by D. K. Fields
‘How many windows in the back walls?’ he said.
‘Ten on each floor? Maybe more? Except the third storey. None there.’
Serus walked carefully around the space, stopping every so often to look at a pile of wood – fallen beams? He carefully poked scatterings of plaster and broken glass. The way was blocked more than it was clear, and to Cora, the ruins of the distiller’s was a mysterious mess of smoking rubbish. How could there be answers here?
But he was looking for things she wouldn’t see.
‘The line from the Commission, and the pennysheets, is heat and poor ventilation caused this fire,’ she said. ‘Could a few sunny days really do that?’
‘The making of alcohol is a dangerous thing,’ Serus said quietly. He picked up a blackened rag and sniffed it. ‘From what I know of the process, the air is the enemy. Alcohol vapours can ignite if not carefully and properly managed. Did you see anything broken when you were here, Cora? Anything being repaired?’
‘No. Like I said, it was late when I arrived, and dark. But the whole place was tidy, well organised. That’s the kind of place Ruth—’
She stopped herself, but too late.
Serus folded his arms across his chest. ‘You still haven’t told me why you were here, Cora. What’s your interest in this place?’
She had a choice: tell him that her sister was the new Wayward storyteller, whose life was under threat from the hired hands of a murderous Chambers. That Cora was trying to keep Ruth alive. That it was hard – one of the hardest things she’d ever done.
Or tell Serus nothing.
‘I don’t want to put you in any danger, Serus.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s a bit late for that, given where we are. Is it that you can’t tell me what’s going on, or that you won’t?’
‘They’re the same thing.’ A fine rain of ash settled on her hand.
‘No, Cora. They’re not.’
‘Serus—’
‘Then tell me something else. Was it hot the night you spent here?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Not especially.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I don’t sleep well in the heat. I didn’t sleep well that night, but that was something else. But I do remember going to the window to smoke. It was already open.’
‘Were they all open?’
‘I couldn’t say.’
He beckoned her over to the end of the corridor, where there’d been a window before the fire. ‘See this?’ he said. There wasn’t much left of the frame, but he pointed towards the brass fittings for the window. The arms were fully extended, hanging mid-air like leafless branches.
‘Open,’ she said.
He turned away and headed down the stairs to the cellar.
‘As I thought,’ he called back. ‘The cellar’s in better shape.’
With every step down, the damage lessened, so by the time she reached the cellar’s floor, there were no smoke marks on the walls. The sweetly sick smell lessened too, but something replaced it. Something sharp: spirits. For the first time, she could smell the stuff that had been made here.
Serus lit a lamp, and in its bright beam, she could make out row upon row of glass. There were bottles and vials and large domed vats, all empty. Dotted among them were strange twisting pipes, corks and sacks of grain. All neatly arranged, just as she’d remembered the upstairs rooms had been when she’d come to spend the night, but she hadn’t come down here then. Beyond the light cast by Serus, the cellar was shadowy, but she guessed it ran the length of the ground floor.
‘What saved this part from the fire?’ Cora asked.
‘The door must have been shut. It’s thick enough by the looks of it, and tightly fits the jamb. The floor above is solid too. A well-made place.’
He was standing next to a table and examining its contents. She went to join him, her boots making a tap tap on the tiled floor.
The table was covered in what Cora guessed must be more distilling stuff, but this was a wreck compared to the shelves. In the lamp’s beam, broken glass and puddles flashed everywhere.
Serus stuck his finger in one puddle then sucked it. He winced. ‘Strong. Not the finished product.’
‘Should I be worried?’ she said, and righted a pair of flasks that were too close to rolling off the table and smashing to the floor.
‘Yes and no.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Best not be down here too long, and not with a lamp.’ He turned for the stairs.
‘Wait!’
She’d seen something under the table and now pushed aside boxes, yet more flasks and some kind of long spoon. Her fingers brushed against something soft, almost as soft as a slipdog hide coat. It was tucked away, kept away from all the spirits sloshing about. Not it. Them.
Cora pulled out a pair of green gloves with red stitching. Just the kind she’d seen Tannir wear. He was always wearing them. Until the distiller’s burnt down, that was.
She straightened with a groan. ‘I’m getting too old for this.’
‘You and me both. What have you got there?’ he asked.
Cora held up the gloves. ‘Not so long ago I would have called these a lead.’
‘Let’s go back upstairs. You can tell me about those gloves, and I’ll tell you my best guess for what happened here.’
‘Sounds like a good trade.’
When they were both standing in front of the building, Serus began. ‘My best guess, and that’s all this can be, Cora – a guess. Without time, without resources—’
‘I understand, Serus. Just tell me – was this a deliberate fire?’
‘Yes, that I’m sure of. And I’m fairly confident it started inside.’ He tapped the wall, next to where the front door had been. ‘The damage is worse around the front door and those rooms that looked out onto the street. There are fibres there that suggest piles of cloth were set alight to spread the fire. Whoever did this, they wanted to make it harder for people to get out.’
Nausea washed over Cora, and she swallowed hard.
