‘Good to be able rely on one’s old friends, when the world shifts.’
Belltoller makes a noncommittal noise.
‘Times like these, we remember how much we owe to each other. Wouldn’t you agree?’
She turns to look at them. The warlock is always bigger than she remembers, something strange about their shape in that robe. The sense of something being held back. Like staring into one of the deep caves, and only too late noticing the spoor of wolves or bear.
‘I have a good memory, Painter. Better than most.’
They nod, smile softly again. Their warm voice like honey heated and stirred. ‘Of course, then you will remember Twicefallow, and the sound it made when it broke. You will remember what was almost lost there. And you will remember who brought it back.’
Warm words that slide ice into her heart. She moves to step away, but their hand is on her wrist. Such strong fingers, honed from the work of moving ink and blood.
‘You do remember, Bell? Do you remember that high sound in that dark night? Do you remember what followed after?’
‘I can never forget, Painter. What is your point?’
‘My point, old friend, is that sometimes, a little change can scare us, but when we remember how we have overcome adversity together in the past, than a little change seems small weather for our sturdy boat.’
Skinpainter waits. They watch the Deadsingers, whose eyesflash in the half-light. They have paused just before the passage opens up into a warmer cavern. Food, and drink; laughter and light just beyond.
Skinpainter waits. Belltoller’s hand twitches. For a second, she brushes the metal curve of the bell beneath her robes, watching as Skinpainter’s own fingers move, just a little, in response.
‘Are we rowing in the same direction, Bell? Or will we be swept away like the good people of Twicefallow, who made one resounding mistake?’
Their amber eyes hold her like a moth trapped in resin. She matches it, for a time, then slumps.
‘You want my assent in Council.’
Skinpainter inclines their head. ‘If you are offering it so freely, who am I to refuse?’
Her lips set in a hard line. She fights the urge to spit. ‘In remembrance of our time in Twicefallow then.’
Skinpainter’s voice is soft, pleased, like a cat. ‘I am glad to hear it old friend. For truly, is that not the burden of your name, and your trade? Shall we focus on the sound of the bell, and forget the toll?’
‘I think not,’ she says, clipped, furious.
‘Then I look forward to your assent when young Quickfish brings forth his petition.’
Belltoller steps forward. For a moment it seems as though Skinpainter will not move, but they bow graciously, and wave her past. She storms outwards, towards the smell of frying venison, towards some honest light.
The Deadsingers move to follow, but Skinpainter is there again, red and yellow flickering in the dark of the passageway. Their smile sharper than before.
‘Singers. I require your assent, in addition.’
The pair look at each other. The left mutters something, and the right amplifies. ‘No debts to pay to your double-flesh.’
Skinpainter actually laughs. Light and easy.
‘Of course not, ladies. No debts. For you have always stayed clean and clear. Reading the wind, and the songs, the murmurs ofthe dead and those moving towards death. Ah, I understand how soothing it must be.’
The warlock steps closer. The Singers look at them. Elderly women in the end. Small. Slight. Frail.
‘How soothing it must be,’ Skinpainter says. ‘And how quickly these things can change. If we don’t take care, tomorrow, the very wind might fall still. The dead could finally find peace. Silence would descend on you both. Like a shroud.’
The pair say nothing, but step closer together. Skinpainter laughs again. ‘Of course, we do not need to worry. We will remain united. We will support our friends. And we will prevent harm coming to one another. Yes?’
The question hangs in the half-light. Eventually, the leftmost sister nods.
