43
a great cleft, black against the water
where light falls through along the path of the moon.
—Geographical Features of the Farther Reaches, Vol. IV
Fifteen years ago, and Shroudweaver’s down in the guts of Thell, in the near-lightless passages which flee from torchlight deeper into the bowels of the mountain. Miles of rock, ringing with the sound of water slowly dripping out and down into the dark lake that fills the hollowed heart of the Stump.
Skinpainter standing at his side as the Emperor knelt in front of them, a thin, gaunt shape breaking the black sand that framed the lake. This was his final interrogation, the last flurry of questions before the victors of the Republic consigned him to the depths. Shroudweaver hadn’t asked to be there. Hadn’t wanted it, but the voices of the dead held inside him had grown too loud and he hadn’t had the energy to fight the rebels’ demands. The newly minted Republic wanted their victory, and Shroudweaver wanted to get home.
The Emperor knelt in front of them. Knees bruised. Naked, and chained. Fingers crushed by Kinghammer’s maul so no weaving could take place.
His mangled hands moved slowly, absently, like fronds in water.
‘So you’re the one.’ His voice rusted from lack of use. ‘Caused me a lot of trouble, for such a thin little man.’
His hair had grown long, his grey stubbled jaw stark in the half-light. If he was in pain from the ragged cuts that ran across his body, it only showed in his laboured breathing.
From above, the sounds of reconstruction rattled down into the belly of the mountain. The crack of stone sheared clean bybelltollers, the bellow of voices shifting carts, men and supplies.
Amid it all, Skinpainter had moved forwards, their voice low as smoke. ‘Don’t give him a moment, Weaver, we have no idea what he’s capable of, even like this.’
A brief laugh from the Emperor then, his smile thin and bright as a rake’s dagger.
‘That’s the first true thing you’ve said, Skinpainter.’ He’d raised his shattered wrists pointedly. ‘Your friend with the large hammer made sure of me though.’ He smirked as he shot a lidded glance at Shroudweaver. ‘Askhim, if you don’t believe me.’
As he waggled his fingers the bones ground audibly, his smile hanging loose. ‘We’re not much without our digits, are we?’
Loose fingers, ragged bone, Shroudweaver had seen them in every hand since that day, in every twitching nail. A decade and a half did nothing.
In the smoky backroom bed of the Gull, his ribs ache. He remembers stepping forwards, past Skinpainter’s cautioning arm, taking the Emperor’s hair and pulling his head back to look into his eyes. He can remember the hatred he had felt.
‘We are nothing alike.’
The Emperor had laughed at that. ‘Like the sound of that tune, do you? Keep singing it, Shroudweaver. You know what I’ve done, and you know how I’ve done it.’ His chains shook with the mirth rattling around his gut.
He had grinned at Skinpainter. ‘Did you never stop to wonder how your clever friend was able to unpick my work so neatly? I’m almost impressed.’ Dark lips thinned over his sharp teeth. ‘I’m mostly furious.’
A flicker of rage for a moment, until a smile slid back over the Emperor’s tongue like a shark.
‘But there’s apriceisn’t there?’ His crushed fingers jerked pointedly towards Shroudweaver’s chest. ‘They’re all in there now, aren’t they? Whispering away. Making themselves at home. All my stolen subjects.’
Shroudweaver had looked away as the voices in his head surged in response, clamouring for revenge.
The Emperor jerked forwards, the burr of his voice delighted, thick with clotted blood, rasping on the edge of that wet, hot breath. ‘You’ll have to let them go sometime, Weaver. I’ll be waiting.’
Hunger slicking his face, until Skinpainter’s fist had cracked against his jaw with an audible snap. ‘Shut your mouth. You’re going nowhere but to the council of the Republic. They’ll decide what to do with you.’
The Emperor spat redly on the ground, eyes hooded with fury. ‘I bet they will. Won’t that be satisfying for them?’
His head rose again, one pupil glinting madly from beneath the ribbons of blood-caked hair and torn scalp.
‘Doesn’t change a thing, Weaver. You made the biggest mistake. We should never take souls into ourselves. Arrogant. Stupid.’
Shroudweaver had sucked in air, damp, cool with moisture from the lake which lapped the underground shore, somewhere out in the darkness. He’d bitten down on the panic rising inside him and thought of what Shipwright would do: get the job done; deal with the fear later.
Then he’d found his voice. ‘So youarea weaver?’
