Kinghammer slams his hand down. The mirror rattles.
‘Enough. By the binding and the blood,enough. We are not so faint and cowardly as to shy from helping one boy and his mother. His mother, who fought for us. Who lifted the blades when no one else would.’
‘The past will not save you for honouring your debts, Hammer.’ Belltoller’s face is forlorn. ‘The present is here, and the future will eat us alive if we do not take care.’
She steps forwards again, puts a hand on his shoulder. ‘I say this because I am your friend, and I have been your friend longer than anyone in this cold rock. Do not welcome them in.’
Kinghammer looks at her hand. The neatly manicured nails. The deep seams of work.
‘We can argue like this in private, Bell, but we can’t do this in open Council.’ He takes her hand and removes it, gently. ‘That goes for you two as well. If you’re worried about cracks, then the four of us butting heads in front of every pot-boy and rat-wrangler is going to send a clearer message than anything we do with Quickfish.’
He looks Belltoller dead in the eye. Her breath runs fast beneath the robes, her heart hammering. There’s a tightness in his own chest. ‘I need you on my side, Bell. The Singers too. We need to help this kid. It’s a little thing. An easy kindness.’
Belltoller steps back. ‘There are no easy kindnesses, Kinghammer. Any ease we ever had drowned in the depths of this mountain. We do not get it back. We cannot earn it back. You’ll see. I can feel it. Like a black dog on my neck. This will doom us.’
He nods, resigned. ‘So it’s a no?’
‘It’s a no, Hammer. It has to be.’
Kinghammer sighs. ‘And from you too?’
The Singers look at each other, then nod. ‘No doors for the bloodwind, my lord. No bones for dog teeth.’
He looks at the three of them. ‘Clear as I’ll get, I suppose. Get out.’ It’s quiet, but he means it. Belltoller still stands uncertainly, and the last shred of his patience frays. ‘Get out. Give me some air. I need to think.’
The trio leave as softly as they came.
In his bedchamber, the Kinghammer sinks onto the edge of the bed, and tilts his gaze to the blue ice high above, to a glimmer of something there.
Maybe light. Maybe fire. Maybe the hunger of the glaciers creeping downwards once again.
32
Better loose hands than an ill-tethering.
—Burner saying, last heard at the signing of the Black Accord
Belltoller leaves with a hammering in her heart. Unconsciously, she stretches her hands out to either side. The Deadsingers take one each, leaning their heads consolingly against her arms. They smell as they always do, of fur and smoke, cider and blood.
The trio take a path back towards the heart of the Stump. A little food might help. Stone knows she doesn’t want to split the Council over one wayward lad, but this risk? It’s too much. The Singers are some comfort, though rarely do they speak up. Theirs is a life of ritual and reassurance, they don’t take to disruption easily.
A little food, she thinks, and a stiff drink. Perhaps there is a way through this.
She almost doesn’t notice her new company as they emerge from the shadows. One of the mountain’s innumerable alcoves disgorges ragged robes fluttering red, yellow and red again. Skinpainter’s amber eyes catch hers and the Deadsingers flinch, shrinking into her shadow. Belltoller stands tall, but she can still feel the pulse crawling in her throat.
‘Painter.’
‘Ladies. What a pleasant coincidence.’
Skinpainter’s smile is light as a knife in the darkness of their hood. ‘Been breakfasting with the Kinghammer?’
‘He hasn’t eaten yet,’ Belltoller replies. Like that’s relevant. She’s off-balance.
‘Really? Rather you than me then. The old bear gets twitchywhen his blood runs cold.’ They match her stride as they continue through the Stump. A group of young soldiers hurries past, late for training. They smile at Skinpainter, flicking their tattoos in quick salute. Belltoller notices the eddy they leave around the Singers and her own tired feet.
‘All well though, I trust?’ Skinpainter’s voice is warm, friendly, like a banked fire. ‘Strange times, with new visitors. Little stray dogs that Icecaller’s brought in.’
‘Strange times indeed,’ she concurs.
