“No,” Zebra responded.
“So what can we do?” Maran whispered, blinking at the wall.
“Charge at the center,” suggested Zebra.
Maran formulated an answer, but returned to dreamless sleep before she spoke again.
Her Eyes Opened
A wet tongue woke Maran. Some dog busily licked the ochre off her hands and arms. Maran had no idea how the skinny dog got into her room or why the Missus left it behind.
“You poor thing,” she said. “They must have forgotten you. I’ll get you something.”
The dog whined a bit as she withdrew her hand, looking pitiful. She gave the dog her other hand, allowing it to eagerly licked the ochre off. The creature would not stop licking until both her arms were clean to the elbow.
“What a weird creature you are,” said Maran.
It was not until Maran looked away that she noticed anything odd, for when she looked away, she lost sight of the creature. This was clearly not a natural creature. When the dog finished licking, it turned and padded through the wall. The realization hit Maran. This was a soul hound! She had seen them at the lake. It was the creature that carried the souls of the dead to Endhaven, to the Lake of Souls, giving them to silent Eth, the Librarian of the Dead. Why was that creature here? Why could she see it?
The creature’s mere presence disturbed her. Soul hounds should be invisible to all, except those close to death. Was she about to die? She didn't feel close to death, and the dog didn't act like she was. Yet, she had died in her dreams. Was she alive or dead? For the moment, she didn't know the answer.
She dressed slowly, then numbly went about her morning routine as best as she could, putting on her normal smile. The violence of the previous night had not faded, nor the dreams. Maran attempted to put both out of her mind, but the dog prevented that. Every time that she settled back into routine, the soul hound wandered through the kitchen, bringing up the memories and the smells. The dog smelled of poppies.
Maran reviewed the events in her mind, desperate to make any sense of them. She felt the fear again. The Missus whispered in her ear again. If the Missus wanted her to forget, why did she keep remembering? Why didn’t she forget? She wanted to forget.
With all the work before her combined with all the thinking, Maran had no idea how to manage her tasks, everything seeming confusing and disorienting. If not for Annalise, Maran would have made a disaster of breakfast. Even concentrating on toast seemed hard.
Fortunately for Maran, the Kurfurstin Mother left early for the Slagsmal. This morning, she didn't have to face that woman again. Instead, shee could go see Altyn and relate events, if she could. Maybe talking would ease her soul.
Before Maran left for home, she went downstairs to the baths and scrubbed herself as clean as possible. That didn't work. She did not feel clean. She feared she might never be clean again.
When Maran arrived home, Altyn listened with her usual dryness.
“She controls your soul now, or she thinks that she does. I can’t tell which. Perhaps she has a part of you.”
Maran held onto herself. “What I am to do? I don’t understand.”
“I do not understand, either. They worship the Iron Duke. The histories say that he created your people.”
“Some histories say that,” said Maran. “The Ironmongers believe that the Iron Duke cast them from iron. Other than that, most of what they believe is a secret.”
Altyn nodded at that. “Be careful with secrets. I know what happens with those who learn the secrets of the Ironmongers. I have no desire to get kidnapped in the middle of the night and nailed to their wall. Let us, for now, table that discussion. The Iron Duke is secondary to you.
“Far more interesting is your soul hound. It is most certainly not part of the Cult of the Iron Duke. That has never been reported, that I know of. In most cases, people only see soul hounds when they themselves or a loved one is about to die. They are ill omens. A few see them more than others. Those few have ‘the sight’, or whatever colloquial culture terms you call a sensitivity.
“In no reported case does anyone get licked by a soul hound. Their descriptions never include tail wagging. That you have such a relationship with a soul hound is quite noteworthy.
“Most likely, the soul hound is the servant of the Librarian or of the Ancient One. In my estimation, I think that the Ancient One sent this hound to help you. This could be routine, as far as I know. However, the Ancient One contracts with few, and most of those do not write down their stories. I simply have insufficient data from which to draw further conclusions.”
