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CHAPTER

Forty-Four

F ENN FEDALA WAS waiting for them at the entrance to the Ox farm. No contingent, no acrobatics, no singing. After the glamour of the Tiger palace, here was the practical end of things—the part that kept the island fed and watered and working properly. That was the message, and no one missed it.

“No, you can fuck off,” he said to Neema’s shadow. “This is a Festival Trial. Contenders only.”

The guard protested—he was tasked by the High Commander, at the order of the emperor…

Fenn struck the guard so hard he was flung off his feet, smashing heavily into a pile of wooden crates.

“Eight,” Havoc said, shocked by the sudden speed and power of the strike. “You could have broken his jaw.”

“Could have,” Fenn agreed, examining his fist. “Chose not to.”

A couple of Ox hands carried the guard away, promising ale and a patch up in the farmhouse kitchens. The guard cursed them, spitting blood from his mouth. Fenn watched him go with narrowed eyes, assessing him as he might a piece of rotten timber, or a broken tile.

The farmhouse was a solid, three-storey granite building, very like one you might find in the southern Heartlands. Fenn kept his office here, rather than the Ox palace, which lay a quarter mile to the east. The Oxes had by far the largest territory on the island. Most of it was given over to farming and construction, and was intended for the benefit of all.

Fenn led them down a service path past a series of outhouses. Again, the tour was deliberate—reminding the contenders of the effort it took to keep the island functioning. The clang and hiss from the blacksmith’s forge, dogs barking, the stink of manure, the rinsing of blood from the abattoir steps.

The path brought them out to a large cobbled yard at the back of the farmhouse. Six wagons stood lined up in a row, loaded with coarse sacks of flour, rice and pulses. Behind each wagon stood two more, also piled high. “Three wagons each,” Shal said, heading down to the furthest column. The rest of them followed his lead, lining up in front of their wagons.

Tala, excluded from the Trial, perched herself on a barrel.

The contenders stood to attention, awaiting instructions.

Fenn lit a roll-up, gave Tala a side glance. Some private joke passed between them.

Beyond the yard lay the orchard, with a track running through to a barn at the end. “We store our surplus in that barn,” Fenn told them. He nodded to the nearest wagon. “A pair of oxen can pull a fully-loaded wagon down there in under ten minutes.”

The contenders looked around the yard, and then at each other.

Cain threw his hands up. “You’re joking. This is a joke.”

Fenn said nothing.

“For the sake of clarity,” Cain pressed a hand to his chest. “I am not an ox. This is impossible.”

“Give it a rest, Cain,” Havoc called down the line. “We’ve all trained for this. The Ox Trial is always about strength and stamina. Stubborn determination.” He put his fingers against his head, like horns, and gave a loud bellow.

“That’s offensive,” Tala muttered.

Ruko was testing the weight of the wagon, examining the yoke attached to the arms. “Has the Trial begun, High Engineer?”

Fenn took a drag of his roll-up. “Sure, why not? Contenders, you have two hours.” He gestured vaguely. “Make yourselves useful.”

Save for Neema, they were up on their wagons before he’d finished. Five contenders, one strategy. The wagons were too heavy to pull as they were—they would have to sling out enough sacks to lighten the load, and make multiple trips.

Neema the Trial has started, Sol prompted.

She gave one of the sacks an experimental tug. It didn’t budge. If the Trial really was about strength and stamina she might as well not bother. But she wasn’t so sure. The contenders had made a lot of assumptions about this Trial. Assumptions about Fenn, and about how Oxes saw the world.

She glanced over at Cain. He was mulling the same question, she could tell. He jumped down from his wagon and made a discreet shooing gesture. Stop watching me. I know. I get it.

Sol tapped her rib. You see, Neema—the Fox contender does not need our help. Leave him in peace.

Along the row, a new strategy was forming. Havoc was in negotiation with Katsan. Oxes were all about teamwork, right? The wagons were designed for two, they could move faster if they pulled together. Shal called out to Cain with the same idea—should they pair up?

“Give me a second,” Cain called back. “Maybe.”

Ruko ground on alone.

“Cain?” Shal called again.

Cain twisted round to answer, still holding a sack, then yelled in pain. He dropped the sack, clutching his shoulder. “Eight. Fuck!”

He collapsed in agony. “My shoulder. Shit!”

They are not falling for this, Neema? He is acting.

—I know.

But they were falling for it, because it suited them. This was a straightforward, physical task—there was no benefit in faking an injury. Ruko was already in harness, dragging his half-loaded wagon across the yard with grim determination. Katsan and Havoc had found a rhythm to their work, and would not be long behind him.

Neema looked over at Fenn. He was doing three things at once—watching the contenders, talking to one of his engineers, and inspecting a newly forged blade. And smoking. Four things. A courtier arrived with a scroll wrapped in blue ribbon—some communication from the Hound palace. She saw Fenn sag, dejected. More paperwork.

That’s when it clicked.

Abandoning her wagons, Neema sauntered over, as if she’d given up. “I’ll take that,” she said to the courtier, heading her off. She waved the scroll at Fenn. “Is your office open?”

Fenn lifted an eyebrow at Tala. “Told you she’d get it. That’s three silver tiles you owe me.”

Fenn’s office smelled of tobacco and old boots, and paper. Lots of paper.

Make yourself useful.

