14
One of the most well-documented facts about the Eborans is how remarkably long-lived they are. In the days when their tree-god Ygseril was mighty and running with sap, they were popularly thought to be immortal, although that was never quite the case. In their heyday, Eborans could expect to see more than 1,000 years of life, with the oldest recorded Eboran woman eventually shuffling off – no doubt exhausted – at the grand old age of 1,002. These days, with great Ygseril a sad husk of what it once was, Eborans often live for around 500 years, assuming the crimson flux doesn’t strike them down first. For the rest of us, of course, such a lifetime seems unimaginable, and often I sense that this gulf is the true reason behind all the strife between our peoples – we just cannot understand each other.
With such centuries to fill, Eborans often chose to dedicate entire decades of their lives to mastering certain skills, meaning that the land beyond the Wall has produced many of Sarn’s most extraordinary artists and composers. Great works of art, sculpture, music, dance and even cooking have all owed their genesis to Eboran men and women looking to fill in some time from one century to the next. One of the most notorious disciplines (one responsible for many of the most scandalous rumours about Eborans) is taught at the House of the Long Night – I talk about sex, of course.
It is treated as a priesthood of sorts. Men and women come to the House of the Long Night and swear to devote themselves to its teachings for no less than ten years. During this time, they learn as much as you can possibly imagine; they study the philosophy, the science, and the technique of pleasure. They learn which oils and which wines, which silks and which leathers, the dance of fingertips and tongues, the arts of abstinence and satiation. Sex is treated with the utmost respect in the House of the Long Night; it is regarded as the finest and most precious bond between people, even when that bond is for a single night, and the graduates of this academy regard the practice of their arts as a kind of worship.
As you can imagine, this has rather led to the assumption that all Eborans are ridiculously talented in bed, which is exactly the sort of assumption people make when they don’t read enough books, or don’t actually take time to talk to the people in question. Those few Eborans who ventured beyond the Wall before the crimson flux struck them down often did take human lovers, although from what I understand, the undertaking was never a frivolous one, given that sex was a form of worship for them – even when multiple partners were involved, the first teachings of the Long Night insist that everyone knows upfront what they are getting into. No doubt hearts have still been broken along the way, but it always struck me as an oddly respectful discipline.
My dear colleague Tormalin the Oathless himself entered into several such ‘understandings’ and despite being of dubious morality in many areas, always behaved impeccably in this. He also claimed, of course, that a decade’s study was not enough, and that he had dedicated half a century to his own ‘pursuit of knowledge’. He was always, as he said, learning.
As a side note, very little is known about Eboran family names. Indeed, from what I gather it is considered ‘illbred’ to speak of them outside of Ebora, and it is an act of great trust to share a family name with someone who is not Eboran. I can hardly imagine my brother Ezion being so discreet – I’m sure he must drop the de Grazon name at the slightest provocation. (I have brought the matter up with Tormalin several times, and he simply changes the subject, the swine.)
Extract from the journals of Lady Vincenza ‘Vintage’ de Grazon
One of Tor’s favourite things about working for Vintage was the free accommodation. The scholar had, for the last three years, taken over the top floor of the Sea-Heart Inn, a great sprawling building that nestled in the southern-most streets of Mushenska, on top of a small hill overlooking the coast. As sea views went, it wasn’t the most attractive – the band of water they could see from their windows was steely grey much of the time, and far to the right was the distant spiky eyesore that was the Winnowry, sitting alone on its desolate island – but the service was exceptional, the food was decent, and the rooms were warm.
As they arrived at the rambling, wood-framed building, Vintage was already chattering about where she intended them to go next. Men and women peeled out of the back doors to take their bags, summoned by the familiar sound of Vintage ranting on about nonsense, while the owner of the inn, a Master Lucian, appeared at the door with his apron on – he supervised all of the cooking himself. He took one look at Vintage handing over bags and papers, and met Tormalin’s gaze with a pair of raised eyebrows.
‘Dinner will be required, m’lord Tormalin?’
‘A light snack for me, Lucian, if you please.’ He had asked the man not to refer to him in such grand terms, but it had never quite stuck. ‘Your glazed-apple pudding with a round of your best cheese. Bring it straight to my room, please.’ Tor glanced around and saw Noon, standing in the middle of the chaos like a stunned pigeon. She was gnawing on the skin of her thumb. ‘Your best hot food for Lady Vintage and her new companion here though. Do you still have any of that . . . pigeon pie?’
Lucian dipped his head once. ‘With the red-wine gravy, m’lord. Lady Vintage was kind enough to grace us with a new case.’
‘That will be excellent. Enough for two, plenty of your creamed potatoes, hot vegetables, that sort of thing. We’ve had a tiring journey.’
