Icecaller picks her teeth with an old tattoo needle. ‘Rules of what, vagueboy?’
Roofkeeper purses his lips. ‘Magic, I think. Religion, definitely. That’s when the gods went. And our names.’
Icecaller examines the end of the needle. ‘Wow. That’s a lot.’
Quickfish nods. ‘Yeah. From what I can figure allthis…’ – with a despairing sweep of an arm – ‘all this is fallout from that. Where Crowkisser comes in, I don’t know.’
Icecaller smiles, picks at the muck between the crazed tiles of the alcove. ‘I can hazard a guess. I gotta theory. Want to hear it?’
Quickfish waits.
‘OK then, so think on this. Your dad, and Shipwright, and the other one. The skinny bloke.’
‘Shroudweaver,’ Roofkeeper supplies.
She waves dismissively. ‘Yeah, that guy. So the three of them get this big old fleet. We’ve all heard the stories. Golden sails, amber winds. The burnished armour of the brave people of Hesper. The first show of any fucking unity since any dusty old cock can remember.’ She frowns, ‘Or since they helped us out, at least.’
She pauses, grabs a passing wrist, kisses it, slaps the ass of the man who owns it. ‘All of them, all of them sail down to this mysterious southern place. That big old city that must have existed, and none of us can bloody remember. And we don’t know what they do down there. But …’ and here she raises a finger. ‘But who comes back? Three people, and one ship. And a story about a ragged girl that does supremely unsettling shit with birds. The rest of us kicking our heels up here, we don’t know anything. Except, if you read the records, what does it say?’ She grins toothily at Roofkeeper. ‘Go on, you say it. I’d like to hear it come out your sweet wee lumberjack face.’
Roofkeeper winces. ‘The books say …’
Icecaller widens her eyes and paints her face with excitement.
Roofkeeper sighs.
‘The books say, that on the last day, before the Shipwright and the Shroudweaver came to the city in the south, that the sky grew sick, that the clouds fled like sheep before a wolf, the sun and the moon split and ran and that the roof of the world peeled open.’
Icecaller claps excitedly. ‘Go on, this is my favourite bit.’
Roofkeeper scratches at his beard. ‘The way we tell it, it wasn’tan accident. The way we tell it, the daughter of crows peeled the roof of the world open, so that the eye of the heavens was turned full on us and the stars fell into the south. And ever since, the rules have changed. But no one knows how. Not exactly. Depends who you talk to. Some things are harder, but I’ve heard that you can do stuff now that wasn’t even possible before.’ He coughs, ‘People agree on some of it. There’s no gods. There’s no hosts. There’s no names.’
Icecaller grins delightedly. ‘Except your fuckbuddy’s dad. Always a wrinkle. Still, you’re well-informed for a … whatever you are.’ She looks at Roofkeeper quizzically.
‘Carpenter,’ he mutters.
‘Carpenterrrr,’ she draws the word out, lets it hang thickly on her lips. ‘The wayward spunkpocket of a famous war hero. And a carpenter.’ She snorts. ‘This is getting interesting.’
Quickfish smiles. ‘What’s your theory then? Before the compliments overwhelm me.’
Icecaller doesn’t bat an eye. ‘Yeah,so, all this goes down in the south. And we know it’s true right because it’s in books and when have they ever lied to us?’ She rolls her eyes. ‘OK, so the fleet sails down. With your dad, Shipwright, Shroudweaver. Then, somehow, the sky falls. Seems safe to assume everyone in the south dies. But,’ she grins. ‘Where the fuck does she come from? Crowkisser. Where. The. Fuck. Does. She. Come. From?’
Quickfish and Roofkeeper glance at each other, puzzled.
Icecaller’s face splits wide with satisfaction. ‘It’s simple, pups. Armies don’t fuck shit up that badly. Allies don’t fuck shit up that badly. Friends don’t fuck shit up that badly.’ She holds up her fingers and ticks them off. ‘There’s only two things in the world that can fuck shit up that badly. Families.’ She fixes them with a hard stare. ‘Families. And lovers.’
It hangs in the air between them for a moment, before she pats them both on the cheek. ‘Speaking of which, let’s go and meet mine.’
34
No sweet bread baked from sour grain.
—A Litelle Marchaunts’ Almanac, excerpt
On reflection, Roofkeeper thought, the Stump wasn’t really that strange. Or rather it was, but only because it was so new. He’d expected the north toconform, to fit the stories he’d heard as a child. A fierce people. Hardy. Stoic. Resilient. Building their chill Republic in the heart of the mountains.
The north had not conformed. If there was a sound that defined Thell, it was laughter. Echoing down the halls, triumphantly, cruelly, affectionately. The people of Thell laughed as they talked, as they ate, as they fought and fucked. It was growing on him.
Laughter, and after that, the sound of the bells. Those distant off-key tones he’d been hearing ever since they arrived. Resonating aquatically through the scoured corridors of the Stump. He’d found it unsettling at first, but now they faded into the background wash of the city – mostly. Sometimes, the tones would shudder disharmoniously, and he’d feel the hair on his neck rise.
