‘That I did. Stay dry.’
He pulls his hood higher, tightens a scarf against the wind. ‘I’ll try.’
His eyes wander up the cliffs, lingering on the distant spike of a gallowswatcher against the skyline. Closer, one of the Teeth smoulders. ‘We shouldn’t hang about. Any clue on the spinners?’
Shipwright rolls her eyes, hikes her trousers and heads back to the swelling scurf of the wreck. She lets her fingers sink into the waves, reading their rhythm, and trying to feel the hum of a spinner somewhere amid it all.
‘Nothing.’
Up the beach, one of the crewmen yelps, trips, flounders in the surf and dark sand. Shipwright glances across, down at his feet and sees it buried, just at toe height. Fairly rough and ready as spinners go, but she’d been working fast, and the smiths in Hesper hadn’t seen one for years.
When she draws closer, the problem is obvious – half the facing torn off, that same lemony stink.
‘The bastard shot them off,’ she calls.
Shroudweaver turns. ‘Shotthem. From where?’
She shrugs. ‘The shore, I’d guess. I should have seen that coming.’
Shroudweaver’s eyes scan the distance between shore and deep sea. ‘You have to be kidding me,’ he mutters.
‘What?’ she shouts.
He walks closer. ‘What did she do to him that he can do that?’
She shrugs, pockets the spinner. ‘A mystery for another day.’ Then, rubbing a hand across her brow, asks, ‘Can we go? This is breaking my heart. And Fallon needs to know.’
He nods, places a hand gently in the small of her back.
‘Of course.’
From the gangplank, they look back at the shore as the ship casts off.
Shipwright’s eyes are narrow against the wind, her hair pulled across her face.
‘One of the last,’ she says.
‘Last what?’ he asks
‘Last of the great ships.’ Her hands tighten on the rail. ‘One of the last to sail south with us. One of the last still standing. One of the last with a crew still breathing. I should have seen this coming.’ The tears on her cheek are dragged by the wind. ‘She’ll come for all of them, eventually. Then us.’
He turns her face towards his. ‘We won’t let that happen.’
‘They took me in,’ she says.
He frowns, ‘Who?’
‘TheVolante’s crew, when I first got here. Not a damn crew would turn their head. Afraid of me, afraid of the ship.’ She smiles wistfully. ‘Not theVolantethough. It was two minutes of bristling then days of drinking something red and foul.’
‘Buckwater,’ Shroudweaver mutters, and grimaces.
She nods. ‘That was it. Tasted like burning goat’s piss.’ Her face softens. ‘Theydidn’t care that I wasn’t from here; that they’d never seen a ship like mine.’ She snorts. ‘I mean, they offered to sell their captain to me in trade for it, but I don’t think they were serious.’
Her face clouds again. ‘Wish I could remember his name. Poorsod never lived long enough to take a new one. I suppose he’s just blowing ash somewhere in the south now.’ She shakes her head. ‘Last of the great ships.’
Shroudweaver taps her arm, ‘Wait here.’
The shore pulls up to the horizon before he returns with two leather cups and a bladder that reeks like a drunkard’s nightmare.
