Skinpainter grins. ‘It might work on less stubborn souls, but there’s no need. Most people don’t feel the call that strongly. Or at all. If they do, maybe they take a drink, or pull someone into their bed.’
Steelfinder scratches at an armpit. ‘I do all that, Skin, doesn’t help.’
They smile sadly. ‘No, it wouldn’t. There’s a few families, a fewbloodlines, I suppose, where the Empire’s roots were strongest. Three families, actually, but the way we are now, everything’s got so …’ they tilt a hand. ‘Mingled.’
Steelfinder rolls her eyes. ‘Because everyone’s fucking each other?’
They tip their head in acknowledgement. ‘Not everyone, but more than they used to. Understandable. The Empire used to hold us all so tightly. Our lives. Our relationships. Everything was watched. Rigid. Prescribed.’
Their hands disappear inside their hood, pull at their chin. ‘Hardly surprising that a lot of us eventually … cut loose, when the opportunity came.’
Steelfinder nods reluctantly. ‘It’s not just like that though, is it? We got all sorts now. Extended families, lovers on lovers. Support networks, Skin. You’re never alone if you don’t want to be.’
They pat her shoulder. ‘Of course, Steel. I’m as happy as you to see it, but there’s more of us now, and that means it gets harder to keep us all safe.’
‘From the voices,’ she finishes. A little lurch in her stomach, cold and wet.
‘From ourselves. That’s why we need you. All of you ink workers. To learn the forms, the shapes. To tattoo the geometrics that keep our breath and blood apart.’
Steelfinder looks down at her hands, at the scratches and scars. The ink stains. ‘That’s a lot, Skin.’
‘That’s why I don’t usually explain all this. The catechisms and litanies usually suffice.’ They wave a hand. ‘Let no man do you harm, blah blah blah.’ A sly grin.
She snorts. ‘Fuck me for being curious, right?’
The grin vanishes. ‘I’m sorry, Steel.’
She raises an eyebrow, her voice slow, unsure. ‘No, no, it’s OK. But I’m going to need to know more. I want to do my job well.’ She glances across at Icecaller, as she twists and darts in the ring. ‘I want to keep us safe.’
Skinpainter takes her hand, their grip strong and warm. ‘Wehave that in common. Now repeat after me. The simplest mark is the gate mark …’
Steelfinder’s voice gets lost in the litany, as she murmurs the words, and traces the shape of the words on the bone, while behind her in the light, tattooed bodies move and shift and spin.
59
The world is sick with prophecy. In the turning of the stars.
In the movement of grasses.
We seek the present in this abundance of futures.
We eat, dream, act.
—Aestering lecture, Weaver Eelmarrow
Icecaller’s hands are fucking freezing. She cups them in front of her, and rubs the tips of her fingers together, blowing on them in short, harsh puffs.
The needle works her shoulders rhythmically, hot and sharp as blood pools along the bone.
She jams her hands in her armpits. It’s fucking cold.
‘If you keep wriggling you’ll tear the lines.’
‘You didn’t mind me wriggling much last night.’
Steelfinder cuffs her across the back of head. ‘I was off the clock then.’ Her fingers linger on the back of Icecaller’s skull. ‘I like your hair short. Feels nice.’
Icecaller stretches, feels the needle bite. ‘I like your mouth shut. Sounds nice.’ She twists a foot to dig a heel into Steel’s thigh. ‘Well, shut or full. Either works.’
