by Jen Williams
‘I feel like I haven’t had a decent cup of tea in years.’ Tyranny nodded to the offer of another cup and drank it straight down, even though it must have been scorching hot. ‘I will not waste too much of your time, Lady Vincenza. I am a business woman, and I have a proposition for you.’
‘And your friend?’ Vintage nodded to Okaar, who was cradling his tea in his hands. ‘He is your business partner? And does he ever speak?’
‘Forgive me, madam.’ Okaar’s voice was low and musical, and Vintage immediately decided it was a crime that he did not speak more often. He had an accent that was decidedly not Mushenska – some minor region of Jarlsbad, perhaps. ‘My plains speak is not as smooth as Tyranny’s, and so I am often quiet.’
To Vintage’s ear, his plains speak was word perfect, but she nodded graciously.
‘Anyway, all you really need to know is that I’ve been successful, and lucky. One of the things I have done as part of my, uh, business, is provide muscle for those people travelling through the Wild.’ Seeing the look of surprise that passed across Vintage’s face, Tyranny tapped her little finger against the rim of the cup. ‘I grew up in some of the, uh, rougher bits of Mushenska, and I came to know some fairly . . . muscly people. The Wild is a dangerous shit-hole, you know that, but if you’re rich enough, you can create a safe path through it. However, some of the richest clients wanted more than just a quick run through the Shroom Flats or the Howling Forest. Some of them really wanted to experience it. Do you see what I mean?’
‘I’m not sure that I do.’
‘Hunting,’ said Tyranny. Her lips turned down at the corners, just for an instant. ‘They wanted to see the Wild-touched creatures, and kill them, if they could. Take home some bloody awful carcass and mount it on their walls – by Sarn’s bloody bones, why you’d ever want to look at something like that I don’t know, but what they required were guides, and people to keep them safe. These rich types, they want to experience the Wild, but they don’t want to experience it so hard that they end up with their insides on the outside, you see. So the people that I provide for these expeditions . . . maybe they’re pretty tough. Maybe they are willing to take big risks for a large chunk of cash no one is going to look at too closely, you see?’
‘How extraordinary.’ Vintage thought of what it would be like to track a Wild-touched beast through the forest for days, a team of men with axes and crossbows at your back. Perhaps you took it down all at once, or perhaps you just wounded it several times, until it was weak enough to kill. She found herself siding with the beast.
‘I know. A few years ago, I went on one of these expeditions myself. To see that everyone was behaving, and partly, I guess, just because I was curious. We travelled through a dense stretch of Wild, and came across a smattering of Behemoth remains, parasite spirits, the whole works.’
‘Where was that?’ Vintage took a sip of tea to cover the sharpness of her words. ‘I mean to say, I am quite familiar with a large number of Behemoth remains.’
‘If you don’t mind, Lady de Grazon, I’ll keep that information to myself for now, for reasons that will be obvious eventually.’ Tyranny Munk was still smiling, although Vintage thought she detected a little more ice in those blue eyes. ‘I found something at the site, you see, that changed my life. Set me on a different course, I suppose you’d say. Could I have a little more of that tea?’
‘Of course, let me get you a fresh cup. My dear Okaar, do you need another?’
The man inclined his head. ‘No, thank you.’ His original cup was still full.
‘So, it was late evening. The rich arseholes had insisted we make camp near the ruins, close enough for us to see the lights of the parasite spirits coming and going, and my guides had to sit up, winnow-forged blades on their laps while the rich arseholes got drunk and told ridiculous stories about previous things they’d killed. I can’t tolerate that sort of thing, Lady de Grazon, so I wandered off a little way. I reckon I hoped they’d drink themselves to sleep. And I found something, just sticking out of the mud, the moonlight shining on it, just so.’
The woman paused, and Vintage realised she was hanging on her every word. ‘What was it?’
