The gaze of the gods wasn’t welcome in Hesper anymore. Not since the south, since Fallon’s wife had fallen.
Rope had adored Arissa Fallon once. He’d seen her at the parades, always on the biggest horse, bucking beneath banners that snapped like a ship at sail, tossing sweets and favours to the crowd, and always to the little sprats like Rope who crowded the edges of the processional. There had been nights where those little favours had made the difference between sleeping hungry and sleeping full, and he had been grateful. He had sketched her face and her horse in his books, when he was supposed to be outlining rigging and knots.
Now, Crowkisser had put paid to Arissa, and Ropecharmer was done begging for scraps.
He walks onwards, to the streets where laundry spans the skyline, where little ladders and passthroughs were dropped between windows. Everyone knows each other here. Everyone knows if you don’t belong. Rope belongs.
He collects smiles and nods as he goes. For wasn’t he a good lad? And hadn’t he dealt with a lot, with his parents and all? And hadn’t he done well to sign on with the Shipwright? Running the rigging on a great ship, not the sorry scows and scuttlers that clogged the canals round here.
The door he wants is at the end of the alley, nestled under a little turret that used to be part of the old draper’s shop here. Coglifter had cannibalised the house much as she cannibalised any old bits and bobs, keeping what was useful, and grafting on where it was needed. The latest addition was a little belvedere squatting on the roof, windows enough for delicate work, and air to let the fumes out, he suspects.
The door itself is unassuming, a little split-hinge thing, some of that red eastern wood that shines almost brassy. She takes good care of it, keeps a little hatch in it, so she can scry whoever comes knocking, and a little bell above it to announce their presence.
There’s more to it than that, but nothing Rope needs to fuss about. He’s welcome. He’s expected.
He doesn’t even need to knock today. The door opens as he approaches. Another guest is leaving. He sees a familiar face in a heavy cowl, arms tight around one of Cog’s deliveries. Rope gets a nod, a little muttered assurance, which he returns in kind.
Cog’s stood behind him in the doorway, sleeves rolled up and apron on. The cloth one, which means she’s cooking, which is the best news Rope’s had all day. His stomach says hello before she does and she grins.
‘You hungry sprat? Never enough meat on those bones.’
She stretches out an arm to welcome him in, a length of lean muscle sprinkled with wiry grey hair, and the ghost of old burns. It’s as scarred as the buildings round here. She lays it heavy over his shoulders, her strong fingers pulling him into the hall and towards the kitchen where already the smell of toasting spice calls to him.
She busses his cheek lightly. ‘Course you’re hungry.’
Cog never takes no for an answer, so he doesn’t argue. She smells as she always does, of her powders and acids, of onion and butter.
The kitchen is small and the table smaller. He takes his usual seat, folding himself on a stool half his size. Coglifter shifts to the stove and agitates a skillet which hisses with salt and sugar, coaxing those onions down into something sweeter.
She sucks her thumb and shoots him a look.
‘Saints, does the wind whip it off you when you’re shimmying up the rigging? Thinner than I’ve ever seen you.’
She cracks the oven, and little waves of heat lap at his ankles.
‘Here. Start with this. No time to lose.’
A little loaf of bread, light and crisp. Cog’s hands are delicate, when they need to be.
She slaps it in front of him with little ceremony. Pointedly nudges a crock of butter over too. ‘Dig in, you limpet.’
Rope does, and forgets how to speak, his mouth flooded with warmth and salt.
She tuts as he eats. ‘Skin and bone lad, and the skin’s giving up the ghost.’
She turns back to the range, and a board laid with legs of poultry. She splits the skin and shanks the bones with quick, economical movements. The flesh is impaled on a skewer and set over a low flame. The bones are put to broth, with some onion and dark roots.
She cracks a bottle open on the edge of the counter and eyes him thoughtfully as she slowly turns the skewers, fat hissing into fire.
‘How are you finding it Rope? Walking that line?’
He shrugs, sucks butter off a thumb. ‘Can’t say as I love it, but I know it’s necessary.’
Cog nods, scrapes at her chin. ‘Practical boy. Keep that head and we’ll come out of this just fine.’
She crosses to the table and sets a second bottle down for him. ‘Drink. These brewed up well.’
He does. She’s not wrong. A thick slick of sour, syrupy ale, tinged with sweetness and fizz. Something sparky on the edge of it. ‘New botanicals?’ he says.
