Chapter 259
The seventh tower dark but for one red ember at its top. Krydog still flat on his back in the grass, a day and a night now. His crew sitting round him in silence. The Marka's crew back from the village, sitting a little way off.
standing up from a rock, rolling his shoulders, walking over. No fury. No grin either. Just walking.
standing over Krydog, looking down at him.
crouching, a long beat. Honest.
Vigolas flicking Krydog's forehead.
Vigolas sitting on his chest.
watching, very quietly taking out his coin.
beside him, notebook open, pen still.
Everything that ever knocked Krydog down, to get him up.
An Emerald Knuckle, no fury in it, just lightning, to the jaw, and Krydog's head rocking. "…Ow." He doesn't get up.
The Kettle's bell, borrowed again, rung right by his ear. BONNNG. Drekk, distantly: "STOP TAKING MY BELL." He doesn't get up.
The fish. Vigolas has kept the fish. It is not fresh. Across the face. SLAP. Krydog's nose wrinkling. He doesn't get up.
Vigolas dragging him by the collar across the grass toward the edge of the hill, Krydog sliding along like a sack, staring at the sky.
out of breath, sweating, kneeling over him at the edge of the hill.
a flicker, very faint, under the flatness.
very quiet now, his forehead almost against Krydog's.
and something under the ice, moving. A memory, maybe. A grey dawn. A cave-quay. Eight rejects round a raised ship. Him. He's still standing.
on the grass. One finger twitching.
on her knees beside him, seeing the finger, her hands flying from her mouth.
flat, quiet, puzzled, the words coming out of him slowly, as if he were reading them off the inside of his own skull.
1. Krydog's hand pressing flat on the grass.
2. His elbow bending. His shoulder lifting, an inch.
3. His other hand finding the grass. Shaking. Everything shaking. No will in it at all, just muscle and bone remembering a motion they've made a thousand and five times.
4. Krydog on one knee. Swaying. Head down. Not wanting it. Doing it anyway.
on one knee, breathing hard, a sound coming out of him that might be a laugh.
The seventh hill of Lumen at night under a dark tower with one ember at its top, and in the middle of the grass, a big man in a coat of a thousand patches standing up. Slowly. Shaking. Head bowed. Every line of his body saying he doesn't want to, and all of him doing it anyway. No silver-gold will streaming back into him; it's still in a jar on a barge out at sea. He's standing up with nothing.
Round him, his crew on their feet, hands over their mouths. The Marka's crew behind. A pirate with no fury on his knees in front of him, grinning for the first time in two days.
And from a seven-year-old with a clay lamp, held up high: the white light, falling over him, and above his bowed head, blooming, his joy: a grey dawn, a cave-quay, "Him. He's still standing."
on his feet, swaying, looking down at his own hands.
tears running down her face, laughing.
turning to Vigolas, a slow grin coming back, the chipped tooth, still raw-eyed, still hollow inside, but grinning.
Krydog's bandaged fist, a punch like a falling anchor, into Vigolas's jaw. Vigolas going down. And getting up.
Vigolas's fist, calm, no fury, into Krydog's. Krydog going down. And getting up, no wanting in it at all, just habit.
A short, sharp exchange on the hilltop, both of them grinning: down, up, down, up, until they both land a blow at once, and both sit down hard on the grass, side by side.
padding over and lying down across both their laps at once, an enormous happy sigh.
lowering the lamp, smaller now, tired, smiling up at the big man.
sitting nearby, still shaking, no courage, with Bror in his lap, looking at Krydog with total understanding.
Both captains getting to their feet, side by side, the two crews gathering behind them on the hilltop. And all of them turning to look out over the far shore, out to sea, where, moored in the dark, a long grey barge lies low in the water, every window shuttered, every shelf inside clinking.
silhouetted against the dark sea, one in a green coat, one in a coat of patches.