While they wait, Shroudweaver frets, his fingers lingering on rock, on plate edges, tracing the rims of cups. He sleeps with his palms wrapped in red thread, hair smelling like the smoke of a battle. He takes hands when they are offered, turns his head in sadness when they are snatched away. He says soft, kind things to try and make himself sound safer. Shipwright doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he is as foreign as she is now. Shroudweaver belongs in the past for the rulers of Thell, and they want to keep him there.
Despite this, the days are bearable, just. They have rhythm, but she wilts from a lack of sky. She presses herself up against the sockets of the Stump and stalks its high ledges, hating it for being solid. Through it all, no one speaks to her, nothing beyond working words.
She tries to get a sense of the place, its sweet spices, the low belly warmth of the deep passages, and the ice of the high reaches. There’s more of it than she could learn in a lifetime, twelve storeys, maybe more, and each as high as the tallest halls of Hesper.
Efficient to the core. In the training grounds, she watches warriors move with precision and grace, spears flickering like tongues, shields stark against bare, bright bodies. She hears tongues flicker in other corners. Licking skin, licking rumours. Whispering about her, about Shroudweaver, about the reports of the grey army that marches north under crow-feather wings. The folk of Thell conspire with heads bowed against necks, their fingers tapping out hidden rhythms she doesn’t understand. She grows lonelier with every passing day. She misses sex, and closeness, and being held. She wants to relax, for fuck’s sake. But for now, that’s not happening.
In the evenings, she talks with Skinpainter as they block out the past in easy, economical gestures. The future is painted in starker tones.
‘Thell,’ they assure her, ‘is ready for war.’ They play their part. Not a friend, not here. Not the Skinpainter of two decades gone, with their easy confidences, their sly secrets shared with Shroudweaver. Here, they are the mouthpiece of the mountain. They are a decipherer of strange things, and Shipwright has always, always been strange to them.
Still, they run their mouth, and she watches what they don’t say. Not a whisper about Hesper, or Crowkisser, or especially the unbinding. Their lips leave more gaps than their words fill. If Quickfish is here, if those wild horse lords spoke true, Skinpainter says nothing. For his part, Shroudweaver doesn’t pick it at. Makes excuses. It’s a difficult time, a complex situation. Thell’s being pulled into something they never saw coming. Shipwright knows better. She’s hired on enough crews and brokered enough deals to know the game Skinpainter’s playing. They are being vetted. Calmly. Affably. Ruthlessly. She says nothing though. Not yet. You don’t tip your hand in a negotiation. You wait for them to come to you.
This morning, Skinpainter is more polite, more formal than ever. Holding them at bay as Shroudweaver picks listlessly at a breakfast of cold, pickled fish.
Their face calm, amber eyes relentless.
‘Days at worst,’ they say. ‘Kinghammer is consulting with his closest advisers. To ensure he has all the facts to hand before he meets you both.’
As they say this, as Shipwright feels herself die a little more inside, a small, dark-headed girl runs up, tugging at Skinpainter’s robes. She glances at them all, wide-eyes in a raw-boned little face. Shipwright smiles at her, could hug her when she beams back.
‘Who’s this?’ she says, grateful for the respite.
Skinpainter grins, the first real smile that’s graced their lips for days. ‘This, honoured guests, is Nigh.’
Nigh nods at the mention of her name and holds her hands out to Shipwright. She picks the little girl up reflexively, sets her on a thigh. ‘Oof, hello, little brick.’
Shroudweaver laughs as Shipwright runs her fingers through the shock of tangles on Nigh’s head. ‘Don’t you mind him.’ She bends her neck, whispers into a small ear. ‘I like strong little girls. They grow up into strong big women. Plus,’ she murmurs. ‘They’redelicious.’
She fakes a bite at Nigh’s neck. The sprat squeals in mock horror.
‘Careful, Ship,’ Skinpainter rumbles.
Shipwright grins. ‘Please, I’m just happy to find someone here that can stand to be near me.’ She goes in for another bite attack, is met with a swivel, a small foot planted squarely in her solar plexus. The air slides out of her.
Shroudweaver and Skinpainter collapse laughing. Nigh looks from face to startled face, joins in, burbling like a brook.
Shipwright turns to Shroudweaver. ‘Take this tyrant! She’s killing me.’
Shroudweaver reaches for Nigh. As the kid passes between them, for a second Shipwright feels a sharp stab of something. A different moment. A could-have-been, held like a splinter of glass.
Shroudweaver pats the bench next to him, and it’s gone. ‘I like you already, Nigh. Do you know how many warriors have beaten Ship?’
Nigh shakes her head.
‘Three, and one of them’s dead.’
Nigh looks worried.
Shipwright leans across. ‘Don’t panic, little one. I’m not going to fight you.’ She lets her lips linger by Nigh’s head. ‘Just eat you.’
Another spin and a punch.
Shipwright catches it. ‘Word of advice, nugget – don’t try the same thing twice. Even old salts like me will catch on.’
Skinpainter leans across, laughter lingering on their lips. ‘You’reholding the fist of the Kinghammer’s daughter there, Ship.’
Shipwright unclasps her fingers slowly, plants a kiss on the escaped fist. ‘Good. Maybe she can get him to come and bloody talk to us.’
