by D. K. Fields
As Cora watched, another brown robe joined them: one of the Perlish Chambers. There were two: the eastern and western duchies each demanded their own representation in the Assembly.
Sillian gave a low bow and stepped away, but then Morton called her back. Sillian did as she was bid, but not before her shoulders had slumped, her head dropped – small movements, but Cora saw them. Morton had some hold over Cora’s former boss, something that kept her working for the Chambers.
‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve given up for me,’ Ruth said softly, nodding in the direction of Sillian and the two Chambers.
‘Makes it easier when it turns out not to be the thing you thought it was.’
‘You miss it, Cora, I know you do, and I—’
A cry went up, to Cora’s relief, and then one whole side of the garbing pavilion opened. From within the deep shadows, a huge object was carried into the sunlight.
The voting chest.
It was borne on wooden poles, four constables carrying them, purple tunics pushing aside anyone unlucky enough to be in the path of the chest. Ordinarily, a constabulary coach would be standing by to receive it, but the nature of the Water Gardens made that impossible. So today the voting chest would be carried out by constables instead. One of them looked familiar: Cora would know those teeth anywhere.
Evidently Jenkins had landed herself on the security for the voting chest. She’d be pleased, Cora knew, though not if the posting was her mother’s doing. Jenkins hated the system of favours and privilege that basically ran the Commission. It was something the constable shared with Cora.
‘You know where they go?’ Ruth said.
‘Constables?’
‘The voting chests. When they leave here, with the uncounted votes of a story inside, where are they taken?’
Cora shrugged. ‘That’s beyond my pay grade. Why do you want to know, Ruth?’
‘I like to know the whole story.’
The constables set off at a cracking pace, and now that the voting chest was away, the purple tunics allowed the public gallery to empty. People rushed to speak to one another about the story they’d just heard, and their guesses at the votes. At the gates, the pennysheet sellers would be ready to ask those leaving the Water Gardens which way their vote would have gone, and the exit polls would be printed in the ’sheets within the hour. From the tone of the chat burbling all around her, Cora thought the Rustans would come out well. Perhaps she should have found some coins to make a bet.
Ruth was still looking in the direction that the voting chest had gone.
‘Wherever the votes go,’ Cora said, ‘it’ll have to be one of the safest places in Fenest. To keep the chests locked until all the stories have been told, no counting until you’ve said the last word of the Wayward tale—’
‘No counting, or slipping a few extra white stones into a chest, taking out some black…’
Cora stared at Ruth. ‘You can’t really believe votes are tampered with?’
‘In Fenest, anything’s possible.’
‘Never a truer word,’ a man said.
Cora spun round to see who had appeared suddenly beside them at the fountain. It was a young man, tall and broad, dressed in Seeder clothes, as they were, but without the hat.
‘Help you?’ Cora said, her hand reaching into the folds of her coat for her ’dusters. If Ruth had brought her knife, now might be the time to produce it.
‘Just wanted to wish good day to fellow Lowlanders. Not many of us here today.’ He looked at the now emptying public gallery, everyone streaming down the various paths that led to the gates. ‘Seems mostly Fenestirans got to hear the story.’
‘No surprise there,’ Ruth said, her gaze firmly fixed on the stranger.
Except, he wasn’t a stranger. Cora recognised him, recognised his voice, but she couldn’t think why. She glanced around the fountain. Still plenty of people about, plenty of purple tunics. No one was paying her and Ruth any attention.
‘Aye, you’re right, friend,’ the young man said. ‘The capital looks after its own. Only got to look beyond the south gate to see that, the way people are living…’ He shook his head, as if dismayed at the thought, but Cora wasn’t convinced.
‘We must look to our Chambers,’ Cora said, testing him. ‘She’ll protect the people of the Lowlands.’
He nodded eagerly, his eyes bright, and the change was striking: here was his real self. A supporter of Morton.
‘The Union can’t afford to neglect the Lowlands,’ he said, stepping closer to the fountain. Cora got to her feet and squared up to him, but it seemed to make no difference to his eagerness. ‘We feed all the other realms, after all.’
