18
Before Milandra Parcs, the organisation that was to become the Winnowry was a religious retreat of sorts – one with very strict rules, of course, and a great deal of time was spent studying the teachings (or ravings, depending on how you look at it) of Tomas. What Parcs did was to turn it into a prison, and perhaps more significantly, a business. And she was remarkably successful at that.
It helps, I think, to know some of the background of Parcs. She was born on the outskirts of Jarlsbad, scratching a living with her family in the terrefa fields. Terrefa, if you’re not familiar with it, is a plant that can be smoked, producing a great sense of well-being and, from what I’ve smelled, a terrific stink. Terrefa is unusual – rather than harvesting the leaves of the plant and then drying them, they are left to die on the plant and then are carefully collected just before they start to drop. Jarlsbad is a region prone to forest fires and terrefa fields are carefully monitored leading up to the harvest period. Unbeknownst to Milandra, her sister – around seven years old at the time – was a fell-witch. One night, there was an argument between the smallest sister and her mother, and she ran out into some terrefa fields, letting forth a small barrage of winnowfire. The crop caught like tinder and was fiercely burning in seconds, flames sweeping across the entire field. Unfortunately, Milandra’s father had been out in the fields, taking a walk in the evening air as he had a habit of doing, and he suffered severe burns to most of his body, and, after a few agonising weeks, died. With no father and no terrefa crop, the family was destroyed. Destitute, they moved into the city to beg on the streets. Milandra’s official story was that her little sister ran away and was never seen again. I often wonder about that, myself.
The Milandra Parcs who came to the Winnowry was a woman who had vowed never to beg again – never to be destitute again. Under her guidance, winnow-forged steel and akaris became products that could only be purchased through the Winnowry (where else could you get it from, when all newly discovered fell-witches were immediately spirited away to the Winnowry?). Reluctant families were often paid off, a sum seen as an investment by Parcs. She developed the ‘agent’ scheme, trusted fell-witches who had been brainwashed enough to be trusted out in the world, who would be sent to perform special tasks for clients. They also formed groups of fell-mercenaries, women who could be hired to fight in wars and border disputes all across Sarn – for a very weighty sum.
Interestingly, there was one area when this particular money-making scheme failed. During the Sixth Rain, three countries paid for the fell-mercenaries to fight against the Jure’lia and protect their lands. It was, unexpectedly, a disaster. Winnowfire had little effect on the Behemoth ships or their roving ‘maggots’, although it was very efficient at causing widespread damage to property. Additionally, the Eboran war-beasts had a particular aversion to the eldritch flame, often refusing to fight alongside the witches at all. The result was a great deal of resentment on both sides, as the Eborans found their carefully staged manoeuvres perpetually disrupted by unexpected explosions, fires and extremely agitated war-beasts. Meanwhile, the fell-witches were dying. Remember, usually there are only ever around a hundred to a hundred and fifty fell-witches at the Winnowry at any one time, and only a small percentage of those are ever trusted enough to become agents or mercenaries. During the Sixth Rain, almost all of them were wiped out.
(There is a stretch of varnish in western Reidn where an entire team of fell-mercenaries can be observed, trapped forever. A grisly souvenir from the Sixth Rain.)
Somewhat ungraciously, when eventually the Jure’lia were driven off by the Eborans, the Winnowry announced that it would henceforth leave the defeat of the worm people to their traditional enemies – the people of Ebora. I have never been able to find a record of the transaction, but I would be very interested to know what the Winnowry received for their services – and for the blood of the women they were supposed to be protecting.
Extract from the journals of Lady Vincenza ‘Vintage’ de Grazon
‘What is it?’
Vintage had led them to the outskirts of Mushenska and through the northern gate. From there they had followed what appeared to be a long, freshly gravelled path, and now they stood amongst a crowd of people before a great steel contraption. Noon could only see pieces of it through the press of men, women and children around them – she caught glimpses of plates of metal, welded in place with studs as big as her fist, small glass windows glowing with orange light, and then green, and then orange again, and a fat chimney. Every now and then, a great gout of steam would escape from it. Around them, the crowd were full of excited chatter. Here, the Wild had been forced back until it was a thick dark band in the distance – much of it appeared to have been burned away, judging from the scorch marks and the faint smell of ash.
‘How can you not know what it is?’ said Tormalin. ‘Your people made it. Your people run the thing.’ The Eboran had not cracked a smile since he had told them of his lover’s dream, and now he looked down at her with barely concealed impatience. He carried the heaviest pack, although it was slung easily over one shoulder with his sword belt. The blustery wind only served to tousle his hair into an attractive wave.
