She cocks her head, pouts. ‘It’s cooler than it sounds. Just you wait.’
Roofkeeper finally finds his voice. ‘Don’t they need you on the perimeter? We probably shouldn’t take you away from your post.’
She raises an eyebrow at that. ‘My post? Oh, southerners. I’m on the Council for the next three years. As long as I don’t stabanyone or fuck anyone over, I can pretty much work where I please.’
More blank faces. Icecaller throws her hands up in exasperation, her spear whistling unnervingly through the air.
‘God, what do they teach you down there? We’re a me-rit-o-cracy, pups. Ever since the birth of the Republic. If you can pull your weight, and everyone knows it, you get into power. Just you, not your spawn. Minimises a prevalence of cunts in charge.’
She smiles.
‘Not like you savages with your manycockracy. Inheritances, titles, power based on who you’ve come inside? Uh. No thanks.’
She shrugs, and her spear waggles. ‘No offense, pup. I’m sure you’re a perfectly adequate little spunkpocket.’
The next hour passes in much the same fashion, Quickfish and Roofkeeper speaking in a code of shared glances and rueful looks, Icecaller throwing sentences which explode in a series of barbs that seem half-affectionate, half-serious.
As they enter the shadow of the Stump, their guide holds up a hand. ‘Wait, wait. Hold up. Come see this.’
Icecaller ducks into a jagged crack at the mountain’s base. They leave its dark body stretching far overhead, slipping down a flaw in the rock lit with softly glowing panels, that pick out the jut of the stone. As they walk, Quickfish begins to hear noises – sharp cracks, yelps of pain, shouting. He throws another worried glance to Roofkeeper and receives another shrug in response.
In short order, the twisting path opens up into a low curved cavern, shot with light which filters down from high above. The mountain must be huge. Quickfish can distantly make out galleries filled with laughter and movement, spanning heights that make him dizzy. Most of the space below is taken up with a tiled circle marked precisely with blood-red geometrics. A few of Thell’s great and good stand around the edges, watching the events inside with quiet interest, save for the occasional whoop of victory or shouted encouragement.
Inside the circle, two small bodies move and spar with sharp, fierce precision. A boy and girl, maybe six or seven, their headsand cheeks tattooed, brightly coloured hair clinging to their half-shorn scalps like the flags clung to the cairns. Their dark skin catches the light as they duck and turn.
As Quickfish watches, the boy dashes in, arms swinging wildly, small teeth split on the edge of a smaller battle cry.
The girl meets him with a wide stance, her palms open wide.
As he swings, she ducks, her right palm hitting him squarely between the legs, the left catching his jaw, sending him up and over her dropped shoulder. The boy hits the ground with a wet slap and a ragged burst of air. Quickfish winces.
Next to him, Icecaller whoops and punches the air.
‘Yes! Get him, Nigh! Rip his nuts off!’ She smiles broadly at Quickfish. ‘That’s my little sister. She’s a nutter.’
In the circle, Nigh stops, looks down at the writhing boy.
The circle goes very quiet.
Her foot swings forwards with violent speed, and stops just short of the boy’s recoiling chin, one scuffed toenail tapping lightly on his lip. A sniggering, snorting belly laugh falls out of Nigh, even as she helps the boy to his feet. She shoots a glance at her sister, and sticks out a small pink tongue.
Quickfish looks at his guide. ‘What the fuck was that?’
Icecaller shrugs. ‘What was what? We’re at war, Pocket. You use what you’ve got.’
27
the naked work of the heart
follows raw rhythm
and we follow the rhythm
to better run the working heart
—Aestering Knotsong, No. 17
Shipwright looks down at the body on the bed, bandages wet with blood. Beside her, Shroudweaver slips his fingers into her broad palm. She squeezes tight, but doesn’t look at him.
