Weeds Among Stone (Jura City Book 1)

by Douglas Milewski

  That longer part of the story was not on the inscription.

  So Loam had sat on their single seat in the Slagsmal, placed as far back as it could go, in the uppermost tier of seats, behind the visitors who came to watch the Slagsmal argue. Never had a season gone by when that seat was empty, even after the massacre.

  Satisfied with her visit to the Emperor, Maran picked the direction home and began walking. She did not think, she just walked, taking in the city as it presented itself. The great freestanding buildings, ten and fifteen stories tall, soon gave way to buildings built against the walls of the mountain, wedged into the canyon, or burrowed in the limestone. These gave way in turn to elaborate corridors built through the mountain. In and out of the mountain she went, higher and higher, through a maze of tunnels, bridges, and ledges.

  Far up, in the abandoned reaches of Jura City, Maran found Claytown. The Loam once lived here, among the stones, like any other kind of dwarf. Their workshops, wheels, and kilns now sat empty amid the drug-induced scrawling and graffiti of opium chewers. Sometimes she found the chewers dreaming as the opium worked its magic, masking their idleness in apathy, and numbing the pain that idleness caused.

  Through one such battered door, Maran found the hall that she sought, stinking of urine and feces. A mosaic vault rose above her, pierced with small windows. The sight made her stop, grief ripping her apart. For several minutes, the emotions overwhelmed her. No Loam had set foot in this place for twenty years. No Loam had entered the royal hall. None had prayed. None had performed the rites. That is why Maran came here. She placed the poppy buds on the ground, emptied water onto them, and shaped the blossom into a crimson bouquet.

  Maran knelt. “Good morning your majesty, King Merzhad. Good morning, royal court. Grandmother Reena and Grandfather Teymour. I must apologize for us taking so long. We had a hard time coming back to honor you. We hadn't forgotten you. I floated down the Osteras to get here, and if that’s not determination, then nothing is.

  “We made nice graves for you beside the river. It is a magnificent garden. This time of year, the forsythias will be blooming. I can't think of a way to honor you better. We did good work. You would be proud.

  “The White Lady is safe. Grandmother Reena, I afraid that you did not get buried properly. We snuck the White Lady out in your coffin. For that, we are truly apologetic. I hope that you can forgive us. I brought you flowers. You need them for the White Lady. Please accept our apologies, take these flowers and move on.”

  As an unexpected footfall scuffed the ground, and Maran jumped, spinning about, ready for some sort of fight, only to see Zebra shuffling through the door. He said not a word, instead opting to peer at the scrawls on the wall.

  “I come here when I need inspiration, dragon bones,” he commented. “This is where the idle bare their souls, and where I write soulful idyls. This grave inspires me.”

  Maran could only mutter in surprise, “How did you get here? It’s death for a non-dwarf to enter the inner city!”

  “I go where I want,” he replied, “What do I care of orderly dwarves who live their Byzantine lives in a labyrinthine city? There is no straight line to any truth, yet a truth is still a straight line.” Zebra pointed to the scrawls on the walls, where dragons curled themselves in smoldering forges, eating gold and breathing black fumes. “Your inner fears revealed. Your lusts are the same. Dwarves are like dragons, hard scales, deep lairs, indelible memories, and an unmitigated lust for gold. Many say that you hear the stirrings of dragons. Do the dragons hear the stirring of dwarves?”

  “I have never heard that said before.”

  “You are such a literal people. Things have more meanings than their literal expression. Do you have no sense of poetry? No? That is not surprising. Neither do dragons.”

  That comment stung Maran, so she stung back. “Miss Tag says that you are a bad poet.”

  “What does Altyn know of poetry? For her, it is more important to do something correctly than beautifully. So in her correctness, she chooses the ugly. Who truly caws like the crow? I, at least, am what I seem. I shriek ugly things and I do ugly things. My audience has no doubts. Can you say that you have no doubts?”

  “I genuinely have no idea what you mean.”

  “Who are you that comes to these abandoned places and lay flowers for the addicts.”

  “I am Maran Zarander, a Loam. My people used to live here. This used to be our King’s hall.”