Divested of her bags and trunks, Vintage was now making her way up the back stairs as the staff whisked her belongings to an interior lift operated by a pulley system. Noon had moved back to stand against the wall, her eyes trying to take everything in at once. Tor felt a brief stab of irritation at them both: at the girl for being so lost, and at Vintage for picking up a stray and then promptly forgetting about her. He went over to the girl.
‘Come on, you’ll get used to the chaos eventually, I promise. If we just go up after her—’
He touched her elbow lightly to turn her towards the stairs, and she jumped as though he had bitten her. She looked up at him, the expression in her dark eyes unreadable. Tor frowned.
‘I’m not used to being touched,’ she said. He watched her shoulders rise and fall as she took a breath, and when she spoke again her voice was softer. ‘I’m not used to other people being . . . so close.’
He remembered the cool touch of her hand on his neck, and then the alarming dimming of his own strength as it was drained out of him. He was still feeling the effects of that, days later, and when he thought of it, it was the touch of her hand he remembered most clearly. Carefully, he put his hands behind his back and nodded brusquely to her.
‘I expect Vintage intends for you to have the southerly bedroom. Follow me.’
He led her up the winding wooden stairs. The sounds of a busy inn echoed around them, and as they passed the first-floor corridor, he glimpsed a young couple dallying by a door, stealing a last kiss. On the second floor, a waft of strong liquor was followed by a barrage of cheers – someone was having a celebration – and then they reached the third floor, which belonged solely to Vintage. Tor did not know how much it cost to rent out the entire floor of the Sea-Heart Inn for a week, let alone for several years, but Vintage had never seemed to think it a ridiculous expense. Whoever sent her money did it regularly enough, and with no complaints. The thought of it stung a little, even now; as one of the last families of Ebora he was spectacularly wealthy, but claiming that wealth would mean opening communications with his sister. If she was even still alive. He shook his head briefly – dwelling on it didn’t help.
‘Down the end of the corridor Vintage has her bedroom, her study and a separate bathing room. My own bedchamber is here, alongside the shared dining room,’ he nodded to an ornate door opposite, ‘and your room will be this one, just across the way. We’ll be sharing the same bathing chamber, I’m afraid.’
‘And I will sleep here.’ It was almost a question. The fell-witch was staring up the corridor, where a stream of staff were depositing bags under the shouted supervision of Vintage. ‘In this place – is it safe?’
‘Safe?’ Tor watched her face carefully. ‘What do you have to fear? You are an agent of the Winnowry, on Winnowry business. Who would dare to challenge you?’
Her eyes snapped back to him, shining with sudden anger. She pursed her lips as though holding back some further comment, and then, without another word, opened the door to her room and slammed it behind her.
‘And a goodnight to you too!’
Smiling to himself, Tor stepped into his own spacious room, finding it much tidier than he remembered. Lucian had had the place aired, so that it smelled of clean, sea air, and the empty wine bottles and dirty plates had been cleared away. He had just dropped his own bags and removed his sword belt when a soft knock at the door announced the repast he’d ordered. Nodding to the serving man, he took the plates to the table and sat, breaking the sugary crust on the pudding with his spoon, savouring the delicious smell of apples and spices.
And then he sat and looked at it.
When the witch had touched him, he’d never felt anything like it. To have so much of your strength snatched away in an instant, to be suddenly helpless. All at once he had felt the chill evening air against his skin, and every year of his long life had seemed to lie heavy on his bones. He wondered if that was what it felt like, when the crimson flux came. A sudden hollowing, an abrupt aging.
Tor stood up and crossed the room, where he pulled the bell to fetch hot water. He would wash the dust and grime from his skin, and then he would go out for the night. He was ravenous, but not for food.
The bed was enormous. Noon stared at it, not quite able to take it in. There were no less than three thick downy blankets thrown across it, and an odd collection of pillows that did not match. She thought of the narrow bunk in her cell at the Winnowry, with its thin mattress of dried straw. Around the bed were piles of boxes, and more books than she had ever seen, randomly stacked as though they’d been put down for a moment and then forgotten. She suspected that Vintage had been using this as an extra storage room; there were dusty maps pinned to the walls, too, and papers strewn across a long table. Soft lamps had been lit in the corners, and there was a faint scent of angelwort in the room – her mother had used dried angelwort in small cloth bags to keep the tent smelling fresh.
The room began to spin. She sat heavily on the bed, placing her hands on either side of her head.
‘They’ll come for me,’ she whispered to the room. From the street outside she could hear voices raised in cheery, everyday conversation. ‘No one escapes the Winnowry and lives. I pretty much told them to go fuck themselves.’
It was the worst thing she could have done. By escaping, she had spat in the face of their precious Tomas, and in return she wouldn’t just be killed. They would make her suffer.
Her hands turned into fists, pressing against the silky blankets.
‘Let them fucking try.’