‘It burnt hot and quick,’ Serus said, ‘and that’s down to the spirits. From what I can see upstairs, the patterns of the burn marks – someone doused the place. Not with much of a system, mind you.’
‘They were in a rush?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘And hesitant, perhaps.’
‘You can tell that from a burnt building?’
‘Sometimes. There’s a feeling in what a fire-starter leaves behind, their traces. You must know that from crime scenes, Cora. The way bodies are left.’
She looked at the broken husk of the building, the life of it now gone. Maybe it wasn’t so different from a body. ‘Them being hesitant, does that explain the mess down in the cellar?’
‘I think so. My view is, they got their materials together down there. Grabbed some bottles – I saw gaps on those shelves – and broke some of them. That would explain the smashed glass, but little fire damage. The spirits went everywhere. They were probably covered in it themselves.
‘They went to the front door and the windows looking on to the street, then emptied the bottles as quick as they could.’
‘Ignition?’
Serus shrugged. ‘People never believe me when I say that’s the least interesting part of investigating fires. In a building like this, where people worked, ate, slept, there’s no end of ways to make a flame. I lit this lamp without any trouble.’
‘And no problems with ventilation?’
‘Not that I could find evidence for. There’s more to it than opening a few windows, of course, but I’d still say this was a deliberate fire. The question of who started it, that I’ll have to leave to you. Unless the Commission changes its mind.’
‘I think I’ve worked that out.’
‘Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?’ he said. ‘The gloves?’
‘If the Commission ever opens an investigation, I’ll let you have him.’
‘Hey! We had a deal.
’
‘Maybe when I get back,’ she said.
‘Back? From where?’
Cora cursed her loose tongue – that had never been a problem back when she was on the force. This time, she decided to be honest with him. She owed him that much, and much more.
‘I’m going up the River Tun.’
‘The Tun? Why?’
‘Because it’s a pretty river,’ she said. But he didn’t laugh. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll only be a few days. I need to be back for the Wayward story. It’s the Wayward I’m going with… and my sister.’
He looked disappointed. A grown man, sad not to see her for a short time.
‘Come with me,’ she said, surprising them both. ‘Spend a bit of time on the river. They say the country out that way is good to look at. Even for Perlanse.’
Serus laughed. ‘Well, when you put it like that. But then again…’ His gaze slid to the gaping doorway of the burnt distiller’s and the horrors of that smouldering rubble. ‘Something tells me it might not be so relaxing. In fact, I’m guessing it might be outright dangerous.’
‘I can’t promise it won’t be.’
‘Can you tell me why you’re going, Cora?’
‘Not yet. But I’ll send a note with the dock information, the time. If you’re on that barge when it leaves, I’ll tell you everything.’
Ten
Cora returned to the hat-maker’s after investigating the fire, to find Ruth standing in a corner of the small, cluttered room. She was facing the wall and didn’t turn around when Cora came in, or when Cora said her name. It was only when Cora took hold of Ruth’s thin shoulders and shook her that her sister woke from what looked to be a kind of half sleep.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, guiding Ruth to a stool. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Hmm? Nothing. I was tanketting.’ Her eyes looked huge, glassy.
‘You were what?’
‘It’s a Wayward word. Each realm has their own version of it. Not widely used, of course, they refer to something only done by storytellers.’
‘You were practising the election story?’
‘It’s deeper than that. Tanketting, it means to strengthen memory, and push it forwards, push into the story to keep it live. But also to restrain the story, hold it, because it’s a live thing. It doesn’t want to stay the same. It’s hard to explain.’
Cora checked the coffee pot. It was cold – too cold, even for her. ‘I’d often wondered how storytellers remembered their tales, them being so long. But then, you were always better at Seminary papers than I was.’
Ruth smiled. ‘And I’ve finally found a use for that talent. Only took, what – thirty years?’
‘Father would be proud.’
‘Yes,’ Ruth said quietly. She reached for her long hair and then evidently remembered that Nullan had cut it.
Silence came between them, as if Cora’s mention of Victor Gorderheim had somehow brought the swaggering, soiree-loving man into the room. Their father’s stories had been for the Liar and the Latecomer, always told with a glass of something expensive in one hand, a cigar rolled from hard-to-come-by leaves in the other. Until that night he’d decided to join the Audience early by drinking something darker, harsher.
‘I wish you could have heard Nicholas tell a story,’ Ruth said, dispelling the memory of their father. ‘The way my boy drew you in, his voice – it was like he was clasping you close with his words. Hearing him, you could believe he was telling the story just for you, even if there were hundreds listening. That’s a rare gift.’
‘But if you’re telling his story, it’ll be the same, won’t it?’
‘It’ll be the same words, but it won’t be the same story.’
‘I’m sure riddles are the kind of thing you do for fun on the Northern Steppes, Ruth, but we’ve got other problems. Is it safe to talk here?’
‘Depends what you want to talk about. Given the thick smell of smoke about you, I think I can guess.’ She went to the door and locked it.
‘Where’s Nullan?’ Cora asked.
‘Said she had some things to sort out for the trip upriver.’
‘I’m beginning to think that you leaving Fenest isn’t such a bad idea after all, Ruth, given what people here are prepared to do.’ She told Ruth what Serus had made of the fire at the distiller’s, and then she produced the gloves.
