No sign of Quickfish, for good or ill.
His head swims. This close to Thell, it’s like walking underwater. He’s felt the dead at the edge of his mind for a while now. The bound souls of the Empire fill his head like static. Coiling around his heart, squeezing and straining to be free.
Shipwright hums nervously as she walks beside him. An old eastern shanty, lilting and low. Her boots turn stones, clods of earth. The road to the Stump is worn, too many feet coming in and out of Thell, the last flurry before war. She squeezes his fingers gently. ‘If they try anything, stay behind me.’
He smiles weakly. ‘If they try anything, I’m going to run.’
She pulls him closer, plants a kiss on the top of his head. ‘On those skinny pins? Not likely.’
She smells of the road, of grass and grease. There’s a tear in her shirt. He puts an arm around her and breathes a little easier.
She watches the horizon as she talks, counting blades lifted against the sky. ‘You’re worn through aren’t you?’
He turns his wrist to catch a stray thread. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Only to me.’
They crest a small rise. A barrow long sunk into the grass. Distantly, a figure emerges from the shadow of the mountain. A thing of rags and ribbons in the deep cleft of the gate. Skinpainter. Shroudweaver’s heart soars to see them.
As his mood lifts, the bound souls pulse within his veins, and he staggers slightly. Shipwright wordlessly moves her hand to his waist, creates a hollow for him to lean in to. ‘It’s the dead, isn’t it?’
He nods. When she speaks about them, he feels them push against his skin, and against the skin of the earth in return. His body is the thinnest barrier, just waiting to tear. He winces, pulls the red threads tighter, rubs charcoal between the tips of his fingers. The sensation fades, a little.
She watches from the corner of her eye. ‘It’s not just that though, is it? You miss her. Crowkisser.’
He shrugs. ‘I know it’s terrible.’
‘Bollocks it is. You’re her father. It’s not your fault she’s … tricky.’
He laughs.
She slows her steps. Keeps some space between them and Skinpainter’s approach. ‘Have you sensed her at all?’
A shake of the head. ‘Can’t hear anything out here. Except the dead. And you.’
She squeezes his hand again. ‘Are you ready for this?’
He makes a soft affirmative noise. ‘I’ll follow your lead, love.’
Shipwright watches Skinpainter’s broad figure stop a few metres away, their cloak hanging tatterdemalion in the still air. A faint flicker of excitement flares in her chest, with just a tinge of resentment beneath, sitting like brine on barnacles. She’s not sure how to express it all, so she just nods. ‘Skinpainter. All these years and still no new threads?’
A smile splits the shadow beneath their hood. ‘I’m comfortable in these, Ship.’
It doesn’t lighten her mood. She presses her lips together. ‘Are you going to let us in?’
In answer, Skinpainter turns, raising their arms to the assembled crowd on the battlements. Their voice slides over their shoulder, faintly amused. ‘That all depends, Ship. Why are you both here?’
She bites down on a reply as she feels Shroudweaver’s light touch on her shoulder.
He moves into the space between them. When he speaks it’s quiet, careful. ‘We’re here for unbinding, Skin.’
Skinpainter turns back to them, their hands still spread grandiosely wide. The grin hangs in their face like a key in a lock.
‘Are you sure you can handle it?’
Shroudweaver’s answering smile is thin. ‘As sure as I was that I could bind them.’ He straightens. ‘Smokesister’s work is strong. It’s held them until now. But it won’t last …Iwon’t last much longer.’
Skinpainter steps closer, their voice soft, eyes heavy and serious. ‘Not here. Not yet.’