‘The Winnowry are not my people.’ Noon shifted the pack on her back, trying to get used to the weight. ‘I don’t have a people.’ Vintage had given her new clothes, finely stitched and of the finest fabrics, and it was a day given to squalls of chilly rain, so she wore a coat of stiff black velvet, soft doe-skin leggings, and new black boots. Her new hat was firmly secured to her head with a series of cunning pins. Vintage had shown her how to do it.
‘The winnowline, my dear, is one of the most extraordinary sights on Sarn.’ Vintage was wearing her own wide-brimmed hat, pulled low against the intermittent bursts of rain, and she was cheerfully elbowing her way to the front of the crowd. Tor and Noon followed in her wake. ‘Look at this lot, just come out to look at it. It will be a novelty for a while yet, no doubt. Here we are.’
The steel monster was revealed. Noon blinked rapidly, trying to take it in. Lights and steam and wheels. A confusion of metal tubes. And around the bulk of the thing, someone had etched a trio of enormous bats, their wings spread wide. Noon felt her jaw clench tight. Of course. The Winnowry traditionally travelled by their famous giant bats; how could they resist putting them all over this thing?
‘Marvellous, isn’t it?’ Vintage beamed at the contraption. ‘A steam-powered conveyance! The first on Sarn, as far as we know. From what I understand, water is heated and turned into steam, within a high-pressure boiler, then pushed on through those pipes, which power pistons, which in turn, turn the wheels.’
Noon glanced up at the puffs of steam escaping from the chimney. ‘When you say heated . . .’
‘By winnowfire, my darling. A team of fell-witches and novices heat the water tanks. From what I understand, the heat provided is steady and constant, and there is less wastage than what you might find from other fuels. You see the metal lines set into the ground? Those are what it travels along. Incredible. Years just to lay the track, and perfecting the engine itself was no easy process, from what I’ve read. There were a few accidents here and there, and there was that explosion recently, but, largely, it’s considered to be almost entirely safe.’
Noon was trying to shrink back into the crowd. There were fell-witches here, which meant the Winnowry was here, and she was standing right in front of them. The people at her back, with all their living energy just within reach, were both a terror and a temptation; she should just take what she needed, kill them all, and run. A heavy hand settled on her shoulder.
‘Not so fast, witch.’
Her heart turned over, but it was just Tormalin. ‘You don’t want to draw attention to yourself just now, do you?’
His hand was a warm pressure through her coat, and it made her think of the energy she had siphoned from him. She half fancied that she could still feel it, hidden away inside her somewhere.
‘I know this is alarming for you, my dear,’ Vintage was saying in a low voice. Tor took his hand from Noon’s shoulder. ‘But it really is the fastest way. The track they have laid so far criss-crosses the Wild and the plains, and the easternmost stop is where we need to get to. It would take us weeks to get there otherwise, while the winnowline will get us there in days. I’ve booked us a private compartment. Keep our heads down, enjoy the view. We’ll be there in no time. Come on.’
Vintage led them down past the great hissing beast that was the winnow-engine towards a series of ornate carriages that formed a line behind it. The doors were all open, and people were streaming on, carrying bags and children and the occasional chicken.
‘We’re down the end here, that’s right. Last carriage, we’ll have a good view of Mushenska as we rush away from it, won’t that be wonderful?’
Noon followed, keeping her face down. Where were the fell-witches? All ahead with the winnow-engine, she hoped. There would be priests here too, men for the women to draw energy from. She thought of Novice Lusk, but of course he wouldn’t be here; no doubt he was still being punished for failing to stop her escape. Noon closed her eyes for a moment, pushing that thought away. Were these fell-witches agents, allowed to operate independently, or would they have supervisors? Neither thought was very reassuring.
The final carriage had heavy curtains over the windows, and wooden panels carved from a grained wood the colour of good tea. As they reached the door, a heavy-set woman in patched trousers stepped down from it. Her skin was darker than Vintage’s, and her curly hair was held back from her face in a yellow handkerchief. The shirt she wore had a number of tiny burn marks and she had a great smudge of soot across her cheek.
‘Lady de Grazon?’
‘Pamoz! There you are. The engine is looking in fine fettle this morning.’
The woman called Pamoz grinned hugely and pulled a rag from her pocket. She wiped absently at her face. ‘We’ll have you where you need to go in no time, Lady de Grazon. I just wanted to stop by and thank one of my best investors. Without you, the winnowline wouldn’t exist at all.’