‘That we do,’ Ruth said. ‘You did a good job of showing that, in your story, I mean.’
So that was where Cora knew him from: this was the Seeder storyteller. If he was surprised that Ruth recognised him, he didn’t show it.
The area around the bandstand was all but empty now. The purple tunics had gathered at the garbing pavilion to take it down. Cora’s plan had been to hide in the crowds leaving the Water Gardens, but at this rate she and Ruth were likely to miss their chance.
‘We’ll be making our way now, friend,’ Cora said.
‘Of course. Well, been good to talk to you both.’ His gaze never left Ruth. ‘I’ll see you at the last story.’
He lingered for a moment too long – time to end this strange conversation. But then he was turning away, lifting an arm in farewell, and Ruth’s hand stayed Cora’s.
‘He’s no threat,’ she said.
Cora let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. ‘He was… unsettling.’
‘Storytellers often are.’ At Cora’s glance she added, ‘And I’d include myself in that.’
‘I guess it explains why Nullan is always so short-tempered.’
The Seeder storyteller disappeared between two hedges, and Latecomer’s luck, he’d gone in the opposite direction.
‘Come on,’ Cora said, ‘we need to go.’
Her back was stiff, and by the way Ruth was moving, Cora guessed she was feeling the same. But she hurried her sister along, trying to catch up with the knots of people ahead, threading their way through the paths, around fountains and flower beds, over the little bridges.
‘His name’s Jerome,’ Ruth said.
‘He knew who you were.’
‘Little doubt about it.’
‘Was it a threat, when he said, “See you at the last story”?’
‘That’d be a turn for the Audience, one storyteller killing another. But I can’t believe that lad has got it in him.’
‘I remember thinking when he began the Seeder story,’ Cora said, ‘that his voice wouldn’t carry in Tithe Hall. He managed in the end though.’
‘To have told the Seeders’ election story, he must be the best the Seeders have, and yet he doesn’t have an ounce of the brilliance of Nicholas.’
But Nicholas Ento would only be telling his stories to the Swaying Audience now. No one in Fenest would ever hear him.
They’d come to the last of the narrow, humped bridges they needed to cross. Ruth went first, as always.
But then someone stepped in front of Ruth. He’d put on a disguise, just as they had, but for him it was Fenestiran clothes. His Wayward cloak, which would have been all too conspicuous in the Water Gardens, was gone, but Cora knew his shaved head, his arrogant glare.
Tannir.
He caught Ruth off balance, and she stumbled. To Cora – only a few feet behind Ruth – it looked as if Ruth fell into Tannir’s arms, and onto the glinting blade in his hand.
Her sister let out a sigh, and then she was down, a crumpled heap at the end of the bridge.
Tannir made to check his handiwork, but Cora was on him then, grabbing his wool coat. He twisted free and hurried away, quickly lost in the crowds. Cora had to let him go, had to see to Ruth. She turned her sister over and saw the blood spreading across the pale blue clot
h of her shirt, the vines now sprouting red fruit across her hip.
Tannir wasn’t a coward after all. But he was a fool, and she wouldn’t let her sister die at the hands of a fool. Ruth mattered too much for that to be her end; she was worth so much more. Not to the Wayward election delegation, not to the southern alliance – to Cora.
‘Ruth, can you hear me? Ruth!’
There was a lot of blood. Her sister couldn’t seem to focus, her eyes rolling in her head, sweat gleaming around her mouth.
‘Ruth, I’m going to pick you up, and we’re going to get out of here. It’s going to hurt, but I need you to try to walk, you hear me?’
A low moan was all the answer Ruth managed, but it was enough.
Cora pulled her to standing and then placed her coat over Ruth’s side, where she thought the blade had gone in. ‘Hold this, it might slow the bleeding.’ And hide it too, Cora hoped, because being stopped by purple tunics now wouldn’t help Ruth, not ultimately. Cora would have to figure this one out herself.
