They file in soon after. Two of them, hooded, and masked. Like he doesn’t know every line of them; he could tell them in the dark just by their stink; good targets for a little hard trading.
Hammershy squats on the far chair like a rookery gargoyle, thighs wide and hands clasped, the reek of the forges rolling off him, burnt hair and salver’s grease. His eyes beneath the hood are wide, lucid. A dangerous man, all peace and steadiness until the time comes to break bones and collect dues. The face beneath the mask is a blunt thing, unworked ore thick with stubble.
He catches Fallon’s eye and grunts, lifts a finger. Somebody is feeling gracious today. A couple of seats down, Rookspit slidesinto a barely touched chair, thin bones hovering over the leather, like a little comfort might be caustic.
They have barely bothered with hood or mask. The rind of their smile slips out from behind the cloth, and thin, soft hair spills like thistledown across the blistered bone of their cheeks. The pale prince of catchpoles and thimbleriggers dances their toes on the threadbare carpet as if at the end of a gallows’ rope.
‘Gentlemen,’ Fallon says, and there’s barely any venom in it. ‘I have an offer.’
Hammershy snorts again, ‘Of course, Fallon. We have eyes and ears.’
Declan smiles, and he can feel the muscles in his face start to thrum as he holds them carefully, politely still. ‘I’m hoping you have brains, too, Shy. This war is turning the screws on us. Kisser’s turning the screws on us. We need money, we need bodies, and we need them fast.’
Hammershy leans back, a gold chain glinting in the thick net of hair that curls disrespectfully through the front of his robe. ‘You need money, Fallon. Your pretty wife’s sleeping, and you can’t dip her pockets no more.’
Rookspit snickers at this, and it turns into a snorting, hacking cough that flecks the table. ‘Do you miss dipping her pockets, Fallon?’
Declan feels a fire light in him. Decades on this earth and he’s never got any better at being talked down to. He lets it burn to ashes in his gut, because this is politics. This is what Arissa taught him to do.
‘I’ll keep it quick. You are both in deep with me. Shy, after that nonsense your crew pulled after-hours in the Dogloop foundry, you’ll be lucky if you see another contract before the winter snow.’
Hammershy opens his mouth, and Declan barrels on. ‘Yes, yes, I know. Exuberant lads, boys will be boys, but it takesmonthsto chip slag off the bottom of the canals, and it’s my men doing it, and my waterways clogged with that idiot spill.’ He turns to Rookspit, who is watching him rather like a frog might watch a windmill, wide-eyed and gormless.
‘And as for you, there are currently two ships short crew because you traded them in for bounties. The diggers outside of Twelvebarrow keep talking about ghosts, but I bloody know it’s you from the description, and you owe me at least six port bells which have “accidentally” fallen from their belfries and split into unstamped currency in your shoddy little clipping dens.’
Rook twines a coil of hair around their finger, then pulls it loose with a hiss.
‘Sailors shouldn’t be misbehavin’ under the silver moon. And I am only a ghost when it is required of me. As for your bells,’ they shrug expressively. ‘I needed some quick cash, mighty Lord.’
Fallon paces. This was how they liked to play it. Hammershy the stolid obstacle, Rook all twists and lip. It was an act; two different coloured sheathes for two very sharp knives.
He glances at the window, thin light falling from the day. ‘I’ll keep this quick. I will scrub the debts you owe. Lock and stock, root and branch, and I will feign stupidity if I get any hard questions on that topic. Two nice clean slates.’
Hammershy has a poor poker face, on occasion. ‘And in exchange?’
‘In exchange I want your best. Men, and blades and enough coin to send them roving to the blasted arse of the world if required. Enough to split Crowkisser’s lip and buy us some time. Let’s say a two-month lease.’
The two guildmasters look at each other. A bluebottle plinks against the sun-warmed glass, before bumbling downwards to die.
Hammershy shifts, drums thick fingers together. ‘Well, that seems …’
Rookspit holds up a pale, loose hand. Amazingly, Hammershy stops and leans back, like his mother has just walked in to collect him from school.
Spit takes their time, lowers the hand, rolls their shoulders. Theatre, theatre, bloody theatre.
‘Got something you want to say, Spit?’ Fallon asks. A little push.
Rookspit’s eyebrows raise, pale as milk worms on the soft bone of their face. ‘Shall I, Hammer?’
Hammershy shrugs. ‘You are your own creature, Rook.’
Another laugh at that, limp and spidery. From the floor above, muffled voices. The thump of something heavy hitting the floor.
Hammershy glances up. ‘Pick it up Rook, we have other engagements.’
Fallon nods. ‘Like your colleague said, what’s on your mind Spit? It’s a good deal.’
Rookspit shrugs. Rookspit shuffles their feet. Rookspit leans forwards, runs an exploratory finger up a nostril.
