‘Hello, Declan,’ she says.
He smiles and waves a bottle at her. ‘Thought I’d keep you company. Apologise a bit, for earlier.’ He glances at Shroudweaver. ‘How’s he doing?’
Shipwright pops the cork, swigs, purses her lips. ‘Better now. He’s been pushing himself too hard. Holding too much.’
Declan settles down on the bed which creaks in protest. ‘He always did.’
She sees him try to form Shroudweaver’s old name on his lips, watches his tongue slip and choke on it.
He ducks his head back apologetically. ‘Sorry, Ship.’
She passes him the bottle. ‘No need for apologies. We’re all in the same weird boat.’
He laughs at that, drinks deep. ‘Fair enough. Old habits, Ship.’
The bottle changes hands.
‘So,’ she says over the rim. ‘How is she, really?’
Declan frowns, his thick thumbs plucking at his jawline. ‘It feels longer, doesn’t it? Longer than three years.’
He rolls his massive shoulders. ‘Do you know what normally happens in three years? Next to nothing. The guilds raise their dues. A few people turn up dead. Some deals fall through; some don’t. We build a little, we tear down a little. We hold our own.’
He pushes his thumbs into the corner of his eyes wearily. ‘Last three years, the world’s ended. And, do you know what the stupidest thing is?’
Shipwright holds out her cup, and he pours.
‘Everyone still wants paid. The bills still come due. Everyone still gets pissed off about their own little things. And up there, she’s sleeping. Through all of it.’
The bottle lingers on the rim of her cup. Clinks a little as his hand shakes.
‘So the world carries on, it’s just my world that’s ended.’ His hand lingers on the sheets for a moment. Thick chipped nails, grimed down to the beds.
‘I visit her as much as I can. Read. The boy used to sing to her.’
Shipwright nods at that. ‘Good. Keep her anchored. Where is Quickfish? You said he disappeared?’
Declan kneads the sheets. ‘Aye, gone. Left a couple of months ago without a word. Took a horse and his boyfriend and left.’
He sinks his great head into the cup of his hands. ‘What did I do to raise a kid like that, huh? Junking his own goddamn name. Leaving his own damn mother.’
Shipwright steadies herself on her hands, yawns. ‘Really? Put yourself in his shoes. Your mother’s comatose, because she kept her damn name. Because she pissed off a crow-eating warlord. Your father’s a temperamental prick. The gods you loved are dead. Hell, Declan, I’d leave you too, and you’re like a brother to me.’
He winces at that, and she wonders if she’s pushed too hard. She strikes flint into the bowl of her pipe, takes a draw to give him time to recover. When he meets her eyes, there’s a bit of that grey stone she’d missed. ‘You always did keep me straight Ship. I just worry about the kid.’
She cups his cheek. ‘Look at it this way, if he headed north, then he’s headed away from Kisser and Walker and all that brood. Best place for him. Plenty little Midlands villages from him to get a little peace out from under your thumb.’ She grins. ‘We can pick him up once we’ve kicked her scrawny ass out of Astic.’
Fallon laughs at that full-throated, but it trails off with speed.
Shipwright wriggles until she’s got him fixed properly in her stare. For a second, she lets the words hang and he watches her warily, with the bottle between them.
‘Don’t get coy on me Ship. Out with it.’
She licks her lips and asks the question that’s been on her mind since that long night of blood and bone, when their names burnt away on the wind. ‘Why did you keep your name, Fallon?’
His smile is crooked, wistful. ‘What else was I going to do Ship? It’s who I am.’
She rests her head on his shoulder, lights her pipe.
