15
The ‘plains people’ is a highly inaccurate term for the great variety of communities living in the enormous stretch of land that meanders its way from the eastern steppes of Yuron-Kai to Jarlsbad in the far west, the Eboran mountains looming to the north. This grassland is home to numerous nomadic tribes as well as several more established settlements, and while most seem to share an ethnic root, the sheer breadth of difference in language, culture, religion, hunting practices, mythology, storytelling and farming techniques is extraordinary, and, in my opinion, long overdue a more exacting study.
Of the mobile tribes, most seem to move according to the seasons or the migratory habits of the fleeten, a species of goat hunted for their meat, skins and horns. Some, however, have more mysterious methods; the Long-down people, for example, seem to be following a gentle spiral, inwards and then out again, through the generations, while the Star Worm people – with whom I was lucky enough to spend a few days – have a remarkable collection of telescopes, more advanced than anything I’ve seen in Mushenska or Reidn, and they use these to plot their own travels.
While travelling with the Star Worm tribe, we spent one day at the Broken Rock sanctuary, a place that apparently acts as a neutral space for the various groups, and as a sort of ongoing seasonal market. If one group has a dispute with another, their representatives gather at Broken Rock and oaths are sworn that weapons won’t be used. Often, I gather, large quantities of a liquor known as stonefeet are involved in negotiations. Otherwise, they bring their trade goods and their young people, and so the various tribes keep in touch, even forming closer alliances through marriage (meeting places with an abundance of available alcohol have the same consequences all over Sarn, after all).
A recent development will bear closer scrutiny, I feel. The newly constructed winnowline crosses the southern-most section of the plains, with two stations situated directly in what is, for want of a better term, plains-people territory. As mentioned previously, the tribes are by no means a single group and the fallout from this will vary greatly, I suspect, but, so far, I have witnessed a great deal of tentative curiosity regarding the line and its potential. Like most of Sarn’s people, the tribes nurture many of their own superstitions about the so-called fell-witches, but I suspect the real test will come when the migratory groups need to cross the line. I would suggest that if the Winnowry feel like throwing their weight around in this regard, they may regret it. Or, at least, I hope they do.
Of course, it is difficult to talk about the region and the people who make their homes there without referencing the Carrion Wars, a dark period of history by anyone’s reckoning. Still, my lamp is burning low and my fingers ache, so another time.
Extract from the journals of Lady Vincenza ‘Vintage’ de Grazon
Ainsel lived in the part of Mushenska known as the Downs, a shady and disreputable gang of streets that always looked like they were on the verge of either a civil war or falling down altogether. Unlike Sareena, she was not independently wealthy, and the cramped room at the top of the old house reflected that, but she was adept at making it cosy; whenever Tormalin visited, he found a room artfully lit with shaded lamps and full of the good, wholesome smell of bread and freshly washed skin.
‘I did not hope to see you so soon!’
The frank pleasure on the woman’s broad, honest face was a boon to Tor. He stepped through the doorway and placed the bottle of dark liquor on the simple table. Not wine, but a fiery drink called Gouron from Reidn – Ainsel made her living as a mercenary, and had a mercenary’s tastes.
‘My plans have changed, and I might be away from Mushenska for a little while. I thought you might be amenable to an unexpected visit?’
Ainsel grinned at him and picked up the bottle to examine the label. She was a tall woman, as thick with scars as she was with muscles, and her blond hair was tied back in a short braid. Ainsel nodded appreciatively at the Gouron; it was an expensive bottle.
‘I’m always glad to see you, Tor, especially when you bring me such gifts. You’re lucky to catch me, actually. Roland the Liar ships out with his Exacting Blades tomorrow, and I am to be aboard.’
‘You’re off to be one of his Blades?’
‘For as long as the money lasts, at least.’ Ainsel put the bottle down. She had brown eyes, which Tor had always found striking against her fair hair. ‘Is it to be as it usually is?’ Her voice turned ragged on the words. It had been a little while.