‘The Weaver take Tannir!’ Ruth shouted. She hurled his green gloves at the wall. ‘He’ll pay for this.’ Ruth was on her feet, doing her best to pace in the small room and muttering ways to have Tannir join the Audience earlier than he might like.
‘Tannir might be acting alone, independent of the head herders,’ Cora said, ‘working on the orders of Chambers Morton, or—’
‘Or I’ve got a new problem.’ Ruth slumped against the bolts of cloth piled by the wall, which swayed alarmingly. ‘The head herders want me dead too.’
‘No good options there. But I’ve decided to play him at his own game.’
‘You’ve got someone watching him?’
‘One of my best,’ Cora said.
‘It’s three days until the Rustan story, and then we’ll be on our way.’
‘There are no guarantees you’ll be any safer on the river, Ruth.’
‘True. But the change of scene will be something, won’t it?’ She laughed, but it was brittle.
‘The Brawler knows, boats still catch fire,’ Cora muttered. She thought of the Hook barge, and of Serus. Would he join her on the trip upriver? ‘But then there’ll be the coming back, and the story itself.’
‘It’s not so many days to keep someone alive, is it, Cora? You can do it?’
‘And after the story, Ruth? What then?’
She threw up her hands and laughed. ‘Oh, Morton can do what she likes with me! Hang me from her new walls if she wants.’
‘Ruth, that’s not funny.’
Her sister sighed, a deep, loud sigh that seemed more than her scrawny body should be able to make, somehow. ‘Once I’ve told the Wayward story, my part will be done. So will yours, Cora. The news of the Tear’s widening will be impossible to ignore. It’ll be up to the voters to choose who will lead them through the crisis that follows.’
‘You make it sound like you’ll just give up,’ Cora said, when what she really wanted to say was, Ruth – you’re only just back, after more than thirty years away. You can’t leave me yet.
‘Maybe I will give up,’ Ruth said. ‘I’m tired enough. And losing Nicholas…’ She wiped her eyes. ‘I have one job to do, and I’m going to do it. No one is going to stop me, not Morton, not the head herders, and certainly not that bald upstart Tannir.’ She retrieved the gloves from the floor then grabbed the scissors lying nearby. Within seconds the fine green leather had been sliced to ribbons. Ruth turned to Cora with a triumphant look on her face.
‘Take it you weren’t planning on confronting him with those?’ Cora said dryly.
‘What would be the point? He’d deny everything, and he has the support of Hyam. Besides, the fire is out. The dead are dead. I just need to keep going for a little longer, and we’ll be out of the city soon.’
‘With Tannir on our trail?’
‘There’s a chance of that,’ Ruth said. ‘He knows I’m the one going to get the Wayward Hook. But what I have tried to keep quiet are the details of the trip – that we’re going by river, when we’re leaving. That information is known only to me, Nullan, the crew she’s hired and you, Cora.’
‘We’d better hope this barge Nullan’s organised is a fast one.’
Ruth reached for something on the floor, beside the bolts of cloth. When she turned back, she had an armful of clothes.
‘Fancied a change from that Fenestiran get-up, did you?’ Cora said.
‘If we’re going to hear the Rustan story, we’ll need to keep a low profile. Here. Nullan said this one should fit you, so it’s her fault if it doesn’t.’ Ruth handed Cora a pale blue shirt richly stitched with a design of leaves and fruit.
‘There are hats being made for us as we speak. Our host appreciated the business.’
‘You want us to dress as Seeders?’ Cora said.
‘Well we can’t go to the Rustan story looking Wayward, can we? Or Torn, unless you want to strap some burning tornstone to your face. Perhaps you’d like Nullan to ink your arms?’
‘At least the look of a soil-scratcher is easier to be rid of afterwards,’ Cora grumbled. ‘And before you ask, I do not want to cover myself in feathers like the Perlish.’
‘I told Nullan you’d say that.’
The shirt Ruth had given her was made of good cloth. Cora didn’t know much about these things, but she could feel the softness under her calloused fingers, and the colour was the same blue as the sky she and Ruth had travelled under when they’d journeyed to the far south. When Cora had seen the damage already caused by the Tear widening. The fruits stitched onto this shirt were nothing like the dried husks abandoned in the yellowed fields there.
‘What about getting inside the story venue?’ she asked Ruth. ‘My badge would get me a seat in the public gallery, but now…’
‘Our friend Galdensuttir has helped there. He’s seen Electoral Affairs records that suggest there’s more than a few blind spots in the security.’
‘Hard to police an open venue like the Water Gardens,’ Cora said.
‘We’ve identified a particularly vulnerable point, where you and I will go in. It’ll be much easier to slip into the Water Gardens than somewhere like First Wall, for instance.’
At the mention of that place, where the Torn storyteller had died after taking off his mouthpiece, Cora could almost feel the strange breeze that drifted through the enclosed space of First Wall. Much better that the next story would be told in the open, and not just because it meant being there to hear it would be easier. But it was one thing to get a seat in the public gallery. It was another to get out safely after.