Farewell to the Liar

by D. K. Fields

  ‘Morton will stop at nothing to kill you,’ Hyam said. ‘She will do anything to keep you from telling Nicholas’s story.’

  ‘And attempts on your life mean that others will die,’ Tannir added, sounding exasperated. ‘The fire at the distillers, we lost—’

  ‘We can’t stop now,’ Ruth said, gripping the back of a chair so hard Cora thought she’d pull it over. Better that than throw it at Tannir, which it looked like Ruth wanted to do. ‘I have to tell Nicholas’s story, I have to tell the Union the truth about the Tear. I will tell no other tale.’

  ‘That itself is an abomination!’ Herder Hyam spluttered. ‘That you should tell someone else’s story! But why should I expect a Fenestiran to understand the ways of the Wayward realm?’

  ‘Isn’t that why you asked her to help you?’ Cora called. ‘Because she’s an outsider?’

  All eyes turned to Cora. Soft chuckling came from the Torn beside her, along with small puffs of sulphuric smoke from the Torn’s mouthpiece. Ruth’s expression was hard to read, but Herder Hyam and Tannir – they looked murderous.

  Cora took a swig of her cold coffee. ‘You wanted my sister to help you Wayward win your first election in… How many years has it been?’

  ‘Too many!’ said the Torn.

  ‘This year you need to win – the whole Union needs you to win. And so you need my sister to tell her son’s story.’ As Herder Hyam made to speak, Cora pressed on. ‘I know, I know, you’ve got that rule that you can’t tell someone else’s story, but look at the facts. That’s my business, facts, and counting them, because I work for the Commission.’

  ‘Not anymore you don’t,’ Tannir said, but she ignored him.

  ‘Fact one. Your original storyteller, Nicholas Ento, was killed. The first storyteller in the history of the Union to be murdered. Anyone can see that makes for a special case. And then there’s fact number two. Your new storyteller is the murdered man’s mother. That’s pretty special too. You can’t ask Ruth not to tell her son’s story. It’s the only story she can tell.’

  Ruth caught her eye and gave the slightest of nods – they’d talked about this. Ruth had explained.

  ‘Then the storyteller must step down,’ Herder Hyam said.

  ‘That’d be no help to anyone,’ Cora said. ‘You know as well as I do that if any realm fails to tell a story, the whole election is void. The Commission would assume control of the Assembly until a new election could be held.’ At the mention of the civil service of Fenest being in charge, all in the room seemed to be appalled, and Cora agreed: no one wanted those ink-scratchers making decisions.

  Ruth slammed her hand down on the table. ‘We must ensure the Wayward win.’

  ‘And to do that you must make way, Ruth!’ Tannir’s cheeks flamed red and spit shone at the corners of his twisted mouth. ‘You must let a new storyteller take over!’

  ‘Got anyone in mind?’ Cora said dryly.

  Once again, Tannir made to secure his missing green gloves. ‘As it happens, I have a story ready to tell.’

  ‘What a surprise!’ Cora said.

  Tannir ignored her, gesturing instead to Herder Hyam. ‘My tale has the backing of a majority of the head herders. It only remains for Chambers Arrani to—’

  ‘Over my dead body,’ Ruth said.

  ‘That is what Chambers Morton desires over all else,’ Tannir said, ‘and you would let her kill innocent people in the process.’

  ‘The blood of those who died today is on Morton’s hands,’ Ruth said, ‘not mine.’

  ‘Enough!’ said a low voice that reached around the room.

  Cora almost dropped her coffee cup. It was Wayward Chambers Arrani.

  For one of the most powerful people in the Union, with a presence that was unnerving and compelling in equal measure, Chambers Arrani had arrived without a sound. He stood in the doorway, the dark of the passage behind him making his brown Chambers robe seem almost to glow. His grey eyes were as cold as ever.

  ‘The Wayward realm has already suffered for this election,’ Arrani said, his voice booming as it must also do in the Assembly Building when he debated with the other Chambers of the Union. ‘We will not shed one drop of blood in our work to do what is right.’

  Tannir was squirming so much, he looked like he was about to throw himself at his Chambers’ feet.

  ‘Your honour,’ Tannir said, ‘it is the safety of the Wayward people I fear for.’

  ‘And there you are mistaken,’ Arrani said. ‘It should be all in the Union for whom you are concerned, Tannir. Our storyteller knows this, and this is why she has my support, as did her son before her.’

