by D. K. Fields
‘Other people must know too, though, surely?’ Cora said. ‘The identity of a realm’s storyteller is too big a thing to keep secret.’
‘You’re likely right. But only the Chambers are supposed to know until the Opening Ceremony.’
‘Well, that helps narrow things down. Ignoring the Wayward Chambers, that still leaves only six people – one for each realm, plus two for the Perlish.’
‘You will leave all the Chambers out of this, Gorderheim.’
‘What?’
‘You found a body in an alley behind a whorehouse. Strangled. Do I make myself clear?’ Sillian said, meeting Cora’s stare and holding it.
‘But… you said yourself, the Chambers are the only ones who would have known Ento was a storyteller.’
‘That’s not what I care about. It’s not what the pennysheets care about, either.’
‘If you want someone else on this, that’s fine,’ Cora said. ‘Politics, the election, I’m a poor fit for any of it.’ And then quietly: ‘You know my family’s history.’
‘I do, but you are not your parents, Gorderheim. Or your sister, for that matter. However, that history might mean you’re more… more alive to the sensitivities of this case.’
Sensitivities? That was a new name for corruption. Her mother would have approved.
‘I want you on this case,’ Sillian said. ‘You’re the one who started with it, you’re going to keep it. But I want you to do it the right way. The only way. Find the person who did strangle the storyteller. Find the killer. That’s all.’
‘Is that an order?’
Sillian glanced back at the street. ‘We’re all watching, Detective. And here’s another order for you: I remain informed of all developments.’
Cora started to object, and then remembered where she was. Who she was talking to. She gave a half-hearted salute, which Sillian didn’t even notice, and then left the office.
How a man or woman came to tell a story at an election wasn’t something Cora had given much thought to over the years. An election happened, there were storytellers, one realm won, and life went on. People would grumble – the Seeder Chambers did this, the Rustan Chambers said that, but that was people complaining for the sake of it, encouraged by the pennysheets. Most had no idea what was going on in the Assembly. Probably couldn’t tell a Chambers from a coach driver; until that morning, neither could Cora.
But now she knew it was the Chambers who decided which individual would tell that realm’s story in the election. Maybe each Chambers had a different way of deciding? Maybe for each realm there were well-known storytellers waiting five years just for a chance to tell a story? Maybe… Maybe Cora had too many questions.
She needed to speak to Constable Jenkins. She needed to speak to Sergeant Hearst. She had plenty to tell the Martyr, the Poet, and the Amateur too. And none of them were around to hear it.
Even so, she had to start somewhere.
Five
Cora headed for the Seat of the Commoner. It didn’t matter where you were in the Union – up one of those Rusting Mountains, dockside on the River Cask, even wandering the Steppes – you’d find Seats to the Audience: places to say your piece to one of the members in the hopes you got their attention. She could have chosen other places in the city to begin, and plenty more besides in which to think through her next course of action. But if this case was as much about the election as it was murder then the Commoner would be just as willing to listen to her stories as the Widow.
Cora wasn’t as devout as some she knew – the newer constables tended to have a real religious streak she didn’t share, visiting a different Seat every day. She wondered if Jenkins shared their zeal. When Cora’s time came, she wanted to take her place with the Swaying Audience along with the rest of them. Her life was full of stories to sway them, especially the Widow. If that pale spinster didn’t welcome her into the afterlife with open arms and a spot ready with a good view, what with all the tales of death Cora brought her, then there wasn’t hope for anyone. Cora knew she didn’t always have the time to tell every grisly detail. She knew she wasn’t the best storyteller in the Union. But still – what she told was worth something, surely?
Hopefully the Commoner wouldn’t be too upset that she wasn’t there just to talk to him today. She had an idea there was someone else inside his Seat who would be worth the walk from the station alone.
