Crowkisser turns her back on her father, briskly efficient. ‘I’ll help him.’
She steps towards Quickfish’s body, halts as a hatchet blade brushes her neck.
Roofkeeper lets his axe hang in the air between them. ‘Aren’t you the cause of all this?’
Her voice when she speaks is not the voice of the girl Shroudweaver remembers. ‘Do you really want to force this? Here?’ She waves a hand behind her, towards the tunnels filled with dead. ‘Now?’
Slickwalker’s voice burrs like a sleepy cat. ‘She has a point.’ He flicks his eyes over Shipwright and Shroudweaver. ‘Ship. Shroud. This is … unexpected.’
Shipwright tenses. ‘Don’t make me pull your teeth out.’
Slickwalker tilts his head again, smiles, wide and bright. ‘You won’t do that. We have people relying on us.’ A lazy glove takes in the injured, the children. ‘You’re not getting out of here without us.’
He places brief fingers on Shipwright’s wrist, feeling her back down, inch by inch. Laughing, he slides closer, until his lips brush her ear. ‘Of course, once we’re out, you can take your very best shot.’
She holds his eyes for a second, curls her lip and then firmly dislodges his hand. ‘If it were up to me, I’d leave you in here to rot. You’re lucky it’s not.’
Shroudweaver watches the pair for a second, heart racing, then gathers himself and crosses to where Skinpainter kneels overIcecaller, their broad hands pushing and inking in slow, steady rhythm. His old friend’s body is marred with wetness. Salt tears beneath the hood, red and copper beneath the ribs. He says nothing. Some trusts must be kept.
He squats beside them, runs a hand along one arm. ‘You coming, Skin?’ Skinpainter turns their head towards him, holds Shroudweaver’s gaze. Their face drawn with pain and sorrow, but still coloured by kindness. Broad, flat cheekbones, heavy graceful brows. That one nicked ear.
They cup Shroudweaver’s cheek in their palm as their other hand flows small simple patterns across Icecaller that settle into her wounds like a weary dog.
‘I’m so glad you found your daughter, Shroud.’ Their voice is ragged, hoarse to breaking, roughening as their grip tightens. ‘Keep her safe.’ Their eyes flick to his shoulder, to Slickwalker. ‘Keep her safe.’
‘Come with us, Skin,’ Shroudweaver says, because he has to. But he knows the reply before it comes.
‘No, Shroud.’ They look up to the roof, take a deep breath. ‘This is my mountain.’ A smile skirts their face, as they turn their head out into the darkness. ‘These are my people.’ Their hands linger on Icecaller’s neck, on her face. ‘Take her instead, and the little one. She doesn’t deserve to watch her sister die in the dark.’
Shroudweaver fights a tightness in his throat, a catch beneath his ribs. ‘We can all get out of here, together.’
Skinpainter’s eyes are soft. ‘You know that’s a lie.’ They pat his arm, ‘This is my mountain, Shroud. I have responsibilities. I’ll buy you some time.’
They stand slowly, painfully, walk to the edge of the group, and begin inking a circle.
The darkness chatters in response, as the dead gather. Backs straighter, gait sharper. Confusion sliding off their bones as the effects of the weaving dwindle into the dark.
Shroudweaver runs after their old friend, his hand light on their shoulder. ‘You’ll die here.’
Skinpainter pulls him close to their broad chest. ‘There now,’they whisper, ‘would that be so bad? We all die somewhere.’
They hold each other for a second, until Skinpainter pushes him gently away. Their fingers linger. ‘Keep her safe, Shroud.’
They call over his shoulder to Shipwright. ‘Keep him safe, Ship.’
She raises a hand, lets it fall slowly.
At their backs, Slickwalker has crossed to where Crowkisser is stooped over Quickfish’s body. The boy’s unmistakeable up close, he has Fallon’s hammered nose, his mother’s high brow. At his side, the lad’s partner raises the axe wearily, Roofkeeper, he remembers now.
Slickwalker spreads his gloved palms. ‘Peace. I’m just here to see the magic at work.’
Crowkisser ignores them both. Her fingers pick their way up Quickfish’s crushed throat, along the jaw, over lips and teeth. A brief flutter as she slips her hand deep into his mouth, releasing something. He begins to choke in heaving gasps, his ribcage convulsing. Roofkeeper starts forwards, and Slickwalker catches his arm in a steel grip. ‘Don’t fuck it up, kid.’
He pulls Roofkeeper back from Crowkisser’s irritated gestures and watches as something squirms deep in Quickfish’s throat, burrowing and pushing outwards. Crushed cartilage realigns with a wet pop. Like a heron, Crowkisser plunges her fingers down into a gasping mouth, withdraws a crow, fluttering and wet with spit. She steadies herself astride Quickfish’s ribs and swallows it whole with a crunch of small bones. A wing spasms weakly against her lips, and Fallon’s kid inhales like a surfacing drowner.
Roofkeeper throws his arms around Crowkisser. Her arms stiffen as he pulls back and looks her in the eye. ‘Thank you. I owe you.’
She smiles wearily with bloodstained lips, glancing out into the darkness. The dead have gathered just beyond the arch, at the edge of the light. Time’s almost up.
