‘“Fucksakes, grow up, will you?”
‘“Well, what about her knowing how everyone will die?”
‘I sighed again, glancing down to Ashdrinker. “That much is true.”
‘“… Really?”
‘I peered over my shoulder. “Want to know?”
‘“How I die?” Dior swallowed thickly, teeth chattering. “I … suppose s-so?”
‘I stopped and stared. “You certain? It’s not a truth you can unlearn, girl.”
‘She looked me in the eye. Squared her shoulders and nodded.
‘“Give me your hand, then,” I said.
‘Dior complied, her fingers trembling. I took hold, wrapped my other fist around Ashdrinker’s hilt. Snow fell gently about us, melting on our skin as I scowled, murmuring under my breath. Then I opened my eyes, and foretold Dior’s death.
‘“You keep asking me bullshit questions, and I drown you in this fucking river.”
‘“God, you’re a prick,” she spat, snatching her hand away.
‘“Serves you right.”
‘“For what?”
‘“Tall, dark and damaged?”
‘She scoffed. “Truth is the sharpest knife.”
‘I raised a warning finger. “I’ll have you know I’m—”
‘I gasped, doubling over in agony as a wave of flame swept up my spine. Holding my belly, eyes squeezed shut, just struggling to stay upright. I felt Dior’s hand on my shoulder as all the world around me buckled and swayed.
‘“Getting worse?”
‘“It only ever gets worse, girl.”
‘“… Is there something I can do?”
‘I inhaled through gritted teeth so I wouldn’t have to smell her. “Short of conjuring a nice, fat wretched and something to cook with, m-maybe shut up a while.”
‘She chewed her lip. “I can do that.”
‘“I’ve a g-gold royale says you don’t last an hour.”
‘We staggered on, freezing and aching, the thirst clawing the insides of my skin. I’d never gone more than seven nights without sating it, but I knew what would happen when I broke. And the pure, black dread of that thought had me tied tighter than a hangman’s noose, every step, every minute, harder and harder to breathe.
‘“Hero …” Dior said.
‘“Forty-seven minutes, girl,” I growled. “You owe me a g-gold royale.”
‘“No, look!”
‘I pawed the frost from my lashes, glanced to where she was pointing. And out in the middle of the freezing Volta, maybe half a mile downriver, I saw a sight that almost made me believe the Almighty’s favourite pastime wasn’t spitting in my spuds.
‘“A barge,” Dior breathed.
‘She was right. A flat-bottomed boat was ploughing its way upriver, manned by a dozen crew with long-poled oars. The bargemen sang as they worked, and I could hear them now if I tried, over the rushing pulse in my ears.
‘“There was a fine maid from Dún Fas,
‘“Who had a remarkable ass;
‘“Not rounded and pink,
‘“As well you might think—”’
‘It was grey, had four legs, and ate grass?’ Jean-Fran?ois interrupted.
Gabriel smiled, gulped his wine. ‘Heard that one before, have you?’
‘It’s older than I.’ The vampire tutted. ‘River folk.’
‘They don’t change much,’ the silversaint chuckled. ‘The Volta is the grandest river in Ossway, and folk have been plying boats along it for centuries. It was a harder way to make a living than it’d once been, but river trade had become the lifeblood of the empire since the wars grew thick. Coldbloods couldn’t fuck with it. Until wintersdeep arrives and the waters freeze solid, of course. Then the revels begin.
‘“Oi!” Dior shouted. “Over here!”
‘I joined her shouting as best I could, my belly still burning. But I sighed with relief as one of the polecats pointed at us. The bargemen set to it, punting closer while Dior jumped and waved. The vessel was good oak, maybe seventy feet, her prow sweeping up out of the water in the likeness of a beautiful swan. Trade goods crowded her decks, but she carried passengers also; two score or more. As the barge drew closer, I saw they were refugees, no doubt fleeing the bloodlords of the Dyvok and their war for the Ossway.
‘The barge slowed perhaps thirty feet off the shoreline, the polecats watching us with suspicious eyes. An Ossian fellow with a grizzled, bearded face stepped forward, hands on hips. He had flaming red hair and was dressed as a navyman, replete with a tricorn hat and heavy duster, sea green with brass buttons and trim.
‘“Nice coat,” Dior murmured.
‘“Fairdawn, travellers,” the man called in a thick western brogue.
‘“Godmorrow, Capitaine,” I nodded.
‘“Where d’ye head?”
‘“Redwatch. But anywhere other th-than here sounds lovely right now.”
‘“Angel Fortuna smiles on ye, then. Other than here’s our destination. Ye’ve coin?”
‘I patted the purse hanging on my swordbelt beside Ashdrinker. The man’s gaze lingered on the blade, drifting now to Dior. I studied the passengers behind – grubby men and women, thin children, all watching with something between hostility and curiosity.
‘“Well, swim oot with yer purse and ye’re welcome aboard,” the capitaine declared.
‘“Swim?” Dior scoffed. “That water’s fucking freezing.”
‘“It’s also fuckin’ running, bairn. And ye must think me seven shades o’ shitewit to pick up two strangers pale as ye in days dark as these without a testin’。”
‘My fingers were trembling too badly to manage it, so I pulled off my glove with my teeth. The capitaine’s eyes widened at the sight of my sevenstar.
‘“You’re safe enough with m-me aboard, Capitaine.”
‘“Silversaint …” came the whisper among the refugees.
‘The capitaine scratched his thick ginger beard, then turned to the polecat beside him, ordering him to fetch their skiff. Dior watched the dark waters beneath us with nervous eyes as we were punted out to the barge, but soon enough, we were aboard, my shaking hand thumping into the skipper’s. “Merci, mon ami. We’re in your debt.”
‘“Nae debt, Silversaint,” the man bowed. “’Tis my honour to grant ye passage. Name’s Carlisle á Cuinn. My brother fought with two of yer lot at the siege of—”
‘I grabbed my stomach, staggering as another wave of pain swept through me. Dior caught my arm, Carlisle my other. “… Ye aright, Frère?”
‘I gritted my sharpening teeth, vision flooding red. “How far to Redwatch, Capitaine?”
‘“Two days,” the big fellow replied. “If we move wi’ haste.”
‘Dior looked Carlisle in his eyes. “Might I humbly request you do so, monsieur?”
‘The capitaine threw a worried glance in my direction, but he was soon barking orders. Dior and I got the hell out of the way, threading among the tight-packed cargo and refugees. They were a motley lot, empty eyes and dirty hands. They watched with curiosity, suspicion, awe, as Dior and I made our way to the bow and slumped down near the figurehead.