Shipwright turns an eye to him, shrugs blankly.
Fallon sighs. ‘Little traders. Curios. Antiques. And one host. A banker. A securities man. Styled himself the Gutgod.’
Shipwright grimaces. ‘That doesn’t sound good.’
‘Could store anything for you. Seal it away inside himself. Uncrackable, incorruptible. Expensive as sin. A little wet, a little sticky on extraction, but that was a small price to pay.’ He smiles grimly. ‘Time was he must have had half the secrets of the guilds and captains tucked up under his ribs.’
Fallon picks at his stubble, flicks something into the street. ‘A principled entrepreneur, they’d thought. Using the powers of his god for good. Slicing himself open with barely a hissedcomplaint, letting its gold light stitch him back together, with his latest commissions safely stowed inside.’
He scrapes idly at some blistered paint. ‘Of course, when the south burnt, we discovered his … storage system. Screams coming up from the cellar. And down there, all these street kids, linked together. Flesh to bone. Must have been a king’s ransom inside them, and suddenly they could feel it all, every coin, every gem, every secret cutting into them. All the pain flooding back in as his god died.’
His face pales. ‘We should have realised sooner. Should have figured there was no way one man could hold the secrets of a city inside himself. But he was easy. Convenient. We would never have known, if it wasn’t for Crowkisser. I suppose I owe her for that.’
Shipwright’s eyes are wide, her voice thick with horror. ‘What happened to him? To the Gutgod?’
Fallon’s eyes go flat, as he glances at a series of dark scars on his knuckles. ‘I beat him bloody myself when I found out. Right there in the street.’ He looks down at the blackened stones. ‘And all through it, he was so startled to befeeling. So surprised his body wasn’t pulling itself back together. That his god had left him.’ He laughs. ‘Prick.’
Shipwright twists her mouth in disgust. ‘Declan … what did you do with him?’
He shrugs. ‘I gave what was left to the guilds, after they’d razed the street to ash. They treated him pretty much as I expected.’
Shipwright raises an eyebrow.
Declan grins. ‘As far as I know, the Gutgod’s currently on display in seven different gilded cases around the city. If the gods ever return, he’s going to have a very harsh awakening.’
Shipwright chokes down bile as she surveys the wreckage of the arcade.
Fallon claps her on the shoulder. ‘Anyway, wasn’t I supposed to be taking you shopping?’
Shipwright rolls her eyes. ‘You’re a monster, Fallon.’
He shoots a glance at the broken street over her shoulder. ‘Mm, when I need to be.’
His eyes linger on the hollow windows for a moment longer. ‘Where’s your better half meeting us?’
‘Down by the lock. He said he had some errands to run first.’
The city thickens up as they fall out of the curves of Bitterhaven into Mirestem. Lines of clothes stretch over rat-ways built of planks and rigging slung to and fro, houses raised high above the canals, the streets ringing with voices and the water pocked with detritus falling from above.
Gangs of urchins swing from roof to roof, feet light on the tiles, arcing above the hubbub on long poles that bend precariously. Shipwright watches them with delight.
Shuttered windows are flung open, heads hollering at Fallon. An old man with an eye patch tosses a velvet sack which he catches with aplomb.
‘For you and the Grey Lady.’
Behind his stooped back, a cacophony of birds sing in small, mismatched cages.
Shroudweaver waits for them by the lock that lowers the water down into Peacock’s Rest. He’s barefoot, sandals at his side, hood pushed back and the sleeves of his robes unwound to the shoulder. Head tipped, at peace for a moment, enjoying the sun on his skin, a hand trailing in the water.
Shipwright points him out to Fallon. He winks back at her. ‘You’ll rot your fingers off if you do that,’ he yells.
Shroudweaver leaps like a scalded cat, teetering on the edge. A gaggle of boatmen yell warnings.
Fallon catches his wrist and pulls him steady, just about hiding a grimace of pain. ‘Morning, skinny. Sightseeing?’
Shroudweaver dusts himself off. ‘That was earlier, I was just warming my bones. In peace.’
Fallon nods, oblivious. ‘Warm them later. We’ve got things to do.’ He slings an arm around them both. ‘Does it feel good to be home?’ He sees their expressions. ‘Well, as near to home as you two get.’ The big man pulls Shroudweaver’s cheeks. ‘We’re going to have some fun. Remember that?’