Tor nodded, feeling a wave of hunger blow through him again. ‘The usual agreement.’
Ainsel came to him then and kissed him, and Tormalin slid his fingers, still chilled from the evening air, through the soft hair on the back of her neck. The First Step: The Rising Chorus.
Some hours later and they were a sweaty tangle of limbs on Ainsel’s narrow but comfortable bed, most of the blankets long since thrown on the floor. They had both reached satiation twice now, and Tor sensed this would be their last climax. He shifted his body minutely, relishing the gasp of pleasure the small movement elicited from Ainsel; all was rhythm now – The Crashing Wave. With Ainsel’s knee looped over his shoulder, he gently reached over and nipped her skin with his teeth.
‘Yes,’ gasped Ainsel. ‘Take it now. Please, do it.’
On the bare mattress next to them was a long, slim bone-handled knife. Tor snatched it up and quickly, without losing his own momentum, cut a shallow wound in the skin just above Ainsel’s knee. Immediately, he pressed his mouth to it, although this required lessening the pressure he was applying to other parts of her body for a few moments. Ainsel moaned, begging for final release, but Tor slid his hand up her thigh: the same message as always – soon, my love.
Blood. It filled his mouth with its salt and copper tang, and the feeling was indistinguishable from the knot of pleasure at the centre of his being. Ainsel was there in that taste, just as she was pressed beneath his skin now, vulnerable and so alive. The scent of sex in his nostrils and the taste of blood in his mouth, Tor let his tongue move across the torn skin, taking up the last of it, and then in one, smooth movement quickened his own pace. Water Across Sand: The Final Step. Beneath him, Ainsel caught her breath, gripping Tor’s shoulder fiercely. A moment later, and Tor let go of his own control, carried on a tide of blood and memory and lust.
They lay together afterwards, the two of them almost falling out of the narrow bed. Tormalin stared up at the damp-stained ceiling, thinking, as he always did, that he should give Ainsel the money to buy a larger bed. She was already asleep, one arm stretched out for Tor to lean his head on, but Tor had never felt so far from sleep. It was the blood, so fresh it had been hot on his tongue, and now its heat was curling around his bones, making him stronger, healing all hurts. It was beautiful and intoxicating, so much so that it was almost possible to forget that it could eventually kill him.
Ainsel shifted slightly in her sleep, sighing heavily. Tor held himself still for a moment, sensing that she was close to waking, but she turned her face away, the sigh turning into a soft snore.
From somewhere down the street the sounds of an altercation drifted up to Ainsel’s small window. The shutter was wedged half open, letting in the cool evening air that smelled of stale beer, smoke and the thick scent of the fat vats across the way. Tor stared at the window for a moment, wondering if people passing below had been able to hear them. Likely the whole street had. It never seemed to worry Ainsel.
The blood was still thick in Tor’s throat. He should have a glass of the Gouron he’d brought to clear it out, but he was warm and comfortable and reluctant to move, and besides which, he savoured the taste of the blood. The rush of strength it brought him, the sense of power and rightness – and on the back of that, the taste of his own death. Did he enjoy that too? The danger of it, the inevitability. The blood, the sex, the strength, the dying. They were all tied up in each other.
Next to him, Ainsel moaned, her brow furrowing even as she slept.
Tor remembered clear, quiet nights in Ebora. When they were young, and long before the crimson flux swept their parents from their lives in a dark tide of misery and pain, sometimes their mother would extinguish all the lights and light the big lamp in the centre of the living room – it was longer than Tor’s arm and shaped like an ear of corn – and then open the doors that led out onto the courtyard. He and Hest would wait, shifting and giggling, until tiny points of green light would begin to slip in through the open doors. They were moonflies, their rear ends filled with an emerald glow, and they loved the light of the lamp. They would swirl around the room in a great, excitable spiral. Tor and Hest would laugh and chase them, crashing into the furniture until Mother put out the lamp or Father would arrive and make them stop. Then the moonflies would leave in a stately procession, until all the light left the room. He thought of Ebora like that: a place where all the light had left, and all laughter had fallen silent. All save for his sister – the last, desperate moonfly.
