“The boss said to hop the train, so I did, and here you are. This train is going straight across. No tickets needed. Free pass for those who die in the name of progress. Glad to have you aboard.”
As the river came up, Maran grew nervous.
Jack looked at her, “He’ll these these guys out when we get there, so you better leave now.”
Agreeing, Maran looked up through the flickering beams, returning to the world that she knew. Once again, the air smelled of ash and smoke. Her face felt dirty. Around her, she saw a ring of soldiers, all facing outward. With effort, Maran found her feet, standing wobbly. Distinctive bands of dusk across the sky. Her trance had taken hours.
On noticing Maran, one of the soldiers shouted, “Summon the Lord Protector! You two, help the Loam.” In response, two soldiers approached Maran, offering their arms. Maran grabbed on, needing the aid as she walked towards Svero's office. Lord Gamstadt welcomed her in.
“You were gone a long time,” Gamstadt commented. “The Missus was never gone that long.”
Maran leaned against the table. “Their souls are. We need not fear. I showed them the way, but Stechen went his own way, taking many with him. They are lost.”
Gamstadt nodded. “You did what you could. I am afraid that there was no way to save Stechen. He was trouble.”
“Where's the Kurfurst?”
“He is sulking. His career's over. The guild masters have cut off funding. Everything will be closed. The Kurfurst has been given an honorable retirement in Loam country. Maybe he’ll finally build that temple that he’s always talked about.”
“So Jasper will be Kurfurst?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Is there anybody else who could do this? Lord Gamstadt, could you?”
“No. I'm just an adjunct officiant of the house. It is my duty to ensure the proper transition of power within the guild. The law is very clear on this point. My only job while presiding is to administer to time-sensitive issues and to oversee to the lawful transfer of power. And even if I could run, I don't belong there. That's not my place any more. No, I'll retire to the Loam lands with Ro. We were friends long before he was my Kurfurst, and I'll be happy to have that friend back again.”
“What about Strikke?”
Gamstatd shook his head. “Her mother kicked her from the guild. She can’t run. Although, thinking about it, she is quite popular, and if she were let back in, she might just have enough backing to beat Jasper. You're an Eighth Rod. You could let her back in.”
“So I can forgive her and let her back in. Is that legal?”
Gamstadt smiled. “Yes, that would be legal.”
Maran took a deep breath, seeing just how far she could push Gamstadt. “If you want Strikke forgiven, I need concessions, and I need them now. Call it penance. You will free every damned prisoner here and take them home. Forgive their debt. Give them what back pay you can, labor scale. I’ve seen what you have in your halls. You may not be able to pay reparations to everyone that you have ever abused, but you will pay these reparations.”
“They would tell about the project! That would ruin us!” objected Gamstadt.
“Good! Your deeds were wicked and your penance should be difficult. Either agree in full faith, with no tricks, or I give you no deal. I will see those people marched out of here, and I will follow them out. When the drifters are beyond your gates and well paid, I'll consider my terms fulfilled.”
“How will we fire the furnaces?”
“The Iron Duke will take care of us. He said so.”
Lord Gamstadt sighed, then nodded. Taking up paper, he carefully wrote out the orders.
The Lord Protector kept his word. Maran watched the skeletal drifters shamble through the Uma gate, returning to the Forge of Ten Iron Rods. She counted them as they left, half-naked and covered in charcoal. After everyone was through, she counted them again, ensuring that each got her pay. Only when the last of them left the forge did Maran go back to the Iron Book and return Strikke’s name to the rolls.
Those Who Survived
The Ironmongers laid out their dead in the grand foyer. Mothers and wives wept as they washed their sons and daughters. Maran entered, hiding her face among all the other veiled women. Every little noise that she made echoed through the iron room. The floors and walls were bare, echoing.
Maran found Strikke kneeling by her son. She didn't weep, nor could Maran discern the telltale traces of tears down her face. The pallid corpse of Stechen lay on the cold steel, packed in ice. Maran remembered his ghost walking away, into the lost places, away from paradise. Too many had followed. Maran felt as if she had killed Stechen once, then killed him again.
