Chapter 67
Light the hearts that love the sea
Bright the face that seeks the sun
Light the bones that crave the lee
Draw the web until its spun
—Midlands waulking song (trad.)
He slips his hand into hers. It’s rough, solid.
His thumb traces the calluses on her palms. Ropework and sea-strain.
The nails of his right hand worry at the red threads around his wrist. Keeping them loose. There’s not much worse than a binding ribbon wound too tight. His timing needs to be impeccable. If he unwinds the threads at the wrong moment, he’ll tear his chest apart.
The dead are still for now, but he can feel them moving beneath his ribs, coiling around his heart, calling out to the older souls buried in the barrows.
He senses a pulse of movement in response, like eels below ground, nudging against the deep-driven cairn posts, flowing over stone, through mud.
Following the trail of his footsteps like wolves after spoor. Seeking unity.
In the far distance, the people of Thell line the battlements, high ridges of stone that jut out from the Stump, piled with drystone and shale.
Parapets that open anyone approaching across the fields below to a rain of spears, fresh from the nervous hands of the men and women above.
The stink of their fear is sharp, even from here.
A whole mountain brought to bay at the sight of two old fools.
He’d laugh if he wasn’t so shit scared of dying on those spears.
As they walk closer, Shroudweaver squints against the sun.
He can’t make them out from this distance. He sees painted faces, tattooed skin, a bulk in the middle that might be Kinghammer. He can’t see Belltoller, but he can hear her, the echo of iron bells lingering over the landscape.
No sign of Quickfish, for good or ill.
His head swims. This close to Thell, it’s like walking underwater. He’s felt the dead at the edge of his mind for a while now. The bound souls of the Empire fill his head like static. Coiling around his heart, squeezing and straining to be free.
Shipwright hums nervously as she walks beside him.
An old eastern shanty, lilting and low. Her boots turn stones, clods of earth.
The road to the Stump is worn, too many feet coming in and out of Thell, the last flurry before war.
She squeezes his fingers gently. ‘If they try anything, stay behind me.’
He smiles weakly. ‘If they try anything, I’m going to run.’
She pulls him closer, plants a kiss on the top of his head. ‘On those skinny pins? Not likely.’
She smells of the road, of grass and grease. There’s a tear in her shirt. He puts an arm around her and breathes a little easier.
She watches the horizon as she talks, counting blades lifted against the sky. ‘You’re worn through aren’t you?’
He turns his wrist to catch a stray thread. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Only to me.’
They crest a small rise. A barrow long sunk into the grass. Distantly, a figure emerges from the shadow of the mountain. A thing of rags and ribbons in the deep cleft of the gate. Skinpainter. Shroudweaver’s heart soars to see them.
As his mood lifts, the bound souls pulse within his veins, and he staggers slightly. Shipwright wordlessly moves her hand to his waist, creates a hollow for him to lean in to. ‘It’s the dead, isn’t it?’
He nods. When she speaks about them, he feels them push against his skin, and against the skin of the earth in return. His body is the thinnest barrier, just waiting to tear. He winces, pulls the red threads tighter, rubs charcoal between the tips of his fingers. The sensation fades, a little.
She watches from the corner of her eye. ‘It’s not just that though, is it? You miss her. Crowkisser.’
He shrugs. ‘I know it’s terrible.’
‘Bollocks it is. You’re her father. It’s not your fault she’s … tricky.’
He laughs.
She slows her steps. Keeps some space between them and Skinpainter’s approach. ‘Have you sensed her at all?’
A shake of the head. ‘Can’t hear anything out here. Except the dead. And you.’
She squeezes his hand again. ‘Are you ready for this?’
He makes a soft affirmative noise. ‘I’ll follow your lead, love.’
Shipwright watches Skinpainter’s broad figure stop a few metres away, their cloak hanging tatterdemalion in the still air.
A faint flicker of excitement flares in her chest, with just a tinge of resentment beneath, sitting like brine on barnacles.
She’s not sure how to express it all, so she just nods.
