Fallon stops at the door and gestures him inside. ‘They don’t pay me enough.’
‘They don’t pay you at all,’ Shroudweaver mutters.
He grins. ‘My point exactly.’
Inside, the last of the light is muted, only occasionally pushing through slats to illuminate shelves racked with red and silver thread. Bulbous glass jars full of sifted and milled powders, meticulously labelled. Shroudweaver recognises a few symbols from the Aestering; southern work. The rest is a mishmash of arcana – cut marks that might be from the north, beads dipped in the colours of Thell, a spear etched with the script of the Heron Halls.
A couple of furtive customers brush past him as they leave, their hands busy with scarves and wraps that shift in the shadows. They shoot him wary looks, their eyes lighting on the bindings that fringe his wrists.
A high-backed chair sits at the far end of the shop, behind acounter spread with fabrics in neat divisions. Silks, thicker wools, suede; a cloak, maybe.
She’s half-turned from him at first, so that he only sees her arms. Long gloves, high above the elbow, fingertips snipped out for dexterity, the thick cinch at the cuffs doubtless to protect against burns, skin-lock, blood contaminants. Not everything in those jars is benign.
She turns to him as he approaches, the profile of her face hanging in the half-light like an eclipsed moon. ‘Took you long enough, darling.’
Smokesister hasn’t changed – tall, a mess of dark hair in a long, thick braid held with purple ribbon and a fur stole around her neck, white as bone, tipped with black. Perhaps a little more silver in her hair. Perhaps a few more lines at the corner of her mouth when she smiles.
‘I was a little delayed.’
‘So I heard. You may have raised that daughter of yours too well.’ She rises, stalks towards him, boot tapping on the floor, the metal of her other leg knocking gently against the boards.
She stops in front of him, takes his chin in her hands and turns it slowly left and right. ‘Let me get a better look at you.’
Smokesister holds his gaze for a moment, large eyes the colour of blackberries lingering on his face and a half-smile on her lips. ‘You look old, dear heart.’
‘I am old, Smoke.’
She walks around him, trailing her fingers over his collarbone as she moves.
‘We’re all old, Shroud. You have to learn to work with it.’
He grins. ‘I see you have.’
The fur around her neck lifts its head as he draws near, wriggles, bares its teeth, its black eyes neat in a flat, sharp-toothed head.
Shroudweaver starts. ‘A holdsnake, Smoke, really?’
Her laugh is as clear as fresh water.
‘I couldn’t resist. My father used to have one, you know? Proper ship’s captain, with one of these beasts slung over your shoulders. I couldn’t turn it down.’
She hops up on the counter, ruffling the silks, pats the space next to her. ‘Come, sit.’
He levers himself up, edges closer, cautiously. The holdsnake chitters, and she runs a finger along its jaw.
‘He’s hungry. Pass me the jar by your hand.’
He does, and she unscrews the lid, popping something black, crunchy and multilegged into its mouth. It eats noisily, half-chewed limbs sticking out like a strange little beard.
‘He keeps the vermin down, at least. Keeps me company.’ She turns to Shroud, arches an eyebrow. ‘Did you know they sell them to all the fancy ladies, dip-dyed parti-colour in great vats?’ She feeds it again. ‘Half of them escape and live feral in the attics by the week’s end. They’d be better off hunting rats on the ships where they’re supposed to be.’ She snorts, ‘Of course it does mean that every so often some unlucky thief stumbles on a nest of rainbow murder.’ Grins at him, barely keeping the mirth behind her lips.
Shroudweaver glances at the roof. ‘The voice of experience, Smoke?’
The laughter bubbles out of her, doubling her over. She thumps the counter, tries to bring it under control. Fails.
Shroudweaver watches her. He’s missed that goofy laugh.
Eventually she sighs, wipes tears from her eyes. ‘Everything has its little perks.’
