“There is a positive aspect to your conundrum: the Ancient One believes that this task is achievable. That means that there is some method to accomplishing this goal and that method is within your means. What that could be, I cannot fathom. To do so, I will need far more information than you have provided.
“Here is what I can tell you. We know little about the Ancient One. She does not divulge her secrets or her intentions unless she wants you to know them.
“You should also see Osei again. He got you into this and he should get you out. Maybe one of his beliefs will help you. However, I could teach you something about souls. I doubt that you know the basics.”
Maran shook her head. “You have a soul. That’s all that I know.”
“A person has multiple souls bound together with essences. Each soul performs a different function. Your primary souls are your mortal soul and your immortal soul. Your mortal soul is what keeps your body alive, but your immortal soul is what keeps you aware. When you dream, your immortal soul leaves your body and flitters about. There are other souls as well which do a number of other vital functions. Losing one of those souls usually induces some type of insanity. For example, your rational nexus can get stuck in the dreamworld, giving you visions while awake. However, these are not important at the moment. Quite specifically, the Ancient One wants the immortal soul of the Missus.”
“But how can I bring her one?”
“I don’t know. When she dies, a soul hound is supposed to come and collect her soul. Presumably, there is some reason why it can’t.”
Maran said, “The Ancient One told me that there’s two ways to escape death. One way is for a god to have your soul. She said that Kalts know another way. She also said that the Missus should only choose one way.”
Altyn nodded. “We can then surmise that she chose both. Event he Saints can't hide these sorts of things. I suggest that you find out more.”
That evening, Strikke brought the new dress up to the suite, helping Maran into her new clothes.
The elven material felt alien to Maran. It felt both alive and dead. She felt it adjusting itself ever so slightly even as she put it on, snuggling up to her torso and supporting her bosom. The material felt soft, yet retained its texture. The smock was of a linen-like material, similar to flax or cotton. The dress felt like wool, but wasn't really wool. Whatever the material was, Maran liked wearing it and the material liked being on Maran.
The socks slipped on and held themselves in place. Maran was not used to socks on her feet, having never worn socks before. Strikke gave her two pairs.
“Baby doll, I saved a surprise for you! I was in the middle of sewing when I dreamed this up.” Strikke opened her bag once more, pulling out a beautiful overdress.
Maran gasped.
Strikke beamed. “Do you like it? This is what took me so much time. It’s a wonderful autumn color for you, yellow fringes like grain, and a leaf motif up near your shoulders. I had some amazing embroiderers put all sorts of autumn produce onto the chest and back. Oh, and one more thing.”
Strikke opened a round case and brought out a hat topped with lace. “This kind of hat is called a kalpack. I gave it a leaf motif as well. It's supposed to make you look like a wheat stalk. And for formal events or funerals, you can unpin the lace and have a veil.”
Strikke put all those things on Maran, and each piece fit wonderfully.
“This is gorgeous!” said Maran. “You can’t give this to me! This is too much. I feel immodest.”
“I won’t take no for an answer, baby doll. I have no other customers for this cloth. Hell, there’s only one elf in this town and he dresses in rags. You’ll take it.” Strikke poked the dress here and there, getting the cloth to make adjustments. “This keeps adjusting itself without me. Are you doing that?”
“NO! Or maybe yes. This material wants to please me.”
“You can feel this, hon? You are full of surprises, Zarander. Better not mention that to anyone. We don’t want folks around here thinking that you like elves.” Strikke tugged and pinched a bit more, removing several pins she had missed.
Strikke took a deep breath. “Now we get to face the Missus. Let’s pray for passing this inspection and getting paid.”
“I can pay you.”
“No you can’t. I won’t hear it.”
Strikke marched Maran out to face the Missus.
“Show me the work,” the Missus muttered.
Maran approached, letting the Missus examined the seams. “Is this from those elvish bolts that your brother gave you? What did you use for thread?”
“Ma’am, I pulled apart scraps. I had to do it all myself, down to the stitching. I farmed out the embroidery.”
