The entire chamber holds its breath. Quickfish looks at Roofkeeper, who narrows his eyes. They know this energy. A bigroom of people, just waiting to be told which way to jump. The question is, who has their hand on the tiller? And what price has been paid to keep it there?
Quickfish watches Kinghammer, notices the brief tilt in Skinpainter’s hood. The fleeting question in their stance. His answering, minute, nod. That settles that, then.
Skinpainter’s voice rises again. ‘We can do better, friends. We who suffered for centuries under the tyranny of the undying Emperor. Will we allow a new tyrant to grow? Will we allow her to take our friends, our allies, our home?’
The chorus swells gradually at first, mutterings of assent that flit down from the high seats like bats. Lower, the Deadsingers stand. Their voices coil like drowsy snakes.
‘The painter is right. We stand on the edge of a great blackness. The dead are restless. The old songs have changed. The chorus turns on itself. We have seen the future, the future. Daughters of Thell leaving the mountain. Leaving the shadow of death. Embraced in light, and blood. We cannot step out of this tide.’ This last said with resignation. A fatalism that doesn’t match the prophetic tone. One of the old women catches Quickfish’s eye and shrugs sadly. He smiles reflexively, and her eyes flash.
She composes herself, and pulls her sister down to sit, before they, turn their heads to gaze expectantly at Belltoller.
There is no confusion in Belltoller’s face. No sympathy. When she rises, she unfolds like a tree bent by winter, tall and black and slender. She runs her hands through her long hair before she speaks.
‘I have seen nothing. I do not have my sisters’ gifts. But I know madness when I see it. I can smell it in the south, in the crow-girl. And I know how to cut it out.’
She sits without prompting. Her throat flexes like she’s swallowed a dagger.
Kinghammer shoots her a look as he levers himself up. His face doing the same complex dance that Declan’s used to as it read the room, and compensated on the fly. Turning first to the assembled crowd, stalking back and forth in front of them like a caged bear.Tasting the murmurs swilling around the chamber, the cries of assent growing louder and louder.
He raises his hand. They fall quiet. The echoes drop away.
Good theatre. The politics of control.
When he speaks, his voice is low as summer thunder. Rich and assured.
‘Brothers, sisters. When we took back our home, we carved it from the heart of tyranny. We reached into the ribs of that old Empire and we pulled out something fresh and strong and new. I promised myself then, even in the first days when everything was still blood and bone and chaos, I promised myself then that we would be beholden to no one. That our fresh start would genuinely be a birth, a new birth for our city, our people.’
His back moves with his gestures, bone swimming slowly under muscle.
When he turns to face Quickfish, there’s a half-smile hung on his face. ‘I also promised myself that we’d be good people. That we’d look after our friends. That we would pay our debts when they came due, whatever the cost. Perhaps I needed reminding of that.’
His feet loud on the echoing stone as he steps closer
‘Your father, your mother, Shipwright, Shroudweaver. They were the first ones, the only ones, to put their reputations, their cities, their bodies on the line for us. We wouldn’t be free without them. This mountain would still be quiet as the grave, and the Emperor would still be on his throne. If Crowkisser comes for them, she comes for us.’
And it all sounds true, sounds genuine. Yet Quickfish can see Skinpainter’s hands dance in the background, can see the minute shifts in body and bone, as the song they want to play is sung by Kinghammer.
The big man moves like he is in charge, but his path is already set. Even as he puts a hand on Quickfish’s shoulder. Even as he says, ‘I don’t know if we can help your mother, Quickfish. That’s Skinpainter’s world, and their sorcery has always been beyond me. But we’ve kept out of this for too long. We’re stronger now.I don’t know if your father was smart enough to let you run here, to seek an alliance without risking the journey himself. Or if you’re just a very brave, slightly stupid young man.’
He squeezes. ‘I do know that I remember your mother. She was a warrior. She deserves another fight. And if she brings us along with her?’ He rolls his shoulders. ‘So be it. A safer world with Crowkisser in the ground. An end to it.’
Quickfish says nothing, and round his head runs the idea that his father might have let him do this. Might have had it in his plans all along.
He doesn’t get the chance to reply.
Skinpainter shoulders between the muttering pair, raises their voice to the throng, ‘There you have it, brothers and sisters. Such a nice boy to bring war to our gates. But war we have. Do we have your assent?’
The roar is deafening. The rookery bursts to life as the council throws itself to its feet, stamping and applauding.
Quickfish can’t help but feel that he’s just watched something huge be cut loose.
As the cacophony grows, Skinpainter’s voice thunders out above it. Their arms outstretched like a prophet, the rags at their sides flaring red and yellow and red again.
‘Steel time, my good friends, steel and blood and the dead. Go kiss your lovers while you can. Tomorrow we plan for the killing of crows.’
The council answers with a single shout that boils up the sides of the mountain.
Skinpainter lets the echoes fall back to lap at their feet, waits a moment, then moves to Kinghammer’s side, murmurs a few soft words in his ear, and departs. Icecaller’s father turns, beckons to Quickfish and Roofkeeper.
