Greenstone and Ironwood, Book One

by Luke Webster

  Ammba did not reply, she was growing bored of the talk, her gaze trailing off while Thomas tried to continue the discussion.

  “Can I ask you something?” he said, noting her lapse. He received a nod, her blonde hair streaming over a narrow shoulder. “Why do you ignore me?”

  “Excuse me?” she felt confronted.

  “You ignore me… like at the festival dance a while back, you wouldn’t look my way that night. And the other day when I waved at you.”

  Ammba struggled to answer. In her mind she knew why, she had wanted to test him, to see how he would react to a cold shoulder. Most men were too weak-spined to approach her. Cautious suitors, afraid of fooling themselves, had always sent messengers to accost her. Thomas was different to the casual rank of suitors that besieged her, he was not an ordinary noble or ugly cousin. He was her ideal, handsome enough by far and as a close cousin also a candidate for marriage.

  “Let’s just say that I don’t like being forward,” she told him.

  “Then you must hate this right now,” he smiled. He wasn’t a great speaker she noted, his tone bordering on the naïve. Ammba wondered at his upbringing. He was of elite stock, part of a traditionalist family who sought to maintain old ways. For one of them he did not carry their dialect, preferring to talk in the fashion of the guard’s tongue, a rough and blunt way of wording.

  Ammba placed her book aside. With a flick of hair she began asking Thomas questions, drilling him about his upbringing and family name. She knew most of the answers but tried to look interested as he droned on, assessing the way he spoke and held himself. He was confident enough, though bordering on cocky, and possessed little wit to back up that confidence.

  “Where do you see yourself in five years time?” she asked.

  He looked her over and smiled.

  “Wed with children, continuing my family’s name and serving the state.”

  “You have no interest in seeing the world?” Ammba asked, stifling a groan.

  “My place is here,” he shrugged. “Carrying on the family lineage, not seeking adventure in border towns or getting lost in the capital cities.”

  “Most men your age talk endlessly about those things, I expected you to be the same.”

  He puffed his chest up, thinking it a compliment.

  “I have been told that I am wise past my years.” She laughed, a gentle tickle that confused the man. “What?”

  “It’s nothing, I just think young men shouldn’t be worrying about wisdom. To be honest, you sound a little like my father.”

  Thomas was lost, unsure whether he was being praised or insulted.

  “Well, what about you… where will you be in five years time?”

  “Not here,” she smiled. “I may be the regent’s eldest but I am not simple enough to think I’m the heir. My father shows favour to Damian, not that I envy him. I’d prefer to seek out adventure before I turn into one of those old crones nursing babes in the citadel and washing laundry.

  “I hardly think you’d end up like that,” Thomas told her, surprised at Ammba’s desire to leave the city. “Don’t you feel compelled to stay within your father’s service?”

  “Hardly. There’s an entire world to explore. Tell me Thomas, how far out of the city walls have you travelled?”

  “To the Highlands,” he shrugged. “My family has a manor there.”

  “Well the regent and his family don’t leave the city during winter. We stay here, in the frozen waste. I was born in the Imperial Capital and spent my first years growing up there. I wish to return to that place, to be free of Ironwood for a time.”

  A thought occurred to Thomas, excited to have one.

  “Why don’t you travel with us this winter? My family would love to have your presence and I’m sure your father wouldn’t mind.” He showed genuine hope at the idea.

  “No thanks,” she let him down. The idea of spending three months or more with the Longshores did not interest her.

  “But you’d get out of the city,” he insisted with an almost child-like voice, reminding her of a spoilt adolescent used to getting its own way. She shook her head. “But it would be great,” he continued. “I could take you hunting. Have you tried fresh buffalo before?” She was coming to the realization that not only was he slow he was also annoying.

  “I wouldn’t want to spend the time with you. I’m sorry.”

  He looked hurt, unsure why she had said such things.

  “Why?”

  “Because Longshore, you have just proven to me that you lack wit and grace. I’m finding your presence tiresome as it is. If you will excuse me.”

  She grabbed her novel and stood, leaving him alone in the garden.

  “Fickle bitch,” Thomas muttered to himself, throwing his apple into the gutter.

  13

  “You’re not much of a bleeder are you,” stated Craig Greytongue, a tattooist by trade. He ran a sharpened blade across Dead’s inner forearm, marking out the lines for the tattoo. Once the lines were dug he would then smear black ink into the wound. It was a primitive method of tattooing, fast and cheap, often practised in the poorer areas of the city.

  Dead watched as the blade cut his skin. It nerved him, prodding that urge he had suppressed. Sitting still while Craig continued to slice him was setting Dead on edge, as if each new cut was pushing him to retaliate and cut Craig back. A thin strand of reasoning, backed up by Ghost’s presence, restrained him from doing so.

  They were in a small apartment, knives, ink jars and assorted instruments hung from a nearby wall. There were no windows and the room was lit by a hanging light that buzzed and flickered. There were two doors attached to the room, one leading to the streets, the other leading back into Craig’s home.

  “Most people bleed a fair bit. Unusual to see someone not,” Craig continued. Aside from some clear fluid that seeped from the cuts Dead’s body did not react.

  “Bit hard to bleed when your blood has stopped running,” said Ghost.

  There had been odd stares when Dead had returned to The Ilky Den with the brick the previous night but no one recognised the name. Dead had sought through the throng of bodies for the man with the tattoos. Craig was a local flesh artist and close friend of Antony, offering his services to Dead free of charge. Dead and Ghost had spent the rest of the night at the bar, sleepless till morning.

