Shipwright and Shroudweaver glance at each other. Shipwright shifts awkwardly.
‘When was the last time you were up there?’ Shroudweaver asks, gently.
Fallon walks his fingers up the map. ‘Fuck knows. Ten, fifteen years. It’s over five hundred weeping miles.’
‘Exactly,’ Shroudweaver says. ‘We haven’t seen them since the fall of the Empire. Near enough twenty years. Who knows what they’re doing up there? Heaven knows we didn’t leave reeking of glory.’
‘Dog piss,’ Fallon says. ‘They only chased you out because you saved them. Nobody likes owing their life to someone. And fucking nobody likes their saviour popping in every couple of weeks.’
He uncorks a fresh bottle of something amber and acrid and swills it morosely.
‘Those bloody-lipped stone-fuckers crave independence like mother’s milk and your skinny little arse reminds them they’d still be dancing on the Emperor’s ragged strings if it wasn’t for you.’
Shroudweaver grimaces. ‘That might all be true, but we’re a generation down from any good we ever did. Skinpainter’s the only real friend we have left up there, and they can’t tell half of what they saw. Kinghammer’s grateful, I’ve no doubt, but he’s ambitious too. I don’t fit his plans. And his kids have had decades to hear tall tales about me. The problems I caused. The hands I forced.’ He twines a loose hair, pulls. ‘We might find allies up there. We might get a spear between the ribs.’
Fallon leans in. ‘I get it, but we have a window. Kisser won’t get a warm welcome up there either. Not from what I’ve heard. Tight lips and tight borders. Scared of the gods, and of what killed them. That’s why Kinghammer’s closed himself up tighter than a spinster’s clam. That’s why half my scouts are riding back with damp breeks and lame horses.’
Shipwright pushes aside the thrum of her own pulse and fumbles for the glass. ‘It’s too much of a risk.’
Fallon’s eyes narrow. ‘Since when did you run scared of a little risk?’
‘Since I fished the crew of theVolanteout a cold sea, Fallon. If we go back to Thell, we have no idea what we are walking into. They have done everything to push us away. And nothing to invite us.’
She looks to Shroud, beseeching. ‘Tell him, love. Tell him that we can’t go through that again.’ And he, more than anyone should know. This should be the easiest sell.
Except she sees his fingers stiffen, and his shoulders set, and she knows that secret he’s been hiding is about to slink forth. All those unspoken equations finally adding up.
‘I had a dream,’ he says, and there’s a dry humour to it, because he knows how stupid it sounds. And of course, she remembers the dream, and his shaking, twitching bones, but he hadn’t saidanything, just sipped his water and gone back to sleep.
Fallon clocks it though. He sees the shift, and practiced politician that he is, moves in.
‘A dream?’ Careful, considered. It’d be easy to mock this, but Fallon knows when to play it close, play it kind.
‘Shroud,’ Ship says, but he waves her away. His fingers flutter again.
the heart like breathing, the truth like breath
And it isn’t fair for him to say that. But she loves him, so she chokes down the fear coiling in her lungs and waits.
Shroudweaver speaks, and the way he holds himself, you’d think his entire body was trying to move away from the words. ‘If we want to stop a godkiller, we need to build a new god.’
‘Bloody shit,’ Fallon says. He holds his hands out in front of him, palms out. ‘OK, give me a damn second. I was expecting a gunshot and you fired a broadside.’
Shipwright watches them both and tries to nail them to their chairs with sheer willpower. She wraps her fingers around the delicate stem of that pretty glass and tries to stop the world fromturning. It fails, like it always does, catastrophe rolling in on the riptide again.
Fallon levers himself up, swearing and carping. He walks around the table until they are all on the same side, until he’s close enough to shove himself between Ship and Shroud, close enough to lay a meaty hand on the weaver’s thin shoulders.
‘What are you saying to me, Shroud? Could we hit her with one of your gods then? A sucker punch? If we find a body fresh enough and strong enough, could one of those little golden bastards blow a hole through that feathered bitch?’
Shipwright watches Shroudweaver compose himself, the tiny pulse in his neck the only sign of his racing mind.
He shakes his head slowly, chews his lip. When he speaks, his words click into place like the tumblers of a lock.
‘No. No, I don’t think so. Whatever she’s done, she’s changed the rules.’
He pauses, turns, stretches fingers through worried hair.
‘Or at least, she’s changed the rules as I understand them. Calling gods. It’s … not what it was. It costs more. They burn out faster. The fuel required is … unimaginable. Even little gods cinder quick.’
