by D. K. Fields
In the first flash of poor light all the stones looked black: the realm had won.
But when Cora lifted the lantern higher, the truth was revealed: there were white “no” votes among them.
Despite all the talk from the pennysheets, all the fanfare of the chequers, and all the efforts to tell Nicholas Ento’s story, the voting audience hadn’t been swayed.
She counted three times, so as to be certain: thirty black stones, twenty white.
The Rustans had won. Not the Wayward or the Seeders who had somehow matched each other, to the vote.
Somehow that made what she had to do even harder. In all her struggles with Morton, with all the terrible things she’d seen happening across the Union, Cora had simplified things in her own mind: the good of the Wayward, and the evil of the Seeders. Only one of those two paths could win out in the election. But here she was, stealing victory from the Rustans, whichever path she chose. And there was nothing else for it.
She turned back to the Rustan chest and reached inside. Her fingers closed on a black stone. Black for a yes vote, cast once already in judgement of a story. But there was an even greater choice that needed this stone. A choice between the Seeders or the Wayward; the wall or the welcome.
And Ruth. What about Ruth?
Cora wondered if her sister had guessed things would end this way, if she’d had an inkling at least. That day in West Perlanse, walking in the hot sun between those high white walls capped with red stones, Ruth had told her, It doesn’t matter what happens to me. Once I’ve said the last word of the Wayward story, my own story can end. Cora’s fingers closed round the stone. She pitched forwards and leaned her forehead against the open voting chest.
Serus had been right: it was clear what Ruth would want. She wouldn’t consider a single life worth saving above so many others, not when that life had achieved its goal. And lost so much along the way. But all of that was for a reason: the Wayward were offering a new vision for the Union. Yes, the Union faced a terrible threat from the Tear widening, but the Wayward answer – to work together, move people north, find a way to live without walls – that meant more people had a chance of survival. This could be an opportunity to start again, overturn the north–south injustice that had stood for so long, and which Cora’s own family had helped maintain. This was a chance for Cora to undo a wrong perpetuated by the Gorderheims. Wasn’t that what Ruth would want too? Even if she wasn’t alive to see it?
The years to come would be hard. Harder than anyone in the Union had ever known. No one could be sure how far the Tear would spread, what that would mean for food, water, shelter.
The black stone in Cora’s hand was hot now, slippery with her sweat. How long was left to decide? Half an hour? A lifetime?
But then, was Morton’s path so bad? Some would be saved – who knew, maybe many. And those on the northern side of the wall might be best placed to shape the Union’s future. After all, Fenest was where all the decisions were really made, where the Commission and the Assembly ran the Union, controlling everything, from the Northern Steppes all the way down to the Tear itself. Protecting that way of life, was that how to ensure the Union survived? It might be.
Cora didn’t recognise such thoughts as her own. It was as if her parents had left the Audience to step into this dark, dank room beneath the city and were whispering in her ear. But was she really so different from them? Some days, it felt like there was no chance to escape your past, to become someone else. That was surely why Morton had chosen Cora. The Chambers assumed Cora would do as her parents had done: cheat to get what she wanted, put her personal desires above all else.
But Ruth wasn’t like that, she wasn’t like their parents. She’d been at odds with the Gorderheim way of thinking ever since Cora could remember. Ruth had given up Fenest for another kind of life. Given up Cora for it too. And now here was Cora with the choice to give up Ruth for the chance, just the chance, of a better way of life for the Union. Her fingers tightened round the stone.
This was the gamble.
Cora wasn’t sure of the odds, and when that happened in the back room of the Dancing Oak, she kept her coin purse closed. But tonight, in the cellar beneath the Seat of the Moral Student, she had to put her money down.
Cora looked at the black stone in her hand, taken from the Rustan voting chest. Black for yes. She took another black stone. And another. And more until she had a whole fistful. Ten stones in total.
These she dropped into the Wayward chest.
She had made her choice.