‘I knew it wasn’t part of the Behemoth. I have seen those ugly lumps before, and the stuff we call moon-metal is all green and black and unsightly, like a bruise, but this thing was a bright, shining silver, even spattered as it was with mud. I took it, and put it in my pack, and brought it home. Eventually, I got someone I knew to look at the thing – she had identified all sorts of things I’d, uh, acquired, in the past – and she told me what it was.’
Tyranny put down her cup of tea – she had already drunk it, in one gulp as she had with every cup – and reached for her pack, which was slung against the comfortable chair. She pulled a silver object from it, a piece just slightly bigger than the palm of her hand, and passed it to Vintage.
‘Oh my goodness.’
It was a silver horn, twisting into a partial spiral at the very end. It was covered with the most delicate etching, a repeating pattern of leaves and branches that Vintage recognised instantly – she had seen it often enough, all over the Eboran palace. It was embedded with jewels too, bright green and blue gems, and around the bottom edge there was a jagged tear, as though it had once been attached to something larger.
‘Is this . . .?’
Tyranny smiled and nodded, the expression of someone sharing a thing she knew would receive the proper degree of awe.
‘A piece of Eboran war-beast armour. Just a tip of something larger, a helmet probably. Once I knew what it was I went back. Took my guides along again, but with no paying guests this time, and what I found was . . . a hoard. Three almost complete sets of armour, most of it intact. There were huge curving chest pieces, as big as boats, another helmet – it looked like a big silver skull in the dirt. The finest chain mail I’d ever seen, too, and several things I couldn’t guess at. I had it all collected, cleaned up, and brought back home, all in secrecy, and I started out on a new business venture – Eboran artefacts. Specifically, war-beast armour. I became, if you don’t mind me saying so, the person you went to if you wanted to buy a piece, and I made a fairly tidy fortune.’
Reluctantly, Vintage passed the silver horn back. She pursed her lips behind her teacup, then took a sip. ‘Then surely, my darling, I should have heard of you. I may have been away from it for a few months,’ she gestured to the room, to the tall windows looking out across the Eboran gardens, ‘but there was a time when I knew everyone in that trade. Eboran history and the Jure’lia are my passion. I got quite a reputation, actually, for chasing people down for what they knew, or what they were keeping to themselves.’
‘Forgive me, Lady de Grazon, but you are a respectable lady.’ Tyranny looked serious, but there was a hard glitter in her eyes that suggested she was amused. ‘And I . . . am not. These trades and deals were often less than, uh, above board. There is, believe it or not, a lively black-market trade in Eboran items, or items related to Ebora. Sometimes one of the real scholars would find out and dabble – your friend Esiah Godwort had his fingers in some dirty pies, once upon a time – but mostly we wouldn’t have been even a whisper to you.’
‘Well.’ Vintage sniffed. The idea that there could have been a brisk trade in things she dearly wanted to get her hands on, yet she had been oblivious to, was outrageous. The suggestion that Esiah knew about it when she did not was extremely vexing. ‘That seems quite extraordinary.’
‘But I’m not here to boast to you about what a great businesswoman I am,’ Tyranny put the small piece of armour back in her pack. ‘With permission, I’d like to show you something a little bigger. It’s in our caravan, on your lawns.’
Vintage gathered up her crutch, and slowly led the way back outside. It was late morning, and the gardens were finally beginning to warm up.
‘The thing is, Lady de Grazon, everything has changed. We’ve lived in danger, and with a poisoned world, for such a long time, I thin
k we’d got used to it. Looking up at that thing, hanging in the sky every day,’ Tyranny nodded to the space where the corpse moon used to be, ‘we were so used to it that it was all a bit of a fucking surprise when they came back, wasn’t it?’
Vintage chuckled dryly. ‘It was, rather.’
‘I saw one. A bloated, bug thing, all these tendrils moving over it.’ Tyranny’s mouth was a thin, tight line. ‘It was in the distance, but that was close enough, and I realised it wasn’t all ancient history. Here we are.’ She gestured to a covered caravan on the other side of the plaza. The roof was tightly bound leather, and it looked well cared for. There was a child sitting at the front, dark and lithe just like Okaar. Vintage couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl – they wore their black hair long and straight and half over their face. ‘It can’t be about money now, Lady de Grazon, that’s what I realised. It was to be about survival. Hoy, Jhef, give us a hand.’
