Widow's Welcome

by D. K. Fields

  He said nothing to Sot; she looked beyond talking after the strain of the last few days. Ghen himself felt better as the morning wore on. It was he who drove the cart home and Sot who lay in a heap in the back, rattling around with the empty boxes and the sacking.

  *

  The Wayward woman was waiting for them on the porch. She peered hard at Ghen as he climbed the steps.

  ‘You’ve grown,’ she said.

  ‘I’m no taller.’

  ‘I paid you, Wayward, didn’t I?’ Sot said, opening the door. ‘For Wyne’s hand?’

  ‘You did, Mistress Sot.’ The Wayward stared past her, down the steps. ‘But who will pay for the young man’s Tillers? And what do you put in a Tiller-maker’s Seed Bed? Tillers with their own Tillers, perhaps. Tillers with rooters in their hands.’

  Sot faltered in the doorway. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘By the bridge. Hanged himself from a rennwood tree, but I couldn’t see well enough to cut him down.’

  *

  By nightfall Sot lay slumped by the cold hearth. Ghen took the half-empty Greynal bottle that lay on the floor beside her, then gathered what else he needed: the order lists, a lantern. He went to the woodshed, found a shovel and dug a hole in the orchard, near where they had buried Wyne, and dropped in the shell Melle had given him. Then he hitched the horse.

  By the time he reached Hend’s land, the lamps were out and everyone appeared to be in bed. Even in the darkness the fields had a glow of growth and prosperity to them, all of which Hend and his Tillers were now watching over in his Seed Bed. Ghen found the newly-turned earth easily enough. He set down the lantern and the half-full bottle of Greynal next to the spot where Hend lay, and started digging.

  It was more work to dig down to a Seed Bed than to fill one in, he soon realised, and he thought there was some meaning in that, because he was undoing that which should not be undone: digging up crops that weren’t ready to be harvested. Betraying the land, because Hend was down there, with all his Tillers, to look after the land, wasn’t he?

  And here was Ghen, below the surface now, his hands blistered and slippery with blood on the shovel’s handle, cold and hot at the same time from the sweat pouring down his back and finding the chill of the early morning air.

  Here was Ghen, his shovel striking something firm, something yielding when he jabbed the shovel’s blade in deeper.

  Here was Ghen, clearing the last of the earth from the Tillers with his hands, feeling and not feeling the sting of the dirt in his wounds. His blood in Hend’s land. Wyne’s blood was here too. Hend had killed him. Ghen couldn’t kill Hend, because he was already dead. Here was his heavy, lumpen form, tilted against the Seed Bed wall. No, Ghen couldn’t kill a dead man.

  But he could kill a dead man’s land, and that was the same thing, really.

  He climbed back out, using Hend as his ladder, and retrieved the Greynal, then poured it over the newly exposed Tillers – all of them. All his and Wyne’s hard work.

  Wyne. Ghen sobbed. For himself as well.

  He struck a flame from the shovel’s blade and set the order lists alight. He dropped them into the open Seed Bed. The Greynal-soaked Tillers were soon burning. He watched the flames, watched them take the cloth that Hend was wrapped in. He stayed by the Seed Bed until the smoke grew too bad. It was light by then, but only just. There would still be time. He turned and looked at the farm. The wooden barns. The fields of wheat.

  He struck another flame.

  Nineteen

  ‘I don’t want to know,’ Cora said, without looking up from her desk.

  Jenkins pulled a chair closer and perched on the edge of it. ‘But these numbers for the Lowlanders. You wouldn’t believe—’

  ‘I said I don’t want to know.’

  ‘Your loss, Detective. Quite literally, I’d say.’

  The pen stilled in Cora’s hand. ‘Even without a happy ending?’

  ‘It’s looking to be an election of tragedies so far.’

  ‘And it started with Nicholas Ento. But we might be getting somewhere, at last.’

  Leaving out her trip through Beulah’s place, Cora told Jenkins about the old Commission coaches at Tithe Hall. About the one that was missing.