To even out the stones she had to take ten white votes from the Wayward chest and cast them for the Rustans. She was glad Serus had been so adamant he didn’t want to know the results. But it was a secret she would have to live with.
The Wayward now had the win. They would control the Assembly, for the greater good of the Union. She closed the lid on the chest and clicked the lock shut.
‘You won, Ruth,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
Epilogue
They called it Hope. In Cora’s opinion, that was a little trite, but there was something to be said for the simplicity of it, for the clear message. When the Assembly had decided to build a whole new district outside the walls of Fenest, to extend the city walls, they evidently wanted everyone to know why they were doing it.
She ground out her half-smoked bindleleaf in the mud that passed as a street in Hope. She was supposed to be giving up; Serus had made her promise. Something about growing old together without the coughing and the hacking in the morning. So far she’d only half-managed it.
All along the street, buildings were going up. Wooden framed, quick as you like, crawling with carpenters like ants assaulting a picnic. People were already living in the lower floors, those who had camped on this spot not two months ago. These days, progress in Fenest wasn’t so painfully slow.
Cora wandered along the street, nodding to those she recognised – waving to the many more who recognised her. Who recognised the badge.
Hope didn’t just need builders. A new city district needed it all: butchers and bakers, whores and chequers, ’sheet sellers and police. The O’Shea Street station was barely more than four walls and a flat roof – no pigeons – but it needed a detective. Word was, Wayward Chambers Arrani had asked for her specifically, though Cora hadn’t spoken to the man. Not since… Well, not since he became the most important man in the Union.
‘Oi, watch it, you, that’s my foot!’
Cora looked down to see a grubby pennysheet boy, a threadbare cap pulled low over his brow.
‘Oh, sorry, Detective,’ the boy said. ‘Didn’t realise it was you.’
‘Don’t give me that, Tam. Nothing happens in this mud-way without you knowing about it.’
He smiled. ‘Right you are, Detective. What can I give you? The Spoke?’
‘Damn that ’sheet to Silence,’ she said. ‘I’ll take a Times.’
The boy expertly slipped a single sheet from his stack then tipped his cap to Cora. To his credit, he waited until she was a few paces away before bellowing the headline he’d just sold:
‘Hope Memorial unveiled today! Wayward make good on promise to refugees!’
Cora winced but continued on her way, one eye on the street and the other on the ’sheet. The Times was full of praise for the Assembly and its swift action since the election. But more than that, The Times was surprised. They didn’t say it outright, but it dripped from every word. No one expected so much to be done, let alone so quickly, and though there was still room for debate and the odd grumbling complaint, it was hard for most citizens to find fault in what was happening to their Union. Every decision, from the smallest tweak to the sweeping changes around them seemed to be well thought out, to the benefit of most, and delivered swiftly. No wonder that people, and the ’sheets, were surprised. In truth, they didn’t quite know what to make of it.
But Cora did. She knew they had to make the best of it, while it lasted. Because nothing good ever did.
Her duties that day included the memorial ceremony. She wasn’t exactly working security, but Chief Inspector Gordon wanted a full show of the newest police division in Fenest. That meant Cora had to put in an appearance, in her plain coat and all.
At the end of the street, she turned left, then right, then left again. She was still getting used to the well-ordered layout of Hope. So far it made life for the constables a lot easier, but she wondered if she’d eventually miss the winding alleys and twisting turns of her old beats. She came to the edge of the new district as she was glancing over a column – a regular feature in The Times – which recounted the experiences of those coming to the city from the south, first-hand. It made for grim reading. The woman recounting her story in today’s ’sheet had lost both her sons on the road, to different illnesses. But The Times tried to end each tale on an upbeat note: her daughter had just been accepted into the Seminary.
