Chapter 68 #2
Skinpainter rolls their sleeves back and rubs at tired arms. ‘I know, Ship. I’ve seen her.
Sensed her. Still, we’ve weathered worse storms. You know that.
’ They pour into outstretched cups. ‘It doesn’t mean we aren’t breaking out the oilskins.
The army is ready. I’m ready. Belltoller hasn’t relaxed for twenty years.
We’re ready.’ They stop, hands spread across the tankards.
‘But until we know how this is going to play out, we’re not going to trust you.
And until we trust you – this is how it stays.
’ They laugh, run hands wearily across their temples.
‘For the love of. You know everything. You were there on the day we took the Emperor down.’ They point a finger at Shroud.
‘You were the last to speak to him. Can’t you see why that’s a problem?
Can’t you see why that scares them all?’ The finger drops.
They drink. ‘I’m sorry. I’m tired. Drunk. Not drunk enough. I don’t know.’
Shroudweaver folds his hands and Shipwright watches his face change into something cold and hard. ‘I should think trust is the least of what the Republic owes me.’
The red threads around his wrist follow his pointing fingers. ‘You want to know what I want? Kinghammer wants to know? I want to unbind the dead I’ve carried for you for twenty damn years. I want to save your people. Again.’
Skinpainter’s fists clench. For a moment, Shipwright sees their jaw working furiously under their hood. Nigh shifts uncomfortably.
‘Save us from your own daughter.’ They shrug expressively. ‘Twenty years changes a lot, Shroud. It’s not that we don’t want to help.’
‘It’s just more convenient not to.’ Shroudweaver is straight-backed, skin flushed, the breath skittering in his lungs. He’s furious. Shipwright can read it in every line of his bones.
Skinpainter says nothing, but reaches out to draw Nigh a little closer. She looks plaintively at Shipwright as she reluctantly complies.
For a moment, the silence hangs heavy between them.
‘What this then? Three maudlin cunts and a little arsehole.’
Icecaller’s voice breaks the quiet like rocks on ice.
Skinpainter’s shoulders slump, just briefly. ‘Icecaller, meet …’ For a moment, Skinpainter tries to use their old names. It slips oily over their tongue. They gesture, ‘… Shipwright, Shroudweaver.’
Icecaller grins. ‘Ah yes. Our not-honoured guests. My father’s fucking bricking it with you here.’ She holds a hand out. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m the smart, pretty one. And anyone that can make my father shit frost is fine by me.’
Shipwright takes it. Feels the calluses, the tight muscle. ‘You’re a warrior,’ she says.
Icecaller nods. ‘Warrior. Poet. Best sister. Worst daughter.’ She wiggles her fingers, ‘I’ve got a lot on my plate.’
She claps Shroudweaver around the shoulders. ‘Thanks for looking after this little bratbag.’
Nigh leans her head back, sticks her tongue out. Ice leans down, licks her forehead, covers her in kisses. She screams, scatters back into Shroudweaver’s lap.
Icecaller winks. ‘See, this is how I help you make friends.’ She slings her legs over the bench, sits between them. ‘I am the unpleasant alternative.’ She takes a flask off her belt and waves it at Skinpainter. ‘Fill her up, Hoods. I’m exhausted. Just been chatting to Dad.’
Icecaller looks left, right. ‘So,’ she says. ‘Are you twats going to pull your bloody fingers out and play your hand?’
Shroudweaver takes Nigh’s hands in his own, begins winding red thread around her right palm.
She watches closely, small teeth tight on her lips.
He holds Icecaller’s gaze, lets his eyes travel over her face.
Bright blue eyes. The same high cheekbones as her sister.
Blonde hair shaved close on one side, loose on the other.
Marked with geometrics, like the rest of them.
Scarred, a little. A pleasant, lazy smile.
Icecaller clicks her fingers in front of his face. ‘Not in front of the children.’ With a toss of her head, she flicks her eyes to Shipwright. ‘What are you? Partner? Lover? Carer?’
‘All of them,’ Shipwright murmurs.
Shroudweaver shoots Icecaller a look. ‘I was just noticing the family resemblance.’ He pauses, sits Nigh into the hollow of his stomach, ties off a knot.
Icecaller’s eyebrows are expectant. He pats Nigh’s wrist, shakes his head at her big sister.
‘I think given the apparent delicacy of the situation, it’s better to wait until we see Kinghammer. ’
Icecaller snorts. ‘Not the smartest down south are you?’ She leans into him.
‘I’m his d.a.u.g.h.t.e.r. The one that isn’t perpetually covered in snot.
That means, I have the connections.’ She mimes it, grinning.
‘Look, if you level with Skin and me, we can probably speed things along. I don’t really want my dad scared.
And if there’s stuff out there that we should be worried about, let’s be prepared for it. ’
She leans forwards, shoulders angled. ‘It’s bad enough with Fallon’s kid here mooning about the place. So, lay it on me straight, is your daughter marching to kill us all?’
Shipwright catches her arm. ‘Declan Fallon’s son is here?’
Icecaller’s eyes flick from Shipwright, to Skinpainter’s aghast face and back again.
‘Yes. Right. He is. You didn’t—? Oh. Bollocks.’