She admired the heavy wooden doors of the Seat as she entered: intricately carved with hundreds of people who appeared to lean out of the wood, their shoulders and heads thrust forward. She had been to her share of Seats of the Commoner and they all had crowds rendered in one form or another, whether the people were carved, painted or woven. It was hard to be sure of the nature or temperament of the Commoner’s crowds. They were as indecipherable as anything to do with the Audience. To Cora, they looked as uncertain as she felt.
Huge, unlit hearths lined the walls of the Seat and most of the benches were empty. At the head of the aisle was a stone statue that was little more than a silhouette of a person: the Commoner, ready to hear everyone’s tales of home, hearth, and maybe something election-related. Perhaps ready to hear Cora’s tale of a murdered storyteller, and the most powerful men and women in Fenest who might be responsible: the Chambers. There was a tall man in a plain robe dusting the statue. He wasn’t wearing any shoes as he stood on tiptoe.
‘Commoner’s welcome,’ he said. ‘I won’t be a minute here.’
But as she started to reply, to tell him not to rush on her account, she heard a ripple of laughter. So her tip had been right.
‘Think I’ll listen first,’ Cora said.
The caretaker smiled. ‘Commoner likes a good listener as much as a good ’teller.’
At the far end of the Seat was a group of maybe ten or fifteen children sitting on the floor: a school outing. Cora had been on many such trips in her time at school, but her school had been the Commission Seminary. These children looked to be from a city school, the poor kind, judging by their clothing. They were listening to the woman standing before them. She nodded a greeting as Cora sat down, but the children didn’t bother to turn around. Each of them had string crossing the back of their head: they were wearing their paper masks of the Audience. This was the election, played out before her. She and Ruth had done likewise at the Seminary.
Her sister had enjoyed their lessons about the election, but she’d been good with numbers too: profit and loss, debts and loans. More of the Commission’s good works. Ruth’s talents explained a great deal, in hindsight. How else had her sister been able to find out the truth of their parents’ dealings? Their mother and father had paid for Ruth to attend the Seminary, hoping she would carry on the good work of the Gorderheims, and instead it was the knowledge Ruth gained there that helped undo the family. They ended up telling many stories to the Weary Governess. Had Ruth known the terrible way things would unfold after she’d given the story to the pennysheets? Sometimes, when her anger was a cool and brittle thing, Cora told herself that Ruth couldn’t have known. That Ruth hadn’t been much more than a child herself when she left – just seventeen. But most days, Cora believed Ruth knew exactly what she was doing. And that she chose to leave Cora to deal with it.
Cora became aware the caretaker had joined her on the bench. He’d left a well-judged distance between them: not so close to cause discomfort, but close enough for Cora to share a story if she chose to. The caretaker had the shrewdness of someone who’d spent a lifetime in a Seat.
‘I always hated the way the mask felt against my face,’ Cora said. ‘Itchy and ticklish at the same time. And the smell.’
‘I’m sure some here feel the same,’ the caretaker said, nodding towards the group. ‘They’re doing well to keep the masks on.’
‘That’s the power of a good story.’ Cora studied the backs of the children’s heads. It didn’t take long to find the girl she was looking for, with her lank hair and throaty cough. But Cora would wait – it wouldn’t do
to interrupt a story in a Seat.
‘I realise my age, seeing them learning like this,’ the caretaker said. ‘As I wore a paper mask to learn about the election, so did you, my friend, and so do they. A never-ending circle, a wheel that must always turn to save us from the chaos of the past.’
‘That’s been drummed into every Seminary child ever since peace was declared after the War of the Feathers.’
‘And the election devised as a means to keep it.’ The Caretaker stretched his legs. ‘The War, now. We didn’t learn much of that at my school. But I’m guessing you were Seminary-trained?’
Cora nodded.
‘You’re Commission then?’
It was easy logic. Seminary children were always Commission-bound. That was why parents used their good name and their good money to get them places in the Seminary as soon as the new babes of Fenest could stand. Once they’d finished their studies, they were given jobs, all of which in some way made sure the election kept happening. And that other children would come to Seats to learn the election’s power.