Strikke spoke low, between the wails of the wives and daughters. “A mother should weep for her child, shouldn’t she?”
“Yes,” agreed Maran.
“He always had his father in him. He always had his grandmother in him. He never had me. I don’t know where he went.”
“I am very sorry that he died.”
“He goes into the oven tonight. He'll soon join the Iron Duke, working at his smelter, striking where the Duke’s hammer hit.”
Strikke’s voice sounded flat.
Maran patted her shoulder. “I am sure that he'll cross the bridge with ease.”
“No! I hope not. He deserves to be knocked into the water and lost beneath the tide. He was everything that I despised about my family. I'm surprised that he escaped his own misdeeds for so long. By all rights, he should have been executed for murder long ago. It was only his position that kept him safe. He was conceived in violence and lived in malice. Do you understand that? My husband took the child price away from me.”
Maran fumbled with her words. She didn't know how to ask her question, so she blurted it out. “Strikke, I’m sorry to say this, but I have to. There is no good time. We want you to run for Kurfurstin.”
Strikke looked Maran in the eye, this time filled with emotion. “No!”
“You have to. If you don’t, then who will oppose Jasper?”
“Let somebody else do it. I’m done with this tragedy.”
“But you could win!”
“I don’t care. I don’t want that. Do you think I left because I liked this life? I ran out because I despised these people. I despised my mother. I despised the lies. I despised the stupidity disguised as traditionalism. I despised the sycophants. I despised the clothing. No, go away. I’m not running.”
“Lord Svero wants you to run.”
“Ro always expects his way. My mother raised him up to be just like her.”
Maran sat down with her head in her arms. Only the feeling of desperation kept her talking. “If Jasper wins the election, he’ll be WORSE than your mother. Far worse. The Missus thought nothing of those humans out there. She thought nothing of the corpses in here. Nothing. But Jasper, he hates them. He hates everything to do with them. He hates them so much that he makes plans on how to kill them. Genocide. Do you think that won’t include you? Like it or not, you rise or fall with the rest of us.”
Strikke bent her head in prayer again.
“Strikke, I got you restored to the Ironmonger rolls.”
Strikke looked up with genuine shock.
“That’s impossible. My mother would never allow it, and we don’t have an Eighth Rod. So tell me, Meister Maran, who put me back on the rolls?”
“I did. I am of the Eighth Rod.”
Strikke looked at Maran closely. “Don’t lie to me.”
“I saw Him.”
“You SAW Him?”
“I learned how to visit Him because of your mother. All secrets are open to me.”
Strikke reeled. “I wish that I still had that bottle of sherry. Eighth Rod? How? That’s impossible.”
“Will you do it? Will you run?”
“I don’t know.” Strikke paused, reviewing her own soul. “No. I'll watch. If someone can muster enough votes, I’ll throw my weight behind him. I'll only run if Jasper looks
certain to win.”
“Don’t come too late, Strikke. You know Jasper. I’m sure that he has threats and violence riding behind him. I’ve seen how he uses fear. Don’t underestimate that.”
“I’ll be there early enough to decide. In the meantime, my son is dead. Let a mother put on a show. Maybe I can be a proper mother for once.”
Maran held Strikke’s hand, sitting with her.
Well into the night, the funerals began. Normally, these would have been held later, but with the elections and the Feast of All Gods, the rites had to be rushed. No funerals could be held during the feast. This was the only time.
The first to be moved was Forsythe Saargi. They placed her onto a pallet, walking her out of the guild house. As a servant in her household, Maran followed last. All along the path, dwarves stood with torches, lighting their way. Most were Ironmongers, but many were not. Maran presumed that the large contingents were the Kurfursts and Fursts of other guilds giving their last respects.
Inside the crematorium, Forsythe’s men slid her body into the oven and closed the hot oven door with their bare hands. They then backed away through a side door to ensure that her spirit did not follow them back to the forge.