“She has a proper apron for the kitchen?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Strikke removed the overdress, showing Maran in her apron.
The Kurfurstin Mother nodded. “You look quite respectable, Meister Maran. That is what I require. I will pay for this, Meister Strikke. However, you will not attempt such a stunt again.”
Strikke breathed out with relief. “Thank you, ma’am.”
The Missus dismissed them back to the kitchen.
Strutting with victory, Strikke pulled a bottle of port off the shelf, pouring two glasses. She raised a toast. “To having an Ironmonger pay for elvish cloth!” Strikke emptied the glass.
Maran did not drink her glass. “I really owe you something for this.”
“This Missus just paid for it. Trust me, I'm getting paid.” Strikke pulled a cigar out of the larder.
“You can’t do that!” objected Maran.
“I just did. It’s the art of the deal. Trust me, I can make a deal about anything with anybody. The trick isn’t making the deal, it’s delivering on your promises. Trust me, you can ask for anything politely and the worse you’ll get is a no.”
Maran thought about Annalise and her over-tight dress. “My assistant needs a dress. Can I pay for her dress?”
“Whatever you want. Send her down when you can. I’ll have Weber take care of her.”
Maran let the her curiosity out. “How did you get this stuff from Glittering Vale? That’s halfway across the world.”
Strikke gave her a knowing look. “My brother found the bolt squirreled away down there. He was all hush-hush about it. But, as I’m a meister seamstress who ought to be a kurmeister, I figured it out what’s what. Beyond that, some particulars are best kept particular.”
Strikke sat down, pouring herself some more port and lighting her cigar.
“I always liked chatting in the kitchen. It’s ever so cozy. We had the dearest Loam cook while I was growing up. She would tell me the most amazing stories. Sitting here with you is like old times.
“I had forgotten Cookie. I don’t think I ever knew her real name. She was always just Cookie to us. She used to travel with us while dad led his companies about, planting her gardens wherever we camped. When we settled down here in Jura City, you could always find her in the kitchen. Sometimes I swear she just slept standing up. I loved sitting on a stool and watching Cookie work. It was either that or talk to Mom, and I hated Mom. I must confess that I was disobedient and disrespectful. However, Mom got her revenge when she married me off. I walked in the door one day, met my soldier husband, got told I was married, and found myself packed off to a baggage train.”
Strikke put both feet up. “I can’t tell you how much I hated marriage. I hated that man. His death on the battlefield was the best moment of that marriage. I can still see him flipping end-over-end from that horse running over him. Dead as Destiny. So, I got to come home, where I got handed my widow’s job, but I didn’t want a widow’s job. I took a payout instead. My mother was furious, so I left the kids with her and got the hell out of town.
“I went to Charyastos and bought myself an seanstress apprenticeship with old Lima, a real elf. I was such a damned disgrace to the family. I didn’t care. Dad even disowned me, but only because that’s what Mom wanted. He di
dn’t really mean it. He snuck money down to me. When it arrived, it was a good time down there in Charyastos. I threw the best parties.
“It had to end, of course. When the Malachite Guard rebelled against the Emperor, I knew there would be trouble. A dwarf learning from an elf would be on their short list for the chopping block. The Malachites make the Reckoners look like tinkers. So, I hied out of Charyastos on a smuggler’s boat and eventually set up shop down here in Irontown. And I’m still here, whether they like it or not, the best damned seamstress in or out of the city.”
After draining another glass, Strikke stood. “I really have missed you people. You had this quiet orneriness that we need.” Strikke slipped the bottle into her apron. “I’ll keep the bottle, thank you. I owe the girls a glass or two. Gotta pay my debts.”
Cult of the Iron Duke
Over the next few days, the Missus grew pale, almost continuously holding her hand against her bad eye. She refused to eat anything at all, even bread, calling it all too disgusting. Although there was general attentiveness towards her, no one seemed particularly concerned.
“She has these episodes. They happen,” noted Gamstadt. “Just keep things calm and quiet. Don’t concern yourself with what you make. Right now, she finds all food disgusting anyway. She’ll be kicking people out soon.”