A rapid knock rang out, surprising them both. Someone was at the door. A voice yelled up. “Nightmare sickness.”
Their conversation ended. Altyn hurled upstairs and grabbed her bag. They both dashed out the door, following the man back through the slums. Maran chased Altyn through the streets, going deeper and deeper until the buildings stacked upon each other.
“We’re going into the Beehive,” Altyn said to her.
Altyn had spoken of the Beehive a few times and warned Maran away from it. There were few places worse than the Beehive. Even the Ironmongers respected the place. The buildings were a maze of alleyways and catwalks built atop the Ironmonger ash pile, one building built atop of other buildings until it formed a vast, twisted tower.
The streets inside the Beehive were even more confusing and twisty than the other streets. If Maran had to get out, she never could. A labyrinth would be easier to navigate. How did the inhabitants move about this place? There had to be some sense to the place.
After climbing several sets of stairs, they arrived at a nondescript door featuring a thug leaning against the wall. He rapped on the door in a pattern. Immediately, the door opened, revealing a large flat.
The criminals inside were the toughest band of drifters that Maran had ever seen. They wanted trouble. One of them, a particularly broad-chested man covered with tattoos, was clearly chief among them. He offered no greetings or respects, expecting obedience.
“You! Fix the boss!” He pointed into another room where a soul hound had its head buried in a man’s chest, excitedly pulling at the addict’s still-living soul. The creature hauled, yanking the torso up, shaking it, causing the entire body to shudder. Maran thought the whole thing ghastly.
Altyn shook her head, “He’s too advanced. He is doomed. There is no way to save him. The best that I can do is put him down.”
The criminal boss pulled his knife, so his fellows pulled theirs as well. “You fix him, or we kill you.”
Altyn kept his gaze, but Maran only saw knives. She could fight them, and she would do well, but she did not want to fight. What she wanted to do was to drive off that soul hound.
Altyn shrugged, continuing the standoff. By her posture, Maran could see that the Altyn felt utterly unconcerned. “You show your ignorance,” she warned the scarred man. “I am an Astrean. Do you really want to do this?”
Maran didn’t have time to wait for the standoff to resolve. “Altyn, give me your fan. I think that I can do something.”
Altyn showed a genuine incredulity, then accepted Maran at her word. “She says that she can do something. Maybe it will work. I doubt it. Maran, you may use my fan.”
Maran took the bamboo fan and weighed it with her hand, giving it a few snaps, just like it was a small sword. Satisfied, Maran walked up to the soul hound, who paid no attention to her at all. It was invisible and untouchable. It feared nothing of mortals.
Maran bowed to the dog. “Honored soul hound, you are taking the life of a person who should not be dying. I do not wish violence. However, I am afraid that I must intervene.” With a snap, Maran slapped the soul hound on its head.
In utter astonishment, the soul hound let out a yelp, leaping back. Maran stepped over the dying man, interposing herself between the hound and the soul, settling down into a low-posture stance.
Wanting the soul, the hound lunged straight back in, only to get whap
ped on the nose. The creature yelped, again surprised. This time, it did not lunge back in, but circled, testing its misfortune. Each little test was fast and quick. The hound now knew that Maran could see it and harm it.
Maran found the hound too damned quick. What she really needed was a shaker to distract it. She reached her hand into her apron, feeling her string of coins, her child price. Maran pulled, the coins ringing as they emerged, catching the hound’s attention. Maran gently whipped the coins about, wrapping them about her hand like a jangle.
The hound pulled back from the sound. It bayed.
Several seconds later, a second soul hound came through the wall, sniffing as it came. It paid no attention to Maran as it greeted the first hound.
“There are now two,” Maran said, “It just got harder.”
The dogs split, one to each side. Maran could handle two. It was harder than she liked, but she could do it. The hounds cooperated well, doing their best to compromise Maran’s attention. There were few things that a pack of dogs couldn't drag down, like her.
If the hounds got too successful, Maran would need to retreat. She could do this for a while, but her own exhaustion would eventually let the hounds win. There had to be a better method.
