She ties off with her teeth, looks at him over the knot. ‘No time like the present.’
‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘but …’
‘But what?’ she glowers, her face stark in the firelight.
‘You should really just let that pair die.’
She growls. ‘They’re not the only old, frayed things I could just let die. You watch it.’
Shroudweaver picks the boot back up. ‘Ouch. We could get you new ones.’
‘Oh, they do good ship socks in Thell, do they?’ she asks, a spark in her eyes.
‘They might do.’
She jabs the needle at him. ‘You only counted off one murderous magical option. Stop stalling me. We need to list all the horrifying possibilities. There’s still a risk I’ll sleep tonight.’
He sets the boot down again, uselessly. ‘OK, not shroudweaving, not spinner magic. I don’t think it’s host magic either, never had a whiff of the gold around her. And she wouldn’t touch it after her mother.’
No quips this time. Shipwright nods, moves a little closer. ‘Sowhatthen?’
He shoots a glance at her. ‘I can hear you chewing that rubbish.’
She spits into the fire, grins with teeth beetle-red.
‘Keep me awake for nights on end in ways that don’t involve kissing and I’ll cope however I want.’
He sighs. ‘It’s just a bit …’
She leans in, pulls a sticky strand out of her front teeth.
‘Distracting? So’s wondering if you’re going to die in front of that fucking bone mountain. Stop stalling.’
‘I hate you.’
‘No you don’t.Thoughts.’
He waves his hand. ‘Fine. So if it’s none of that, then it has to be something either very new or very old. I’d put my guess on some kind of body magic. Or possession. Those crows either come from somewhere, or she’s making them.’
Shipwright frowns. ‘Making them? From what?’
He looks at her flatly. ‘Meat.’
‘Oh.’ She stops chewing. ‘Gross.’
He nods. ‘Probably. But that’s just her personal magic. She must have some other stuff going on, to get as far as she’s done. To do what she’s done.’
Shipwright darns and loops. ‘Like what?’
He shrugs. ‘Some kind of prophetic skill. She could have picked something up at the temple in Astic, or before. The hosts used to be able to dream the future. Maybe she found something of theirs. Even that’s got its problems though.’
Shipwright turns the second sock inside out. ‘Course it does. I don’t know why anyone bothers with magic.’
Shroudweaver’s eyes go wide. ‘Says the queen of spinners.’
‘S’different,’ she says. ‘That’s just practical. It’s a tool. You can put it down once you’re done.’
He rubs his eyes, ‘You might actually have a point. But anyway, prophecy’s not something that comes easy. You have to have it in your bones. Whispers under the skin.’
