‘There is a kitchen carriage two carriages down,’ said Vintage, still not taking her eyes off her reading material. ‘Try not to rouse the natives.’
Tor stood up, stretching out his back until the small bones there popped, and opened the door to the next carriage. Each carriage was linked with chains and metal tubes, and someone had helpfully covered the top of the gap with a thick roof of brown leather, but it was still possible to see the ground rushing away beneath your feet. Grimacing slightly, Tor stepped carefully onto the next platform and opened the adjoining carriage door.
Inside was a room even plusher than Vintage’s carriage. The seats were upholstered with green velvet, and the curtains were yellow silk. Men and women were sitting around highly polished tables, drinking drinks and eating plates of steaming food. They were all well dressed, the elite of Mushenska: traders and politicians, criminals and merchants, with a few of the region’s rare surviving aristocracy. He saw eyes jumping up from drinks and food to watch him pass; a few laden forks halted on the way to expectant mouths. He pushed a strand of hair behind his ear and nodded to a pair of young women playing a hand of cards between them, allowing the corner of his mouth to twitch into a speculative smile. They both turned faintly pink and, satisfied, he moved to the end of the compartment, enjoying for a moment how apart he was from them – a shark moving through still waters.
The next carriage was filled with steam and the smell of roasting meat. At a long polished counter he ordered a bowl of thick stew and a hot potato filled with melted cheese and flakes of a deliciously salty fish. There were tables in the carriage but they were all full, and on a whim Tor took his food through the door to the next. To his surprise, the dimly lit space was full of crates, boxes and sacks, although there were people there too, using the cargo as makeshift tables and chairs. These men and women did not wear fine clothes, and their faces had the pinched look of people who did not eat as often as they’d like. They had brought their own lamps, and sat in circles of their own light.
Tor stood for a moment, frozen. They did not look at him with awe or curiosity, but only with a flat acceptance; to these travellers, he realised, he was really no different to the people in the lushly furnished carriage. They only wanted to know if he was going to turf them out or not. He thought of the man in the watchtower, with his rags and his worn teeth. He had sat and shared tea with him all those years ago.
Carrying his food awkwardly, he sat on a sack and settled his things onto a crate. Far enough away from the others not to intrude, but close enough to suggest he wasn’t insulted by their presence. With that done, he started to eat his food, trying not to think about the humans eyeing him cautiously. The stew was good, and the potato was even better, and he’d almost relaxed when a small hand clasped his sleeve. It was a human child, eyes enormous in a dirt-streaked face. He had a brown birthmark in the middle of his cheek. In his other hand was a slip of dirty paper.
‘Are you an Eboran, sir?’
Tor put down his spoon and arranged his face into an expression of goodwill, preparing for the worst. He thought of the tramp in the tower again, how he had called him a murderer and told him that all of his people should have died.
‘That I am.’
‘I drew this.’ The boy brandished the paper at him, and Tor saw that there was a rough sketch on it, half dirt and half charcoal. ‘It’s one of your war-beasts.’
‘So it is.’ Tor took the paper carefully and held it up to the dim light. There was a dragon there, looking rather like a large scaly dog, and a tall thin figure riding atop it with an oversized sword. Tor thought of the Ninth Rain, carefully stored back in the compartment with Vintage, and smiled. ‘Is this what you imagined they looked like?’
The boy took the paper back, pushing his lower lip out slightly as he did so. ‘’Tis what they looked like. My grandpa told me. He saw ’em.’
‘It is a fine drawing,’ said Tor, even as he thought that the child’s granddad was a fanciful liar.
‘I thought you was all dead,’ said the boy. His eyes kept wandering to the remains of Tor’s potato. ‘That maybe you wasn’t real. But now I’ve seen you, so you can’t all be dead.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Wait until I tell my sister! She’ll shit a brick.’
Tor fought to keep his face solemn. ‘Sisters are like that, it’s true.’
‘So if the worm people come back again, the Eboran war-beasts will be there to tear ’em to bits.’ The child gestured triumphantly with the paper. ‘We thought you was all dead, but it’s just a lie, like when I hide the best crusts from my dinner for later. You’re just waiting, holding it back for later.’
Despite the warmth of the carriage, Tor felt cold. How to tell this boy, with his drawings and his easily shocked sister, that there were no Eboran war-beasts, that there never would be again? It was too easy to imagine the boy’s mouth falling open, black beetles running over his tongue, his small body covered in a tide of green varnish. Ainsel’s dream suddenly felt very close, as though he could look out the window now and see Behemoths hanging in the sky again. Tor felt his heart skip a beat in his chest. We’re all exposed and helpless, he thought. Not just Ebora, but all of Sarn. We are injured prey.
‘Here, kid, look, take this.’ He picked up the plate with the remains of the potato on it, still swimming in hot butter. ‘It’s what you wanted anyway, isn’t it?’
The boy took the plate, half crumpling his picture to do so, his face creased in confusion.
‘I just wanted to—’
‘Go away, kid. I’m sure your mother wouldn’t want you talking to me anyway. Go on, go away.’
The boy backed off down between the boxes, his face hidden in shadows. Tor was glad.
Noon awoke to Tormalin stalking back into their compartment. Vintage had long since climbed into her own bunk, extinguishing all the lamps save one, but Noon had preferred to stay where she was, propped at the back of the carriage with her boots on. With fell-witches down the other end of this contraption, it felt safer.
The tall Eboran bumped into the table, and steadied himself by leaning on a wine bottle. His long black hair hung in his face, and she watched him gather his wits before moving again. Even drunk, he was capable of walking quietly when he wanted to, and he came towards her, stopping to drop himself into a chair. After a moment he rooted around in his pockets and came out with a glass vial, which he held up to the light. Noon could just make out the thick, crimson substance within.
‘Having a good night?’ she asked, her voice low. He didn’t startle but he held his body very still for a moment, then he turned towards her.
‘I thought you were asleep.’
‘I don’t sleep very deeply. Not without akaris, anyway.’ She shifted in her seat, pulling her coat up to her shoulders as a makeshift blanket. ‘Are you going to drink that?’