  ‘But Morton—’

  ‘Forgive him, your honour.’ Herder Hyam grasped Tannir’s arm, firmly, from the looks of it. ‘The impetuousness of youth. But this is not the end of this matter, Chambers. There is too much at stake.’

  ‘That at least,’ Arrani said, ‘we are agreed on.’

  Hyam led Tannir and a retinue of Wayward from the room. The door slammed behind them, and for a moment, Cora could hear frantic squawking from the cages in the passage in response.

  Arrani strode over to Ruth and, to Cora’s surprise, took her sister’s hands in his. Perhaps there was more to Arrani’s support than just the needs of the election.

  ‘First time I’ve seen him with Ruth’s people,’ Cora said to the Torn man.

  ‘The Perlish, they keep him busy in the Assembly,’ he said, scrunching his pennysheet into a ball. ‘They rush through their last business before their control of the Assembly ends. And with two Chambers, there is always a brown robe ready to speak.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about the Wayward Chambers,’ Cora said, looking at the Torn with fresh eyes. ‘You work for him?’

  ‘I have the pleasure,’ he said. ‘I am Galdensuttir. The Chambers’ messages that come to your sister, wherever she stays, I organise. To keep her on my map makes me work, your Ruth Gorderheim with her always moving.’

  ‘She has his support.’ Cora’s words were a statement rather than a question, but the Torn still felt the need to answer.

  ‘Until his dying day.’

  ‘All this talk of death… even the Widow will be ready to see the back of this election.’

  ‘She has not long to wait now,’ the Torn said, then hurried to his feet. Arrani was headed for the door, and the Torn followed. They left without a backward glance. In the Torn’s wake, the air bore the faintest taint of tornstone’s sulphur. As if the Chambers leaving was a signal to the rest of the room, everyone else dispersed. The web had their tasks, and Ruth had hers.

  So did Cora. Keeping Ruth safe had just got a lot more difficult.

  Four

  Ruth sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands.

  ‘He’s wrong, that Tannir,’ Cora said. ‘It’s not your fault about the fire.’

  ‘I’m starting to wonder,’ Ruth said, without looking up from the floor. ‘But that’s the price that must be paid.’

  Nullan came over to the table and poured a glass of something red that smelt of spices. She handed it to Ruth. ‘Lowlander wine. Good for shock. Not for enjoying.’

  Looking at Ruth slumped in her chair, Nullan propping herself up against the unlit fireplace, lost in their own thoughts, Cora suspected both were still mulling Tannir’s words. But if the Wayward story were to be changed, that would be giving Morton what she wanted. They’d come too far for that. Cora hadn’t left her badge on Chief Inspector Sillian’s desk only to give up and hide in some fancy cage.

  ‘We need to keep an eye on Tannir,’ Cora said, ‘but we need to keep him at arm’s length too.’

  Nullan stirred, as if woken by Cora’s words. ‘Should I change the safe house lists, make sure he’s not with us from now on?’

  ‘Yes, but make sure there’s a way we can stay on his trail.’

  ‘The Torn Galdensuttir says he’s seen Tannir near the Assembly building.’

  ‘Well,’ Cora said, ‘from what just
happened here, it doesn’t seem likely Tannir’s there to talk to Chambers Arrani.’

  ‘Morton?’ Nullan said.

  ‘Galdensuttir isn’t sure,’ Ruth said, and sipped the wine.

  ‘Can we trust that Torn?’ Cora asked. ‘There’s been so much talk of factions within the Torn. He could be siding with Morton.’

  ‘We can trust him. Galdensuttir’s been with Arrani as long as I’ve known the Chambers,’ Ruth said.

  And how long might that be? Cora wondered. Ruth had been gone for thirty years. Her life as a Wayward was still a mystery to Cora.

  Ruth refilled her wine glass. ‘It can’t be good, Tannir being near the Chambers – any of them.’ She gestured to Cora with the wine bottle.

  ‘I don’t drink, remember?’ Cora said.

  ‘Ah yes, it’s bindle that’s your vice.’

  ‘Don’t forget the betting,’ Nullan added.

  ‘Haven’t had much chance of that lately.’ Cora pulled a stool over and sat down heavily. She gestured towards the now empty seats. ‘They’ve all made their way to the next few safe houses, I’m guessing.’

