She taps the side of her nose. ‘Trade secrets.’
He laughs and she smiles. It feels good to talk shit again.
She claps an arm around his shoulders, ‘So what are we up to this morning? Other than adding hot air to this hot air?’ She fans herself, pointlessly.
‘Sweaty as a boar’s tit, isn’t it? I thought you and Shroud might want the tour. It’s been a few years since you were here after all. Plus, we should get you fitted out if you’re heading north. Then maybe lunch? There’s a place I want you to check out.’
She frowns. ‘What kind of a dive is this? Knives out?’
He shakes his head. ‘Arses out at worst. It’s practically civilised.’
She waits as he stops to speak with the stable hand who has stopped, doubled over, a while down the road. Some coin changes hands, and Fallon thumps him on the back consolingly. The man’s legs buckle a little.
She watches him with a smirk as he rejoins her. ‘You soft-hearted old man.’
He taps the cane on the back of her legs. ‘I prefer benevolent ruler, thanks.’
‘I call it like I see it, Declan. You never change.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Part of my ineffable charm.’
The street widens as they exit the square, pushing down through the forested slopes of Bitterhaven and the hillsides dotted with pillared houses, their empty windows looking out to sea.
Shipwright feels a tug in her heart as she remembers an evening of firelight, dark sea and strong drink among the pines.
‘Emptier than last time I was here.’
‘So what? I like the quiet.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘Fine, I don’t, but don’t push me on this, Ship. Do you have any idea how hard it is to sell real estate at the moment?’
He slips a coy expression on his face. ‘Sobeautiful, sospacious. Soregal. And what happened to the previous owners?’ His voice changes. ‘Oh, they were rendered into strips by a psychopath bitch made of crows.’ He mimes horror. ‘Perhaps we’ll look elsewhere.’
Shipwright frowns. ‘I’m sorry Declan.’
He rolls his shoulders. ‘I’m not. One day those houses are going to be full of drunk idiots and noisy fucking and fat babies, and I’ll be drinking out her skull. I’m a patient man. I can wait.’
39
Trade it to an honest man
trade it fast, in kind
but never sell a confidence
go deaf, go dumb, go blind
—Glimmer’s skelf-song
Fallon walks on, his pace a little brisker, back a little stiffer, hiding the worst of it, prideful sod. He pauses as they pass a darkened arcade. The latticed roof thick with bird-shit and the scorched walls lined with sheets of dusty glass, clouded with spiders. Hints of broken furniture behind the panes, split chairs and shattered tables. A memory of shouting voices, torches, an evening of flame.
He notices Shipwright watching him. ‘You remember what this used to be?’
She shakes her head, running a critical eye over the soot-blacked stone.
‘The Street of Small Saviours.’
