‘Because’, Tormalin swapped one of the bottles of wine for the lamp, and pulled a corkscrew from his pocket, ‘Esiah Godwort won’t let her look at it.’
‘Because Esiah Godwort is a stubborn, foolish, ignorant snob who wouldn’t know true research if it reached up and poked his ridiculous, idiotic –’ Vintage took a breath. ‘Esiah is very protective of his property. He owns the land the buggering thing crashed onto, you see. It has been in his family for generations. From what I understand, his ancestors considered the land tainted, built a huge wall around it, and left it where it was – they were rich enough to be able to afford to do that. Growing up, Esiah became obsessed with this secret place, this haunted wreck hidden behind the thickest walls he’d ever seen. His family tried to distract him, with work and wives and trips to distant lands, but always he’d come back to the compound. What did they expect? That’s what I ask myself. You can’t hide something that strange and expect people not to be curious.’ She shrugged. ‘When he inherited the land, when old man Godwort breathed his last, Esiah threw everything he had into gathering information on the Behemoths. He rebuilt the compound, thoroughly explored its haunted landscape. For a time, Esiah was the leading scholar on the subject, and very keen to keep it that way.’ She coughed into her hand. ‘Annoyingly. But then, earlier this year, he withdrew from academia, took back all the artefacts and writings he had brought out into the world, and retreated to the compound. He would not speak to anyone of it, would not speak to anyone at all. He became a recluse. All that knowledge, closed up behind those walls.’ Vintage tapped her finger on the sketch. ‘This drawing is one of the very few items remaining from Esiah’s period of study. If we could just get inside it . . . we could learn more about the broken artefact we retrieved, I’m sure of it. Do all Behemoths carry such things? Where are they located?’
‘What happened to him? To Godwort?’ asked Noon.
‘I have no idea, darling Noon. Rumours have flown around – that he’s found himself a woman at last who is capable of distracting him. That he’s ill, or mad. Or that he’s discovered something so terrible within the Behemoth that it struck him immediately insensible.’ Vintage paused. ‘I quite like that one.’
The floor under their feet was thrumming slightly, and Noon found herself glancing towards the windows again and again, caught by the speed of the passing world. Tormalin had retrieved a goblet from a cabinet and poured himself a glass of wine the colour of rubies.
‘Need I remind you, Vintage, that we have been here before, and Esiah Godwort wouldn’t even speak to you?’ Tor sipped his wine. ‘He has no interest in sharing his compound with you.’
‘Ah, yes, this is true, Tormalin, my dear, but this time I come ready with items to trade.’ Vintage flapped a hand at the bags and cases piled in the corner. ‘At the knock-down price of just-let-me-in-the-bloody-compound.’
‘You’re trading in your own collection?’ Noon folded her arms over her chest. ‘How do you even know that what’s in this compound is worth seeing?’
Vintage accepted a glass from Tor. She was glaring at the sketch of the Behemoth. ‘Because drawings and writings are not enough, and after what we saw in the forest, I am more convinced of that than ever. I need to see a Behemoth up close, and as intact as possible. Perhaps Esiah has also found samples of this golden fluid. It could be conclusive proof, finally, that the Jure’lia are responsible for the Wild.’
‘But why? What do you get from it, in the end?’
Noon sensed Tormalin’s eyes on her, giving her a warning glance perhaps, but she ignored it. Vintage took a long swallow of wine, not looking up. ‘It’s all in the spirit of scientific enquiry, my dear Noon. There is nothing finer than knowing the truth.’
There were a few moments of silence between them all, filled with the busy roar of the winnowline engine.
‘Knowing the truth.’ Noon nodded slightly. ‘It’s funny you should say that. Bringing me here, amongst all these fell-witches. What if they should find out the truth? About me?’
Tormalin looked up at her again, surprised perhaps that she was speaking so openly about what she was. She felt a prickle of irritation at that; it was none of his business – this was a pact agreed between herself and Vintage.
‘You’ll stay in here, keep to yourself. Don’t set anything on fire. The witches here have a job to do, my dear, they aren’t interested in finding you.’
‘What if they’ve been told to look for someone like me? What if Fulcor is following me now, in the sky? She will lead them straight to me.’
‘Fulcor?’ asked Tormalin.
‘The bat.’ Noon frowned. ‘She’s following me. She seems to like me.’
‘Someone has to, I suppose.’
Vintage flapped her hands at her. ‘You worry too much, my dear. Stay here, be quiet, keep your head down. You’ll be fine.’
Noon reached up and touched her fingers to the silk band that covered her forehead. ‘I don’t think you know what sort of people they’ll have looking for me. I don’t think you know at all.’
19
Dearest Marin,
Thank you for your most recent letter, you know I’m always thrilled to hear of life outside the vine forest – do not worry yourself about ‘bothering me with childish tales of college life’. Truly, my dear, your letters are a highlight, especially as it’s picking season and dear Ezion has a bigger pea-bug up his arse than usual.