Tormalin looked at the vial of blood as though he’d forgotten it was there.
‘This is old. It wouldn’t be the same. Fresh is better.’ He looked at her then, an expression she couldn’t read on his face, and Noon felt her skin prickle all over. When he looked away again she was relieved, but she found herself thinking of his life energy, how it had filled every part of her. Tormalin cleared his throat.
‘I would feel better,’ he said, a sardonic edge to his voice. ‘Old blood still carries that same euphoria, that sense of well-being, but it’s a lie. A memory of something false.’
‘Fresh blood heals you?’
He turned back to her, smiling, and it was like being in the room with something impossible – the Eboran war-beasts of old, perhaps, or the storm gods Mother Fast used to talk about, their eyes full of sky-fire and hate. His skin was rare marble in the lamplight, and the finely boned hand that lay against his scuffed trousers was as exquisite as a snowflake. All around them, the winnowline rumbled on its journey through the Wild, and Noon tried to concentrate on that instead.
‘It turns back the march of time, keeps me young, keeps me strong. If I am hurt, enough of it will close my flesh faster than true healing. Once, Ygseril’s sap did this job, but I am almost too young to remember what that was like. Almost.’ He looked down at the vial in his hand, and closed his fingers over it. ‘Old blood, really, is no better and no worse than a decent bottle of wine.’
‘And I reckon you’ve had a few of those this evening.’
He nodded. Noon glanced at the still form of Vintage. It was just possible to hear her soft snores.
‘Vintage mentioned that you have an . . . arrangement. With people who give you blood.’
‘I have sex with them for blood, yes. They seem to be very pleased with the trade actually.’ He looked at her and she cursed herself for not being able to meet his eyes. ‘Would you like to hear about how that works, Fell-Noon?’
‘I know how sex works. Thanks all the same.’ She kept her tone flippant, but her cheeks, curse them, were as hot as a brand. Tor was laughing softly, his shoulders shaking lightly with it.
‘I have two lovers, carefully selected, who understand what I need – and I understand what they need, down to every last detail.’ He sighed. ‘With our little jaunt to Esiah Godwort’s cursed compound, I will be going without for a little while. And so will they.’
‘My heart bleeds for you,’ said Noon. To her annoyance the memory of Novice Lusk’s creamy skin had risen to the forefront of her mind, followed closely by the memory of sliding her fingers across Tormalin’s neck.
‘Ah, Fell-Noon.’ Tormalin stood up and swept an elaborate bow in her direction. ‘If only it did. And please do not get all outraged on my account – as I said, my lovers are very carefully chosen.’
With that he walked over to the bunk on the far side of the carriage and fell gracefully onto the covers there. Within minutes his breathing evened out, while Noon sat rigid on her chair, glaring at nothing. The bastard was already asleep.
‘Pay no attention to him, darling.’ Vintage’s voice was fuzzy with sleep. ‘He enjoys your blushes too much to resist provoking them.’
21
Dear Nanthema,
The box of artefacts I bought from the Rodelian merchant arrived this week, and I am sad to say that they are obvious forgeries – not even good ones! Half of them are made from plaster and have broken to chalky pieces on the journey, while the etching that claims to be the work of Deridimas is laughable. I can, of course, imagine the face you are pulling now, dear one, and you are completely right. Dodgy dealings with merchants is no way to solve the mysteries of the Jure’lia, but while Father keeps me here that’s all I have available to me. Once Mother has recovered from the fainting fever I’m sure he will be more amenable to letting me leave. Thank you again for the crystal salts you sent, by the way – Mother tells me they are of great comfort, when she is lucid, at least.
It has been a while since your last letter. I hope all is well with you, my love.
Copy of a private letter from the records of Lady Vincenza ‘Vintage’ de Grazon
It was around mid-afternoon the next day when the chuffing contraption they were riding slowed abruptly, causing Noon to stagger up the carriage and Vintage’s pile of papers to fly off the end of the table. Tor stood up, steadying himself against a bench.
‘What was that?’
The carriage shuddered, and from somewhere ahead of them came the sound of squealing metal, followed by a chorus of shouts. The winnowline lurched again, and this time they came to a stop. Noon grasped the table, resisting the pull as the contraption fought against its own momentum, and then everything was still. As one, the three of them went to the carriage door, looking out the glass at an overcast day. It was, Noon thought immediately, a bad place to stop. The line here was carved directly into the side of a steep hill, curling around it like a belt, while above them and below them the Wild loomed, closer than ever. There was a scent, deep and earthy and somehow slightly wrong, just like there had been in the Shroom Flats – not quite disguised by the oil-and-hot-metal stench of the winnowline.
‘Probably a technical problem,’ said Vintage, climbing down onto the raw earth. There was a flat path next to the line, no more than twenty feet wide, scattered here and there with gravel. Not for the first time, Noon wondered at what an enormous undertaking this had been for the Winnowry, and all the while she and the other fell-witches had known nothing of it. And why should they? They were just the fuel for the Winnowry’s wealth, after all. She stepped down after Vintage, touching her fingers to her head to check that the hat was still in place. Tormalin followed after, blinking at the subdued daylight.
‘When you say technical problem, Vintage, are we talking about the sort of technical problem that results in the whole thing exploding? Like it did the other week?’
‘I don’t know.’ Vintage pulled her own hat down over her bouncy hair. ‘Let’s go and have a look, shall we?’
‘Of course,’ said Tormalin. He had slipped his sword belt over his shoulder, and the hilt of the Ninth Rain looked dull in the grey light. ‘Obviously, the clearest course of action is to get closer to the thing that might explode.’
Despite his dour tone, he followed Vintage as she began to walk to the front of the contraption, and Noon followed on behind, keeping her head down. Other passengers had come out of their carriages now, their faces rueful or worried, looking to the head of the contraption or out at the Wild that seemed to crouch below them like some waiting beast. Noon noticed a few heads turning to follow them curiously, so she hurried to catch up, putting Tormalin between her and the crowd.
‘Pamoz! What’s the problem?’
Vintage had reached the engine to find the engineer standing with her hands on her wide hips. She glanced at Vintage and gave her a wry smile.