‘Skinpainter. All these years and still no new threads?’
A smile splits the shadow beneath their hood. ‘I’m comfortable in these, Ship.’
It doesn’t lighten her mood. She presses her lips together. ‘Are you going to let us in?’
In answer, Skinpainter turns, raising their arms to the assembled crowd on the battlements. Their voice slides over their shoulder, faintly amused. ‘That all depends, Ship. Why are you both here?’
She bites down on a reply as she feels Shroudweaver’s light touch on her shoulder.
He moves into the space between them. When he speaks it’s quiet, careful. ‘We’re here for unbinding, Skin.’
Skinpainter turns back to them, their hands still spread grandiosely wide. The grin hangs in their face like a key in a lock.
‘Are you sure you can handle it?’
Shroudweaver’s answering smile is thin. ‘As sure as I was that I could bind them.’ He straightens. ‘Smokesister’s work is strong. It’s held them until now. But it won’t last … I won’t last much longer.’
Skinpainter steps closer, their voice soft, eyes heavy and serious. ‘Not here. Not yet.’
Shroudweaver shakes his head. ‘No. It’s too soon. I’m saving them for Crowkisser.’
Skinpainter’s eyes go wide. ‘A composite? Unbound?’
Shroudweaver nods.
Skinpainter stifles a laugh. ‘You haven’t got any more humble, have you?’
Shipwright smiles despite herself. ‘They know you too well, Shroud.’
Skinpainter shoots her a grin as they take Shroudweaver’s hands, running a thumb over frayed red threads.
‘Will this help us win?’ They flick their eyes at the mountain. ‘Will it keep them safe?’
Shroudweaver tightens his grip. ‘It will. I swear.’
Skinpainter holds his gaze for a moment, seems to find whatever they’re looking for.
‘I’ve not regretted trusting you yet, Shroud. But what about them?’ Their eyes again track along the battlements, stopping on Kinghammer’s bulk. ‘They’re expecting a grand reunion. And they’re tense as cats on a griddle.’ They pause. ‘There’s been a few complications I need to catch you up on.’
Shroudweaver sighs. ‘Complications. Of course. Well, we’ll do what we always do, Painter. Make it look like we’ve got everything under control, until we have half a clue what’s going on.’
Skinpainter shrugs resignedly. ‘Fine, I don’t have any better ideas.’ They roll their shoulders. ‘OK. Fuck. Best make it look good.’
‘Full theatrics?’ Shroudweaver asks.
Skinpainter grins. ‘Is there any other way?’
In response, Shroudweaver raises his red right hand, and begins unpicking the outer weaves.
Keeps a tight hold of the dead, but throws in a stagger, as best he can.
Playing to an audience with life and death on the line.
He feels Smokesister’s bindings twitch around his ribs, and imagines her wry, disapproving smile.
Holds Skinpainter’s gaze as the bones of his hand slide loose from the tight-wound thread. ‘Do you think that sold it?’
Skinpainter’s posture never changes, only their voice, thrumming deep and soft. ‘I think they’ll eat you alive unless we do a bit more to convince them.’ They cock their head thoughtfully. ‘Although, I might be able to help with that.’
The old warlock pauses for a second, as their rags flare around them. Sinuous, hypnotic. ‘Don’t flinch,’ they murmur, stepping forwards. ‘Make it look real.’
Shroudweaver feels their broad arms embrace him. The shape of his old friend beneath their robes. Stark, muscular, strangely angled. A brief pulse of unexpected life along their flank.
Shipwright joins them, her arms a light band around his quickening breaths. As she closes the circle, the cheers from above are deafening.
‘They bought it,’ Skinpainter murmurs. ‘Depths and ice, they bought it. Precious little fools.’ As their chest begins to shake it takes Shroudweaver some time to realise they’re laughing.
When Skinpainter speaks again, they lean close, their jaw grazing his skin.
He glimpses an eye black as glass, alert, mirthful.
‘Come on then,’ they mutter. ‘Let’s help you upend everything. Again.’