  “A pilgrim with poppies. That speaks of death. Whose death? Tell me, dragon bones, who died here, and more importantly, why?”

  “The humans were demanding their own government. My people agreed. We sat down, refusing to work or deliver food, as was our right. The Kommissars, who should protect our rights, instead marched in and slaughtered the court. We call it the Day of Hard Forgiveness. It happened about twenty years ago, right around now, when Svero was the Chairman.”

  “Is that why death follows you? Is that why it comes in, wagging its tail, hoping for more? Does death beg at your feet, asking for another bone?”

  Maran could stand no more of his confounding patter. “Are all elves like you?”

  “You dwarves worship Earth Lords. They are all one-eyed gods. To them, everything is mono-focused. No depth perception. You people see everything far too flat, far too literally. As for us, the elves, we do everything with burning passion. It is an easy thing to understand but difficult to comprehend, especially if you only have one eye.”

  This man made Maran’s head whirl. “I have no idea what you are trying to say.”

  “None of us do. I say that showing is better than telling. Should I be the silent player? Dragon bones, how do I show you who I am?”

  Maran shook her head. She could think of nothing.

  “Then ask me a burning question. Ask me the really obvious one. Why am I here? I will pretend that you ask it. I am here because I followed you. I was very curious about the brown soul that Altyn took into her house. And now, you should ask the other burning question. I love burning questions. They are the only ones worth asking. Why am I, a Schan, in this city of dwarves? Can you think of any place more dangerous? No. Neither can I, and that is why I am here.”

  Maran’s practical sensibilities now steamed. “Those aren’t real answers.”

  “Nobody gives real answers.”

  “Can’t you just tell the truth?”

  “Truth? TRUTH? Look here, dragon bones,” Zebra said, pointing to the Ironmonger smokestack, barely visible through the coal haze and threatening rain. “That is TRUTH. That belching smokestack is the truth. It is true because it is beautiful. When I stand under its ash fall, I can smell my home, Schanderna, its skies full of winter and fire. The smoke tastes of iron, chromium, arsenic, and sulfur. And hidden below that smokestack is the Holy of Holies, the temple of Iron, that only Ironmongers know: the secret of mass produced steel. If you want truth, wade into the smoke and find what makes that fire. That is the truth.”

  Zebra turned and strode away as the rain began.

  Bagged and Beaten

  The rain came down, long and steady. Drifters pulled their hats down over their eyes, if they had hats, or stood beneath eaves, if they could find eaves, or just stood there in the rain, hating the rain. The water ran off the roofs into the dusty streets, turning the dust into deep, merciless mud, sucking down the manure and garbage which lay on top of it.

  Dripping from the rain, Maran stamped into Altyn’s house, hanging her smock-frock and dress by the oven to dry. To kep warm, she began an inventory of the cupboard. As she worked through the pantry, she grew concerned.

  “Why is all this food so old? It's decrepit.”

  Altyn eyed the examples. “Our food comes from the Ironhaus Food Bank. All the food there is terrible unless you bribe the shopkeepers. They aren’t supposed to take Jack’s gift, but that’s how they make their money. Most people don’t have the metal and they don’t take script. So, you either accept what they have or you starve.”<
br />
  “I don’t know about that. Food should be flying off the shelves because we don’t produce enough. Storerooms should be empty. Everything should be fresh. You can’t supply this many people with warehoused food for very long.”

  “I suppose you can’t, but I concluded, perhaps incorrectly, that the Ironmongers apportioned the best food to themselves.”

  “Where exactly is this food bank?”

  “Go down to the corner, turn left, then head up a few gates. The food bank is across from Strikke the dressmaker. You can’t miss it.”

  Maran forced herself back into her dripping smock-frock. She soon found the food bank. Squinting up through the rain, with drops splashing her eyelids and nose, Maran examined the building of stone and tin, the rain playing that roof like a dull metal drum. Inside, Maran saw that great beams of iron arched overhead, creating a massive vault.

  For a few moments, Maran stood in awe of the amazing building. She had never seen anything so wonderful. Not even the meeting house in Langurud was this big.

