On Belltoller’s left, two other women. Old, sharp-boned, their grey hair pulled back from the broad planes of their faces by bright ribbons, their right hands thick with stark, black geometrics.They watch Quickfish enter with sharp eyes, passing whispers between each other like gifts.
Icecaller’s hand grips his arm, her fingers tight and hard. ‘The Deadsingers.’
Quickfish nods, watching the Singers’ hands dance. Little flurries of bird-like movement. He’s old enough to know he’s being weighed, parcelled, assessed. He pulls his eyes back to the council, to the others, blood rushing in his temples. A red push like the sea.
To the right of Icecaller’s father, a man sits slumped. At least, Quickfish assumes they’re a man. They are swathed in so many layers of coloured fabric that there is only the briefest suggestion of a body beneath.
Ragged yellow and red strands flutter as they move, bringing two broad hands forwards to rest on their knees. Quickfish has seen the pose before, many times, in the stables with Roofkeeper. Watching the old hands scan horseflesh as it shivered in front of them.
In the hollow of their hooded face, a pair of eyes catch the light briefly.
Icecaller’s fingers dig deep, the message obvious. ‘There they are. Skinpainter. Knew your mother. Owes your mother.’
Quickfish glances at her, and she flicks her fingers expectantly at the row of waiting bodies. ‘Time to shine, pup.’ Then softer. ‘Got your back.’
Nice words. It doesn’t feel like it. The dark walls of the council chamber stretch up and out, thronged with the shadows of strangers. People who don’t know him at all. Or worse, people who think they do, and fear him for it.
It’s just him though. And he’s a Fallon, whatever that means.
He takes a small, shuddering breath. It means he can see the stark line of his mother’s bones whenever he closes his eyes. It’s just him. And this is her only chance.
When he speaks, his voice feels thin and naked in the stomach of the mountain. ‘Greetings, my lords, ladies.’
Stupid. Empty. He can do better. He has to do better.
They watch impassively. Icecaller leaves his side on soft feet and slides behind her father’s brooding shoulders, words skirting the edge of his ears. Doing what she can. He’s pathetically grateful. He has to try.
Quickfish clears his throat. ‘I’m …’
‘Fallon’s kid.’ When Icecaller’s father speaks, he seems an easy part of the mountain. Dusty, deep, forceful. His smile when it comes, is like his daughter’s, bright with a cutting edge. ‘We know who you are, Quickfish. Everything filters down into the depths of the mountain. And we remember your father. Your mother.’ He sits on that for a second. Glances to his right, at the Belltoller.
She stiffens. Barely. Enough that Quickfish can read it. He’s seen it in the horses, back in Hesper. Roof taught him to look for it. That tension that runs through the bones when stray dogs are sniffing round the stables. That widening of the eyes that speaks to the promise of teeth. Or fire.
Quickfish watches her face. She’s looking at him. She’s deliberatelynotlooking at Kinghammer.
Quickfish wants to say something kind, but he has no idea what that would mean to her. So he waits.
Not for long. Something shifts in her body. Just the faintest twitch in the fold of her dress, until her face focuses on him fully, her dark eyes running the length of him. He can feel the pressure of her gaze. Deep, black water. He tries to hold his nerve. Tries to keep breathing.
Eventually, Belltoller tips her head at him. The gesture feels grudging, somehow, but her voice is strong and clear, ‘We remember your father. Yourmother. We remember what they did. And there are many debts owed to them. The question is: why areyouhere?’
More interest than he’d expected. More of a hearing, at that. Maybe there is a chance. He has to be careful, has to think back to all those days spent with half an ear on the diplomacy of the sea rolling behind the tapestries while he fumbled with Roof and kissed the salt of his neck. There’s a language for this; he can use it.
Quickfish nods respectfully. ‘A fair question. I need help for my mother. There’s no other help to be found. She was taken a while ago. By Crowkisser.’
Belltoller nods. ‘I know the witch.’
Skinpainter laughs. ‘We all do.’
Icecaller squeezes in next to her dad as they talk. The Deadsingers shuffle ruefully aside as she wriggles her hips. She shoots Quickfish a stealthy thumbs up. Mouths, ‘Keep going.’
Quickfish coughs. ‘Thing is. Crowkisser’s magic. It takes names. And when it can’t take the name, well, things go wrong.’
He clears his throat. He can feel the panic rising. ‘My da stopped her. But …’
His shoulders drop. ‘But she’s gone, beyond the physickers and the saltwitches, and anyone else my da could find.’
He looks at Belltoller’s long face, at Skinpainter’s golden eyes. ‘But maybe not beyond you.’