‘You’ve a busy time of it at the moment,’ the caretaker said, with some kindness.
Another nod couldn’t do justice to the truth of that statement, but why burden an old man with the case? It was burden enough for her.
‘The War of the Feathers was my favourite lesson,’ she said.
The caretaker smiled and closed his eyes, and Cora began.
‘The Archduke of Perlanse died and left twin sons squabbling over power. They were young and feckless and cared only for the finer things in life. Things that fascinate the realm even now: hairpieces, jewellery, rare fruits and rarer pets. It was the last of these that sent everyone as senseless as the Brawler.
‘Each brother had been given a kenna bird by their father: one red bird, one blue. I saw pictures of kennas at the Seminary, but never a real one. Flightless birds, only interested in preening their ridiculously coloured feathers and stretching their ridiculously long necks.’
‘No wonder the Perlish love them,’ the caretaker murmured.
‘As the brothers squabbled over who would be the next Archduke, one of the kenna birds was killed – a hat pin right through the heart. I liked to tell that part of the story to myself in the dull lessons.’
She decided not to tell the caretaker how much she’d enjoyed using a quill to stab the drawing of the bird.
‘The brother whose bird was killed blamed the other, swore revenge. The great Perlish houses took sides, West or East; territories were marked out, and it wasn’t long before the battles started. The fighting spilled over into the neighbouring Lowlands, and many were killed, including a visiting delegation of the Torn who had the misfortune to be caught in the middle of the warring duchies.’
‘All because of a kenna bird,’ the caretaker said. ‘It was the death of the Torn that brought it all to an end. That much I do know.’
‘And brought the first election.’
‘And so the wheel turns,’ he said, opening his eyes. He gave Cora a nod of thanks and said something about the hearths, but his voice was all but lost in the noise coming from the children. Their story was going down well.
The caretaker took his leave, and Cora listened.
‘And that’s when Laurel leapt.’ The teacher raised her hands. The children gasped. ‘Right onto the back of old Madam Swanson.’
The little audience laughed.
‘Laurel scampered up the lady’s back and started to lick the honey from her hair!’
‘No!’ a boy cried, and was quickly hushed.
There was more laughter. Laurel, apparently a naughty, nimble lapdog, was causing all kinds of mayhem at an important party. The guest of honour was a stuffy duke from Perlanse whom Madam Swanson was trying to impress. The story’s final flourish had the duke fall backwards into a three-tiered cake and Laurel, a lover of laps, join him. As the party – and the Audience – held their breath, the duke proclaimed that Laurel should be at every one of his parties.
A roar of applause.
Then, abruptly, the children turned serious. Each one took a pair of stones from their pockets, their coats or from the benches. The teacher-come-storyteller placed a small box in front of the children.
The shuffling of feet stopped. Now in a line, the children had a handful of moments to consider their choices and cast their votes. Each child, still masked, came forward and dropped a pebble inside, careful that no one else could see the colour of their voting stone. A silence fell, deep enough to please the Commoner, as the votes were cast and then counted.
‘I’d give Laurel the lapdog two-to-one favourite,’ Cora muttered to herself. ‘Even if this isn’t the Messenger’s Seat.’
The teacher announced the result: eleven for, two against.
The children whooped and cheered. Some tried to throw their masks into the air to celebrate but the paper made it difficult. When their excitement had died down, the teacher packed up their voting box and led the class along the aisle. The girl was last in the line and tried to slip past. Cora caught her by the arm and made her sit beside her.
‘Hello, Marcus.’ A wave of her badge let the teacher know all was right with the world. Mostly. ‘I didn’t think you actually went to school,’ Cora said.
‘One day a week. It’s nice to have a rest,’ Marcus said. She was named on Drunkard’s Day, poor soul. A pennysheet girl by trade, she’d helped Cora in the past and had a good set of eyes and ears on her.
‘I almost didn’t recognise you without your stack of ’sheets.’
