Shroudweaver yawns. ‘Well, this is the place for it.’
They walk onwards and downwards as the business of pleasure carries on in Peacock’s Rest, in its shaded courtyards, with their cobbled stones crowded with patterns and their fountains thick with lilies. Geckos on the porticos, scuttling between the tiled tables and the softly steaming urns of tea.
Heads turn to watch them pass; hooded figures in rich robes, others with hats like the chewed ear of a rat. Fallon sees Shipwright following their stares.
‘Guildsmen. Squabbling like gulls every morning. It’s guilds all the way down, these days. Got their hands in all the important trade. For better or worse.’
‘Are they a problem?’ Shroudweaver asks.
‘Not yet,’ Fallon replies. ‘Wait until the war bites. Then we’ll see.’
Past another courtyard, another clutch of lidded stares. A tall, dark-skinned woman lingers in an archway, a massive hat pulled low over eyes, a single long feather sprouting from the band. She tugs it respectfully as Fallon passes, flashing an eerily bright smile.
‘Morning, Brim,’ Fallon says.
She smiles wider, sparkling. ‘Nice to see the old gang back together, Declan.’
He hustles them past. ‘It’s a delight. Can’t stop though. We’ve got appointments.’
They round a corner, taking a set of small, staggered steps to the bottom of the loop, stepping over fruit peel and broken glass.
‘Can’t stop, eh, Declan?’ Shroudweaver’s face is sceptical.
Fallon leans on the edge of a water fountain, rubs his stitches. ‘Partially true. Truer that we don’t have time for Brim.’
‘Don’t fuss with those,’ Shipwright cuts in. ‘Why not?’ She splashes her face, wipes grit from her eyes. ‘She’s still a great-ship captain, right?’
Fallon nods, gargles, spits. ‘One of the best. And one of the last, of course. Sailed with us at Luss, if you remember. Not a captain then. The old one had to die first.’
‘That didn’t take long once we were through the gates,’ Shipwright mutters, glancing over her shoulder.
‘What’s with her teeth these days?’ Shroudweaver asks.
Fallon grins. ‘Sharp eyes. Filed them down herself. Capped them off with little shards of pearl.’ He shivers. ‘Spooky bitch.’
‘I always liked her hat,’ Shipwright says, drying her hands on the edge of her shirt. ‘Can I get a hat, Declan?’
She leans across to Shroudweaver. ‘Maybe that’s our appointment? A nice new hat.’ She smiles sweetly at Fallon, ‘Is it?’
He rolls his eyes, and leads them downslope through a maze of alleys that press one against the other. They can still hear the canals, distantly, but even the light is muted here, coloured awnings strung across the close-leaning streets, cutting the shadow into stripes of red, orange, purple.
‘Two places we’re due today,’ Fallon says. ‘Anything look familiar?’ Shroudweaver scans the street more closely, takes in the swinging signs, the windows fronted with wooden boards that doubled as stall fronts arrayed with curios, some strung out with quiet precision, others in heaps of indiscriminate value. Metal and bone and chain and gem.
‘Thriftglow,’ he says. ‘The Ghostmarket.’
He remembers it more clearly now. It’s not much changed from his first time there, with its doorways hung with bunches of herbs, its slowly rattling chimes moving in the dust spirals and heat. The stallholders impassive behind their wares, their eyes bright as hunting hawks. The customers quiet – sifting through their offerings, judging by touch as much as sight.
Declan grins as they look around. ‘You need supplies, right?’
Shipwright frowns. ‘Ropecharmer’ll take care of all that stuff, Dec.’
He waves a hand dismissively, narrowly missing a delicate charm of hanging arrowheads. ‘Not that dull shit. Hard tack and rope and crab tar, or whatever the hell you sailors use. I’m talking the real deal. Brass and copper. Thread and powder. Magic, dipshits.’
Shroudweaver laughs. ‘Is that our new codename? He’s right, Ship. I’m almost dry. Thread’s near burnt through and my powders are just dust and spit at this point. And you said yourself the spinners are stressed.’
Shipwright rubs the bridge of her nose. ‘Me and the spinners both. Declan, do we have time for shopping trips?’
The grin on his face steadies. ‘Ship, I don’t know magic. I don’t want to know it. How you do what you do can die with you. And certainly Shroud’s kit gives me the crawling shivers.’ He picks up a bowl, turns it critically, sets it down. ‘But I know war. And you don’t send anyone off to war without kit. Get your kit. Do this right. Stay safe.’
