‘To get to Thell,’ Shipwright replies.
‘Thell!’ She scoffs, and makes a sign over her left eye. ‘What you want to do there?’
‘It’s a long story,’ Shipwright replies. The woman tuts again. ‘Mountain’s no place for a horse, and besides,’ she gestures over her shoulder. ‘You’re nearly there.’
Shipwright follows her hand. The mountainiscloser now. The sweep of the west road must have brought them curving north. Ahead, the true Barrowlands, and beyond that, Thell.
The peaks stand stark on this clear day, the whole black stone range cutting into the sky. It’s ten miles, perhaps, no more. The first outbuildings already visible, the painted huts, the flags on the cairns. The familiarity of it all makes her heart sink, the brief lightness of the race draining like rain into rock.
The woman tuts again. ‘Mountain’s no place for a horse, noplace for you either. How many foreigners it got to swallow in one month, I ask you?’
Shipwright’s attention is caught. ‘There were others?’
The woman flattens her eyes like a cat, picks burrs from the horse’s mane with practiced fingers.
‘Yeah, a fluff-head boy and a tree-cutter. Tall, beard.’
Shipwright glances to Shroudweaver. ‘It couldn’t be?’
Shroudweaver shrugs. ‘Maybe I have some good luck after all.’
She shakes her head in wonder. ‘Fallon’s either going to kiss us or kill us.’
Shroudweaver grins. ‘No change there then. It’ll be good to see Quickfish though.’
The dark-haired woman grunts and presses her closed fist into Shipwright’s chest. ‘Talk on your own time. Money for horse or not?’ She jingles it meaningfully.
Absently, Shipwright takes the money and hands over the reins.
‘Take good care of him.’
The woman gathers the harness and leads the horse away to a chorus of jealous complaints.
As the people of the Cut disperse to their beer and feasting, Shipwright and Shroudweaver stand together, looking at the black mountain. ‘The mountain’s no place for horses,’ Shipwright murmurs to herself.
‘No place for us either,’ Shroudweaver agrees.
‘Still,’ she says. ‘We should get this done.’
‘Shall we then?’ he says, offering a hand.
She takes it. ‘Sure thing, dog-rider.’
Hand in hand, they walk towards the black mountain, as the fields sleep quiet beneath the songs of their tillers.
66
a bruise which does not heal
a yellow-eyed dog
the sound of oystercatchers before the storm
—Collected Ill Omens, Anon
‘Visitors, my lord.’ Said in almost perfect unison.
Kinghammer levers himself up. The Deadsingers watch him impassively, their eyes flat as snakes, bracelets clacking gently as they straighten their hair and hems.
