Fell-Noon kept her eyes on her bread, although Tor was giving Vintage a particularly sardonic look. She cleared her throat.
‘That is to say, that perhaps there is much to learn from recent history, and perhaps this is one of the places where those lessons may be, uh, learned.’
Tor rolled his eyes at Vintage, and waved his cup of wine at the pair of them. ‘What my employer is trying to ask you is, are you out here after the Behemoth remains too?’
‘What?’ The young woman half sat up, her black eyes suddenly full of alarm. ‘A Behemoth, around here? Are we safe?’
‘Well, yes and no.’ Vintage stood up, sighing as the bones in her knees popped. ‘We have reason to believe there are the remains of a Behemoth in the Shroom Flats somewhere – long dead, of course, likely the result of the Eighth Rain or perhaps an even earlier incursion, and therefore hundreds of years old – but thanks to the effects of such remains, no, we are not safe. We have encountered two parasite spirits on our way here, and we expect to encounter more before we find what we need. Here, look, the signs are all around us.’ She walked around the fire to the ring of stalks immediately behind them. There were smears of the translucent substance on the trunks, complete with the clusters of white nodules. ‘Do you see this? Parasite spirits can leave these markings behind when they brush against vegetation. They leave behind so little physical evidence, and we know so little about them.’ Her lips turned down at the corners, recalling the devastation that crouched at the heart of the vine forest. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard the stories, my darling. Parasite spirits are very dangerous indeed, and they are found in the vicinity of Behemoth remains.’
Fell-Noon looked haunted. ‘Behemoths are dangerous. Why are you out here?’
‘Everything worm-touched is a threat.’ Vintage reached down and plucked up her tin cup. ‘So much of Sarn is poisoned, twisted and strange, thanks to the influence of the Jure’lia. I want to find out why, Fell-Noon, and to stop it, if I can. How can we stop the Wild growing? What are the parasite spirits, and how can we live with them? The Wild, the worm people, the spirits – they’re all linked, somehow, we just can’t see the details. So I must learn as much about them as possible, which is why I spend my time, as Tor so expertly puts it, rooting around in the mud in dangerous places. Where I am from, Fell-Noon, we make wine from grapes that are worm-touched, and part of our land is slowly being consumed by the Wild. People have lost their lives trying to find out the truth.’ She paused, remembering the first Eboran she had ever met: Nanthema with her useless spectacles and her quick mind. ‘It’s . . . a cause that’s very dear to my heart.’
‘And why is the bloodsucker here?’
‘Charming,’ muttered Tor.
‘Your people slaughtered mine, for generations,’ said Noon, her voice flat. Her eyes were bright with an unreadable emotion. ‘What happened to you? Do you all still live in Ebora? Or did the crimson flux wipe you out?’
Tor sat very still. ‘The fate of my people is of no concern to a witch.’
‘Please, there’s no need for us to argue,’ said Vintage smoothly. ‘It gets dark quickly in this place, and really, my dear, you shouldn’t be out here by yourself. We are safer together. Tor, do you think there could be any game around here? Hot food would cheer us up, don’t you think?’
Sighing heavily, Tor headed off into the shadows, his sword at the ready, while Vintage poured them some more wine.
‘This doesn’t look like the sort of place where you can chase down a couple of plump rabbits,’ said Fell-Noon. She sat close to the fire, her arms wrapped around herself, not quite looking at Vintage.
‘Oh, you’d be surprised. All sorts make their home in the Wild. Tor might appear to be little more than a pretty pain in my rear end, but he’s unnaturally fast with that sword, and he sees very well in the dark. Now,’ Vintage swallowed more wine, savouring the warmth it brought to her belly. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s really going on?’
For a long moment the girl did not move. She was so still that Vintage began to think she hadn’t heard the question, but, eventually, she shook herself and touched her fingers, briefly, to the tattoo on her forehead.
‘You shouldn’t ask me questions,’ she said, her voice so quiet it was almost lost under the crackle of the fire. ‘You shouldn’t talk to me at all.’
‘What if I want to help you?’
The girl glanced up. The fire was reflected in her dark eyes, and her mouth was pressed into a thin line. ‘I’m an agent of the Winnowry. Why would I need your help?’
‘How did you get here? You can’t have walked all the way from the Winnowry.’
Fell-Noon reached inside her sleeve and produced a long silver tube, which she held up to Vintage as though this answered the question. ‘I flew here on a bat. That’s how Winnowry agents travel.’ She placed the tube, which was flattened at one end, into her mouth and mimed blowing on it. Then she put the whistle back into her sleeve, not quite meeting Vintage’s eyes. ‘Anyway. It’s hunting at the moment. The bat. I sent it away.’
‘Well.’ Vintage stood up. ‘One thing I do know – you will become ill, if you spend another night in this festering hole dressed as you are. Here.’ Vintage went to Tor’s pack and began pulling things out, holding them up to the firelight for a better look. The daylight, already weak under the canopy of mushroom caps, had turned to a velvet darkness. ‘They will all be too big for you, of course, but you can roll the sleeves up. And I have a spare pair of boots.’
Fell-Noon’s eyebrows shot up, creasing her tattoo.
‘I can’t take his stuff. Not his stuff. What if he—’
‘Nonsense, dear, you’ll freeze to death otherwise. Besides, Tor has an obscene number of shirts in here, I don’t know why he feels the need to carry them around with him everywhere. Here, look, put that on, and this over the top. I know it looks thin, but Eboran silk is remarkably warming.’ She thrust the shirt into the girl’s arms and followed it with a jacket of stiff, black material with a high embroidered collar. While Fell-Noon sat looking at them in confusion, Vintage went to her own pack and yanked out a pair of battered leather boots with laces that went from the ankle right down to the toe. ‘Here, put those on too. I don’t for a moment think your little feet are the same size as mine, my dear, but you can pull the laces tight and here, stuff them with these socks.’