Chapter 85
I won’t say anything agin’ her
I won’t
she knows, she always knows
—Last words of Pineye, glimmer, shanksman
Messy little bits. Scraps and shavings. Metal spiralled off with quick, careful movements. Pins held between mummed lips. Fingers quick and deft, livered and blotched. Powerful chemicals and strange acids. Nails chipped and filled full to gumming with oil, rust, picky little grubbings.
A steady, white-powdered hand over stubble.
Sucked teeth, hen clucks. Springs teased and poked and tickled.
Just so. Wires slimmer than fingers, pushing, prodding, waiting for the click and drop.
A surge of adrenaline. Glass stressed. The murmuring creak of an almost crack.
Something bitter and burning inside. A twist, hold the pressure in the wrist, run a thumb up the nose and lick the lips.
There, there we go. Easing off, soft, goosey interlockings, downy little leavings.
Coaxing sluggish bolts with black oilings.
One drop, two, the pull and spin and then the swing.
Slow, heavy. Hands through mussy, mussy hair.
Little grey wires. Little grey wires. She straightens, runs a hand down her aching spine. Waves a hand.
‘There you go.’
Fallon smiles at her, squats down by the opened belly of the safe and digs his hands in. He withdraws oilcloth bundles, bags, papers, a box, Arissa’s hands light on his shoulder.
Cog watches them, scratches her neck. A scab comes loose.
Messy, messy little bits. She flicks a nail clean, then turns her attention happily back to Fallon, to his ox-thighs and bristle-brush, his back like a slab.
A good buck if you could ride it. She scratches her stomach and adjusts her belt hooks.
The grey lady’s thinner, beautiful like an axe is beautiful.
Every edge of her sharp and tidy. Probably worth a finger dip, if you liked the taste of spice and glass.
Finally, Fallon stands, dumps his haul on the desk and shoots her a sweet grin. ‘Flawless as always, Coglifter.’
Coglifter snorts, starts sorting the pile. Papers. Oilcloth. Box. ‘Flawless isn’t the point. It’s all about the flaws, Lord.’
Arissa lifts the box, twists it against the light, something strange in its making, like scales that shine in the sun. ‘We’re lucky to have you, Cog.’
She sniggers, bows. ‘The only good thief is the one on your payroll.’
She lopes to the window, presses her breath against the glass. ‘Is that your friends coming back?’
Fallon’s voice drifts over her shoulder. ‘I hope so.’
She presses her mouth against the pane, bares her lips until her teeth grind slowly against the glass.
The thick taste of gunpowder and grease.
Distantly, falling across the fields towards Hesper, winds a train of banners and bodies.
‘Can’t hardly wait,’ she murmurs.