Skinpainter sighs. ‘He’s afraid, Ship.’
She raises an eyebrow at him. ‘So are we. That’s why we need to talk to him. Toallof them.’
Skinpainter nods. ‘I get it, I do, but give him time. Last time you were here …’
‘Last time we were here, we put him on the throne,’ Shroudweaver says. There’s steel in his voice.
Skinpainter tenses. ‘We don’t have thrones, Shroud, you know that.’
Shroudweaver waves dismissively. ‘The difference doesn’t matter.’
Skinpainter grips his wrist. ‘The difference is all we have.’
It takes a moment for their hand to leave, a moment more for blood to flow back into whitened spaces.
Thick fingers tug their hood down further. ‘Look, Shroud. I’m not trying to be awkward. I’ve kept an eye on the south. I know what’s happening.’ They pause. ‘And I’m sorry, I really am. But I’m not the final word.’
Shipwright sips her drink thoughtfully. It buzzes on her tongue. ‘You’re the final line though.’ She waves the mug. ‘Every skin in this place has your mark on it.’
Skinpainter shakes their head. ‘Not all of them. Some notable exceptions.’ Shipwright catches the hint. Skinpainter holds her gaze. After a moment, they shove a bowl of snacks across to Nigh, roasted nuts and spiced grains. She grabs a fistful and chews precisely. Skinpainter looks back to the pair, thinking how little they’ve changed. ‘And even if they were, it wouldn’t matter. That’s not politics. It’s survival.’
Shipwright’s hands tighten on the mug, ‘So’s this, Skin, so’s this. Crowkisser’s on the march. She wants the mountain. She wants your people.’
Skinpainter rolls their sleeves back and rubs at tired arms. ‘Iknow, Ship. I’ve seen her. Sensed her. Still, we’ve weathered worse storms. You know that.’ They pour into outstretched cups. ‘It doesn’t mean we aren’t breaking out the oilskins. The army is ready. I’m ready. Belltoller hasn’t relaxed for twenty years. We’re ready.’ They stop, hands spread across the tankards. ‘But until we know how this is going to play out, we’re not going to trust you. And until we trust you – this is how it stays.’ They laugh, run hands wearily across their temples. ‘For the love of. You knoweverything. You were there on the day we took the Emperor down.’ They point a finger at Shroud. ‘You were the last to speak to him. Can’t you see why that’s a problem? Can’t you see why that scares them all?’ The finger drops. They drink. ‘I’m sorry. I’m tired. Drunk. Not drunk enough. I don’t know.’
Shroudweaver folds his hands and Shipwright watches his face change into something cold and hard. ‘I should think trust is the least of what the Republic owes me.’
The red threads around his wrist follow his pointing fingers. ‘You want to know what I want? Kinghammer wants to know? I want to unbind the dead I’ve carried for you for twenty damn years. I want to save your people.Again.’
Skinpainter’s fists clench. For a moment, Shipwright sees their jaw working furiously under their hood. Nigh shifts uncomfortably.
‘Save us from your owndaughter.’ They shrug expressively. ‘Twenty years changes a lot, Shroud. It’s not that we don’t want to help.’
‘It’s just more convenient not to.’ Shroudweaver is straight-backed, skin flushed, the breath skittering in his lungs. He’s furious. Shipwright can read it in every line of his bones.
Skinpainter says nothing, but reaches out to draw Nigh a little closer. She looks plaintively at Shipwright as she reluctantly complies.
For a moment, the silence hangs heavy between them.
‘What this then? Three maudlin cunts and a little arsehole.’
Icecaller’s voice breaks the quiet like rocks on ice.
Skinpainter’s shoulders slump, just briefly. ‘Icecaller, meet …’For a moment, Skinpainter tries to use their old names. It slips oily over their tongue. They gesture, ‘… Shipwright, Shroudweaver.’
Icecaller grins. ‘Ah yes. Our not-honoured guests. My father’s fucking bricking it with you here.’ She holds a hand out. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m the smart, pretty one. And anyone that can make my father shit frost is fine by me.’
Shipwright takes it. Feels the calluses, the tight muscle. ‘You’re a warrior,’ she says.
Icecaller nods. ‘Warrior. Poet. Best sister. Worst daughter.’ She wiggles her fingers, ‘I’ve got a lot on my plate.’
She claps Shroudweaver around the shoulders. ‘Thanks for looking after this little bratbag.’
Nigh leans her head back, sticks her tongue out. Ice leans down, licks her forehead, covers her in kisses. She screams, scatters back into Shroudweaver’s lap.
Icecaller winks. ‘See, this is how I help you make friends.’ She slings her legs over the bench, sits between them. ‘I am the unpleasant alternative.’ She takes a flask off her belt and waves it at Skinpainter. ‘Fill her up, Hoods. I’m exhausted. Just been chatting to Dad.’
Icecaller looks left, right. ‘So,’ she says. ‘Are you twats going to pull your bloody fingers out and play your hand?’