“Who will say the words?” Strikke asked.
Maran stepped forward, indicating herself. “I will say them. It's my duty.”
Maran sighed, then spoke clearly. She recited the words she had hastily memorized. “Forsythe, your mortal life is over. Your immortal soul has traveled the Iron Road to the Iron Mountain. We commend your mortal corpse to the fire, as scrap loaded into the furnace. Like iron, you are melted down and reborn, to be reforged whole and new. Ever and anon you shall be reforged. Ever and anon you shall last, until the Iron Duke extinguishes his forge, rests his hammer, and lets this world end in dissolution.”
Election
When the sun lifted above the horizon, Lord Protector Gamstadt walked out onto the guildhall’s largest balcony, beginning the election. He bounced the butt of his iron rod off the balcony’s steel plate, sending a ringing across the vast yard where many had already assembled.
“Hear ye, hear ye. The office of Kurfurst is under contention. By the will of the guild masters, a new Kurfurst must be elected. Today is election day. Let all candidates who believe themselves worthy present themselves to me.” With those words, election day began.
A handful of meisters waited in the room behind the balcony, ready to declare their candidacy. For each one, Gamstadt opened the sacred Iron Book and examined the rolls. Once he confirmed that their name was in the book and that they were in good standing, he walked outside and rang his staff on the balcony. “Meister Beispeil petitions to run for Kurfurst. I have examined the Iron Book and found his name well written and in good standing. Let it be known that Meister Beispeil is worthy in the eye of the Iron Duke.”
For each candidate, Lord Gamstadt went through the same ritual even though he knew them all, and had known most of them all his life.
Once the initial candidates were declared, and the meeting room was empty, Maran posed her questions to him.
“Uncle, how exactly does this election work?”
“The various candidates go out there and assemble Ironmongers to themselves. Once a group is so large that it is clearly the majority, the candidate will demand a decision. If the crowd looks unified, I'll approve new Kurfurst and recognize his protector as the new Lord Protector.
“Getting a large group is difficult. You need to absorb other factions, and that means making deals. Most candidates don’t want to win. Some want positions of power in the new administration for themselves or their children. Some want promises and concessions. Most want gold.”
A fistfight broke out among the partisans.
“Don’t be concerned. This is normal. It'll resolve itself. Watch.”
Protectors from each side waded in, ringing their rods on the flagstones. A few well placed jabs broke up the melee in the center. The two protectors then cleared an area around themselves. They clanked their rods together, then backed off, circling.
Eventually, one of the protectors readied his first ritual attack. The attacker signalled his opponent. He slowly motioned a mock blow, then prepared his full swing, swinging slow but hard. The defender deflected the blow effortlessly, his iron rod ringing loud.
The defending protector then prepared his own swing, first signaling, then repeating the same swing with full force. The other protector defended himself, deflecting the blow.
The two protectors traded blow after blow like that for a considerable time, growing increasingly tired, Eventually, one backed down and the other held up his rod in victory. “Iron kills dragons!” yelled the victor. The crowd echoed, “Iron Kills Dragons.”
Maran watched many of those fights as more meisters declared their candidacy. Occasionally, something went wrong and those fights escalated. Maran had no idea why they switched from mock-fighting into real fighting, with those protectors whipped their iron rods fast as lighting and furious as a storm. Those fight ended with the loser being carried off to the bonesetter.
“Why all the fighting?” Maran asked.
“They compete to be the next Lord Protector. A meister should have a good protector. Having a strong protector shows good judgement. If a candidate’s protector should fail, that would reflect badly on the meister.”
“What of you? Can’t you stay Lord Protector?”
“If the next Kurfurst asks me, then I can stay Lord Protector. That won’t happen.”
“What if Strikke wins?”
“I don’t know. She's welcome to ask me. If she’s worth being Kurfurstin, she can pick her own protector. Whatever choice she makes is the right one.”
The sound of steel drums stopped their conversation.