That afternoon, the Missus began ordering people away for trivial offenses, culminating in a scream ordering everyone out. As Maran took the cooking off the stove, ready to leave herself, Gamstadt stopped her. “You need to stay,” he said, “and so do a few protectors. Go to your room and stay quiet.”
When Maran entered her room, her eyes met the blazing eyes of Zebra.
“You! What are you doing here?” she whispered loudly.
“Opium,” Zebra replied. “Gateway to dreams. The gate that opens cleanly is trapped. Who put that trap there and why? Is it some cunning joke that escapes the audience, or a mislaid plan set a kilter?
“Sshh,” he motioned, “The Flinties arrive.” Zebra took out a candle, then lit it by pinching the wick with his fingers. “Their medicine men deal bad medicine. They deal in shadows and lies, throwing their garbage to the mass of humanity. But where do they get their garbage? You would think that the garbage is the problem, but the real problem is the people who make the garbage.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Flintlanders. Poppy growers. Bloodletters.”
Zebra motioned for silence. Footsteps approached Maran’s door. A hand firmly knocked. Maran looked to Zebra, but he was gone, leaving nothing but his candle. Finding herself alone, Maran gathered her breath, then opened the door.
There were two protectors. “We’re hungry.”
Maran exited quietly, following them into the kitchen.
“You can’t go near the door,” the protectors said, “but you can feed us.”
Maran quickly prepped them cold meat, pickles, cheese, bread, and ale. They were easily satisfied. Her duty completed, she hurried back.
Arriving back in her room, Maran found Zebra staring into nothing. She placed a plate beside him. He ignored the food. “Ironmongers were Bloodletters way back when,” Zebra continued. “That kind of thing never leaves your heart. It gets in your house like rotting meat in your basement.”
Maran sat silently. She had never seen Zebra so still. If she stopped paying attention, he seemed to fade from her view. He seemed less real.
“They walk the land of dreams,” he commented, “bringing back the final dreams and binding them away, selling those final dreams to others dreaming the last dream not theirs. And so the dreamer never dreams the last dream, and so the dreamer remains a dreamer instead of passing into dream.”
Maran struggled with his commentary. Who did what? Was it the Kalts or the Ironmongers?
Eventually, Zebra blew out the candle. “Dragon bones, learn about them,” he warned her, his eyes glowing red in the darkness. “Learn before they bring their ills upon you.”
With that, Zebra slipped out the window, disappearing like a cat bounding into the shadows.
Maran looked down at the plate to discover all the food was gone.
After a few minutes of quiet, footsteps approached Maran's door with the distinct tap-tappity-tap of the Missus's steps. Maran opened the door to see the corpulant woman walking toward her, naked except for a layer of red ochre smeared upon her body.
“Let us see if your soul burns,” Forsythe said, holding up her cane. “You shall obey me. I compel you. Walk.” Maran obeyed, her brain racing with fear and terror, like those dreams where you cannot move. Yet, she could move for her own dreams terrified her more than this, and the Ancient One terrified her more than anything.
Once they were in the main room, the Missus turned to her again. “Strip,” the Missus ordered. “Do as I compel.”
“Wait!” ordered Lord Gamstadt, sitting in a plush chair and smoking his pipe.
The Missus looked over to Gamstadt in surprise. “How dare you interrupt!”
“She has not been initiated into the cult.”
“She does not need initiation. Be quiet.”
Gamstadt did not back down. “I am the protector of the rites. The tradition is very clear. Only those admitted to the Cult of the Iron Duke may witness his ceremonies.”
“It doesn't matter.”
Gamstadt stood. “Don’t speak like a Transgressor! Our traditions are not optional. We perform our rites correctly or not at all. The Iron Duke does not forgive in these matters. Admit her to the cult, or find another life.”
“You never objected before. Why this new objection?”
“They were not dwarves. I do not protect them. She is a dwarf and she works for this house. She falls under my oaths.”
The Misses looked evilly at the dwarf. “Very well. I will admit her. But watch your objections, or you might find yourself crossing the bridge alone. Loam, kneel.”
