose burning as the shot races around his skull and down into the pit of his stomach.
The big, bearded man slams the cup down, sighs contentedly. Next to him, the lithe redhead runs their fingers around the inside of the cup, sucking them slowly clean.
Fallon smiles at them. ‘Ship, Shroud, you might remember Masthauler and Dropdancer, captain and first mate of the Hart’s Pride.’
The big man stands, bows at the waist. ‘Lord, lady, we were there at Luss. You would not recall us, I suspect.’
Shipwright stands, bows in return. ‘I recall your ship, and you.’ She glances to the side, ‘Along with the Maiden. We might not have carried the day without you. Without either of you.’
Dropdancer stretches a leg over the arm of the vacated chair, sniggers. ‘Alright. Keep it in your pants. We’re glad we won too.’
Shroudweaver coughs. Something in the music drifting down, filling the room, something in the booze. His head feels thick. Might just be Smokesister’s words still rattling around in there. He taps Fallon’s arm. ‘When you say “all that’s left”?’
Fallon opens his mouth, but it’s Brimlicker who answers. He rolls his eyes.
‘He means everyone that stayed in Hesper, that wasn’t lost in the south, or that hasn’t lit out for somewhere else.’
Shroudweaver nods. ‘I guess I owe you all my life.’
Shipwright’s face is grim. ‘It doesn’t seem like time’s been kind to Hesper’s captains.’
Masthauler leans into Dropdancer. ‘How many have we lost, all in all?’
Their slim fingers move over a necklace at their throat, counting beads. ‘Twenty-seven.’ Masthauler nods. ‘Counting the Volante?’
Dropdancer shakes their head. ‘Shit. No. Twenty-eight.’
Shipwright pours, drinks. ‘Ships and all?’
Dropdancer twitches. ‘The south was a big old mess.’
‘No arguments at this table,’ Fallon mutters.
Masthauler leans forwards, scratches at his beard. ‘Fallon says you’re going north to stop Crowkisser. That true?’
Shroudweaver nods. ‘It is.’
Masthauler’s eyes are brown as a millpond, wary. ‘You need ships?’
Shroudweaver shakes his head. ‘No, well …’ he glances at Shipwright.
She nods. ‘We might need you to get people out, if it all goes sideways, or if Crowkisser comes here first.’
Brimlicker’s eyes widen. She pushes her hat back. ‘Is that likely?’
Fallon shrugs. ‘Fuck knows. We don’t think so, but that slit loves to be unpredictable.’
‘Shit,’ Brimlicker says. ‘Shit.’
Dropdancer squints at Fallon, refills their glass. ‘I hate it when you talk like that.’
Fallon rolls his eyes again. ‘She’s a slit, Drop. Not a saint.’
Dropdancer drinks, grimaces. ‘Still, not a good look on you, Fallon.’
Shipwright steps in. ‘We don’t have time tonight to cut Declan into a respectable man. But,’ she grins. ‘We do have time for a game or two.’ She produces cards from her shirt pocket with a flourish. Thumps the pack down in the centre of the table.
Fallon bursts out laughing, ‘Ship. You dark horse.’
Shroudweaver leans forwards excitedly. ‘Deal me in.’
Shipwright arches an eyebrow. ‘Are you sure love?’
He nods. ‘Deal me in.’
Dropdancer picks up a card, turns it over as Shipwright deals. ‘What is this? Martyr’s Hook? Blind Piglets?’
Masthauler tuts. ‘The art’s too nice for Blind Piglets, Drop. Get a grip. Look at these lines.’
They lean over and gnash their teeth at him. He ruffles their hair.
Brimlicker leans back, and pulls her hat down, ‘None for me thanks. I get fleeced by these idiots daily. No reason to encourage it.’ She waves her glass at Swallowgut, and he refills it absently, then goes back to sorting cards.
‘So,’ Shipwright says with a grin. ‘Here’s how you play.’
The next few hours pass in a blur, the pile of coins in front of Shroudweaver shrinking inexorably.
He’s sure he knows the rules. Sure he knows Shipwright’s tells, but somehow, the coins just keep disappearing.
Dropdancer folds after an hour or two, curls up in Masthauler’s lap, snoring like a torn tin can.
He plays over their shoulder, solid and methodical.
Eventually, he’s priced out by a beautiful run.
‘Mountain to river,’ Shipwright smiles, and gathers the coins in.
Swallowgut folds soon after, shifts nearer the fire to pop nuts with his remaining teeth.
Shroudweaver tries to keep pace with Shipwright and Fallon but it’s hard to concentrate. The band are still playing, the singer’s reedy voice picking up a tune he recognises, worming into his brain. He hums the chorus as the patrons sing along, stomping the boards and rocking the chairs.
… the night the bones came tumbling down …
Brimlicker tips her head up. ‘Sound familiar?’
He nods, ‘I’m not sure why.’
She smiles sadly, pours him another drink. ‘Because it’s our song.’
The singer’s voice thin at first, thickening in the smoke as the familiar lines cut through the haze.
there’s a city by the sea
where bold ship captains dwell
they’ve seen the shores of old Empire
so, sailors, listen well
Brimlicker taps Shroudweaver’s shoulder, flicks a thumb at her chest and grins. He smiles wanly, trying to pick up the tune. It’s changed since last he heard it.
A gaggle of chattering girls barrels past, and he loses some of it. Another snatch drifts down after, and he starts to sing along, softly:
oh the night the bones came tumbling down
Old Luss was shining bright
the eyes of all her ladies were like cats caught by the light
the eyes of all her soldiers were a-gleam with blood and hate
and the banner of the Empire flew above its broken gate
The melody’s a little sprightlier than he remembers. Brimlicker joins him, her voice a slightly off-key counterpoint:
the night the bones came tumbling down
we danced into the dark
for weaver’s thread
and shipwright’s hand
had struck the fateful spark
Across the table, Fallon elbows Shipwright. His baritone joins in, a beat late. She winces, buries her head in her hands.
The band picks up momentum and Shroudweaver feels his heart lurch. He hadn’t noticed his hands shaking. And the heat in here. Prickling his skin like a cat’s tongue.
There’s another verse, and a chorus, but it’s all filtered through a pulse in his skull like a deep ocean wave:
’gainst Empire’s tooth and Empire’s bone
we stood in fear and fright
’til shipwright and shroudweaver
drove the dead into the night
and the children of the mountain
sang their name in bloody joy