The arrival of Steingraf Jasper unfolded with great preplanned fanfare. A hired brass band led the way, blaring their tubas, trumpets, and steel drums in a joyous cacophony. They marched with exacting precision, stepping high with each step. Supporters streamed out of the guild house and forges. Hundreds of dwarves came from the sheds and the work areas. All fell into disciplined columns behind the band.
As a mass, the group marched straight to the guild house, forcing all other groups aside. Those who would not move were shoved and punched.
The band fell silent. Jasper mounted the great stairs and addressed the crowd. “I wish to declare my candidacy.” His partisans roared.
“Present yourself to me,” yelled Gamstadt.
Jasper entered the guild house and walked up to the meeting room. His protector, Flint, walked close behind.
“I declared my candidacy, Gammy. Find my name in the book and get on with it.”
“You haven’t been in the guild for many years.”
“Service with the Kommissars is an honor. My guild remains my guild. Look in your book and announce my name.”
“Maran,” asked Gamstadt, “Would you do the honors?”
Jasper narrowed his brow. “What are you doing? She's a Loam!”
“She is the Eighth Rod, raised by your mother to that position. She has seen the Iron Duke himself. All secrets are open to her.”
Jasper developed a murderous look. “I knew that she'd be no good. I know sorcery when I see it. When I win, I will personally nail both of you to the wall for blasphemy and murder. Now announce me.”
Maran flipped the pages of the book.
“Look for Perg,” suggested Gamstadt. “That’s his proper name.”
“Found it.”
Gamstadt rang his staff. “Journeyman Perg petitions to run for Kurfurst. I have examined the Iron Book and found his name well written and in good standing. Let it be known that Journeyman Perg is worthy in the eye of the Iron Duke.”
Jasper’s men erupted. TThe Reckoners were a large group, and already their group had grown larger.
Looking over the crowd, Maran saw no Strikke.
Needing to escape the moment, Maran walked down the hall t
o the Missus’s apartment. As no one stood guard, so Maran let herself in. The room felt empty without Forsythe there. She realized just how small the apartment was. The fires were all cold, as they should be during mourning. The room felt like a kiln after the firing. The pottery had cooled, and now it was time to take out the finished pieces and see what you had. It felt like a time for reflection and learning.
Like a fired pot, Maran felt she could not resolve herself backwards into clay. She could never unbecome who she was now, short of shattering. The Loam did good work. Their pots did not shatter easily.
Maran sat down in the Missus’s chair, finding it somewhat uncomfortable. She rubbed her hands along the worn cloth where Forsythe once gripped as she yelled. If Zebra were here, he would already be sitting there, lounged across the arms, already occupied by some new cause. Where he may be, Maran could not guess.
Kepi padded in, tail wagging. She came over to Maran, wanting attention. Maran scratched her rear.
“I wonder. What was it like to be the Missus sitting in this chair? What was it like to see your husband assassinated? What was it like to see your children estranged from each other? What was it to sit in pain all the days of your life? I don’t know. I’m glad that I don’t know.”
Kepi curled up on Maran’s feet while Maran nodded off into a dreamless nap, her sleepless days catching up with her. Mercifully, the gods let her be.
When Maran awoke and returned to the election, she noted that some more groups had appeared in the yard, but more groups had been absorbed into the Reckoners. Steingraf Jasper had amassed a considerable contingent. He didn't quite have a majority, but no other group approached his numbers. If this trend continued, then Steingraf Jasper and his Reckoners would surely win before noon.
Someone walked onto the guild hall steps.
“Lord Protector,” Strikke shouted upward, “I wish to run for Kurfurstin.”
The crowd murmured. Someone yelled, “Strikke!”
Lord Gamstadt rang his bar against the balcony. “You may ascend to the balcony and petition.”
Maran looked over the rail to see Strikke — and behind her, carrying a barge pole, was Osei. Maran knew that would be trouble, and she was right. When they arrived in the room, Gamstadt bristled.
Weeds Among Stone (Jura City Book 1) Page 21