  ‘Those still loyal to Ruth have.’ Nullan kicked the fireguard.

  ‘So now we have to worry about threats from your own people as well as from Chambers Morton,’ Cora said. ‘I’d better look into some extra protection.’

  Ruth’s fingertips grazed Cora’s arm, just for a second. ‘You’re all I need, Cora. The way you stuck up for me with Herder Hyam!’

  Cora shrugged. ‘He seemed to forget that asking you to be involved was the Wayward’s idea in the first place. You’re sure about this, going ahead with Nicholas’s story?’

  Ruth looked her hard in the eye. ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Then we carry on.’

  Cora went over to the table. It had borne plenty of food when they’d arrived but now was a mess of upturned bowls, crumbs and smeared fruit. Cora managed to pick out a sinta and some hard cheese. She leaned against the table, facing Ruth and Nullan.

  ‘I know I’m not going to like what I hear, but now that we’re alone, I think you’d better tell me about this plan to leave Fenest on a barge.’

  Ruth gave a sad smile. ‘A trip out of the city, away from Morton’s hired hands and Tannir’s raging ambition – what’s not to like, Cora?’

  ‘Much, I expect.’ She tried the cheese. It was good. Perlish. But still.

  ‘I need to go inland,’ Ruth said. ‘Up the River Tun.’

  ‘How far up the Tun?’

  ‘Should be about four days sailing, there and back,’ Nullan said, ‘with a fair wind.’

  ‘Sailing?’ Cora said, her heart sinking. ‘Why not ride? It’d be much quicker.’

  ‘True,’ Ruth said. ‘But Arrani thinks a barge will throw people off the scent.’

  Cora mulled this over. ‘He’s probably right. Four days sailing… We’d better have some stories for the Bore then, hadn’t we?’ The sinta wasn’t quite ripe, but Cora ate it anyway. She couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten. Time with Ruth, it was hard to track. ‘And the reason for this trip, when your life is in danger and you’re about to tell an election story?’

  ‘I need to collect the Wayward Hook,’ Ruth said.

  The sinta seemed to sour in Cora’s mouth, turning from unripe to well past its best. She tried to control her anger, but it wasn’t easy. ‘You need to do what?’

  Ruth stood and held out her hands. ‘Cora, I have to. The person making the Hook – they won’t release it to anyone but me.’

  ‘But you’re the storyteller, Ruth! You’ve got other things to think about, not least the target on your head.’

  ‘She wasn’t meant to be a ’teller,’ Nullan said quietly.

  Ruth put her hand on Nullan’s shoulder. Nullan who had been the lover of Ruth’s murdered son. Then she turned back to Cora. ‘What Nullan means is: I wasn’t meant to be in Fenest right now. That wasn’t the plan. Nicholas was going to tell the Wayward story, and I was meant to bring the Hook to him when it was ready. But when word came of his death…’

  Cora let the two of them have a moment together, then said, ‘Send someone else to get the Hook. Nullan will go, won’t you, Nullan?’

  ‘She can’t,’ Ruth said. ‘I’m the only one the Hook maker will release the Hook to. It has to be me, Cora.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s… complicated.’

  ‘At least tell me what the Wayward Hook is.’

  Ruth smiled. ‘You deserve some surprises, Cora.’

  ‘Since you came back, I’ve had enough to last me until I join the Audience.’

  ‘This one will be worth waiting for, I promise. And there’s no other way.’

  Cora let out all the air in her bindle-rattled lungs. ‘Fine. I don’t understand, but fine. At least let’s go by horseback. It’d be much quicker.’

  ‘It has to be by barge,’ Nullan said, spinning round. The lamplight made her piercings flash.

  ‘Look, I don’t like riding either, Nullan, but it makes no sense to go by barge. Ruth will be that much more vulnerable. You must see—’

  ‘We go by barge,’ Ruth said, and in her voice, the way she held herself, the look in her eye, Cora knew there was no arguing with her. ‘We’ll stay for the Rustan story, then we set sail. My contact in the wood this morning, he told me where the Hook will be, and said it’ll be ready for us. But if you don’t want to come, Cora, I understand. I know it’s not without risk.’

  ‘Not without risk? That’s a good one for the Drunkard. Keep telling yourself that, Ruth, all the way up the River Tun, while Morton’s hired hands are finding new ways to kill you. I’ll be right by your side to see them try.’

