The holdsnake slips off her shoulders and undulates off across the floor. Shroudweaver follows its curves, starting at the touch of her fingers on his arm, the faintest thrill along his skin.
‘So, darling heart, what can I do for you? I’m definitely old enough to know this isn’t just a social call. That would require social skills on your part.’
Shroudweaver looks around. The racks of jars, the roofbeams hung with threads and small skulls. The half-closed shutters.
‘This place hasn’t changed much.’
Smokesister looks down, smiles softly. ‘Change isn’t my job, Shroudweaver.’
She slips down from the counter, cocks her head at the door.‘Fallon’s cowering outside, I assume.’
Shroudweaver fingers the fabric under his hands. ‘Holding down the fort.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Sure.’
A clink from the high shelves as the holdsnake dislodges a jar. She stretches a hand out as it falls, catches it neatly.
‘Fast as ever, I see.’
She sets it back in place, coaxes the animal down onto her shoulder. ‘Little shit. I stay fit, Shroud. Old habits. I’m bad at staying still.’
He traces his fingers across a few of the jars, marvels at the selection of powders, chemicals, components. ‘You’ve got more stock than ever. How? I would have thought the war would have …’
She moves to stand behind him, noticeably close, her scent of peppercorns and soap.
‘… hindered my supply? Darling, I’m the last one in my business left alive.’
Her fingers drum on his back as she thinks. ‘Let’s see. There was the nice blonde boy in Astic, and the woman with the hand-thing in the city down south. I wonder whatever happened to them.’
She moves back to the chair, turning it to face the counter. ‘Ash and dust and crow fodder I suppose.’ The fabrics are cleared to one side; beneath, the wood is marked with intricate sigils, circles upon circles, flowing script threading them like the roots of a tree, or veins in a body. He’s seen Smokesister’s work before, but it takes his breath away each time.
She places an arm at each end of the counter and looks up at him. ‘I suppose this is what you’re really here about. The dead, in some respect.’
He gets closer, squints at the patterns, the precise etching.
‘Am I that obvious?’
‘With you, darling, it’s always about the dead, in some respect. So, what is it this time?’
Shroudweaver flicks his eyes anxiously across the room. ‘We’re heading north.’
‘The north is big, sweetheart. Do you mean the actual north? To the blades? Should I pack tea? Beans? Dogfood?’
She watches him for a second, and her face falls. ‘Oh, you’re going to Thell.’
He nods. ‘Yep.’
‘Well,’ she says. ‘That’s stupid.’
He winces. ‘Thanks, Smokesister.’
She licks a finger, scratches at an errant line in the design.
‘Did you come here for help or for me to stroke your ego?’
‘Can’t I have both?’
‘No. Your ego and practical advice are incompatible. We know this. We’ve known since I helped you design the binding in the first place.’
