20
My dearest Marin,
I have had several angry letters from your mother. She seems to think this latest idea of yours is my fault. Don’t worry, I assured her that you are quite capable of coming up with your own dangerous nonsense and don’t have to borrow any from me at all.
Even so, she is insisting that I write to you and tell you not to go. Obviously, my darling, I’m not going to tell you to do that. But I will tell you, quite firmly, with that look in my eye (you know the look) that you must research the expedition company thoroughly, preferably talking to customers who have made the journey previously. If you are unsure of them at all, go elsewhere. However well armed they are, take your own weapons, and keep your own supply of rations with you at all times. I know full well these ominous instructions will only add to your excitement, which is why you are my favourite nephew, but do keep this in mind, Marin: the Wild is more dangerous, and far stranger, than you could ever know. Our small patch of it in the vine forest is tame in comparison to what I’ve seen in my travels – don’t be swayed into complacency. And if you should see anything freakishly worm-touched write to me about it immediately.
Extract from the private letters of Master Marin de Grazon, from Lady Vincenza ‘Vintage’ de Grazon
Beyond the carriage window the tall grasses were a ghostly grey, like sea foam at night. Until he’d left Ebora, Tormalin had never seen the sea – it had been one of the first things he’d done, and he’d never tired of it. Even this, the grasses seen at night from a speeding carriage with the dark presence of the Wild beyond them, was something he could never have experienced at home. All that was waiting for him at home were bad memories and a slow death. It was important to remember that. He turned away from the window.
‘Do we have any food here?’
Vintage was sitting at the long table, her legs stretched across an adjacent chair and a book on her lap. She waved a hand vaguely at the corner.
‘There’s dried meat and bread in one of the packs. Some fruit too.’
‘I mean real food. Hot food. Food with sauce and gravy and cream.’
The witch was sitting in the corner at the back of the carriage, her knees drawn up to her chest and her new black coat wrapped around her, the hat pulled down low over her forehead. She met his eyes and raised a single eyebrow.
‘There is a kitchen carriage two carriages down,’ said Vintage, still not taking her eyes off her reading material. ‘Try not to rouse the natives.’
Tor stood up, stretching out his back until the small bones there popped, and opened the door to the next carriage. Each carriage was linked with chains and metal tubes, and someone had helpfully covered the top of the gap with a thick roof of brown leather, but it was still possible to see the ground rushing away beneath your feet. Grimacing slightly, Tor stepped carefully onto the next platform and opened the adjoining carriage door.
Inside was a room even plusher than Vintage’s carriage. The seats were upholstered with green velvet, and the curtains were yellow silk. Men and women were sitting around highly polished tables, drinking drinks and eating plates of steaming food. They were all well dressed, the elite of Mushenska: traders and politicians, criminals and merchants, with a few of the region’s rare surviving aristocracy. He saw eyes jumping up from drinks and food to watch him pass; a few laden forks halted on the way to expectant mouths. He pushed a strand of hair behind his ear and nodded to a pair of young women playing a hand of cards between them, allowing the corner of his mouth to twitch into a speculative smile. They both turned faintly pink and, satisfied, he moved to the end of the compartment, enjoying for a moment how apart he was from them – a shark moving through still waters.
The next carriage was filled with steam and the smell of roasting meat. At a long polished counter he ordered a bowl of thick stew and a hot potato filled with melted cheese and flakes of a deliciously salty fish. There were tables in the carriage but they were all full, and on a whim Tor took his food through the door to the next. To his surprise, the dimly lit space was full of crates, boxes and sacks, although there were people there too, using the cargo as makeshift tables and chairs. These men and women did not wear fine clothes, and their faces had the pinched look of people who did not eat as often as they’d like. They had brought their own lamps, and sat in circles of their own light.
Tor stood for a moment, frozen. They did not look at him with awe or curiosity, but only with a flat acceptance; to these travellers, he realised, he was really no different to the people in the lushly furnished carriage. They only wanted to know if he was going to turf them out or not. He thought of the man in the watchtower, with his rags and his worn teeth. He had sat and shared tea with him all those years ago.
Carrying his food awkwardly, he sat on a sack and settled his things onto a crate. Far enough away from the others not to intrude, but close enough to suggest he wasn’t insulted by their presence. With that done, he started to eat his food, trying not to think about the humans eyeing him cautiously. The stew was good, and the potato was even better, and he’d almost relaxed when a small hand clasped his sleeve. It was a human child, eyes enormous in a dirt-streaked face. He had a brown birthmark in the middle of his cheek. In his other hand was a slip of dirty paper.
‘Are you an Eboran, sir?’
Tor put down his spoon and arranged his face into an expression of goodwill, preparing for the worst. He thought of the tramp in the tower again, how he had called him a murderer and told him that all of his people should have died.
‘That I am.’
‘I drew this.’ The boy brandished the paper at him, and Tor saw that there was a rough sketch on it, half dirt and half charcoal. ‘It’s one of your war-beasts.’
‘So it is.’ Tor took the paper carefully and held it up to the dim light. There was a dragon there, looking rather like a large scaly dog, and a tall thin figure riding atop it with an oversized sword. Tor thought of the Ninth Rain, carefully stored back in the compartment with Vintage, and smiled. ‘Is this what you imagined they looked like?’
The boy took the paper back, pushing his lower lip out slightly as he did so. ‘’Tis what they looked like. My grandpa told me. He saw ’em.’
‘It is a fine drawing,’ said Tor, even as he thought that the child’s granddad was a fanciful liar.
