The Skein of Lament by Chris Wooding Page B

was cut short and exposed the nape of her neck, from which terrible burn scars ran down her back. He wished she would grow her hair again; her scars were easy enough to conceal. But when he asked her she would only give him that fey, dreamy look of hers and ignore him. She was pretty as a child, and now that the bones of her face and body were lengthening it was already easy to see that she would be beautiful as a woman, with the same petite and deceptively naïve features that her mother had. But in those pale blue eyes there was a strangeness that made her unfathomable to him, to anyone . He had known her longer than anyone alive, but he still didn’t know her.
    ‘I worry also,’ Cailin said eventually.
    ‘About Lucia?’
    ‘Among other things.’
    ‘Then you mean her . . .’ – Zaelis searched for a word with an expression of faint disgust – ‘ followers .’
    Cailin shook her head once, her black ponytails swinging gently with the movement. ‘I will admit they are a problem. It is far harder to keep her secret from those who would harm her when rumour spreads from the mouths of those who would keep her safe. Yet they do not concern me overly, and they may eventually prove to serve a purpose.’
    Zaelis sipped his tea meditatively and stole a glance at Lucia. Several of the birds were perched on the balcony rail now, looking at her like children attentive to a master. ‘What troubles you, then?’
    Cailin stirred and stood. At her full height, she was tall for a woman, and of deliberately fearsome appearance. Zaelis, from where he sat cross-legged on a mat by the low table, followed her up with his eyes. She walked a few paces across the room and stopped, looking away from him.
    ‘We are short of time,’ she said.
    ‘You know this?’ Zaelis asked.
    Cailin hesitated, then made a negative noise. ‘I feel it.’
    Zaelis frowned. It was not like Cailin to be so indefinite with him. She was a practical woman, little given to flights of fancy. He waited for her to continue.
    ‘I know how that sounds, Zaelis,’ she snapped irritably, as if he had accused her. ‘I wish I had more evidence to present you.’
    He got up and stood with her, favouring one leg. His other was weak; it had been badly broken long ago and never quite healed. ‘Tell me what you feel, then.’
    ‘Things are building to a head,’ Cailin replied after a short pause to marshal her thoughts. ‘The Weavers have been too quiet these past years. What have they gained from their alliance with Mos? Think, Zaelis. What moves they had to make, they could have made directly after Mos took power. They had nobody to oppose them then. But what did they do instead?’
    ‘They bought land. They bought land, and shipping companies on the rivers.’
    ‘Legitimate enterprises,’ Cailin said, throwing a slender hand up as if to dash the words away. ‘And none that turn any kind of profit.’ Her frustration was evident in her tone. The Libera Dramach had been unsuccessful at gaining any further information on the Weavers’ curious purchases. The Weavers had defences that ordinary spies could not penetrate, and Cailin dared not use any of the Red Order for fear of revealing them. One captured Sister could bring the whole delicate network down.
    ‘This is old news, Cailin,’ Zaelis said. ‘Why is it bothering you now?’
    ‘I do not know,’ Cailin replied. ‘Perhaps because I cannot see their plan. There are too many unanswered questions.’
    ‘Yours has been the loudest voice arguing for secrecy these past years,’ he reminded her. ‘We have been content to consolidate, to build our strength and hide ourselves while Lucia grows. Perhaps we have been too careful. Perhaps we should have been harrying them every step of the way.’
    ‘I think you overestimate us,’ Cailin said. ‘We hide because we must. To reveal our hand too early would be the death of us all.’ She paused, mused for a time, then went on: ‘The Weavers appear to be