  ‘And you think that’s where Ento was killed,’ Jenkins said, ‘inside the missing coach?’

  ‘If we can find that, we can find who killed him.’

  ‘Any idea where to start?’

  ‘Do you think you’d still be sitting here, Constable, telling me about chequer odds, if I did?’ Cora stood and reached for a coat that was no longer there. ‘We have to find the coach, to find out who killed him.’

  Jenkins, too, got to her feet. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I’m going outside.’ For a smoke, she almost added. ‘I need to clear my head.’

  And before the young woman could utter another word, Cora headed for the door.

  *

  She’d reached the bottom of the station steps before she heard her name. For a moment she considered not turning around, pretending she hadn’t heard, and walking quickly away from whatever trouble was behind her. But then she felt a soft touch on her arm.

  ‘I was hoping you’d finish about now.’

  It was Finnuc. He led her to a bench where he’d left a couple of pennysheets and a half-eaten pastry.

  ‘You been waiting for me?’ she said.

  ‘No, I just…’

  ‘Should you even be out on the street?’

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘Oh, that. No one’s throwing things at Caskers anymore. The Seeder story gave people something else to think about.’

  ‘Your cut is looking better,’ she said, touching the side of his face.

  ‘You said it wouldn’t make me any prettier.’

  ‘That sounds like something I’d say.’

  ‘Did you see the Seeder Hook?’ he said.

  ‘The mostins? No.’

  ‘Would you like to?’

  ‘Now?’ she said, glancing at the darkening sky.

  ‘Or not, if you have plans.’

  Plans. She had plenty of those but they all involved finding a killer. She didn’t make plans for the smaller things: what she was going to eat, where she was going to sleep, what she might do with an evening.

  Finnuc appeared to take her silence for reluctance. ‘It’s not the same as seeing them before the story,’ he said, ‘but it would be just us. No crowds.’

  ‘I’m not breaking into the Hook barge, Finnuc.’

  He feigned hurt. ‘Is that what you think of me? I know one of the crew that swaps over the Hooks, that’s all. Says it’s worth seeing again.’

  ‘Are they in jars?’ Cora said.

  ‘What? Looking for more jars of dirt to keep on your desk?’

  ‘The mostins. In jars, like they were in the story.’

  ‘I don’t know, I didn’t hear it. You were there, at Tithe Hall?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Would you have voted black or white?’

  ‘Black,’ she said, quick enough to surprise them both.

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘It was… moving, I thought. Who hasn’t had some kind of family tragedy?’

  An awkward moment passed between them.

  ‘Didn’t know hearing election stories was a perk of the job,’ he said, and wolfed the last of the pastry.

  ‘It is the job these days.’

  ‘Because of the storyteller? The Wayward? So you’re the one working that case. How—’

  She waved away his words. ‘That’s the last thing I want to talk about.’

  ‘Mostins then? I’ll get us a gig.’

  ‘No!’ Cora said, grabbing him before she could stop herself. ‘No gigs, no coaches. I’d rather walk.’

  He gathered his pennysheets and fell in beside her.

  As they walked through the square, then down the winding streets of Fenest, he asked about her day, about the doings of Bernswick station. There wasn’t much to say as she refu
sed to talk about Ento, but he sympathised when it came to paperwork – he was a Commission employee, after all. They crossed Puscun Road, passing inns and Seats, whorehouses and bakeries, all alive with chatter and the ever-present cries of the pennysheet sellers. Turning off Puscun in favour of quieter streets with less traffic, she led the way to the River Stave. Lamps were being lit in windows, on the street, and on coach-fronts. A city trying to light up the dark. She hoped one day it would be better at it.

  They stopped at a crossroads and waited for a coach to go by. She stared at it, at the driver, at its lit lamp.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Finnuc said.

  She had clenched her fists without even realising. She needed to stop thinking about work. She needed a distraction, and he was right there.

  ‘Tell me another story,’ she said.

  ‘Haven’t you had enough of them lately?’

  ‘Not yours.’

  When they reached the other side of the road, he began.

