Shroudweaver’s voice is soft. ‘Who else was I going to go to? No one’s as precise as you, Smoke. Not when it comes to ritual.’
She smiles, genuinely pleased. ‘My blessing. My curse.’ Her eyes linger on his face for a second. ‘Can I make you something to drink?’
‘Do you still do that berry fizz?’
Her teeth gleam. ‘I’veperfectedit.’
Drinks are decanted from a stoppered demijohn whose valve fizzes and bucks. Poured into tall, smoky glasses where the liquid bubbles light and red.
Shroudweaver sips, tilts his head back, lets out a groan of joy. ‘Oh, how I’ve missed that.’
She turns her glass thoughtfully. ‘I’ll give you a case not to go.’
He shakes his head. ‘We need to reach Thell before Crowkisser. I need to harness the dead to finish her.’
Smokesister twists her lips sympathetically. ‘Have things really got that bad?’
‘They’ve been this bad for a while, Smoke.’
She sips again, glances out the window. ‘I try not to think about it too much.’
He touches her hand, briefly. ‘It’s that bad.’
She watches him, dark eyes, elegant brows. ‘OK, I believe you. Thell, to harness the dead.’
He nods.
Air hisses out slowly between her teeth. The holdsnake hisses in reply. ‘To harness them, you’ll need to unbind them.’
‘I’m aware.’
‘You won’t be able to do it partially. We never planned for that. This was supposed to be final. You twit.’
He shrugs. ‘Life’s full of surprises.’
Smokesister screws up her face. ‘Ihatesurprises.’
She moves to the shelves. ‘How are you stocked? Sulphur? Powder?’ Her voice brisk as she uncorks jars, measures them out into a set of cast iron scales. ‘What am I saying? Let me guess. You’re running low?’
He nods sheepishly.
She throws up her hands. ‘Decades as a grown man and you still can’t keep stocked on the basics. It’ll be the death of you, mark me.’
She measures, packages, seals. Waves them at him. ‘Waterproofed, double-ended, quick release. Don’t dunk them in anything for too long or drop them overboard and you’ll be fine. Got it?’
He smiles. ‘Yes, Smoke.’
‘Don’t “yes, Smoke” me. Rolling in here without a pinch of powder. Let’s see, what’s next? Threads – red, and silver.’ She pulls on a hank which flows down from one of the beam spindles. Glances over her shoulder. ‘You still carrying them all wound around under your sleeves?’
‘It makes things quicker.’
She sighs. ‘I’d hate to have to undress you.’
He splutters and she grins. Cuts from the spindles with a sharp pair of dressmaking shears, the threads falling like air, gathered and twisted one-handed into neat little hanks. ‘Well, you can put them on yourself. More than I’m worth.’
She adds them to the stack.
‘So much for supplies.’ She puts a finger to her lips. ‘Ah, wait, needles.’ She slips a drawer open and selects a range, like a magpie in a silversmith’s. ‘Various gauges. I assume you’ll be working with your own body, but just in case.’
