‘We’re down the end here, that’s right. Last carriage, we’ll have a good view of Mushenska as we rush away from it, won’t that be wonderful?’
Noon followed, keeping her face down. Where were the fell-witches? All ahead with the winnow-engine, she hoped. There would be priests here too, men for the women to draw energy from. She thought of Novice Lusk, but of course he wouldn’t be here; no doubt he was still being punished for failing to stop her escape. Noon closed her eyes for a moment, pushing that thought away. Were these fell-witches agents, allowed to operate independently, or would they have supervisors? Neither thought was very reassuring.
The final carriage had heavy curtains over the windows, and wooden panels carved from a grained wood the colour of good tea. As they reached the door, a heavy-set woman in patched trousers stepped down from it. Her skin was darker than Vintage’s, and her curly hair was held back from her face in a yellow handkerchief. The shirt she wore had a number of tiny burn marks and she had a great smudge of soot across her cheek.
‘Lady de Grazon?’
‘Pamoz! There you are. The engine is looking in fine fettle this morning.’
The woman called Pamoz grinned hugely and pulled a rag from her pocket. She wiped absently at her face. ‘We’ll have you where you need to go in no time, Lady de Grazon. I just wanted to stop by and thank one of my best investors. Without you, the winnowline wouldn’t exist at all.’
‘Oh do give over, my dear. It all comes from your clever head. You know I can’t resist seeing science in action. My colleagues here will be travelling with me.’
Noon detected a tiny tremor of surprise as Pamoz’s eyes passed over Tormalin, but then she simply nodded to them both. Vintage must have paid a great deal of money for the private carriage – perhaps the coin paid for a lack of curiosity too. Pamoz stepped to one side and wished them a pleasant journey as they climbed up into the carriage.
‘It’s an honour to have you on board, Lady de Grazon. I’ll be up front with the engine, but let me know if you should need anything further.’
Inside, the carriage was dark and cool, and filled with smoothly polished tables next to lavishly upholstered benches. There were even two pairs of narrow bunks, piled high with cushions and thick silky blankets. Noon ran her fingers over them, thinking of her bed in the Winnowry again, so close to the damp wall that it was never warm; the Winnowry apparently had different ideas about comfort, out in the wider world. She stood up and looked back towards the door, wondering again about the tame fell-witches that were powering this contraption. Did they have similar quarters on board? She turned back to look at Vintage.
‘I thought you didn’t like the Winnowry. But you throw your money at their projects?’
For the first time since she’d met her, the older woman looked uncomfortable.
‘I do. I told you I was self-serving, didn’t I, my dear? Well, the winnowline is useful. Faster travel across Sarn can only mean progress – a way for me to solve these mysteries, faster. Plus, the teams of women who power this thing get to breathe free air for a while. That is no small thing.’
Noon nodded and dropped her eyes. She was too unnerved by the presence of the Winnowry to argue the point, but she suspected from the uneasy expression on Vintage’s face that she did not truly believe her own words.
Vintage cleared her throat. ‘We’ll open the curtains once we’re on the move, Tor, but do pull the blind up at the back, will you? I want a bit of light to get my equipment sorted.’
With a few strides of his long legs Tormalin walked to the far end of the carriage and pulled the cord on the blind, revealing the bustling heap that was Mushenska behind them.
‘That’s it, lovely. Now, Noon, my dear, would you light the lamp on the main table? There are matches, don’t give me that look. I would like to show you something.’
The lamp lit, Vintage wrestled a heavy scroll from one of her bags. She rolled it out on the table and Tor helped her weigh it down with a pair of wine bottles. The paper was clearly old but of excellent quality, thick and only slightly yellowed. It was covered from edge to edge in an ink-and-charcoal drawing that, at first, Noon could make no sense of. Whatever it was, it appeared to be split into roughly three pieces, with long trailing sections linking them, and there were gaping holes in the surface, like infirm mouths. She tipped her head slightly, narrowing her eyes, and saw that someone had drawn a tiny human figure standing amongst it all to give it some scale. Whatever it was, it was enormous.
‘I give in.’
‘This, Fell-Noon, is the Behemoth wreck that Esiah Godwort keeps on his land. Specifically, he keeps it in a compound, heavily guarded by a bunch of muscle-headed idiots.’
‘Vintage had a disagreement with said muscle-headed idiots last time we visited,’ added Tormalin.
Vintage scowled, and then abruptly the entire carriage shook. Noon straightened up, backing towards the wall in alarm, but Vintage waved a hand at her. ‘We’re just setting off on our way, girl, nothing to worry about.’ Outside, a piercing whistle sounded. ‘Tor, you can pull the curtains back now. We should get a decent head of steam on – Pamoz does like to show off.’
Tor threw back the curtains and, despite herself, Noon went over to the windows and pressed her hands against the glass. Outside, the people left behind were already streaky blurs, and the dark shape that was the Wild was streaming past, faster and faster. She thought of flying with Fulcor, but Fulcor was understandable; she had muscles and bones, and wings and claws. This was the winnowfire used for something useful. There was a bellowing, roaring chufchufchuf coming from somewhere ahead.
Tormalin joined her at the window, and for the first time in hours he smiled faintly. ‘It’s more comfortable than a horse, I’ll give it that.’
‘Eyes back here please.’ Noon returned to the table, and Vintage tapped the sketch. ‘This represents possibly the most intact Behemoth corpse we have on Sarn, an extraordinary artefact. With this, it’s possible we could answer many questions about the Jure’lia and their queen.’
‘Then why haven’t you?’