The new hound lunged in, but Maran’s kick drove it back. This hound learned its lesson once. It wouldn't stay intimidated for long.
A third hound showed up, sniffing its way into the room. It didn't need to be taught. It just assumed that Maran was dangerous. Now all three snapped in, one after the other, keeping Maran hopping about while they fought leisurely. They didn't need to win, they just needed patience. Maran would soon be exhasted.
Between moments, Maran’s brain popped out an idea. If they were spirits, they should not like smoke.
“Altyn!” shouted Maran. “What makes smoke? Do you have something strong?”
“I have ether.”
“What else?”
“I have a stick of incense.”
“Anything stronger?”
One of the criminals shouted, “We have good tobacco!”
“Get it burning or something. Get it to me.”
Maran turned her attention back to the hounds, continuing the defence.
They dogs pulled back unexpectedly when Altyn strode up to Maran with the smoking censer. Maran grabbed it and wafted it, making the smoke go everywhere in the room. She paid special attention to make the smoke go all over.
A fourth soul hound entered the room. Maran’s heart sank. For a moment, Maran wasn't sure how the creature would act, but when it rushed at the other hounds, Maran concluded it was her friendly one. Maran sighed in relief. A three against two fight made her job far easier.
The battle now slowed to a crawl. The hounds circled. Maran’s hound circled. Maran jingled and struck, but only occasionally. The hounds now pulled back when she jingled.
The tobacco smoke worked better than Maran had hoped. The hounds stopped going after the man, spending more and more time sniffing between attacks. Where they paused, Maran wafted more smoke, chasing them back.
Maran had no idea how long she worked there, keeping those hounds at bay. She didn't let her guard down until the man’s breathing settled into a more natural sleep. With that change, the hounds raised their tails, touched noses with each other, and wandered away.
Relieved, Maran let down the fan and the censer. “Done! He’s not going to die.”
The toughest one nodded his head. “You’re squeaky.”
“As I said,” said Altyn, “we had nothing to fear.”
“What’s our owes?” inquired that ugly man.
Altyn looked to Maran, but Maran only rolled her eyes. She had no idea what to do about this.
The man brightened. “Do you like jingle-jangles? Here. Spot on this.” He pulled out a box filled with jewelry. Digging through, he found some bracelets and anklets which jingled. “Shinies, fair and no take-backs. Now haul out and don’t double back.”
Altyn raised her hand. “We do require one more thing. Do you have any bad opium remaining?”
“Yeah, here. Grab it. We don’t want it. Live customers pay better. Now get it out of here.”
Altyn seized the opium out of the man’s hand, then grabbed Maran’s arm, walking out of that flat in hurried victory.
The two hustled back through the twisting shantytown.
Altyn hummed marvelously. “I thought that ceremony was amazing, Maran. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Where did you learn that?”
“That was no ceremony. I was fighting off soul hounds. I could see them. They were trying to rip the man’s soul out, or what I imagine was his soul.”
“You could see that, too?”
“Yes.”
Altyn squeezd harder. “Amazing. I will have to test you and discover what else you can see. You may have acquired other abilities.”
“I can just see soul hounds.”
“I doubt that. I think that you can see many spirits. That is a rare thing. I have studied the esoteric arts my entire life, and I cannot see spirits. Some things are skills. Some things are gifts. Given that you must deliver a soul to the Ancient One, I suspect that the gift originates from her.”
“Why didn’t I see the hound before now?”
“Never mind that for the moment. We have something more important to resolve. I have a sample of the bad opium. I’ve been trying to get a pure sample of this for years.” Altyn tasted it. “It seems normal enough. I don’t taste any impurities. It’s good Flintlander poppy. You have a good tongue. What do you taste?”
Maran tasted the sample. Something in her immediately wanted more, but Maran did not give in to the urge. The taste brought back the previous night, wrenching her own soul. “This is the same opium that the Missus put in my mouth last night. This sent me to the dreamlands. It’s the same exact piece.”