Next to him, Ainsel gave a sharp gasp and Tor half sat up, thinking that something in the room had alarmed her, but all was still. Ainsel whipped her head from one side to the other, her eyes tightly closed, and Tor realised what it was: she was having a nightmare.
Tor propped himself up on one elbow, frowning down at the woman. Watching someone else have a nightmare was a uniquely unnerving experience. He watched his lover’s face contract with fear, her eyelids twitching as her eyes rolled to watch something Tor couldn’t see. The muscles across Ainsel’s broad shoulders were tense. The blood tasted sour now. Lightly, Tor placed his fingertips on Ainsel’s collarbone.
‘Hey, Ainsel. You’re having a bad dream. Wake up.’
Ainsel did not wake up. Instead, she drew her arm down to her chest sharply, nearly clouting Tor as she did so. Tor huffed with annoyance.
‘Really, Ainsel, you’d have thought our evening would have brought you sweeter dreams.’
Ainsel went rigid, the cords on her thick neck bulging from her skin. She began to shake, making tiny noises in the back of her throat.
‘Shit. Shit. Ainsel? Ainsel, wake up!’
Nothing. Reluctantly, Tor sat up fully and knelt next to her. It was possible she was having a fit of some sort, he supposed, although she’d never mentioned suffering from such. Tor sighed and placed the palm of his hand against Ainsel’s forehead. It was damp with a cold sweat – not, he thought, the result of their earlier exertions.
‘It’s been years,’ he muttered. ‘I’m not sure I even remember how.’
Even so, Tor closed his eyes and took a series of slow breaths. When Hestillion dream-walked, she described it as like being in a great shadowy realm, with distant lights all around. The dreaming minds were the lights, and you just had to find the right one. When the light shone on you too, she used to say, that was when you slipped into their dream. Tor pursed his lips and concentrated. It came back to him more easily than expected. In the darkness around him he could sense men and women sleeping – to him they felt like knots of warmth in a cold night – their minds either lost to the blankness of pure sleep, or caught in the intricate whirl of dream-sleep. There was a man somewhere on the floor below whose sleep carried the thick, pungent aroma of a day of drinking heavily, while a woman somewhere to the right of Ainsel’s small room was lost in a dream that was repeating, over and over. If he wanted to, Tor could press closer to those minds, push through the soft barrier and step within, but he did not have time for sight-seeing.
Here was Ainsel’s dreaming mind, the warmest of the lights surrounding him. Tor paused. What he was doing was, at best, impolite; at worst, a breach of trust. He knew from his own experience, and Hest’s, that people generally did not want anyone poking around inside their sleeping heads without permission. Dreams were irrational, after all, and could suggest things about the dreamer that could shame them, no matter how untrue they were. More to the point, humans simply were not used to the art of dream-walking; in Ebora it might be a mildly diverting recreation with your closest friends, but to humans it was unfathomable.
Beneath him, Ainsel cried out, and Tor could feel the waves of fear emanating from her like a fever.
‘Oh, damn it all. I will go quietly, at least.’
Gently, Tor reached for Ainsel’s dreaming mind. He felt that odd mixture of light and warmth that was actually neither, and pushed through the faintly resisting barrier. For a few more seconds he was aware of himself kneeling on the bed, the breeze from the window chilling his uncovered skin, and then he was somewhere else. He opened his dreaming eyes.