The memorial site was a hundred yards or so distant. It was to stand on the edge of the forest where so many southerners had taken their own lives – including the one Cora had seen, all that time ago. In a decision that must certainly have pleased the Widow, with her love for death and renewal, the Assembly had ordered that Hope was to be built from wood taken from that forest. And in the same breath, to appease the grieving, they ordered full funerals – each according to their realm’s traditions – for the dead, and the building of a memorial. So the city wouldn’t forget.
Cora certainly wouldn’t.
And neither would the woman coming towards her.
Her cowl was up, and she moved awkwardly, still recovering from her injuries. Cora had been putting off this meeting, this conversation. She knew how it would end.
‘Good morning, Detective,’ Nullan said.
‘How are the ribs?’
‘Sanga says I should rest. I tell him I’ll rest when I reach Bordair.’
Cora sighed. ‘You haven’t changed your mind?’
‘I wanted to see the memorial before I left, that’s all. Ruth would’ve approved of what they’ve done here. All of it.’
The mention of her sister still brought all kinds of pains – some stabbing, some aching, all of them obvious to see.
‘I’m sorry, Cora.’
She shook her head. She would have to learn to hide that pain, somehow. Time healed what the Stitcher could not, so the saying went – little good that did her now. Not long after Electoral Affairs had announced the election result, Ruth’s body had been left on the steps of Bernswick station, left to be found. The case had been given to the station’s newest junior detective: the one with the teeth. But somehow, the file had found its way to Cora’s desk in O’Shea Street. Between them, Cora and Jenkins were building a case to bring Ruth’s killer to justice. And Cora certainly knew where to find the individual responsible.
‘Cora? Did you hear what I said?’
‘No,’ she admitted.
‘I asked if you knew what the memorial looked like,’ Nullan said.
‘No idea. There’s nothing in the ’sheets either.’ Cora lit another bindleleaf, knowing she’d only smoke half of it. ‘Come on then, Storyteller Nullan. Let’s see how this Wayward Assembly honours the dead.’
Though Cora knew, however it was done, it would never be enough.
Acknowledgements
The end of a trilogy is a milestone we wouldn’t have reached without the hard work of a brilliant team and the support of many. D.K. Fields vote black stones for:
All at Head of Zeus: our fantastic editors, Maddy O’Shea and Clare Gordon, Anna Nightingale, Jade Gwilliam, Laura Palmer and everyone involved in bringing the Tales of Fenest to readers.
Helen Crawford-White and Nina Elstad, who created the eye-catching cover designs for the trilogy, giving everything from ash beetles to wooden tillers a visual dimension that we love.
Jamie Whyte, who transformed Dave’s MS Paint map of the Union into something wondrous and created the brilliant visuals for the realm symbols.
Our agent, Sam Copeland at Rogers, Coleridge and White, for, well, everything.
The booksellers, librarians and book bloggers who have supported The Tales of Fenest and helped these stories reach readers – we can’t thank you enough.
All our family and friends who cheered us on from the public gallery, keen to hear the next election story and give their exit poll predictions to the pennysheets.
From Katherine: Thanks to Belinda and Jane, again, for Tuesday Zoom calls that cheered me up when I was flagging. Thanks to Hilary Watson, a champion of Marcus who keeps an eye out for Black Jefferey’s reappearance. Thanks to the Royal Literary Fund who supported my work with Fellowships between 2017 and 2020 for which I will be forever grateful.
From David: Thanks to Bev, Jamie, Jo, Jonathan, Liz, Lyndall and Tricia for all your patience, insight and much needed reassurance. The Rustan story would never have taken off if it weren’t for you all (and might have risked awful puns like this). Thanks, too, to my colleagues at the University of South Wales, who continue to support my writing in more ways than is possible to mention here.
About the Author
D.K. Fields is the pseudonym for the writing partnership of novelists David Towsey and Katherine Stansfield. David’s zombie-western The Walkin’ Trilogy is published by Quercus. Katherine’s historical crime fiction series, Cornish Mysteries, is published by Allison & Busby. The couple are originally from the south-west of England, and now live in Cardiff.
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