There was a clatter in the corridor and the door swung open to reveal Vintage, her arms covered in steaming plates.
‘There you are, my darling, would you mind giving me a hand with these? I thought I’d bring dinner to you. The dining room is very pleasant but I’ve always thought this room was very cosy, and Tormalin has already flounced off somewhere. And I’ll be honest with you, there’s a pile of books on the dining-room table that I can’t be bothered to find a home for right at this moment.’
Noon jumped up and together they wrestled the plates onto the long table. There were thick slices of some sort of gamey-smelling pie, covered in hot gravy and roasted root vegetables, and a huge bowl of fluffy potato. Vintage had also managed to carry in a bottle of wine wedged under one arm and a handful of cutlery in her pocket. Noon stood back and watched as she set the table with practised ease, pouring them each a glass of wine in slightly dusty goblets. She then sat down and began to attack the pie with every sign of enjoyment.
‘Ah, pigeon. Not my favourite, but it’ll do. Well, my dear? Don’t let it get cold.’
Noon sat down. The food was rich and hot, better than anything she’d eaten in years, and she had never tasted anything like the wine – it was a deep, dark purple, and she felt an overwhelming tiredness sweep over her after the first few mouthfuls. She resolved to keep an eye on how much she drank.
‘You have been quiet, Fell-Noon, on our way back from the Shroom Flats. Quiet since we met you, really. Have you thought any more about my offer?’
Noon looked up. Vintage was watching her closely, her eyes bright with interest. She didn’t look tired from their journey, or mollified by the wine. She looked alert.
‘I’m used to being quiet. It’s best to be quiet in the Winnowry.’
‘You’re safe here, you know. No one comes onto this floor but the staff I permit. I pay Lucian a significant amount of coin for that. You could try to relax.’
Noon put her fork down. ‘If I am an agent of the Winnowry pursuing a secret mission, what reason do I have to worry about being safe?’
The corner of Vintage’s mouth creased into a faint smile.
‘Well, quite, my dear. Are you ready yet to talk about the truth?’
The sounds of a busy inn drifted up from below in the silence. ‘I don’t know you,’ Noon said.
‘This is true. We can continue, if you like, to pretend that you are not alone, that you have not escaped the clutches of the Winnowry and are in desperate need of help. We can pretend that you are, in fact, what you claim to be – an exceptionally young fell-witch agent who is allowed to come and go as she pleases, with a mission so secret it required you sleep alone in a forest with no supplies and no decent shoes. Or, you can tell me, Noon, exactly what happened and I will do all I can to help you out of this mess.’
The woman’s face was kindly but stern. Noon took another sip of the wine, playing for time.
‘Why?’ she said eventually. ‘Why help me at all?’
‘Well, there’s a good question.’ Vintage stood up, a glass of wine in one hand, and walked down the table towards her. ‘For a start, my dear, I have been looking askance at the Winnowry for some years now – any institution that claims to keep women locked up for their own good should be watched very closely, in my opinion, but there is no one to do that. They are too powerful, too rich, and too feared. If helping you remain free causes them grief in any way, well, that’s fine with me. Second, my interests are very singular, Noon, my dear. As you have already seen, I wish to solve the mystery of the Jure’lia – who they are, what they want, how they are poisoning our world – and I am willing to try anything to do so. Whether that’s rooting around in the mud, hiring an Eboran layabout or assisting an escaped convict. Because that’s what you are, isn’t it?’
Noon looked up at the scholar steadily. ‘What makes you think I can help you?’
Vintage’s face broke into a true smile. ‘Winnowfire, my darling. Your winnowfire, taken from Tor’s energy. It could be a very unique weapon. No one has had this advantage before – think of the progress we could make!’
Noon looked away. ‘You are being kind. It’s a mistake. You don’t know what I am, not really.’
‘Kind, maybe. But self-serving? Always. I’ve spent my whole life being responsible for others, Fell-Noon, and now I would like to do whatever I buggering well like. It suits me. I think it’ll suit you, too. Join me, and I’ll keep the Winnowry from your back as long as I’m able, and believe me, my darling, I’m a wily old sod.’ When Noon, didn’t reply, she continued. ‘What is it you need? A statement of trust? Very well. In my room, which is unlocked, there is a narrow chest shoved under the bed. In it are three cases of gold coins, in five different denominations, as well as bankers’ marks for banks in Mushenska, Reidn, and Jarlsbad. With that little lot I think you’d have a decent chance of getting part the way across Sarn before the Winnowry caught up with you.’ She held out her bare hand to Noon, as if she wanted to help her up from the table. ‘Drain me. Leave me unconscious and take the lot. I can always get more. What else are you going to do?’
Vintage’s hand was steady, the skin on her palm pale. There was a faint scar that swirled around her index finger. Noon stared at it.
