He shakes his head. ‘That won’t be today.’ His eyes study her hands, ‘How far can those spinners reach?’
She shrugs. ‘Me. My horse, probably. Not big enough for much else.’
‘Can I try something?’
She nods. ‘Sure.’
He reaches out. ‘Give me your hand. With the spinner.’
His fingers are light on her knuckles. Rougher than she would have imagined. Inexplicably, she relaxes. Almost drops the damn thing. His dark eyes are confident as he loops a thin red thread around her palm.
He squeezes her fingers tight. ‘When I say, turn it on, let it sing. And push outward.’
She holds his gaze for a second. ‘Fine. Don’t take my hand off.’
He smiles, sweetly sly. ‘I would never.’
Arissa tuts disapprovingly. ‘I notice you’ve both ducked out of reassuring me, but that’s fine. Shall we announce ourselves?’
Shipwright glances over her shoulder. Near enough three hundred men and women are tucked against the ridge, with more in reserve. A signal runs down the line and they stand with a shout that sends the sky reeling. She’d never got used to the sound of Hesper at war.
As the drums start, they roll down across the plain. A marching rhythm. A sailor’s stroke. Brutal, fast, unrelenting.
Steps match the drumbeat. That mass of men striding forwards, held within a hairsbreadth of a run. Every thirty paces or so, the bright feathers of the first mates and captains, the flash of their pearly teeth, the gleam of gold necklaces and rings. Beards and hair oiled and dyed, shaved and spiked. Monkeys that rode shoulders, screamed in time to the drums, gnashing their filed little fangs.
The three of them a little further ahead on the horses. Not a gallop, not yet, but the long legs of the coursers eating up the salt plain outside of Luss.
From behind them, trumpets rise out of the ranks like breaching fish, silver and slim. The sound is like an unsheathed sword, ringing in the air as it rises and falls with the drums.
The throng ahead of them does not stir. Across the salt plain, only the criers seem to tire, slinking back behind tall shields and long spears.
The walls draw closer. Shroudweaver can count heads now. A thousand at least. Some eyes milky as the grave, some sharp, calculating. Some nervous.
There’s a method to it, now he looks. Never more than twenty or so of the living soldiers together. The dead stud the ranks of the army like rivets in a board.
Something in the back of his brain wakes at the thought, but they’re moving too fast for him to investigate. Instead, he tries to feel for the threads he’s tied to Shipwright’s spinners. Keeping them close so he can weave into them, if he has to.
He’s never tried it, but it should work in theory.
They ride on.
Shipwright’s shoulders tense for a rain of quarrels, of those slim spears. Nothing comes. Yet. These western wars are a mystery. A clash of thousands, with no more planning than an island raid. A confidence she doesn’t feel. Her insides are water, and Shroudweaver’s esoteric assurances are doing nothing to level them out.
Arissa certainly looks the part, but she’s not sure how she ended up a bodyguard for this strange, steely woman. Or how she ended up in her mad city. She can hear her father’s voice reproachfully.Too fond of the tides, little sailor.Wasn’t that the truth?
Here she was, mid-tide. Scared shitless.
She’s never seen anything like the army in front of her. Never even knew you could raise the dead. Sure, she’d heard stories from Shroudweaver, but everything he’d told her had sounded gentler, more spiritual. She’d never seen a body get up and walk.
She kept a grip on the reins. Barely.
They stop around a hundred feet from the front line, close enough to see the sporadic rise and fall of breath among the front ranks.
Arissa leans into Shipwright. ‘Let me handle this. Pull me out if it goes bad.’
Shipwright winces. ‘You’re putting a lot of faith in us, Arissa.’
The Lady of the Grey Towers smiles, plants a kiss on her cheek. Violet and steel.