Several seconds passed by before Altyn spoke. “You are absolutely amazing, Zarander. To think I doubted you. Who knew a cook would be so useful? The Kurfurstin Mother is making bad opium, then killing people with it, and on that hangs a terrible story. I think we now know how she is evading her death. You fool the soul hounds, and they make someone else die instead of you.”
Waking in the Land of Dreams
The dusk brought nothing for Maran. With dusk, she feared sleep. She feared dreams. She did not lie down. Rather than sleep, she walked the streets of Irontown looking for gardens, making as many things grow as she could find. She wanted something, anything, that said she was a good person and that the White Lady was still with her. With no sleep, Maran’s cooking suffered. Her attention weakened. Her responses slowed. If not for Annalise, she would have failed altogether.
On the fourth evening, Maran sat down at the kitchen table and fell asleep, dreaming as she feared she would dream, of the great glass city with tar and gravel roads. All about her, she saw iron and glass. The people and machines avoided her as she looked about in wonder. She dreamed of this strange place and she knew that she dreamed of this strange place.
A jingle caught Maran’s attention as the friendly soul hound shook his head, scratching an itch with his foot.
“You!” Excitedly, Maran knelt down to him, hugging and petting the creature. “You were a very good doggie. Yes you were! You were very brave. Thank you for all your help. I feel safer with you here.” Maran accepted his doggie kisses in return.
“So doggie, where should I go? I am me, here, dreaming, and I know that I am dreaming. There’s a word for that, and I’m sure that Altyn would know it. I don’t have long here, I think, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here, so let’s go and see what there is to see and hope that I wake up properly.”
Standing up, Maran spotted a bookseller, so she crossed the street, going inside. A little bell jingled as the door opened. No clerk stood behind the desk or among the many shelves. Maran flipped through a few books, doing her best to make out words, but she couldn't, as the closer that she looked, the more that t
he letters jumbled together. Books filled with small words seemed useless to her.
One section seemed dedicated to children, so she explored there, discovering many books with fanciful pictures. There were many races depicted in those pages, but mostly there were bears, frogs, dragons, and some wholly inexplicable creatures. They each seemed to follow a fanciful story, and those were of no use to her.
Some books were factual. Although the text was incomprehensible, the pictures conveyed significant information. One book showed a farm with all sorts of machinery, especially a harvesting engine. Maran immediately grasped the potential.
When the clerk returned, Maran took the book to the clerk. “Do you know where can I look at machines like these?”
The clerk sighed. “Museum. Down that way a few blocks. Can’t miss it. It’s the big building that says it’s a museum. Four lights, left, around the circle, then Fifth.”
Maran exited the shop, rattling the bell again. Walking as the clerk indicated, she soon became disoriented, unable to remember what the clerk had said.
“I might be waking up,” Maran said to the dog. “We need to hurry.”
Maran hustled down the streets. What was a museum? What did it look like? What would she find there? Would they let her in? A few blocks later, Maran spotted large, stone buildings which looked very official, possibly part of the governmental palace. Which building was the museum?
In a stab of desperation, Maran turned to the dog. “You’re a hound. Do you know where the museum is? Go find the museum!” The dog cocked its head, then trotted off. Maran followed it for several blocks, arriving at a large building with bronze doors. The entry led to a rotunda with a polished floor and a dome. In the center of the rotunda stood a great anvil resembling the head of a dragon, its one eye seemingly following Maran as she looked about.
From the rotunda, halls branched off to the right and left, and stairs went up and down. Which way should she go? Maran could read several languages, but found these characters impossible. The dog did not seem confused. It walked downstairs as if it knew what Maran wanted, so she followed. There she found many complex machines which did things that she couldn't fathom. One was huge, designed to pull large loads. Another was small, with handles, and cylinders with teeth, which spun around and did something fantastic, if only Maran could figure out what that was.
Weeds Among Stone (Jura City Book 1) Page 15