‘Oh do give over, my dear. It all comes from your clever head. You know I can’t resist seeing science in action. My colleagues here will be travelling with me.’
Noon detected a tiny tremor of surprise as Pamoz’s eyes passed over Tormalin, but then she simply nodded to them both. Vintage must have paid a great deal of money for the private carriage – perhaps the coin paid for a lack of curiosity too. Pamoz stepped to one side and wished them a pleasant journey as they climbed up into the carriage.
‘It’s an honour to have you on board, Lady de Grazon. I’ll be up front with the engine, but let me know if you should need anything further.’
Inside, the carriage was dark and cool, and filled with smoothly polished tables next to lavishly upholstered benches. There were even two pairs of narrow bunks, piled high with cushions and thick silky blankets. Noon ran her fingers over them, thinking of her bed in the Winnowry again, so close to the damp wall that it was never warm; the Winnowry apparently had different ideas about comfort, out in the wider world. She stood up and looked back towards the door, wondering again about the tame fell-witches that were powering this contraption. Did they have similar quarters on board? She turned back to look at Vintage.
‘I thought you didn’t like the Winnowry. But you throw your money at their projects?’
For the first time since she’d met her, the older woman looked uncomfortable.
‘I do. I told you I was self-serving, didn’t I, my dear? Well, the winnowline is useful. Faster travel across Sarn can only mean progress – a way for me to solve these mysteries, faster. Plus, the teams of women who power this thing get to breathe free air for a while. That is no small thing.’
Noon nodded and dropped her eyes. She was too unnerved by the presence of the Winnowry to argue the point, but she suspected from the uneasy expression on Vintage’s face that she did not truly believe her own words.
Vintage cleared her throat. ‘We’ll open the curtains once we’re on the move, Tor, but do pull the blind up at the back, will you? I want a bit of light to get my equipment sorted.’
With a few strides of his long legs Tormalin walked to the far end of the carriage and pulled the cord on the blind, revealing the bustling heap that was Mushenska behind them.
‘That’s it, lovely. Now, Noon, my dear, would you light the lamp on the main table? There are matches, don’t give me that look. I would like to show you something.’
The lamp lit, Vintage wrestled a heavy scroll from one of her bags. She rolled it out on the table and Tor helped her weigh it down with a pair of wine bottles. The paper was clearly old but of excellent quality, thick and only slightly yellowed. It was covered from edge to edge in an ink-and-charcoal drawing that, at first, Noon could make no sense of. Whatever it was, it appeared to be split into roughly three pieces, with long trailing sections linking them, and there were gaping holes in the surface, like infirm mouths. She tipped her head slightly, narrowing her eyes, and saw that someone had drawn a tiny human figure standing amongst it all to give it some scale. Whatever it was, it was enormous.
‘I give in.’
‘This, Fell-Noon, is the Behemoth wreck that Esiah Godwort keeps on his land. Specifically, he keeps it in a compound, heavily guarded by a bunch of muscle-headed idiots.’
‘Vintage had a disagreement with said muscle-headed idiots last time we visited,’ added Tormalin.
Vintage scowled, and then abruptly the entire carriage shook. Noon straightened up, backing towards the wall in alarm, but Vintage waved a hand at her. ‘We’re just setting off on our way, girl, nothing to worry about.’ Outside, a piercing whistle sounded. ‘Tor, you can pull the curtains back now. We should get a decent head of steam on – Pamoz does like to show off.’
Tor threw back the curtains and, despite herself, Noon went over to the windows and pressed her hands against the glass. Outside, the people left behind were already streaky blurs, and the dark shape that was the Wild was streaming past, faster and faster. She thought of flying with Fulcor, but Fulcor was understandable; she had muscles and bones, and wings and claws. This was the winnowfire used for something useful. There was a bellowing, roaring chufchufchuf coming from somewhere ahead.
Tormalin joined her at the window, and for the first time in hours he smiled faintly. ‘It’s more comfortable than a horse, I’ll give it that.’
‘Eyes back here please.’ Noon returned to the table, and Vintage tapped the sketch. ‘This represents possibly the most intact Behemoth corpse we have on Sarn, an extraordinary artefact. With this, it’s possible we could answer many questions about the Jure’lia and their queen.’
‘Then why haven’t you?’
‘Because’, Tormalin swapped one of the bottles of wine for the lamp, and pulled a corkscrew from his pocket, ‘Esiah Godwort won’t let her look at it.’
