When Skinpainter stands, it is slowly, awkwardly. They walk towards Quickfish on lurching legs, rags and ribbons trailing in their wake. Their voice is low, warm. Muted. It runs between their lips and Quickfish’s ears like a little fox. Quickfish can see the others straining to hear as Skinpainter speaks.
‘Quickfish. Look at you. I can see the pair of them in you.Your fatherandyour mother.’ They laugh. ‘Family is the strangest thing. You stand just like her when you are waiting for an answer. She stood like that in front of me, not so many years ago.’
They pause. ‘It’s good to see her again. To meet you. I am so curious as to what tides have brought you here and brought younow.’
Their voice drops lower still. ‘But then, you have heard about me, of course. That’s why you’re looking at me like a flame that learnt to talk.’
They bow. ‘Here I am. The dread warlock of the bitter mountain. Blood mage. Ink-twister. Painter of the high ice. Did your mother tell you about me?’
Quickfish looks into the depths of the hood and sees the faintest wriggle of a smile. ‘A little,’ he says carefully.
Skinpainter nods, reaches out a hand to Quickfish. It feels light on his shoulder.
‘I understand,’ they whisper. ‘It’s no easy thing to ask for help. It took me longer than it should have. To find your mother, the Shipwright, the Shroudweaver. I think you are driven by the same fear that drove me. To be out of options. To see death on the one hand, and desperation on the other.’
Quickfish wants to stay strong. The eyes of a whole city are on him. Hard men and women. Survivors of an awful war.
But the tremor won’t leave his voice. He keeps it low, at least. ‘She’s my mother, Skinpainter. She hasn’t woken up since. Not for anything. This is my last chance.Youare my last chance.’
Skinpainter’s reply is soft, reassuring. The frayed edges of their hood brushing against his face. ‘I’m that for a lot of people, lad. I’ve become used to it. And I can’t lie, I’m very good with things that exist on the boundary, between here and there. If your mother hasn’t crossed over we might yet save her.’
A shudder of relief runs through Quickfish. He frames a reply as Skinpainter catches his wrist, and pulls him in tighter. ‘We might not, boy. You have to be prepared for that.’
They glance back at Kinghammer, Icecaller. The lean scratch of Belltoller watching them like a hawk on a post. ‘There will bea cost, for this. For Thell, for us. You will drag us back into the burnt world whether we succeed or not.’
Their breath is hot against Quickfish’s cheek. Roofkeeper leans back to give them space. ‘You carry Crowkisser on your shoulders. She has followed your family ever since they dared to sail against her. She won’t rest until that’s never going to happen again.’
Quickfish nods, surprised at how little the thought scares him, compared to the alternative. ‘She’s my mum, Skinpainter. Whatever it takes. Whatever I owe you. Or them.’ He tilts his chin at the ranks of the council chamber who are beginning to shift restlessly as the hushed conversation rolls on.
Skinpainter smiles again, that sharp flash of white in the dark. ‘The cost has already been paid by your mother, Quickfish. I remember what she did for us, at Luss, and after. The others’ – they tut – ‘needed a little reminding of cost and consequence, but I took the liberty of doing that ahead of your visit.’
They pat Quickfish’s shoulders. ‘Crowkisser has turned her eye on the mountain in recent weeks. I’ve felt her crawling all over me.’
They glance at Roofkeeper, back to Quick. ‘Have you ever had to convince a child to take their medicine? Often times, it’s best to make it seem like it was their idea.’ Quickfish smiles quizzically. ‘Other times of course,’ Skinpainter says, ‘You must hold their nose and force it down their throat. The Council is about to agree to your demands. Don’t let that show on your face just yet.’
They press closer still. Quickfish is reminded of his father, for a moment. Beneath the robes, Skinpainter’s frame is angular, strong.
‘That’ – they gesture at the council – ‘is politics. This’ – they place their fingers on his chest – ‘is family.’ Skinpainter holds their hand steady for a moment. Quickfish can feel the drum of his heart. An answering thrum in Skinpainter’s fingers.
‘No one has ever returned from being stripped of a name. No one has ever been audacious enough to try.’ They drum their fingers against his ribs. ‘Imagine, if we succeed. Crowkisser will curse us until the end of time.’
The laughter in their voice is barely concealed. ‘Wouldn’t that be fun?’ They pause for a moment, their lungs rasping. ‘I need you to know though. We may well fail. We will likely fail. So tell me, Quickfish. If you can’t have recovery, will you take revenge?’
Quickfish glances across to Roofkeeper, who shrugs sympathetically. ‘I don’t want Crowkisser to hurt anyone else.’
The grip around his wrist releases. ‘Neither do I, young man. And your current audience will be much more likely to bite if we slake their lips with the taste of blood.’
Skinpainter turns back to the lords and ladies of Thell, spreads their ragged arms wide.
Their voice swells upwards, rich and round into the depths of the mountain, ‘Brothers and sisters. We always knew this day would come. We have known since the south burnt that those responsible would turn their eyes north, eventually. So I ask you now, will we abandon our oldest allies? Will we abandon the son of the man who helped birth our Republic? Who helped us cast down the Emperor?’
They turn, point at Quickfish. ‘This boy has travelled many miles to seek our aid. From Hesper, the city that sailed when no other would. All he asks is that we bring his mother back from the darkness into which the crow-witch has cast her. That we return what she has stolen. That we honour the blood that she spilt in our name. For our city. For our freedom.’
There’s a pause. A murmur from the walls where the members of the Republic council bow their heads like ghosts in a rookery.
Icecaller is watching the performance like an old, familiar play. Next to her Kinghammer seems nervous. It’s an odd look on his face. He keeps glancing at Quickfish like he’s about to speak, then choking it down.
On his right, Belltoller’s face is impassive, but her knuckles are white around the handle of an iron bell she has slipped from her robes. A little further down, the Deadsingers have entwined hands, their nails sinking into the soft flesh of each other’s wrists.
