Chapter 41
Imagine! to say the dead have passed away
when you see the birds, the fires,
the smoke that lies so low upon the land
—The Blue Beyond the Halls, Hallowfeather
Shroudweaver leaves Shipwright in the street and follows Fallon’s broad back through the twisting backstreets of Thriftglow, off the main thoroughfare of the Ghostmarket, towards a shop whose sign is barely visible in the light – a slim silver sigil, high on the dark wood. A birch tree.
The street is warm, the last scraps of morning sun filtered into green by a profusion of plants spilling from the balconies above.
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 a counter 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.’
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.’
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’ve perfected it.’
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. ‘I hate surprises.’
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?’