The girl shrugged. ‘Why, what’re you after?’ Her baritone, usually booming headlines across busy streets, was oddly delicate in the Seat.
‘Nothing much,’ Cora said. ‘Just keep your ear out.’
‘For what?’
Cora hesitated. The identity of the dead Wayward wasn’t in the ’sheets yet. But it soon would be. Cora might as well be the one to break the story. It was her story, in some ways.
‘The man found strangled behind Mrs Hawksley’s, he—’
‘Him with the mouth sewn up?’
‘He was the Wayward storyteller.’
Marcus’ eyes widened and she sat back on the bench. Then she grinned. ‘I’ll do well out of that twist. What am I meant to be listening for?’
‘You hear anything about the new Wayward storyteller, or their story, from the sheet hacks or the sellers, you come to me.’
Marcus looked at the door. ‘I dunno, Detective… The hacks won’t like it and I got to get paid, don’t I?’
‘Maybe this will help: I’ll take the morning and afternoon editions at the Bernswick station.’
‘What editions?’
‘All of them. And don’t look like that, they’ll be paid for.’
‘A pleasure working with you, Detective.’
The girl hopped off the bench. Cora let the pennysheet girl go, but then something occurred to her.
‘Marcus?’
‘What?’
‘You were one of the white votes, weren’t you?’
‘Stupid dog story. It wasn’t funny.’
Cora watched the girl go. She knew it was ridiculous, but for some reason she found herself thinking of Ruth again. She couldn’t seem to stop. It must be the election, and Cora getting dragged into it with Ento’s death.
Her sister was a lot older than Marcus when she left, and she couldn’t have been more different from the pennysheet girl. Always in school and choosing to stay longer each day than she had to, unlike Cora who was out the door before the final bell had even finished ringing. Ruth would study in the library or ask her teachers endless questions. But, like Marcus, Ruth would have hated a comic tale about a lapdog. She would have seen it as a wasted opportunity. ‘There’s power in stories and a story of power.’ That was one of the last things Ruth had said on the night she left.
Cora kept looking at the little pennysheet girl, hoping she’d turn around one last time. But she didn’t, and then she was out the d
oor and lost to the city.
Returning to the statue of the Commoner, Cora touched his outstretched hand and then sat on a bench opposite.
‘A story for you, Commoner,’ she said, ‘the kind you’ll want to hear. The kind you’ll remember. The body was left there to be found. At least, that was how it looked. But then I started making mistakes. I haven’t stopped since. I haven’t…’
*
The Poet’s bells rang the hour across the city before Cora left the Seat of the Commoner and headed back to the station. By that time the disturbance caused by the Wayward Chambers had eased, and Cora held a small hope of getting something done. And there was much to do, even with the chief inspector’s warning that she had to keep clear of the Chambers.
‘Find the killer,’ Sillian had said. ‘That’s all.’
Easier said than done.
Cora found Sergeant Hearst right where she expected: the station roof. As she climbed onto the small, flat square that sat between the great peaks of the roof, the warm wind tugged at her. Even up here there was no escaping the smell of the streets: horse muck and drains. But there was something else, something sharper underneath all that. The stink of birds.
She joined Hearst in the shelter of the chimney breast, where the pigeons roosted. He was dropping seed along a low wall, and the birds were pecking it up as quick as he could get it down.
‘Keep on like that and they’ll be too fat to fly,’ she said. ‘Drop like stones.’
‘Speaking of stones,’ Hearst said, ‘I hear you’re on election business now.’ He dusted his hands of seed.
‘Audience help me.’
Cora looked out across the city. The station wasn’t the tallest building in Bernswick, but it gave a good enough view of the spires on the Grand Seat of the Poet, and, beyond them, the grubby glass dome where the Assembly sat, soon to be led by whichever Chambers won the election. A few streets over was the Wheelhouse: home of the Commission and its thousands of scribblers and stone-counters who made the election happen. Between them, the tangle of streets and alleys that was Fenest. Where Ento’s killer was still hiding.