  ‘I was an orphan, abandoned in the outer-most reaches of West Perlanse,’ he said. She didn’t stop him, didn’t mention his last story of growing up on a Seeder farm, just listened as they walked.

  He was taken in by a Wayward storyteller, a middle-aged woman, who wandered the more remote parts of Perlanse. She told stories for money, which had been, and still was, illegal there – odd people that the Perlish were. She plied her trade mostly in draughty barns and poorly-lit huts, but sometimes villagers wanted to listen in their own homes. These were usually the wealthier members of the communities. When this happened, it was Finnuc’s job to supplement his and the Wayward’s income.

  He was well-schooled in this role. He knew which items of jewellery – men’s and women’s – might be mistaken for lost rather than stolen. He could recognise a rare map scroll among shelves of the everyday kind. And, most importantly, he knew the timings of all the bangs and crashes and booms that peppered the storyteller’s tales; these weren’t election stories with their strict rules against such things. So, young Finnuc knew exactly when to risk moving furniture or to stretch for the top shelf or, as would often be the case, when to sneeze. They were dusty places his nimble little hands probed.

  But all good things must end. Finnuc’s young arrogance was infectious and eventually wore out the Wayward woman’s natural caution. They ventured too far south, to places with too many people who lived in too big houses. One such night, when the woman began a particularly bawdy tale of big-breasted, accident-prone Seeders, Finnuc crept through the huge house. He had already opened three bedroom doors to no ill-effect, finding some choice items, so when presented with a fourth door he didn’t hesitate.

  Neither did the dog.

  Easily as big as a small pony, it was all Finnuc could do to keep it from ripping out his throat. No amount of aped Seeder grunting and bottom-slapping on the part of the Wayward could cover the dog’s barking. When they found Finnuc he was backed into a corner, atop a bed, a ravaged pillow between his hands and his pockets full of silver.

  They couldn’t do a thing to the storyteller without admitting their illegal audience – these weren’t clever or cunning people – but Finnuc was fair game. He had since forgiven the Wayward teller, but as they dragged him off he cursed her to the Widow and the Poet and any who would listen. As he all but rotted in a Perlish dungeon he vowed to the Weaver revenge on all storytellers, and all dogs.

  Years later, when a Commission employee by the name of Tennworth found him, he was little more than rags and ribs and that revenge. So twisted had he become, he could only bark. Scrabbling around his cell on all fours he had become what he most hated. Whether it was pity or curiosity or the perceived challenge, he was brought out of that empty-seated underworld. He was fed, helped to grow strong, helped to reconnect with his Casker heritage, and learned to talk all over again.

  ‘And I’ve been working for the Commission ever since,’ he said.

  ‘If it were up to me, you’d be back in that Perlish dungeon,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘The story wasn’t that bad.’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘they’re getting better.’

  ‘Still don’t much like dogs,’ he muttered.

  ‘Not even Caskanese water-dogs?’

  ‘That’s not funny.’

  No, after all that had happened following the Casker story, it probably wasn’t. She almost told him about the dog living in the old Commission coaches in Tithe Hall, about it jumping out on her, to lighten the mood. But then she realised that wasn’t funny either, almost getting her throat ripped out, and the silence between the two of them was an easy one. Something worth enjoying.

  They came to the river bank and walked a little way along it, the only people there. The Hook barge was dark and silent except for the lapping of the River Stave against its side. The buildings opposite were shuttered, their chairs and parasols packed away. The only evidence that this was, and would be many times again, one of the busiest places in the city was the scattering of crumpled food papers and pennysheets.

  Finnuc’s friend was waiting on the gangway – another burly Casker from the looks of him. And from the bored way he was leaning on the rail, he’d been there some time.

  ‘Didn’t think you were coming,’ the man said.

  ‘We decided to walk.’

  The man raised an eyebrow at that.

  Finnuc pressed a few coins into his hand. ‘Are they still in there?’

  ‘You’ll see for yourself. Or not,’ the man said, taking two damp strips of cloth from the railing.

  ‘What are those for?’ Cora said.

