He remembered the feel of them against his fingers, rough and sharp and smooth over and over. Crumbs from the dead, his grandfather had called them, as he rubbed the scarred space between his second and fourth fingers. After that, over spiced rum, he’d talk a little of cities that were familiar, but strangered by time.
Errant, Serpent, Hesper, Thell. The last survivors among the great cities. Names that sat heavy on the tongue, heavy on the heart. His hand shaking as he wrapped thick fingers around a clay mug, waved it slowly, conducting a symphony of the friends he’d lost.
In all of them shadows thronged the rise of the bladedrinkers, the seven-day war, the battle of the stolen heart, tales that sounded, from a distance, beautiful, desirable. And woven into them echoes of places less familiar, promises of stories beyond stories.
Rom, Luss, Chek. Ruins even in their own tales, unformed ghosts. Warnings. Dreams. Relics of the war against the Empire,that great coming together of the cities of the western coast to tear down the tyrant that used to exist within this very mountain. The way his grandfather had told it, it had been a desperate war, against an enemy that seemed never to sleep, or tire. That could move troops from mountain shadow to shore in the breadth of a night.
Barely a thing that could be won, he’d said. But, sometimes, there were fights you fought because not fighting was worse. The sour scour of his stubble curling around the scars on his face as he smiled.
Because they had won, because the Lord of the Grey Towers and his Lady had taken the field. And they had brought allies.
His grandfather would talk about the Fallons like he talked about storms. Something unstoppable. Sometimes he even talked about the people who became the Shipwright and the Shroudweaver, and he scratched his ruined hand, even as a half-smile balanced on his jaw.
And sometimes, beyond those, his grandfather would talk of the south. Of the fleet, and the opening sky. Of sending his son away on the promise of another righteous war. Of cursing his own injuries that wouldn’t let him join the golden fleet.
Of seeing his heroes at the prow of a wondrous ship.
Of days on the dockside, watching the salt sea.
Of watching the light that blossomed in the south. Of smelling the sky burn and watching it blacken with the burnt bodies of crows.
Of seeing the Shipwright, the Shroudweaver, Fallon limp home alone.
Of course, after Crowkisser took his only child, he talked of nothing, until weeks of quiet ended in a long drop and a sharp stop.
It takes Roofkeeper a second to feel Quick’s fingers on his arm. ‘We’re here.’ A buzz of tension in his voice.
Roofkeeper meets his gaze, smiles. ‘Yeah, sorry.’
Icecaller shoots him a glance, her hard eyes lingering on his for a long time. ‘Daydreaming of building, were you?’
She turns before he can answer, flicking her fingers dismissively over her shoulder.
Roofkeeper puts a hand on Quickfish’s shoulder, steers him forwards. ‘Keep your head, OK? I’ve got you.’
Quickfish nods, but Roof can see the breath flickering in his chest.
The room they enter is narrow, but impossibly tall. Seats and benches carved into its dark rock, winding one above the other, losing themselves in the shadows at some point before the light filters down from a ragged hole far above.
An old volcanic vent perhaps, Roofkeeper thinks, but sculpted and worked beyond anything he’s ever seen.
On its lowest ranks are a scattering of wary looking men and women.
In the centre, a beast of a man, stoop-shouldered, his eyes flat-lidded under heavy brows, hands clasped in front of him.
He watches the three of them enter with studied care.
Icecaller keeps her voice low. ‘That’s father dearest. The Kinghammer. We’ve had a chat.’
‘A chat?’ Quickfish hisses.
She fixes him with a flat look. ‘Yes, as we discussed, over tea. Like civilised people.’ The words sliding out between gritted teeth. ‘Pay attention. You need to know who you’re dealing with.’
Next to Kinghammer, a lean woman, her skin like burnished wood, one hand toying fitfully with a web of beads which clack softly as she rolls them over her knuckles.
Icecaller’s chapped lips brush Quickfish’s ear. ‘Belltoller.’
Belltoller seems anxious. Her dark eyes track Quickfish as he walks closer, like an oarsman watching a shark cut through water. He wants to say something, speak up. A little spark of his mother’s fire lighting in his soul. He feels Roof’s hand tighten on his shoulder and thinks better of it. Icecaller flicks a glance at him, mouthing one word. ‘Good.’