  The food bank needed that great space, for inside there were drifters lined up in undulating queues. Some chatted, others knitted, but most just waited.

  The stalls were manned by widows and war veterans. The Malachite War had created widows faster than any conflict before in their history, and injured thousands of soldiers. They worked here, by the company, running the place. The maimed, the burned, and the despondent worked together, side by side, to feed the drifters of Jura City.

  Maran noted that when a drifter woman finally reached the counter with relief, she read down a list, asking about each food in its turn. “No, no, sold out, no,” the clerk responded to each inquiry, until the woman sighed with resignation, leaving the counter with nothing, moving to the back of another line.

  “You! Farmer!” the one-armed clerk said, “Do you need something?”

  “I’m not in line,” responded Maran.

  “Don’t worry about the line. You’re a dwarf. Come up here and tell me what you want.”

  The drifters in line ignored Maran, looking annoyed that someone was delaying the line. Maran shook her head again, urging the first person in line forward.

  “Whatever,” muttered the clerk, who turned his attention back to the drifter.

  Maran watched the transactions for a while. What at first appeared fair soon showed itself as crooked. Those who bribed the clerks jumped the line, heading straight to the front. Then, they bribed more for the best food which the clerks had hidden away. However, sometimes the clerk had to wave away the bribes away as they truly had nothing available.

  Disgusted with the stalls, Maran wandered back to the delivery door. She wanted to see the food coming in.

  At the loading area, wagons manned by Horsebreakers brought in the food from the warehouse. Maran spied the Loam markings on the crates and sacks. The “fresh” produce was produced two springs ago. The flour was milled three years ago. The food might have kept better if it had been stored better, but its storage area had been too damp.

  Between her own concentration, the heavy hooves echoing on cobbles, and the rain pattering on the roof, Maran didn't hear footsteps behind her. Someone threw a sack over her. Maran wriggled and struggled as well as she could, but couldn't figure a way to escape.

  Whoever they were, they said nothing as they beat her. They kicked her, over and over, like rain on a tin roof. There was no measure to the beating as there was no measure to a storm. Each attacker kicked as fast and as furiously as opportunity allowed, the kicks waxing and ebbing in unpredictable patterns. With the pain, all Maran could do was curl up and hurt. Many blows later, someone whistled, the kicking stopped, and hard booted feet hustled away. They were gone, as quickly as a storm passes.

  Maran lay there dazed for some time, too shocked to do anything else. Hooves and wheels approached her, stopping nearby. A pair of boots hit the ground. The thought that these might be the same people grieved Maran. “Please no,” she muttered.

  “It’s a Loam,” a voice said, identifying her from her bare feet. He cut the sack from her. Maran cried out as he touched her.

  The white-bearded Horsebreaker touched her gently. “It’s going to be all right, Fraulein. I’ll get you to the vodie. GET THAT WAGON UNLOADED NOW! WE HAVE AN EMERGENCY!”

  Drifters swarmed around the wagon, unloading it as quickly as possible. Maran shied away, not knowing who had beat her. Friendly dwarven hands lifted her to the wagon bed, and the wagon soon bumped along as crazily as the driver could manage.

  “What were you thinking?” shouted the teamster. “Those drifters are savages. And what’s a girl like you doing here in town? It’s a good thing for you us Horsebreakers are here. We Agslavit have to stick together.”

  “I needed to see food. The food is old,” muttered Maran between painful breaths. “Where does it come from?”

  “Where does it come from? It comes from the Ironmongers, you danged fool. Who do you think runs the Outer Authority? Who do you think runs the food bank? They have their warehouses in their foundry.”

  The driver, who eventually introduced himself as Sagebock, scolded Maran the entire ride, and Maran felt as if she deserved it. She felt like the damned fool.

  The Horsebreakers were Kalts who worked among the Ironmonger, hauling about what their cousins made. They always kept vodies nearby in case any horse got hurt. Horses were their livelihood. They treated horses before they treated people. For them, not only was it terrible to lose a horses, which they regarded as their kin, it was taboo to break the bones of a horse, alive or dead, on purpose or by accident. Their gods alone got those bones.