The child hopped down easily enough and vanished around the back of the caravan. Tyranny led them round, and the kid was rapidly unlacing the leather cover at the back, long brown fingers moving as though they’d done it a thousand times.
‘So I would like to offer you this. My contribution to the war effort.’
The leather flaps fell back. For a moment, Vintage could see nothing but shadows. It was a bright day, and her eyes were full of dazzle. But then they adjusted, and she could see a treasure trove crammed into the back of the wagon.
‘Well, fuck me sideways,’ she breathed.
Every piece of war-beast armour imaginable, and several that could never have been imagined in a thousand years. There were great rolls of chain mail, huge golden greaves studded with gems, enormous gauntlets with sharpened claws and elaborate helmets designed to accommodate horns, or feathers, or long, pointed ears. There were other, even more elaborate confections in the back of the wagon, huge wire nets glittering with gold and gem dust, meant to be worn over wings, and headdresses of beaten metals – looking with her scholar’s eye, Vintage judged that these were largely ceremonial.
‘What . . . where did you . . .?’ She turned sharply to see Tyranny regarding her with a sunny smile.
‘Everything I could scrape together, since that ugly bastard crawled its way back down out of the sky. I had to spend a lot of money and call in an alarming number of favours, Lady de Grazon, but I think it’s a pretty reasonable collection, and I have brought it all here, for you. To be a part of the war effort.’
‘For me?’
‘Well, I guess they’re really for, you know, your friends.’ Tyranny looked around a little cautiously, even glancing up at the sky. ‘The war-beasts. It should be theirs, really. It all belonged to them once. Or the fancier, more ridiculous bits you could sell, if you wanted – wars need coin, I don’t think that ever changes, and I’d be happy to help you with that. Some of the items in there, I don’t mind telling you, are richer and more extravagant than anything you’d find in an emperor’s favourite armoury. They obviously had – have, I mean – refined tastes.’
Vintage looked back at the trove; it was difficult to look away for long. ‘If you are under the impression that I have access to the riches of Ebora, or that I am able to make financial decisions for them, well—’
‘Oh no! You misunderstand me, Lady de Grazon.’ Okaar stood at Tyranny’s back, with the child standing next to him. Instantly, Vintage saw the family resemblance; surely a sibling or a son or daughter. ‘This is all a gift.’
Vintage, still full of thoughts of how looks were passed through blood, cleared her throat. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘For you, to use as you like. Like I said, these are rightfully theirs anyway. They might well be pleased to see it. All I ask, Lady de Grazon, is that . . .’ The young woman seemed to run out of words, and a faint blush of pink bloomed across the top of her cheeks. ‘That we might be allowed to meet the war-beasts, and to help you, however we can.’
The child looked up at that, long black hair falling away from a finely boned face, and on some deep, deep level Vintage felt a bell tolling: a long, low note, warning of danger. But she pushed it away.
‘My darling, of course.’ She reached out and impulsively squeezed the woman’s bare arm. Her skin was very warm, almost feverish. ‘I’ll find some rooms for you all, in the palace. You must all stay here, with us.’
22
‘I returned today from my journey to the Nest. I had hoped it would inspire this final, great project, as if by being in that place I would be able to imagine them more clearly, but in truth it simply filled me with an aching melancholy. I feel like I am full of cold river water, silty and bitter.
‘When I came back to our suite, Arnia had company – Lord Tethras. I must admit to not being best pleased. Tethras was, for want of a better word, one of our key generals during the Carrion Wars. He led our armies down across the plains, and supervised that butchery. My most striking memory of him is of a figure streaked with gore, hair flat and almost black with it, a severed head clutched in one claw-like hand – it was so striking that I thought to make a painting of it, once, but could not quite stomach it. Who would want to look on such a thing? Then, he was vital, almost unnaturally strong, but now as he sits at our table, taking tea, he looks thinner, washed out. His hands are thin and clasp the cups too firmly, as though he is afraid of dropping them, and his eyes are watery and restless, moving around the room in a jittery fashion. When he saw me, though, he smiled.
