Noon looked at her for a long moment. She reminded Vintage of a half-feral cat that had hung around the House some years ago. Never quite tame enough to come into the kitchens, it would loiter on the broad stone steps outside. The animal would sun itself there, and if you left fish scraps on a plate, it would eat them, but if you tried to edge closer, it would watch you with careful eyes. Too close and it would run, every time.
‘Thank you,’ the young woman said, a little stiffly. She peeled off her sodden slippers and threw them behind her – with more than a touch of satisfaction, Vintage thought – and pulled on Vintage’s big woollen socks.
‘Makes my pack a bit lighter, dear.’
Fell-Noon pulled on the shirt and the jacket, before lacing up the boots.
Vintage sat herself down a couple of feet away from the girl – close, but not too close. She was still thinking of the cat. ‘I haven’t seen many fell-witches in my time, it’s true.’ She kept her voice casual. ‘All those that I have seen wore scarves or hats, and their faces were all heavily powdered.’
She let the unasked question hang in the air. The fell-witch pulled a hand through her hair, not quite meeting her eyes. ‘Customs change.’
‘Well, if you should need a brush, my dear, just let me know.’
Tor appeared at the edge of their fire, moving in the unnervingly silent way that he had. There was something fat and wriggling on the end of his sword, which he tipped onto the dirt by Vintage’s feet.
‘It doesn’t look like much, but it’s actually pretty tasty, if you cook it for long enough. And douse it in wine. And drink lots of wine while you’re eating it. And drink lots of wine afterwards, so you forget what you were just eating.’
Vintage kept her face as still as possible, but she couldn’t help noticing Fell-Noon’s horrified expression. Tor’s catch appeared to be a huge woodlouse, some worm-touched creature that had grown fat and bloated in the crevices of the Shroom Flats. It was pale cream in colour, with an alarming multitude of stiff, grey legs.
‘Is that what Eborans like to eat?’ asked Noon. Her tone was suspiciously innocent, and Vintage opened her mouth to reply, but Tor was already stomping around the fire, his face like thunder.
‘That’s all there is to eat, but of course you are welcome to go hungry.’ He stopped then and turned to Vintage, outrage quivering on every inch of his face. ‘Vintage, I must be imagining things – perhaps my sight was damaged by the fireball this lunatic threw at us earlier – but it looks as though this witch is wearing my clothes. How, by Ygseril’s deepest roots, can that have happened?’
‘Oh, do be quiet and help me spit this monstrosity you’ve brought back. Fell-Noon, I have eaten something like this myself, back when I was travelling across the Reidn delta, it’s really not as bad as it looks—’
From above them came a scrabbling, shifting noise, and a pale shape dropped towards them from the canopy of mushroom caps. Vintage scrambled to her feet, her heart in her mouth, but the shape resolved itself into a pair of leathery wings and a blocky furred head. The bat swooped over their small camp, dropping something from its feet before flying up and away again, scrambling back up through the dark spaces between caps.
‘Fulcor! That was Fulcor.’ Noon was on her feet, and for the first time she was smiling. ‘See? The bat I flew here on. Because I’m a Winnowry agent. And look.’ She stepped around the fire and knelt by what the bat had dropped. It was a small goat-like creature, of the sort Vintage knew roamed in small herds through patches of the southern forests. ‘Here is the dinner I told it to fetch for me.’ The fell-witch stood up, a wild look in her eye. ‘Agents of the Winnowry do not eat giant bugs.’
10
Of course, Marin, as I’m sure you will have heard from your dear mother over the years, and even Ezion, Tormalin the Oathless was not the first Eboran I ever knew. One, in fact, walked the halls of the House and even slept for a time in the room that would eventually belong to you. I hope that is thrilling for you in some way.
It was early summer and I was about to turn twenty. Your grandmother and grandfather were both still alive then, of course, and I had very few responsibilities save for not wandering off and getting killed in the vine forest if I could help it. One day, a delegation of merchants arrived to talk to us about potentially setting up a trade route with Ebora itself – it had, they explained, been years since any such thing existed, due to some sort of scandal that had occurred some time after the Carrion Wars had ended – and with them was an Eboran woman. Initially, I thought that she was there as a representative of her home, perhaps to ensure that their interests were properly taken care of and, nominally, she was, but as the weeks went by it became increasingly obvious that she was more interested in the forest, and the terrible secret that it held.
Eborans, Marin, are of course known for their ethereal beauty, and this woman was no exception. She was tall and solidly built, with skin like warm marble and hair blacker than night. She wore, I remember, these strange pleated trousers that puffed out over the tops of her leather boots, and a crimson velvet jacket that always seemed to be covered in a layer of dust, and she owned a delicate pair of spectacles that I am fairly sure she did not need at all. More than that, despite her cold beauty, she was funny and kind. She would wander off from the long discussions after dinner, where your grandfather was trying so hard to be impressive, and one could find her in the kitchens, eating pudding with the servants, asking them endless questions. She asked so many questions, and really listened to the answers; as you get older, Marin, you will begin to see how rare this truly is.
Her name was Nanthema, and she was beautiful.
What you will have heard from your mother, I am unsure, and what Ezion will have told you, I dread to think, but I— [the remainder of this page is torn away, leaving a ragged line]
Extract from the private letters of Master Marin de Grazon from Lady Vincenza ‘Vintage’ de Grazon
Morning in the Shroom Flats was unsettling. The place was still gloomy, and filled with the alarming funk of dirt and fungus, but the light that filtered down from between the caps was pale gold in colour, dancing with flecks of plant matter. Vintage sat on top of her pack and watched it, when she wasn’t watching the sleeping girl. Noon was curled up by the extinguished fire, her knees pressed tightly to her chest, her hands covering her head. The girl was frightened, right down to her bones – when fear followed you that far into sleep, then you were in some serious trouble.
Vintage stood up, thinking to boil water for more tea, when the fell-witch jerked awake. For a few seconds, Vintage thought the girl might just stand up and run away, so alarmed did she look at her surroundings, but eventually she seemed to settle.
‘Where is the other one?’
‘Tor? I’ve sent him off to have a look around. I think we might be very close to what I’m looking for.’
‘Pieces of a dead Behemoth.’ Fell-Noon rubbed her hands over her face.