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.