‘I thought you was all dead,’ said the boy. His eyes kept wandering to the remains of Tor’s potato. ‘That maybe you wasn’t real. But now I’ve seen you, so you can’t all be dead.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Wait until I tell my sister! She’ll shit a brick.’
Tor fought to keep his face solemn. ‘Sisters are like that, it’s true.’
‘So if the worm people come back again, the Eboran war-beasts will be there to tear ’em to bits.’ The child gestured triumphantly with the paper. ‘We thought you was all dead, but it’s just a lie, like when I hide the best crusts from my dinner for later. You’re just waiting, holding it back for later.’
Despite the warmth of the carriage, Tor felt cold. How to tell this boy, with his drawings and his easily shocked sister, that there were no Eboran war-beasts, that there never would be again? It was too easy to imagine the boy’s mouth falling open, black beetles running over his tongue, his small body covered in a tide of green varnish. Ainsel’s dream suddenly felt very close, as though he could look out the window now and see Behemoths hanging in the sky again. Tor felt his heart skip a beat in his chest. We’re all exposed and helpless, he thought. Not just Ebora, but all of Sarn. We are injured prey.
‘Here, kid, look, take this.’ He picked up the plate with the remains of the potato on it, still swimming in hot butter. ‘It’s what you wanted anyway, isn’t it?’
The boy took the plate, half crumpling his picture to do so, his face creased in confusion.
‘I just wanted to—’
‘Go away, kid. I’m sure your mother wouldn’t want you talking to me anyway. Go on, go away.’
The boy backed off down between the boxes, his face hidden in shadows. Tor was glad.
Noon awoke to Tormalin stalking back into their compartment. Vintage had long since climbed into her own bunk, extinguishing all the lamps save one, but Noon had preferred to stay where she was, propped at the back of the carriage with her boots on. With fell-witches down the other end of this contraption, it felt safer.
The tall Eboran bumped into the table, and steadied himself by leaning on a wine bottle. His long black hair hung in his face, and she watched him gather his wits before moving again. Even drunk, he was capable of walking quietly when he wanted to, and he came towards her, stopping to drop himself into a chair. After a moment he rooted around in his pockets and came out with a glass vial, which he held up to the light. Noon could just make out the thick, crimson substance within.
‘Having a good night?’ she asked, her voice low. He didn’t startle but he held his body very still for a moment, then he turned towards her.
‘I thought you were asleep.’
‘I don’t sleep very deeply. Not without akaris, anyway.’ She shifted in her seat, pulling her coat up to her shoulders as a makeshift blanket. ‘Are you going to drink that?’
Tormalin looked at the vial of blood as though he’d forgotten it was there.
‘This is old. It wouldn’t be the same. Fresh is better.’ He looked at her then, an expression she couldn’t read on his face, and Noon felt her skin prickle all over. When he looked away again she was relieved, but she found herself thinking of his life energy, how it had filled every part of her. Tormalin cleared his throat.
‘I would feel better,’ he said, a sardonic edge to his voice. ‘Old blood still carries that same euphoria, that sense of well-being, but it’s a lie. A memory of something false.’
‘Fresh blood heals you?’
He turned back to her, smiling, and it was like being in the room with something impossible – the Eboran war-beasts of old, perhaps, or the storm gods Mother Fast used to talk about, their eyes full of sky-fire and hate. His skin was rare marble in the lamplight, and the finely boned hand that lay against his scuffed trousers was as exquisite as a snowflake. All around them, the winnowline rumbled on its journey through the Wild, and Noon tried to concentrate on that instead.
‘It turns back the march of time, keeps me young, keeps me strong. If I am hurt, enough of it will close my flesh faster than true healing. Once, Ygseril’s sap did this job, but I am almost too young to remember what that was like. Almost.’ He looked down at the vial in his hand, and closed his fingers over it. ‘Old blood, really, is no better and no worse than a decent bottle of wine.’
‘And I reckon you’ve had a few of those this evening.’
He nodded. Noon glanced at the still form of Vintage. It was just possible to hear her soft snores.
‘Vintage mentioned that you have an . . . arrangement. With people who give you blood.’
‘I have sex with them for blood, yes. They seem to be very pleased with the trade actually.’ He looked at her and she cursed herself for not being able to meet his eyes. ‘Would you like to hear about how that works, Fell-Noon?’
‘I know how sex works. Thanks all the same.’ She kept her tone flippant, but her cheeks, curse them, were as hot as a brand. Tor was laughing softly, his shoulders shaking lightly with it.
‘I have two lovers, carefully selected, who understand what I need – and I understand what they need, down to every last detail.’ He sighed. ‘With our little jaunt to Esiah Godwort’s cursed compound, I will be going without for a little while. And so will they.’
‘My heart bleeds for you,’ said Noon. To her annoyance the memory of Novice Lusk’s creamy skin had risen to the forefront of her mind, followed closely by the memory of sliding her fingers across Tormalin’s neck.
‘Ah, Fell-Noon.’ Tormalin stood up and swept an elaborate bow in her direction. ‘If only it did. And please do not get all outraged on my account – as I said, my lovers are very carefully chosen.’
With that he walked over to the bunk on the far side of the carriage and fell gracefully onto the covers there. Within minutes his breathing evened out, while Noon sat rigid on her chair, glaring at nothing. The bastard was already asleep.
‘Pay no attention to him, darling.’ Vintage’s voice was fuzzy with sleep. ‘He enjoys your blushes too much to resist provoking them.’