‘Arnia explained that Tethras had found something he thought I would be interested in, so I was polite, even though I was tired from my journey and eager to get to my bed. When he spoke, though, it was with the tight and considered voice of someone who is trying not to cough, and so I looked at him again – was his skin chalkier than it was? Did he look old, or ill?
‘Micanal, Arnia chastised me. Pay attention to our guest, please.
‘He claimed to have found a piece of the Forbidden Texts, so I smiled and nodded, quite sure then that he had the flux, and his mind had already turned, but Arnia caught my insincerity and turned her sour eye upon me.
‘Look at this, she said, and she passed me a slim wooden box with a glass lid. Inside it was a scrap of parchment, yellow and brown and daubed with erratic letters in greenish ink. The earliest priests of Ygseril were said to have written the Forbidden Texts at the very dawn of Ebora, and then at some point in the intervening years the writings were taken from their hiding place and burned. It is one of the great tragedies of our history, and I have often wondered what truths we lost in that conflagration. As with all stories, fanciful rumours emerged that parts of the text had survived. Even I, dreamer that I am, could never quite believe it.
‘A forgery, I said, slightly too quickly. A fine one, though.
‘Tethras smiled at me, and somehow this was worse than him being offended. Look at it, he told me. Read it. I know you think as I do, that Tree-father did not spring from the ground without a seed. Read it and tell me what you think this says, about our past, and our future.
‘It was not easy. This form of Eboran language died out thousands of years ago, but I knew enough that I could piece it together. The scrap told of an island in the Barren Sea – I looked up at that, and caught Arnia’s eye. She was sipping from her cup, watching me. There is an island, and it is called Origin.
‘It is our past, and perhaps our future too.’
I have heard of this mythical island before – the place that supposedly birthed the seed that became Ygseril – but have never seen it named. This appears to be the beginning of the trail that led to the Golden Fox expedition. There is very little else in the journal about it that I can find, and I suspect that once he became serious about his intentions to find this ‘Origin’, Micanal made his plans elsewhere, perhaps in a journal he eventually took with him.
Extract from the private journals of Lady Vincenza ‘Vintage’ de Grazon
It had been a bad day.
They had made it to another isla
nd, flying through the night and much of the next day, in the cold, tense silence that spoke of a mutual panic. Eventually, Tor had spotted another dark shape nestling within the steel-coloured sea that looked familiar from Micanal’s dream, and they had landed with some relief. This island was larger, and significantly less bleak – rather than bare rocks and lichen, there was a thick covering of dark trees, and even a grotty little beach, the sand grey and somehow tired-looking. Vostok had led them into the small forest, and Kirune had followed, his head hanging low and his wings drooping. Noon, to Tor’s surprise, had let the dragon lead and dropped back to walk next to Kirune, placing a hand on his great beefy shoulder, and to Tor’s even greater surprise, the big cat hadn’t shaken her away. They had found a small clearing and stopped there, busying themselves with the tasks of making a camp – Noon had made two fires, a large one for the war-beasts and a more sensible one for the two of them, while Tor had assembled a quick dinner from their packs. Kirune had thrown himself down, stretching out with a growl that was really more of a groan. The light was strained in the dark forest, the shadows long and deep.
When they had eaten, Noon put down her bowl and wiped her sleeve across her mouth. Vostok lay between the two fires, her long tail curling around them like a creeping vine, while Kirune was crouched with his back to them. The hiss and roar of the sea was distant here, clouded by the trees on all sides.
‘We almost didn’t make that,’ said Noon eventually. ‘I think Kirune was very close to dropping straight into the sea.’
‘Believe me,’ said Tor, ‘no one was more aware of that than me.’
‘We have to look at his head,’ said Noon. ‘See what’s what.’
Tor let that sit for a moment. The taste of fish in his mouth was like an oily coating.