  Ruth smiled. ‘See that you are.’ She turned to Nullan. ‘I want a list of those who died today, their families.’

  Cora headed for the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Ruth called.

  ‘Somewhere people are honest about bad odds.’

  *

  The Dancing Oak wasn’t too far from Murbick, the part of Fenest where the Bird House stood. Close enough to walk rather than take a coach, which was something. The Dancing Oak – betting ring, whorehouse and carousing barroom – prided itself on being rough and ready, but not that rough, not Murbick rough. The ringmaster, Beulah, liked to say she had some standards.

  It was early evening when Cora set off. The walk was good for her still-healing leg – the injury she’d picked up when the Hook barge had caught fire. The flares of pain were growing cooler and didn’t wake her so often in the night. That story was becoming less interesting for the Stitcher, and that was fine by Cora.

  There was enough light left in the day that she could see who else was about. There was a good chance she was being followed by Morton’s people. Though, glancing behind her as she dodged a cart, there were no obvious suspects in sight today. When she’d joined Ruth’s web, Cora had debated with herself whether to keep going to the Oak. On the one hand it made her predictable: at the Oak she’d be easy to find. But on the other, there was some value in keeping old habits. It would show anyone watching that her life was continuing as normal, nothing ‘electoral’ to see here. Some nights, she slept at the lodging house that had been her home for the last however many years. But since she’d walked out of Bernswick police station for the last time, she’d developed some new habits that weren’t so obvious to anyone watching.

  Beulah kept the keys to many doors that led below ground. And behind those doors were passages that criss-crossed the city. Cora had been getting to know them well in the last week. Walk into a pastry shop near the Wheelhouse, where the Commission’s bean counters noted all the grains of wheat grown in the Union, and come out of a candle maker’s in Uppercroft, half a mile away. For those tasked with following her, they’d lose her trail as often as they’d pick it up.

  As the entrance to the Oak came in sight, she stepped clear of two pennysheet girls fighting over a fruit crate to stand on and shout their headline. Th
e truth of it was, Cora thought, a person could be safer in Fenest than anywhere else in the Union. It was easier to hide in the twists and turns of the city than out in open country, or on a river… Whichever way she turned Ruth’s plan to sail up the River Tun to retrieve the Wayward Hook, it was madness.

  But then, if someone – one of Beulah’s customers, say, too long propping up the front bar – had told Cora a few weeks ago that she’d be kicked off the police force, reunited with her long-lost sister after more than thirty years and pursued by a Chambers, not to mention that the Tear was widening, pulling the southern Lowlands into its fiery mouth? Well. She’d have said, go home, you’ve had enough. That was a story not even the Audience would believe, and there were many in that swaying mob who loved a tale rich with intrigue and unexpected turns. After all that had happened, maybe Ruth’s trip upriver wasn’t so foolish after all. At least Cora would be by her side. She’d do her best to keep her sister, and the Wayward storyteller, safe.

  That was what she told the Latecomer whose niche was at the top of the stairs that led down to the front bar. As the Audience member for good fortune, it was no surprise that it was his roughly carved form at the entrance to the Dancing Oak. Tucked around his feet were offerings: a few pennies, a twist of string, even a ready-rolled, unsmoked bindle which Cora resisted the urge to pocket. Instead, she set beside the Latecomer a feather that had somehow attached itself to her coat collar in the Bird House.

  ‘Been a few of these since this story started, Latecomer. At least this one wasn’t left behind on a body. Unless I’m the corpse, still walking…’ She shook that thought away – this was meant to be a story for the Audience member who favoured tales of luck, not the Widow and her stories of death. ‘I hope my tale tonight will be one of fortune. Not my usual kind. No bets, Latecomer, my fortune will be a friend. Together, we’ll come up with something worth listening to.’

  Stories: the Swaying Audience loved them. Spend your life telling the Audience your tales, keeping them entertained, and then, when you took your last breath you’d be sure to join them. If the Audience didn’t think you’d shared enough tales with them during your life then your only companion would be the Mute who’d keep you in Silence. No stories. No sounds at all. It didn’t bear thinking about, so tales were told, yarns spun, and the Audience listened. They’d be all ears now, Cora knew, as she reached for the door to the Dancing Oak.