She nods. ‘We might need you to get people out, if it all goes sideways, or if Crowkisser comes here first.’
Brimlicker’s eyes widen. She pushes her hat back. ‘Is that likely?’
Fallon shrugs. ‘Fuck knows. We don’t think so, but that slit loves to be unpredictable.’
‘Shit,’ Brimlicker says. ‘Shit.’
Dropdancer squints at Fallon, refills their glass. ‘I hate it when you talk like that.’
Fallon rolls his eyes again. ‘She’s a slit, Drop. Not a saint.’
Dropdancer drinks, grimaces. ‘Still, not a good look on you, Fallon.’
Shipwright steps in. ‘We don’t have time tonight to cut Declan into a respectable man. But,’ she grins. ‘We do have time for a game or two.’ She produces cards from her shirt pocket with a flourish. Thumps the pack down in the centre of the table.
Fallon bursts out laughing, ‘Ship. You dark horse.’
Shroudweaver leans forwards excitedly. ‘Deal me in.’
Shipwright arches an eyebrow. ‘Are you sure love?’
He nods. ‘Deal me in.’
Dropdancer picks up a card, turns it over as Shipwright deals. ‘What is this? Martyr’s Hook? Blind Piglets?’
Masthauler tuts. ‘The art’s too nice for Blind Piglets, Drop. Get a grip. Look at these lines.’
They lean over and gnash their teeth at him. He ruffles their hair.
Brimlicker leans back, and pulls her hat down, ‘None for me thanks. I get fleeced by these idiots daily. No reason to encourage it.’ She waves her glass at Swallowgut, and he refills it absently, then goes back to sorting cards.
‘So,’ Shipwright says with a grin. ‘Here’s how you play.’
The next few hours pass in a blur, the pile of coins in front of Shroudweaver shrinking inexorably. He’s sure he knows the rules. Sure he knows Shipwright’s tells, but somehow, the coins just keep disappearing. Dropdancer folds after an hour or two, curls up in Masthauler’s lap, snoring like a torn tin can. He plays over their shoulder, solid and methodical.
Eventually, he’s priced out by a beautiful run.
‘Mountain to river,’ Shipwright smiles, and gathers the coins in.
Swallowgut folds soon after, shifts nearer the fire to pop nuts with his remaining teeth.
Shroudweaver tries to keep pace with Shipwright and Fallon but it’s hard to concentrate. The band are still playing, the singer’s reedy voice picking up a tune he recognises, worming into his brain. He hums the chorus as the patrons sing along, stomping the boards and rocking the chairs.
… the night the bones came tumbling down …
Brimlicker tips her head up. ‘Sound familiar?’
He nods, ‘I’m not sure why.’
She smiles sadly, pours him another drink. ‘Because it’s our song.’
The singer’s voice thin at first, thickening in the smoke as the familiar lines cut through the haze.
there’s a city by the sea
where bold ship captains dwell
they’ve seen the shores of old Empire