Maran knelt. The Missus walked up to her. “Kiss the Iron Duke and swear secrecy or I will kill you.” The Missus held forth her iron walking stick.
Maran kissed the iron on the grip. “I swear secrecy.”
“I name you Stahlgarten. Now strip.”
Maran removed her clothes without comment. She did not comprehend what this was about, and by all rights she should have run from the Missus, but she did not run. Here was the very thing that she needed to learn. It was best to see this trial through.
While undressing, the Missus brought out more ochre. “Lie down,” she ordered. Now naked, Maran lay down on the cold steel floor. With broad strokes, the Missus painted something upon Maran’s back, the designs extending down her arms and legs.
“Turn over!”
Maran turned over, and the Missus continued her design upon. The paint burned now, perhaps even glowed, as if it seeped into her blood and bones, like a garden of iron growing upon her. Tears erupted from Maran’s eyes, but she did not cry out.
“Turn over!” the Missus ordered again. Freed of the iron floor, the fire on her back ignited.
The Missus took out a bowl, lighting it. The strange substance smelled sickly sweet, like a burning flower. Maran’s mind raced through all the plants that she knew until she could identify it as poppy. The Missus placed tge smoking bowl near Maran’s face.
“Lord Protector,” said the Missus, “my things.”
Gamstadt pulled an iron bound chest out of the corner, opening it with a massive key. The Lord Protector removed a cloak of chainmail from the chest, placing it upon the Kurfurstin Mother. The cloak dangled heavy iron chains, like a metal fur. Onto the woman's head, he placed a helmet shaped like a one-eyed dragon’s head.
“I am Iron,” the Missus said, her voice hollow in the helmet.
The Missus took out a sponge, soaked it in a liquid, then placed it into Maran’s mouth, full of same sweet poppy. Maran felt it move into her system, reacting with the iron, just as one might see a flash fire moving across a summer field. In that moment, fear finally ov
ertook Even as she tried fleeing, Maran's mind floated, uncaring, as the Missus danced about her, riding her dragon cane like a hobby-horse.
Maran slipped into the dreamland.
In her dream, Maran was running. A thing chased her, cutting her off at every turn. She couldn't see it but she knew it was there. Through cars and streets and shops, Maran ran, her bloody feet pounding the concrete, knowing that the thing chasing her intended to kill her. She ran, slower and slower, struggling more through every leaden step, until the things mauled her, iron-toothed and iron-clawed, rending her limb from limb.
Maran watched the whole thing. She saw every joint popped and every bone ripped from her corpse.
With another shock, Maran awoke. The room seemed bright. There were voices. Was she here or there? What were the voices? What were those burned leaves?
The Missus muttered out of sight, “I have done my duty. The Duke has taken her. Take the corpse to the incinerator.”
“Ma’am!” noted Gamstadt, seeing Maran waking up. “She wakes.”
“What?! That’s not possible. I did everything correctly!” The Missus knelt over Maran. “This is bad, but not catastrophic. I have time yet. I must try again later, when the time is favorable.” The Missus grabbed Maran by the ear. “You will hold your tongue. I command it of you. You must obey, for the Iron Duke holds your soul. You will forget this night, and you will continue serving me faithfully. I’m not losing you now. Once begun, a sacrifice must be completed or the Iron Duke grows angry, and you have never seen such anger. Now go to sleep and forget.”
Maran blacked out.
Maran awoke again to the smell of a cigar. Zebra smoke as he sat upon her floor, using charcoal to draw designs onto paper. On seeing Maran awake, he showed her the page. “Iron and fire, entwined like lovers, and a Kurfurstin defying her own death. Here it begins and here it ends.”
The the dreams raced upon Maran. She lay there, alone with her thoughts, heedless of her own naked form. Facts and ideas flowed through her head freely. Slowly she formed a question to Zebra, her voice echoing down someone else’s mouth: “Dare we end this? Can we afford to remove the Missus from power?”
Weeds Among Stone (Jura City Book 1) Page 14