  ‘Some react to the fint – sets their eyes watering,’ he said, giving them each a cloth. ‘If it gets bad, going blind as the Devotee helps.’

  ‘Not much use coming if we can’t see when we’re inside,’ she said.

  ‘Then I hope you can handle it better than me.’ He nodded to Finnuc and left them there.

  Finnuc turned the cloth over in his hands. ‘What’s fint?’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ she said, dragging him towards the big doorway of the barge. Since she’d been there last, for the Casker Hook, the Seeders had hung mesh curtains and nets everywhere. Cora had to step through them to properly get inside.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ Finnuc said, pushing the last curtain aside.

  She opened her mouth to answer, but the words wouldn’t come.

  In front of them was an unnaturally still scene. Across the floor were husks of dead mostins. Broken wings, sharp-looking legs, twisted antennae in their hundreds. Branches hung from the ceiling but they were drooping and tired, their blossom turned to rot and ruin. All colour was gone, and the only light in the room came from a mournful moon breaking through the mesh at the windows.

  All the mostins, dead.

  As Cora stepped further inside there was a crunching sound. Grimacing, she lifted a foot to see half a wing stuck to her boot sole.

  ‘Cora… I didn’t know,’ Finnuc said. He sneezed and rubbed at his eyes.

  ‘Put on the blindfold,’ she said.

  He did as he was told. ‘This is nothing like I’d heard it would be.’

  ‘They don’t last,’ Cora said. ‘Nothing does.’ She felt compelled to see the full extent of it but took care where she trod. Finnuc’s blindfold meant he crushed corpse and wing alike with a rhythm that sounded like a kind of monstrous chewing. ‘Stay there,’ she said.

  Some parts of the room were worse than others, as if the mostins had come together in their final hours. These strange, beautiful creatures had died for Fenest’s amusement, for a spectacle, for a Hook. It would please the Widow, and perhaps the Brawler – but what of the others? And what did she make of their sacrifice? Ento wasn’t the only one to suffer at the hands of the election. Cora could almost hear Ruth, on that last night, telling her what was wrong with the Commission, the city, the whole Union. Seeing this, Cora might, for a moment, agree with her.

  ‘Put up your blindfold if it’s getting t
o you,’ Finnuc called. ‘It does help a little.’

  She felt a kind of itchiness all over, but it wasn’t the fint. All the death, all the suffering – she needed to believe there was something else.

  ‘Everyone said they were beautiful, before the story,’ he said.

  She ducked between the fint-covered branches.

  ‘I thought you’d like them. My friend, he told me they’d land on your hand.’

  She walked quickly towards him, not caring anymore what she stepped on.

  ‘And it wouldn’t hurt, he said. Just prickled a bit.’

  She kissed him, felt his shock in his lips, along his big arms, down through his waist as she pulled him closer.

  He stumbled back, reaching for his blindfold.

  ‘No, leave it,’ she said.

  She led him towards a wall. He kissed her, pushing her back against the wooden boards. A puff of fint surrounded them. Tearing open his shirt, she kissed his chest again and again until she bit him.

  He took hold of her, against the wall, and eased into her. She groaned and pushed back. She felt his thighs beneath her, strong and solid, and she wrapped herself around him. Her eyes started to stream and sting from the fint, so she closed them. He moved deeper into her and she raked at his huge back, his skin beneath her nails, wanting him to feel the hurt as well as the good. She bit his ear through the blindfold. But even that wasn’t enough. She forced herself harder and faster on him.

  And then he shivered and she felt the end of it. He held her there, both panting and covered in fint, with streaks down their faces. She started to laugh. He lifted his blindfold and blinked until he could see her.

  ‘That was different,’ he said.

  She eased away from him and fastened her trousers. ‘You won’t get used to it.’

  Twenty

  The Seat of the Pale Widow wasn’t the closest Seat to the Hook barge, but the walk did Cora some good, putting a bit of distance between her and Finnuc. She couldn’t think about him, about what they’d just done, not yet. There were too many other things going on.