She fakes a pout, plants a kiss on Swallowgut’s liver-spotted head. ‘Yes, let’s.’
Fallon sees them coming and rises up, arms open. Shipwright next to him is beaming.
‘Ah, the last of our little party. Bring the good stuff, Swallow.’
Chairs scrape as they make room, and the pair settle down, Shroudweaver running his eyes around the circle. There are a couple of faces he almost remembers, a silver-bearded man, gold jewellery bright against his dark skin. He smiles softly as he catches Shroudweaver’s eye. Next to him is a neat little figure, short hair dyed ruddy and cut close against their scalp, hooded eyes half-closed as their head nods to the fiddle’s skirl. They raise a lazy hand to Shroudweaver.
Swallow crabs across with the drinks. Fallon sweeps the bottles from the tray, pulling the old man into a space by the fire. ‘That’s enough, Swallow. Tonight you sit with us. You were there at the start of it all. You deserve warm bones and a sore head in the morning.’
Swallowgut sits, grudgingly, shooting a short smile at Shipwright when she claps him on the back.
Fallon stands again, clearly enjoying the attention. Cheeks flushed enough that he’s probably been enjoying it for a while.
‘Reintroductions, I think. We might all know each other by reputation, but it’s been a long time since Shipwright and Shroudweaver actually stopped in Hesper, and twenty long bastard years since we fought together.’ He pours as he speaks, filling tin cups with an amber liquid that smells like burnt peaches. When the last is filled, he raises a glass. ‘To the victors of Luss, to all that’s left.’
‘To all that’s left,’ they chorus.
Fallon swigs it back, and Shroudweaver follows, his nose burning as the shot races around his skull and down into the pit of his stomach.
The big, bearded man slams the cup down, sighs contentedly. Next to him, the lithe redhead runs their fingers around the inside of the cup, sucking them slowly clean.
Fallon smiles at them. ‘Ship, Shroud, you might remember Masthauler and Dropdancer, captain and first mate of theHart’s Pride.’
The big man stands, bows at the waist. ‘Lord, lady, we were there at Luss. You would not recall us, I suspect.’
Shipwright stands, bows in return. ‘I recall your ship, and you.’ She glances to the side, ‘Along with theMaiden. We might not have carried the day without you. Without either of you.’
Dropdancer stretches a leg over the arm of the vacated chair, sniggers. ‘Alright. Keep it in your pants. We’re glad we won too.’
Shroudweaver coughs. Something in the music drifting down, filling the room, something in the booze. His head feels thick. Might just be Smokesister’s words still rattling around in there. He taps Fallon’s arm. ‘When you say “all that’s left”?’
Fallon opens his mouth, but it’s Brimlicker who answers. He rolls his eyes.
‘He means everyone that stayed in Hesper, that wasn’t lost in the south, or that hasn’t lit out for somewhere else.’
Shroudweaver nods. ‘I guess I owe you all my life.’
Shipwright’s face is grim. ‘It doesn’t seem like time’s been kind to Hesper’s captains.’
Masthauler leans into Dropdancer. ‘How many have we lost, all in all?’
Their slim fingers move over a necklace at their throat, counting beads. ‘Twenty-seven.’ Masthauler nods. ‘Counting theVolante?’
Dropdancer shakes their head. ‘Shit. No. Twenty-eight.’
Shipwright pours, drinks. ‘Ships and all?’
Dropdancer twitches. ‘The south was a big old mess.’
‘No arguments at this table,’ Fallon mutters.
Masthauler leans forwards, scratches at his beard. ‘Fallon says you’re going north to stop Crowkisser. That true?’
Shroudweaver nods. ‘It is.’
Masthauler’s eyes are brown as a millpond, wary. ‘You need ships?’
Shroudweaver shakes his head. ‘No, well …’ he glances at Shipwright.
