THEY FLUNG THEMSELVES ON THE RIVERBANK, their hearts flailing, and so did the stag, rolling around on his back, kicking dirt and snow into the air. They were south of the towers, on the banks of the river at the south gate.
Rip reached into his pocket for his flask and said, “Here’s to Eikthyrnir. And to you. Where the hel did you come from?” Errol pointed to the roofs. “I mean, did you hear yourself in the mine? ‘We’ll jump!’ Like it was nothing. You’re like those knights you used to carry on about all the time when you were a kelp.”
“You’re from the same places I am,” said Errol.
Rip shook his head. “I would have left everyone in gaol.”
“We did leave everyone in gaol.” Errol sat up. “What are you drinking? Give me some of that, will you? Or will you lie there having the whole thing while I die of thirst?”
Rip handed the flask over and Errol put his nose to it and handed it back. “Smells of fire.”
“Tell me you’ve never had whiskey,” said Rip.
“A fool’s drink, on the flies. I prefer the juice squeezed fresh from a cloud.”
“Kelp.” Rip grinned at him. “Lytling.” It means “baby.” Errol grabbed the flask back, swallowed a thick mouthful from it and sat up, coughing. “Slow down, right? It’s not mother’s milk.” Errol felt the liquor melt his innards.
Errol raised the flask. “To my hero, my gallant brother.”
Rip flinched. “In my defense,” he said quietly, “I had not seen the pits of gaol.”
“But you knew about it. You knew what we would find there. They’re all foundlings, aren’t they, in those pits?”
“And the children of foundlings. And their children. It’s been a long time.”
“What were they doing to Jago, in that arena?”
“They bet on the winner. Like your fight in the pub.”
“No. It was different. It wasn’t a fight to the end. Something else was going on there. I keep wondering, why did that foundling with the spider say they were waiting for the spikes? Did she mean these spikes? In my pack?”
“I have no idea,” Rip said.
“And what foul thing were you doing to the girl?” Errol said. “Kissing her like that.”
“I listened to her. Instead of carrying on about the way things ought to be.”
“If that was told in a book, you would sound like a fool.”
“There are no books here, Errol Thebes. No bard to make sense of what is happening here. And certainly no heroes. We are off the page.”
When Errol awoke on the riverbank, Rip was gone. It was nearly dawn. He waded into the shallows. The stag followed. A woman stood in the river, out farther. He couldn’t see her face in the waning moon, but the low pitch of her voice gave her away, as she called to the wolves who were fishing on the far bank. He could see her reflection in the ripples of the river, and the moon’s, and the reeds’. He was just wondering why he could see no reflection for the stag when something shifted in the reeds. His brother crouched there, watching Dagmar.
Errol’s thoughts turned to that foundling he had met on the roof of Samoa, and the game of Préférerais tu they played that rainy night. The tufuga had asked if they would prefer to be trapped in the guilds, or escape the city forever. He had said escape, but he would do anything to be back in the guild towers, safe from what he knew now.