Shipwright’s face goes still. ‘I think … I think he and I may have some things to talk about.’
Heartshamer closes the ledger with a satisfied nod. ‘Always advisable to know as much as you can about the people responsible for your life, I find.’
He crosses to Shipwright, lays a soft hand on her shoulder. ‘Trust me. Blind faith only gets you so far.’
He turns to Fallon. ‘I’ll continue to provide you with reports, via our mutual friend.’
Heartshamer pivots back to Shipwright. ‘I hope this information helped, Shipwright. More than it hurt, at least. I have the greatest respect for you. For the brave. For the kind.’
She looks at him for a moment. Part of her wants to punch him, for waking that little sliver of doubt in her chest. Instead, she says. ‘It’s given me a lot to think about.’
A moment later Fallon takes her arm, and guides her towards the tent flap. He turns to Heartshamer as he goes. ‘I’ve always wondered, what’s with the wax?’
The one-eyed man laughs. ‘I like the patterns. Calms me down. Plus,’ he grins, ‘it makes me look spooky.’
The trio stand awkwardly for a moment, until Heartshamer sketches a quick bow, and retreats back into the tent.
As the fabric falls back into place, Fallon turns to Shipwright. ‘Are you ready to go?’
She takes a moment to reply. Thoughts racing in her head, breath hot in her lungs.
‘Just get me out of here. I need some light.’
45
When the forest burnt it was with a single shriek
acres of pale wood sending tongues of flame skyward
—On Swallowing Gold, Heartshamer
A few days later, Shipwright stands on deck, watching Hesper sprawl under the heat of a spring sun. The wind off the sea bites her cheeks, leaving salt on her lips. Ropecharmer is at her back, settling the crew. He passes a few words with the cook, an old woman who leaves him with an apple and a smile before he steps up beside Shipwright, his broad, fresh face well-tanned now. ‘Ready when you are, Captain.’
Shipwright glances down at him. ‘The crew behaved themselves?’
He shrugs expressively, waggles a hand. ‘As much as sailors ever do.’
She sighs, blowing her lips out mournfully. ‘I’ll take it. Get us ready to cast off. We’re leaving on the tide.’
Ropecharmer hesitates for just a moment.
A space grows between them, filled with the sound of gulls. ‘There’s others want to come with us. Afraid of Crowkisser, afraid of war. Chat is, Hesper’s next.’
Shipwright narrows her brows. ‘I know.’ Her eyes roam over the low docks; that last spasmic flurry of activity before the sun rose to a bright coin and work became something to curse in a shadowed backroom. Sailors, stevedores, whores, merchants, soldiers, beggars, and in the middle of them all, Fallon, like a lead weight on a sheet. The hustle of the docks ebbs around him like oily water, the citizens of Hesper leaving a space framed by respectful nods, shoulder dips, the occasional quiet greeting.
The Lord of the Grey Towers is putting on appearances this morning. He’s topless, the bruised slabs of his muscles stained with the smoke of forges, discoloured by tanners’ dye. His wounds are still easily visible, ragged, broad, but healing. Ostensibly, he’s leaning on a cane supplied to him by the physickers, in reality he’s propping himself up with something more military than medical – five feet of black ash, with a hammered steel head. Shipwright grins despite herself. The arsehole couldn’t even recuperate quietly. Her smile fades as she watches the people milling around him. Busy, noisy, arrogant, she loved Hesperians. But beyond that brassy hubbub, the great walls, and beyond the walls, Crowkisser. The latest reports from scouts put her a week out from the city, at most, moving at a leisurely pace, a grey-cloaked army at her back.
Or so they thought. It was hard to tell for certain. Some of the scouts could remember what they saw only in fragments. Others said Slickwalker moved with the host, in shreds and ebbs of shadow. Another man claimed there was no host, no men, but only a great cloud of wings and beaks.
They’d found him a day later at the base of the walls, twisted and broken.
Seeing her distraction, Ropecharmer makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and moves away, setting himself to meaningless tasks, pacing the boards over the hold. Shipwright glances after him briefly, but there’s nothing to say. Nothing to say and too much to do.
War here seemed to be about guesswork. Everything shifting more than the waves under the ship’s bow, and without a hint of their rhythm or sense. She was fairly sure of one thing. If Crowkisser came to Hesper, Hesper would fall. If Hesper fell, the people she saw in front of her would be given the same choice given to the people of Astic. Accept a world without gods, under Crowkisser’s dubious protection, or die, and see what, if anything, still lay beyond.
Very few had chosen to die. Not after Astic, after the gallowswatchers. After what happened to the temple’s priests and thesouthern weavers. Leaving aside hosts like Heartshamer, shattered at a distance and left to rot.
The solution, it seemed, was to draw her out, to make sure her attention was on anything but Hesper. And nothing seemed to catch Crowkisser’s attention like a ship on the sea. Shipwright took a small point of pride in that. Too many months of small, bitter defeats, stinging the back of that mad young girl’s mind like salt. If anything, the mess in Fallon’s apartments had shown just how much Crowkisser and Slickwalker wanted them dead. Still too many unanswered questions though. Would Crowkisser really kill her own father? There was no question she’d kill Shipwright. As she’d recently been reminded, Crowkisser’s mother had left a long shadow, and she stood right in it.