He was standing on a beach. It was night-time, and somewhere off to his left there was the booming roar and hiss of the sea caressing the shoreline. Just ahead of him was a large camp fire, and a group of men and women sat around it in a circle. They were laughing and talking, and bottles and plates of meat were being passed around. Ainsel was there – she was difficult to miss, being nearly a head taller than everyone else at the fire. The flickering light danced off her blond hair, and she was smiling and nodding to a woman who was sitting next to her. She had auburn hair tied into many braids, and an eyepatch over one eye. Tor reminded himself that time was strange in a dreaming mind; dreams did not need to follow a linear pattern; they could skip back and forth over themselves. It was likely that Ainsel had already experienced this part of the dream, and he was still catching up. Tor frowned. Hestillion had always been so much better at this than him.
‘To Lucky Ainsel!’ A man at the fire raised his bottle, and those next to him clinked their cups to his. ‘Without her we’d all be at the bottom of the fucking sea.’
There was a ragged but enthusiastic cheer. Tor moved closer to the fire, taking care to stay out of the circle of its light.
‘You should listen to me more often,’ Ainsel was saying, grinning round at them all. ‘Perhaps I should be your leader – we’d all be richer!’
There was another, slightly rowdier burst of laughter, and the auburn-haired woman next to Ainsel punched her on the arm, none too lightly.
‘Less of your cheek, Lucky Ainsel, or I’ll have you keel-hauled next time we take to the sea.’
Tor realised he had heard about this. When Ainsel had been working for the Broken Cage, a group of mercenaries operating out of Reidn, she had had a bad feeling about the ship they had been due to board for passage to Mushenska. Despite being ridiculed up and down by the rest of the crew, she had told Jessica Stormbones, their leader, about her misgivings – ‘Don’t get on that ship,’ she’d told them. ‘I get a cold feeling just looking at it.’ As it happened, a bigger and better job had come up in the city state itself and so they had let the ship sail without them. A week later, news came back that it had been caught in a terrible storm in the midst of the Mariano Strait; all hands lost. After that, the Broken Cage mercenaries had taken to calling her Lucky Ainsel. So this was a good memory. What was it about this dream that had caused such a reaction in Ainsel?
‘I’ll be your lucky mascot, then,’ Ainsel was saying now, grinning still. ‘And I think the best way to keep that luck going would be to keep me in beer from now on. A small price to pay for your sorry lives.’
A solidly built man with a neat ginger beard laughed, slapping Ainsel on her meaty arm, and then his mouth seemed to droop open, as though his face were made of wet dough instead of skin and bone. He poked at his lower mouth in confusion, and his fingers sank into the doughy flesh. He tried to speak and, instead of words, a flurry of small black beetle-like creatures spewed from his mouth, running down his hairy chest. Next to him, Ainsel half scrambled away, an expression of dismay on her face.
Ah, thought Tor. Here it is.
‘What’s wrong with Bill?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with him,’ said Jessica Stormbones. She looked at Ainsel and lifted her eyepatch to reveal a gaping hole. A handful of scuttling beetle creatures escaped it to run across her face. ‘Just relax, Lucky Ainsel, and it’ll be over soon.’
There was a hissing noise from all around, and Tor looked down to see a tide of thousands of the black-beetle creatures covering the sand. They ran over his boots, and he grimaced with displeasure. Ahead of him, Ainsel was on her feet, brushing away the beetle creatures from her shirt, her face pale.
Tor leaned down and, concentrating on the reality of the dream, concentrating on him being a part of it, picked up one of the creatures and held it up to the poor light. Its back flexed and twisted under his fingers, needle-like legs waved in the air.
‘I think I know what this is. What an odd thing for you to dream about, Ainsel.’
Abruptly, the small beach was filled with a shifting, headache-inducing light. Wincing, Tor looked up to see a monster hanging in the sky above them, and despite himself, his heart skipped a beat in his chest.
It was a Behemoth. The harbinger of the ancient enemy of his people – a number of dim childhood memories surged to the surface, stories of war and monsters, half forgotten. It hung in the sky like a great segmented larva, the bulging plates of its body shiny with an oily brilliance. The bulbous lamps that hung from its lower section were pointed directly at the small group on the beach, while wet openings all along its side were peeling back to reveal creatures with six long, spindly legs. Tor felt a wave of dismay move through him. No wonder Ainsel was so afraid – very few humans had ever seen such a sight and lived. Disregarding all thought of being hidden, Tor marched over to the fire, determined now to bring Ainsel out of this dream before she saw any more, but as he looked up he saw that there were more of the spider-like creatures further up the beach, and among them were shambling humans, their eyes empty and their mouths twisted into vacant smiles. Drones.