‘You don’t know who I am,’ she said again. ‘You don’t know what I’ve done.’
‘Then tell me,’ said Vintage, still holding out her hand. ‘Take the money, or work for me. Let me be a friend to you, Fell-Noon.’
‘Please, don’t.’ Unbidden, Noon remembered Mother Fast, her hands moving deftly with their needles, or the strings of her puppets. Her hands had been strong, too, and it hadn’t saved her. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying. Kindness won’t—’ She stopped, and looked up. ‘I’ll work for you, then, Lady Vintage. But I still might not say very much.’
Vintage grinned. ‘That’s fine with me, dear. Tormalin’s endless complaining keeps me well enough entertained as it is.’
When Vintage left, Noon picked up the wine bottle and poured the last of it into her glass. It was getting on for the evening now, and the cluttered room was busy with shadows. There was a balcony beyond a pair of glass doors, so she stepped out into a still night. The thin band of the sea, a dark strip of grey-blue in the dying light, was a reminder that she wasn’t so far from where she had started, and far to the west the Winnowry itself loomed – it crouched on the horizon like something jagged and broken. She could just make out tiny pinpricks of light there as the lamps were lit, and looking at it made her feel terribly exposed, as though the sisters who, no doubt, were now searching for her could look out and see her across the sea, homing in on her guilt like a beacon. Absently, her hand reached up to touch her hat.
‘I’m free, until they catch me,’ she said aloud. ‘Until they kill me. I can’t waste time being afraid of the landscape.’
Keeping her eyes on the distant prison, she lifted the glass to her lips and drank the rest of the wine, savouring the soft burn on the back of her throat and the spreading warmth in her stomach. When she had been a child, the plains people she had been born among had had a drink called stonefeet, which was made from fermented mare’s milk. She had been too young to drink it, but had seen the effect it had had on their young men and women on festival days. They would be loud and boisterous, jumping from their horses or challenging each other to fights. Drunk as spring pigs, Mother Fast used to say. The effect of this wine was different, she thought. Like slowly sinking into hot water.
She wondered where Tormalin the Eboran had gone for the evening – perhaps even now he was reporting her presence to the Winnowry office in the city, hoping for a reward of some sort. Reluctantly, she recalled him standing next to her in the corridor, close enough for her to be able to smell the leather he wore. Up close, an Eboran did not look so different from her own people – the same narrow eyes, the same upward sweep of cheekbones – but his skin was like luminous stone, his eyes clear and blood-red. Mother Fast had owned puppets with the most delicate faces, carved from soft wood and then painted with fine brushes. There was a set of three that Noon remembered especially clearly; they depicted the three gods of Rain, Storm and Cloud. Their faces were beautiful, their lips painted into smiles, but their eyes were cruel. Tormalin, filling the corridor with his poise and calm confidence, had made her think of those puppets.
A piece of tile fell from the roof above and shattered on the balcony next to her, making her jump suddenly sideways. Reaching out blindly for any living thing near to hand with which to arm herself, she looked up to see a ghostly white shape peering down at her from the roof, huge liquid eyes shining in the last of the light.
‘Fulcor!’ she hissed, coming forward. ‘What are you doing on the bloody roof?’
The bat tipped her head to one side, and scampered vertically down the wall towards Noon, thick leathery wings held out to either side.
‘No, stop, stay where you are.’ The bat paused, and then dropped something from her mouth. It was a dead rabbit. ‘Fulcor, you don’t have to. Well, I suppose the kitchens can use it.’
She reached up and stroked the velvety place between the bat’s ears, watching as the animal’s eyes crinkled shut. ‘Why have you come back to me, you big daft thing? I thought you had abandoned me.’ Noon pulled her fingers through the fur, considering. Perhaps this bat didn’t like the Winnowry either. Perhaps she knew they had been running away. The giant bats were said to be intelligent. ‘You have to listen to me, Fulcor. You can’t just follow me around. They’ll be looking for me, and you could lead them right here.’ She glanced out across the roofs below. None of them had a giant bat roosting for the night. ‘You’re pretty noticeable.’
Fulcor made a chirruping noise, the warmth of her blood and the faint patter of her heartbeat comforting against Noon’s palm. What could the bat do? Go back to the Winnowry? Once there they might convince her to fly back to where she had last seen Noon. Or she could go to where her kind lived wild, but where was that? And how could she know? She had likely been raised at the Winnowry from birth.
‘It’s your hunting time,’ Noon said, gesturing out at the darkening night. The clouds had broken, and a sliver of moon poked through like a peeking eye. ‘Go get yourself something.’
Fulcor scrambled back up to the top of the roof and with an abrupt crack of wings, was a grey shape against the sky. Noon watched her go for a moment, before taking her empty wine glass and her dead rabbit back inside.