Above the Snowline by Steph Swainston Page B

more excellent than I would ever taste! Then she retired under the table and watched me with intense curiosity.
     
    Woodcock the gigolo sauntered in and seated his big self at the table. ‘What’s your game?’ I asked.
     
    ‘Just wanted a look at her.’
     
    ‘Oh yes. I should charge admission. Roll up! Roll up! Come see the savage!’
     
    ‘She’s not just a savage; she’s a woman,’ he pointed out.
     
    ‘A woman who doesn’t want your services.’
     
    ‘As I thought, she’s a rare one. Have you spoken to her?’
     
    ‘She only speaks Rhydanne.’
     
    ‘As far as you know,’ he said, and tried her with Awian, but nothing doing.
     
    ‘Did she build that den with the chairs?’ he said.
     
    ‘Yes. I suppose they do that in the mountains to lie in wait for victims.’
     
    ‘Or it’s to make her feel safe in our kitchen.’
     
    Dellin opened her mouth and repeated, ‘Feel safe.’
     
    ‘My god!’
     
    ‘Is she just imitating? Or does she want to talk to us?’ He tapped the bench top. ‘Table.’
     
    ‘Taible,’ said Dellin, dutifully.
     
    ‘Table.’
     
    ‘Tay-bull.’
     
    ‘Good enough. Chairs.’
     
    ‘Chairz.’
     
    ‘She does have an accent. Chairs.’
     
    ‘Chairs!’ Dellin mimicked.
     
    ‘She’s from Darkling,’ I said, rather struck by how romantic it was.
     
    ‘Spear,’ said Woodcock.
     
    ‘Spear. One spear point. Steel. Yes!’
     
    ‘She knows more than she’s letting on,’ I said.
     
    ‘The Awians would have sold her that. And the knife.’
     
    ‘Nife!’
     
    ‘Fair enough . . . Plate.’
     
    ‘Plate.’
     
    After ten minutes of this I became bored and left Dellin with the gigolo. I climbed the dark cellar steps and at the top, enough light filtered in from the hall to cast my shadow all the way down to the kitchen. It dimly illuminated the decrepit wood panelling.
     
    I put my palm on a panel directly in front of my face and pushed it left. It clicked onto a greased runner and slid aside easily. I slipped the panel below it aside in the same way and the one below and the one below that, until I had an opening one panel wide and as tall as I was. Behind was a passage. I peered in to see the tiny pinpricks and shafts of light shining through from the ground-floor suite. I kicked off my shoes because they made too much noise, turned sideways, sucked in my stomach and slipped in.
     
    Once inside there was enough room to turn straight and walk naturally, y’ see. I edged along, feeling the crunchy ancient lumps of plaster and flakes of whitewash under my stockinged feet. The yellow light slid over my bare skin, shining in dots and lines from wormholes, splits and the edges of panels that didn’t quite meet. The dust tickled my nose so I pressed the collar of my dressing gown to my face and, horripilating at the thought of spiders, I pulled my other hand back into the dressing gown sleeve and waved the drooping cuff ahead of me to ward them off. At eye level a chalk arrow indicated a crack larger than the others. I peered through and there was Comet. Comet and Wagtail . . . and Cisticola!
     
    I watched them avidly until a ‘Hist!’ from the mouth of the passage made me glance round. ‘Hey, sister. Get your fat butt out of there!’
     
    I shuffled carefully away and crept back down the passage to the hall. All eight whores were queuing outside the passage and along the hall, waiting their turn to spy on him. The first two giggled and slipped inside, and the rest stared at me cattily.
     
    I retreated to the kitchen. Woodcock was still there, chatting merrily to Dellin. ‘She’s very fast,’ he said to me approvingly.
     
    ‘Huh?’ I wondered what he had been doing to her. ‘Aren’t they famed for it?’
     
    ‘Not “fast” running; I mean “fast” intelligent. Listen . . .’ He spoke to Dellin in Awian: ‘Say what you learnt.’
     
    Dellin took a deep breath and glanced around the room. ‘Table. Chairz. Plate. Spear. Knife.