‘No one truly knows what happened at the end of the Eighth Rain,’ he said eventually, his voice dripping with reluctance. ‘Even my people cannot be sure, because so many died at that battle. The Jure’lia queen was certainly there, and the lands beyond the Wall had swathes of this substance you call varnish.’ He curled his lip as though tasting something sour. ‘We built over it, preferring not to dwell on ugly things. We were fighting a battle on many fronts that day, our army spread across Sarn, but the queen was in Ebora. Warriors were dying, our war-beasts overwhelmed by drones. It looked like the end of all things. And then, suddenly,’ he held his hands up and dropped them. ‘The queen was there no longer, and all of her little toys stopped working. Just dropped dead in the middle of the fight. And when we had cleaned up the mess and finished congratulating each other, we found Ygseril cold and dead, his bark turned grey as ash.’
‘Do you think . . .?’
‘That the queen killed him before she was killed herself?’ Tormalin’s face was very still, very controlled, his maroon eyes dry. ‘I, for one, do not care. It all comes to the same end either way.’
‘Yes, well.’ Vintage thinned her lips. For the first time since Noon had met her, she looked tired. ‘We should not just forget. People were killed in their thousands, their insides eaten by the Jure’lia’s pestilence – lives were destroyed. The effects of it are still being felt now.’ She gestured down at the varnish again. Noon could make out more humanoid shapes down there. ‘Look at those poor bastards. No graves for them, no way to retrieve their bodies without destroying them utterly, so they wait here forever, a frozen piece of history, while bored school children stomp around on their resting place. It shouldn’t be forgotten. We can’t just brush over it.’ She shook her head. ‘I need to know why these people died. We should want to solve this mystery, the mystery of the worm people. Not just pretend as though it never happened.’
There were a few moments’ silence. Noon found herself glancing up at Tormalin, who gave the tiniest shrug.
‘Come on, Vintage,’ he said eventually. ‘Let’s get back to your rooms so you can find me some wine.’
14
One of the most well-documented facts about the Eborans is how remarkably long-lived they are. In the days when their tree-god Ygseril was mighty and running with sap, they were popularly thought to be immortal, although that was never quite the case. In their heyday, Eborans could expect to see more than 1,000 years of life, with the oldest recorded Eboran woman eventually shuffling off – no doubt exhausted – at the grand old age of 1,002. These days, with great Ygseril a sad husk of what it once was, Eborans often live for around 500 years, assuming the crimson flux doesn’t strike them down first. For the rest of us, of course, such a lifetime seems unimaginable, and often I sense that this gulf is the true reason behind all the strife between our peoples – we just cannot understand each other.
With such centuries to fill, Eborans often chose to dedicate entire decades of their lives to mastering certain skills, meaning that the land beyond the Wall has produced many of Sarn’s most extraordinary artists and composers. Great works of art, sculpture, music, dance and even cooking have all owed their genesis to Eboran men and women looking to fill in some time from one century to the next. One of the most notorious disciplines (one responsible for many of the most scandalous rumours about Eborans) is taught at the House of the Long Night – I talk about sex, of course.
It is treated as a priesthood of sorts. Men and women come to the House of the Long Night and swear to devote themselves to its teachings for no less than ten years. During this time, they learn as much as you can possibly imagine; they study the philosophy, the science, and the technique of pleasure. They learn which oils and which wines, which silks and which leathers, the dance of fingertips and tongues, the arts of abstinence and satiation. Sex is treated with the utmost respect in the House of the Long Night; it is regarded as the finest and most precious bond between people, even when that bond is for a single night, and the graduates of this academy regard the practice of their arts as a kind of worship.
As you can imagine, this has rather led to the assumption that all Eborans are ridiculously talented in bed, which is exactly the sort of assumption people make when they don’t read enough books, or don’t actually take time to talk to the people in question. Those few Eborans who ventured beyond the Wall before the crimson flux struck them down often did take human lovers, although from what I understand, the undertaking was never a frivolous one, given that sex was a form of worship for them – even when multiple partners were involved, the first teachings of the Long Night insist that everyone knows upfront what they are getting into. No doubt hearts have still been broken along the way, but it always struck me as an oddly respectful discipline.
My dear colleague Tormalin the Oathless himself entered into several such ‘understandings’ and despite being of dubious morality in many areas, always behaved impeccably in this. He also claimed, of course, that a decade’s study was not enough, and that he had dedicated half a century to his own ‘pursuit of knowledge’. He was always, as he said, learning.
As a side note, very little is known about Eboran family names. Indeed, from what I gather it is considered ‘illbred’ to speak of them outside of Ebora, and it is an act of great trust to share a family name with someone who is not Eboran. I can hardly imagine my brother Ezion being so discreet – I’m sure he must drop the de Grazon name at the slightest provocation. (I have brought the matter up with Tormalin several times, and he simply changes the subject, the swine.)
Extract from the journals of Lady Vincenza ‘Vintage’ de Grazon
One of Tor’s favourite things about working for Vintage was the free accommodation. The scholar had, for the last three years, taken over the top floor of the Sea-Heart Inn, a great sprawling building that nestled in the southern-most streets of Mushenska, on top of a small hill overlooking the coast. As sea views went, it wasn’t the most attractive – the band of water they could see from their windows was steely grey much of the time, and far to the right was the distant spiky eyesore that was the Winnowry, sitting alone on its desolate island – but the service was exceptional, the food was decent, and the rooms were warm.
As they arrived at the rambling, wood-framed building, Vintage was already chattering about where she intended them to go next. Men and women peeled out of the back doors to take their bags, summoned by the familiar sound of Vintage ranting on about nonsense, while the owner of the inn, a Master Lucian, appeared at the door with his apron on – he supervised all of the cooking himself. He took one look at Vintage handing over bags and papers, and met Tormalin’s gaze with a pair of raised eyebrows.
‘Dinner will be required, m’lord Tormalin?’
‘A light snack for me, Lucian, if you please.’ He had asked the man not to refer to him in such grand terms, but it had never quite stuck. ‘Your glazed-apple pudding with a round of your best cheese. Bring it straight to my room, please.’ Tor glanced around and saw Noon, standing in the middle of the chaos like a stunned pigeon. She was gnawing on the skin of her thumb. ‘Your best hot food for Lady Vintage and her new companion here though. Do you still have any of that . . . pigeon pie?’
Lucian dipped his head once. ‘With the red-wine gravy, m’lord. Lady Vintage was kind enough to grace us with a new case.’