  When the wagon arrived at the infirmary, the vodie hopped onto the wagon, poking and prodding Maran in all her sore spots. “I’m Arany. Nothing seems broken. You’re a tough one. Stone and bone, feel those muscles. What do you do for a living?”

  “I was a hearth tender, ma’am. I split four cords of wood per day. I’m a cook now.”

  “Get her into my wagon!” Sagebock lifted Maran down, taking her to Arany’s wagon. Once inside, he lay Maran down on the floor.

  Arany took down a fringed shawl from a peg, draping it over her head. “Just lay still. Let me get started.” She took down a long pipe and lit it, puffing away on a harsh tobacco. It wasn't a Loam blend. fter smoke filled the little wagon, the vodie carefully placed rune tiles upon Maran in various spots, each new rune causing Maran’s bones to ache.

  “Is this supposed to hurt?” Maran asked, concerned that something might be going wrong. Were they doing bad things to her? Would they tear her into pieces, like in the stories, then wire her bones together, turning her into a thing that eats her family?

  “Yes, it’s supposed to hurt. Buck up and deal with it. If you were stupid enough to go near those animals alone, you get to feel the consequences. Healing is suffering, and there is nothing in this world that change that. It hurts to set a bone. It’s suffering to draw out an arrow. It’s agony to lose a limb. Any of those is better than being dead.”

  Maran sat back and waited. Arany took out a bag of horsehair yarn and knitted with bone needles.

  After a while of knitting, Arany looked over. “You look pretty wet. I’ll trade you my old shawl for your knife. It’s a good shawl. It'll keep you dry and warm.”

  “My knife was made by Oerek. He’s my grandfather.”

  “Really? Please excuse my first offer. I’ll give you my best shawl and my third best horse for that knife.”

  “I’d rather keep my grandfather’s knife, but I can make you a knife for the shawl. It'll be good work. It won’t be pretty, but I guarantee that it won’t break.”

  “Since I can’t see your knife, I’ll trade my old shawl for your new knife.”

  “Deal.”

  The vodie pulled a shawl out of a pile, putting it at Maran’s feet. “Loam are good for it. Get me the knife when you can.”

  After about half an hour of tolerable pain and pattering rain, the vodie removed the b
ones. The roots of Maran’s teeth throbbed. The unexpected lack of pain threw Maran into euphoria. Arany helped Maran rise.

  “You did pretty good for a Loam. I expected less of you. Lie there for a whole day and you can become a warrior. For now, go home and sleep if you can. You’ll have difficulty walking for a while. Also, take this cane.” Arany gave Maran a horse-headed bone cane.

  “Just so you know, I must report this to the Missus. She has a no-tolerance policy on dwarven assaults. She usually likes to put down her foot hard when these things happen.”

  Maran hobbled out, pulling her new shawl over her head. The healing still ached in her joints. The rain still fell.

  Sagebock sat there with his horse, the rain rolling off his oilskin hat. “Get in,” he said. “Where's home?”

  Maran took his hand and climbed onto the driver’s bench. “Do you know Altyn Tag? Groppekunta Street?”

  Sagebock shook his head sadly. “That’s no place for you. Come, stay with my family. We don’t mind you cockroaches. We used to live up-valley raising horses and we got partial to you folks. We got our wagons nearby.”

  “Thank you,” Maran replied, complimented at the first bit of hospitality that she had received from a non-Loam. “Altyn’s house is actually good. She a good drifter, I think.”

  “I’d be surprised at that,” muttered the driver. “I better take things in hand and make you come along. It’s for your own good.”

  “I’m a widow.”

  The driver settled back a bit, staring at Maran, silent in his thoughts. “Please excuse me, frau. I had not known. Of course you can stay where you like.”

  Soon enough, Sagebock dropped Maran off at Altyn’s house, and Maran crept slowly back inside, her stiffening muscles aching the entire way. She walked much like a child playing zombie, which was the only amusement that she could find in the experience.

  Altyn took one look at her and sighed. “You don’t waste time, do you? We can spare the wood tonight. Put the water on. You'll feel better.”