They began their slow way towards the old pie stall. There were still plenty of people around, but the looks they gave Cora and Ruth spoke of Seeders who’d had too much sun, too much drink, too much excitement at hearing an election story.
She grabbed a pennysheet girl who was shouting the new odds on the Rustan story and gave her a message. If she could get it to Bernswick station before the Poet’s bells chimed again, there’d be an extra penny for her trouble. The girl baulked at having to leave her pitch, so Cora promised more – she’d give all she had in the world and that wasn’t much. The girl set down her sheets and sped away. Cora asked the Audience that she be quick enough.
Fourteen
With Ruth slumped against her, Cora pushed her way into the whorehouse. The lad on shift welcoming the punters took one look at the two Seeders – one of whom was covered in blood, the other sweating and cursing – and hared off down the passage, crying for the madam.
Cora booted the door shut and went after him, struggling to keep hold of Ruth who seemed to be growing weaker.
‘You still with me?’ Cora said.
‘You take me to all the best places…’
The joke gave Cora hope when the blood that leaked from Ruth’s hip and her sister’s semi-conscious state had all but taken it away.
The madam appeared in a doorway: a woman not much older than the oldest of the whores themselves, but she’d been in business for a while now. Better class of customer, this close to the Water Gardens. She was tall and slim, with black hair braided and piled high on her head. On the days the better customers visited, there’d be flowers woven into the plaits. Today was clearly only an ordinary day, even with a stabbed woman dripping blood onto the carpet.
‘Haven’t see you for a while, Detective.’
There was no time for corrections. ‘The election’s kept me busy.’
‘Kept my lads and lasses busy too,’ the madam said, and grinned. ‘You’ll be needing…’
‘A room without a view, some peace and quiet.’
‘Always happy to help you out, Detective, especially with my licence coming due.’
Cora licked her lips. Was now the time to say she wouldn’t be able to help smooth the passage of paperwork through the Wheelhouse? Ruth gave a low moan.
‘Just send a lad to Bernswick,’ Cora said, and the madam smiled. There were none so unshakeable in Fenest as whorehouse madams – they’d seen it all, and their stories were surely favourites of the Audience.
The madam led them deep into the whorehouse, past closed doors, past the cries and laughter and much more besides. With each step, Ruth seemed to lean heavier on her.
Finally, the madam stopped at one of the doors. ‘Get blood on any of my lads and lasses’ things, you’ll answer to them. Some of my lot are handy with their fists, but you’ll remember that, won’t you, from your previous visits.’
‘Only too well,’ Cora said to the madam. ‘And I won’t forget this either.’
Cora elbowed her way into the room which wasn’t much bigger than the table standing at the centre, a few mismatching chairs with it.
There were no windows but a small pane of glass set into the roof. They must be right in the heart of the house, and this some kind of break room for the whores. She eased Ruth onto the table. Her sister’s eyes were glassy and her skin cold yet sweaty.
‘You want a stitcher?’ the madam said from the doorway.
‘No need,’ Cora said, turning round. ‘I’ve sent—’
But the madam had gone. A lad came along a few minutes later with a pail of warm water and cloths of soft, clean linen. He didn’t hang around. Cora did her best to move the scattered shawls and feathers, shoes and even children’s toys away from the table, and away from both their bloodstained hands.
Thank the Latecomer, Pruett made good time. The pennysheet girl Cora had sent had earned her coins.
‘So this is your new job is it, Gorderheim? I’ve been wondering what you were up to. Must admit, even my wildest imaginings didn’t involve a place like this.’
‘Not even close,’ Cora said. ‘This is… temporary, and serious.’ She ushered him to where Ruth was lying on a table. ‘Stabbed.’
Pruett dropped his black bag and began to examine Ruth who lay still, glistening with sweat, silent as the Mute. Cora bit back her fear.
‘I’m surprised you sent for me,’ Pruett said, without looking up from his work. For all the jokes between them, Cora knew she could trust him with Ruth’s care. It wouldn’t be pretty work, but he’d do his best to save her. ‘Surely a place like this has its own stitcher on the books. The scrapes people get into in whorehouses.’