‘By the roots. This is an impressive nightmare you’ve concocted, Ainsel.’
He reached for her, meaning to drag her out, but the scene around him shifted and all at once the beach and the mercenaries were gone and they stood on the streets of a city, doused in daylight. It was not Mushenska – the buildings were of pale sandstone, with ornate conical roofs pointing towards the sky, and there were clusters of fruit trees lining the street – Jarlsbad perhaps?
‘It’s time to wake up, Ainsel.’
Ainsel took no notice of him. She was dressed now in loose white trousers with a billowing white smock covering her shoulders, and she was watching the building immediately in front of them. There was a tremor Tor felt through the soles of his feet, and an enormous writhing creature pushed its way through the building, smashing it to pieces as though it were made of dust. It looked like little more than a giant maggot, its blunt head a dark pearlescent grey against the creamy segmented flesh behind it. As Tor watched, the creature bent its head to the trees and, opening a wet, sticky mouth, it tore them up from the ground and ate them earth and all. Behind it, more of the long-legged creatures were coming, limbs skittering like spiders. Mothers, Tor remembered. That’s what they were called in Vintage’s extensive notebooks. Now there were men and women fleeing, their faces oddly unfinished – another strange aspect of dreams – but as they ran, they were being snatched up by the spindly arms of the mothers and fed directly into the maggot’s pulsating maw.
‘Roots be cursed. Did you eat something strange for dinner, Ainsel?’
The maggot pulsed, its fat body heaving itself towards them, and even though Tor knew this was a dream, he took a few hurried steps backwards. More mothers were coming, their grotesque shapes almost an insult against the delicate architecture of the city. The maggot pulsed again, and a thick tide of greenish fluid began to surge through the debris. Some of the men and women were caught in it, and they fell, faces filled with dismay as they found they couldn’t escape it. Varnish.
‘Ainsel, we must—’
An alien shape loomed up next to them; Tor had time to see the mother’s spindly black arms loop around Ainsel’s shoulders and they were somewhere else again, travelling in that dizzying instant that is the speciality of dreams. They were on the shores of a still lake, dark trees a thick line on the far side, the sky above grey. There was a presence behind them, and Tor felt himself caught in the sticky tendrils of Ainsel’s dream terror – he could not turn to look at what was behind them; he was held as tightly frozen as Ainsel was. Inwardly, he cursed. Hestillion would never have been caught so.
The figure behind them approached. He could hear soft footfalls, the distant call of birds. What an idiot he had been. Not only had he failed to draw Ainsel from this nightmare, but it also seemed that he would be stuck to see it through to the end himself. Tor scowled at himself, and then he felt a breath on the back of his neck. He thought of Noon touching him there, then pushed the memory away.
‘We’re coming back, and finally Sarn will be ours.’ The voice was soft, female, faintly amused. ‘There is no one to stand against us.’
Using all his willpower, Tor commanded his dream self to turn and look at the owner of the voice, but he could not move an inch. A genuine shiver of terror curled up his spine.
‘We’re coming back,’ continued the voice. ‘And where is Ebora now?’
Tor felt his mouth drop open, whether in surprise or in protest he wasn’t sure, and then he was awake, back in Ainsel’s cramped room. He was still kneeling by her on the bed, his legs numb from sitting in an awkward position for so long and his flesh chilled to the bone. Ainsel was also awake, looking up at him with wide brown eyes; Tor thought he had never seen the mercenary look so young. Without speaking, Tor drew the blanket over them both and they lay together in silence, the first light of dawn seeping in through the shutters.