That was the only instruction Fenn had given them. He hadn’t told them to line up in front of the wagons. He hadn’t specifically instructed them to move the sacks to the barn. What was the point in asking six contenders to move a bunch of wagons when—as he’d explained already—they had oxen that could do the same task in a fraction of the time?

It was a common misunderstanding with Oxes that their idea of harmony meant everyone working together on the same thing, at the same time. Ploughing forward stoically in unison. But that wasn’t their philosophy. Every Ox team required a range of skills, character, experience. Understanding where you fitted within that team—your strengths and weaknesses—that was the key. Sometimes you led, sometimes you followed—depending on the task at hand. The secret of harmony was variety.

Fenn hated paperwork. Neema loved it. The best way she could “make herself useful,” was to come up here and spend a couple of hours sorting through the piles of invoices and blueprints, committee minutes and reports. A task didn’t have to be gruelling, or joyless, if you found the right person to do it.

She set to work. Someone brought her a pot of coffee. She hummed to herself, sifting through the piles of paper, bringing order to the chaos. Much of the correspondence came from the Raven palace. Quite a lot of it came from her own desk. She answered what she could, and left clear instructions on how to deal with the rest.

She was happy. Sol was happy. Paperwork was like preening, aligning the feathers so they lay smooth and clean and ready for flight.

Neema picked up a stack of account books piled on a chair. “Shelves, Fenn. You have shelves,” she said, and slotted them in place before realising one of them wasn’t a book but a picture frame, bundled in by mistake. She took it out and rubbed the dust from the glass. It was only a sketch, but she recognised the hand at once.

A rose garden at night, two friends talking on a stone bench. Fenn and Shimmer. She had her legs stretched out, laughing. Fenn was grinning at her, hand clapped to his thigh. She’d captured him perfectly, with just a few strokes of her pencil.

“You found it.” Fenn was standing in the doorway. “Been looking for that for months.”

She handed it over. “It’s the same bench,” she said. The one he’d been sitting on the night she’d stumbled through the hedge.

He touched the glass, expression softening. “Her favourite spot. No one ever came by. We could talk properly.”

“Were you—”

He cut her off. “I happen to love my wife, Neema. Weird, eh?” His face crinkled with amusement, as he propped the frame on his desk. “No—that was us. Friends. Best friends. Last time we talked was in that garden, the night before…” The night before she threw herself off the Mirror Bridge. “We argued. Eight, I wish we hadn’t.”

“What did you argue about?”

He winced. Too painful. “She wasn’t well, Neema. She had these fantastical ideas about…” He lowered his voice. “Bersun.”

“About how much he’d changed,” Neema said.

Fenn stared at her. “How…”

It was the sketch that made Neema think of it. Shimmer could look at someone, and capture their spirit with a few pencil strokes. She never visited Bersun’s court until after the rebellion—when she took the throne room commission. That was the first time she met the emperor. But still, that penetrating gaze, that artist’s hand… Had she tried sketching the Old Bear one day and realised something didn’t sit right? Had she confronted him about it? She was certainly fearless enough—she’d told Andren Valit to fuck off, after all.

The emperor had been with Shimmer that fateful day on the Mirror Bridge. He swore he’d tried to stop her, but what if he hadn’t? What if…

Fenn’s eyes had flooded with tears. “Damn,” he said, brushing them away. This was why he didn’t talk about Shim, why he never looked up at the Mirror Bridge. He touched the picture again, gently, then lowered it face down on the desk. And Neema realised then—he’d lost it on purpose.

There was a commotion in the yard. They crossed together to the window, just in time to see Cain return, leading a pair of oxen. Behind him came a couple of farmhands, leading two more pairs. Within a couple of minutes Cain was leading three full wagons out of the yard and down towards the orchard, the oxen plodding along easily with their loads.

Ruko, soaked in sweat, dragging his wagon back from yet another solitary trip, stopped and watched them go by. And slowly bowed his head in defeat.

“The Raven contender wins the Trial,” Fenn said, back down in the yard. “As she’s the only one who understood it.”

A stir along the line.

Sol was jubilant. Do we win a prize? Something sparkly?

—I wasn’t supposed to come first, Sol. We want Cain to win.

Diamonds would be nice.

Fenn was still talking. “Cain—at least you weren’t a complete idiot. So, four points I guess. As for the rest of you—what the fuck were you thinking?”

The contenders looked straight ahead.

“Think of the difference you could have made in two hours, if you’d used your real talents instead of playing at being oxen. May the Eight give me strength and remain Hidden.”

“If you’d explained properly…” Havoc muttered.

Fenn rounded on him. “Which part of make yourself useful did you not understand, contender? You’re a Monkey. You’re supposed to be a creative thinker.” He folded his arms, looked at them each in turn. “If you don’t value your strengths, you won’t use them. If you don’t recognise your flaws, you won’t defeat them.

“I suppose I’ll have to judge you on your wagon pulling. Fuck me. Three points to Contender Valit. A point and a half each to you two,” he said, meaning Katsan and Havoc. “Contender Worthy.” He patted his pockets. “I’m out of points.”

Shal gave a Hound salute, fist to his chest. “I thank you for the lesson, High Engineer, and will strive to do better.” A contender must know how to lose with dignity. His respectful reply would be noted approvingly in the Official History of the Festival.

“Wonderful,” Fenn said, folding his arms. “Now get the fuck off my farm.”

That bit probably wouldn’t go in.