‘I got too used to your butchering, Pruett, what can I say?’
‘Once you’ve been lucky enough to have me stitch you up—’
‘You don’t recognise any better.’
Pruett was in his shirtsleeves, which were as stained as ever. Cora had often wondered why the stitcher chose to wear white shirts, given that he spent his working life examining dead bodies in various stages of decay. Maybe it was a badge of his profession, all those bloodstains and smears. Audience knew what people made of him when he left the station’s cold room looking like that. It was a surprise he’d never been reported to his own station as a cause for public concern.
‘Take it you’re not going to introduce us?’ he said, nodding towards Ruth.
‘Last time I checked you didn’t need a name to stitch a body.’
‘And there was me thinking a break from Bernswick might have softened you up. But I can see your troubles have followed you.’
‘They follow us all, Pruett. That’s why the Audience loves our stories.’
Pruett gave a grim laugh and lifted Cora’s bloodied coat from Ruth’s side, then he began to cut away what was left of her sister’s Seeder shirt. The light blue cloth was now dark with blood. The small room stank of it. Despite the jokes, the Bernswick stitcher was tender in his examination of Ruth, careful not to disturb the flesh which, to Cora’s eye, looked badly torn. As Pruett examined the wound, Ruth lay still and silent, staring at the smoke-blackened beams of the ceiling. If it wasn’t for the fact her sister blinked once in a while, Cora would have thought she was dead. Moving her coat out of Pruett’s way – the cloth warm as well as damp, the heat of Ruth’s blood still there – Cora realised her hands were shaking.
‘Just this?’ Pruett said, gently pressing the flesh of Ruth’s side, above and below the cut on her hip. ‘No other injuries?’
‘Far as I know.’ Cora slumped into an old chair that had seen better days, and tried to roll a smoke. ‘I chased him off as soon as I could.’
Pruett glanced at Cora.
‘It’s better you don’t know,’ she said.
He reached into the pail of water and wrung out a cloth, then set to cleaning Ruth’s wound. Cora heard her sister’s sharp intake of breath and looked up.
‘You two are louder than the Brawler,’ Ruth muttere
d.
‘You’re alive then,’ Pruett said, dunking his cloth back in the pail. The water had turned a scummy pink. Cora sucked hard on her bindle.
‘Just about.’ Ruth gestured for Cora to hand her the smoke, then said to Pruett, ‘Well?’
‘Whoever did this,’ Pruett said, ‘the angle was bad – bad for him but good for you. Half an inch to the right and you’d have been dead before he’d wiped the blood from the blade. As it is, he missed anything important, and I’ve stopped the bleeding.’
Now Pruett had cleaned the blood Cora could see the wound: a curved cut of three inches that sat just above Ruth’s hip bone. Ruth didn’t have much flesh to cushion such blows. This really was a story for the Latecomer.
The stitcher rummaged in his black bag and drew out a fold of cloth. Within it were the tools that gave his trade its name: needles and thread. He set the cloth on the table and took something else from his bag – a squat bottle of dark glass with a fat cork. The contents sloshed audibly as he offered it to Ruth.
‘Take the edge off while I close this up? It’s no Greynal, but it’ll do the job.’
Ruth shook her head. ‘I’ll need my wits about me when I get out of here.’
‘Suit yourself. I know you won’t want any, Gorderheim, but if you’ll excuse a man drinking alone.’ Pruett uncorked the bottle and took a nip.
‘Anything to make your hand steadier,’ Cora said. ‘I don’t want my sister losing any more blood when we get out of here.’
Pruett’s hand had stilled as he chose his needle, and Cora cursed herself. The stitcher glanced at Ruth who returned his look with a glare.
‘Sister? Well, well, Cora. You kept that quiet.’
Ruth grabbed Pruett’s wrist. ‘And I hope you’ll do the same.’
The stitcher looked down at Ruth’s hand, then at Cora. ‘I came, didn’t I? If Sillian finds out I’m helping you, and on police time—’