‘Because Esiah Godwort is a stubborn, foolish, ignorant snob who wouldn’t know true research if it reached up and poked his ridiculous, idiotic –’ Vintage took a breath. ‘Esiah is very protective of his property. He owns the land the buggering thing crashed onto, you see. It has been in his family for generations. From what I understand, his ancestors considered the land tainted, built a huge wall around it, and left it where it was – they were rich enough to be able to afford to do that. Growing up, Esiah became obsessed with this secret place, this haunted wreck hidden behind the thickest walls he’d ever seen. His family tried to distract him, with work and wives and trips to distant lands, but always he’d come back to the compound. What did they expect? That’s what I ask myself. You can’t hide something that strange and expect people not to be curious.’ She shrugged. ‘When he inherited the land, when old man Godwort breathed his last, Esiah threw everything he had into gathering information on the Behemoths. He rebuilt the compound, thoroughly explored its haunted landscape. For a time, Esiah was the leading scholar on the subject, and very keen to keep it that way.’ She coughed into her hand. ‘Annoyingly. But then, earlier this year, he withdrew from academia, took back all the artefacts and writings he had brought out into the world, and retreated to the compound. He would not speak to anyone of it, would not speak to anyone at all. He became a recluse. All that knowledge, closed up behind those walls.’ Vintage tapped her finger on the sketch. ‘This drawing is one of the very few items remaining from Esiah’s period of study. If we could just get inside it . . . we could learn more about the broken artefact we retrieved, I’m sure of it. Do all Behemoths carry such things? Where are they located?’
‘What happened to him? To Godwort?’ asked Noon.
‘I have no idea, darling Noon. Rumours have flown around – that he’s found himself a woman at last who is capable of distracting him. That he’s ill, or mad. Or that he’s discovered something so terrible within the Behemoth that it struck him immediately insensible.’ Vintage paused. ‘I quite like that one.’
The floor under their feet was thrumming slightly, and Noon found herself glancing towards the windows again and again, caught by the speed of the passing world. Tormalin had retrieved a goblet from a cabinet and poured himself a glass of wine the colour of rubies.
‘Need I remind you, Vintage, that we have been here before, and Esiah Godwort wouldn’t even speak to you?’ Tor sipped his wine. ‘He has no interest in sharing his compound with you.’
‘Ah, yes, this is true, Tormalin, my dear, but this time I come ready with items to trade.’ Vintage flapped a hand at the bags and cases piled in the corner. ‘At the knock-down price of just-let-me-in-the-bloody-compound.’
‘You’re trading in your own collection?’ Noon folded her arms over her chest. ‘How do you even know that what’s in this compound is worth seeing?’
Vintage accepted a glass from Tor. She was glaring at the sketch of the Behemoth. ‘Because drawings and writings are not enough, and after what we saw in the forest, I am more convinced of that than ever. I need to see a Behemoth up close, and as intact as possible. Perhaps Esiah has also found samples of this golden fluid. It could be conclusive proof, finally, that the Jure’lia are responsible for the Wild.’
‘But why? What do you get from it, in the end?’
Noon sensed Tormalin’s eyes on her, giving her a warning glance perhaps, but she ignored it. Vintage took a long swallow of wine, not looking up. ‘It’s all in the spirit of scientific enquiry, my dear Noon. There is nothing finer than knowing the truth.’
There were a few moments of silence between them all, filled with the busy roar of the winnowline engine.
‘Knowing the truth.’ Noon nodded slightly. ‘It’s funny you should say that. Bringing me here, amongst all these fell-witches. What if they should find out the truth? About me?’
Tormalin looked up at her again, surprised perhaps that she was speaking so openly about what she was. She felt a prickle of irritation at that; it was none of his business – this was a pact agreed between herself and Vintage.
‘You’ll stay in here, keep to yourself. Don’t set anything on fire. The witches here have a job to do, my dear, they aren’t interested in finding you.’
‘What if they’ve been told to look for someone like me? What if Fulcor is following me now, in the sky? She will lead them straight to me.’
‘Fulcor?’ asked Tormalin.
‘The bat.’ Noon frowned. ‘She’s following me. She seems to like me.’
‘Someone has to, I suppose.’
Vintage flapped her hands at her. ‘You worry too much, my dear. Stay here, be quiet, keep your head down. You’ll be fine.’
Noon reached up and touched her fingers to the silk band that covered her forehead. ‘I don’t think you know what sort of people they’ll have looking for me. I don’t think you know at all.’