  “So, you know this woman?” Craig asked.

  “I do,” replied Dead. “I just can’t remember her.”

  “But she’s important to you?”

  “Yes.” Dead was certain.

  “You know, if you had enough money you could always get a name search done over at the census building.”

  “Where’s that?” Dead asked, his ears pricking up.

  “Central Ironwood, a fair hike from here. All the administration stuff goes on over there. Anyway, take enough money and they’ll tell you about anyone.”

  “Ask for directions,” Ghost instructed. Until he was able to discover something about himself Ghost was resigned to following Dead.

  “Well, the best way would be to take the old steamer that runs along the south wall and snakes its way through the main of Ironwood. Runs twice a day. Of course, you’d need to pay for that too. I hear they’re none too nice to freeloaders.”

  “A train?” Dead asked. It stirred some memory within him. He knew what one was.

  “Yeah, you know, those big ugly things that run around tracks. They dig out so much coal from the mines that they might as well use it. Jump on one and you’ll eventually get to where you’re after.”

  Craig finished the cutting, a mimic of Dead’s brick. With a thick-haired brush dipped into a jar of black ink Craig set to working the dye into the freshly cut skin.

  “You know, Jim said you’re an escapee of some sort. Can’t say it bothers me but if you’re going to survive then you might want to think about money.”

  “How’s that?” asked Dead.

  “You know, get some cash together.
You won’t get too many freebies around here.”

  “Where can I get some money?”

  Craig stopped to think for a moment.

  “There’s usually work going in the mines or the watch. They’re always looking for new people to come in. They pay well though it’s risky work. If you want something safer then try factory work. Of course the pay isn’t as good.” Craig smeared more ink into Dead’s fresh cut, the dye dripping down the forearm. “Of course, you could just do what everyone else around here does and steal.”

  Dead looked at him, half interested. “Anyone in particular I should be stealing from?”

  “Not really mate. You won’t find too much wealth in this quarter. Your best bet would be Trader’s Loop, or if you’re really good, up in the Lord’s Quarters. Of course, you’d be dodging watchmen left and right. Don’t know if I’d be going that route myself.”

  “I really don’t think you have the grace to be a thief,” Ghost noted. “You have enough trouble walking in a straight line, let alone jumping across rooftops.”

  “You got any better ideas?” Dead asked the spirit, patience short.

  Craig thought the question was directed at him, raising an eyebrow at the change in Dead’s tone.

  “Odd jobs I guess. Always someone who wants something done in this city.” The tattooist applied a clear ointment to the work, designed to help the healing process and stop leakage.

  “What about tattooing? Much money in that?”

  Craig seemed taken back.

  “There’s some I guess, though it takes a long time before anyone will trust you to cut them up.”

  “Don’t worry,” Dead smiled. “I wasn’t planning on earning their trust.”

  An open palm flashed across Craig’s face with force, sending him to the ground, ink jars following. Dead towered over the smaller man, sprawled out and stunned.

  “You bastard. I helped you.”

  “Maybe,” Dead reached down, twisting a thick hand around Craig’s shirt front and drawing him up. With his free hand he slammed a fist into Craig’s stomach. The artist retched, last night’s drinks gushing up over Dead’s arm and onto the rough floor. Somewhere deep in the back of his mind Dead could hear Ghost crying for reason. Now was not the time to listen to that voice.

  “I don’t like it when people hurt me,” Dead spat, pointing to the fresh cuts across his arm.

  “What?” choked Craig. “You asked.” He was helpless in the larger man’s grip.

  Dead didn’t hear, he threw the man to the ground like a child throwing a toy in tantrum. Dead pressed one knee hard into Craig’s chest stifling a scream. The cutting knife was in Dead’s hand, the blade slicing in behind Craig’s windpipe. Dead pulled it back to sever the airway. In his death throes Craig clawed at Dead’s face, running nails down leather skin. Blood filled the room, painting the walls as it pumped from an open artery. Ghost screamed a single syllable.

  “You’re not much of a bleeder,” stated Dead, pausing himself in confusion the moment he said it. The sentence was an enigma to him. Was it something he had once heard?

  Ghost ended his wail and sat with head in hands, waiting for Craig’s final convulsions to end.

  “You know no reason,” he sobbed, looking up with cold eyes.

  “I’m just doing what he suggested,” Dead had recovered from his own confusion, speaking to Ghost in that hard voice.

  “Which was?” Another sob.

  “Take money from other people. We need it, he has it.”

  “You don’t find it disturbing that you’ve just killed someone who wanted to help?”

  “Was he? I don’t remember.” Dead paused a moment, that urge had grown from a seed, spreading dark roots out through the working parts of his brain. “I don’t care either. What was he to me? Nothing. Just another bit of meat in my way.”

  “What are you talking about?” Ghost yelled. “He was helping us. He had friends, a family. You’ve murdered him for no reason. You piece of shit.”

  “Piss off,” Dead growled back. “You can’t stop me. You’re nothing but a spirit. Maybe you don’t even exist. What are you going to do? I’m the one making the choices. I’m the one that takes action. If you don’t like it then fuck off.”

  Ghost bowed his head.

  “If you continue to act like this then you will have the watch after you. You will never find out who you are. Is that what you want?”

  Dead stood quiet for a long time.

  “No,” he admitted, his voice lower.

  Dead prevented more conversation by moving into the back rooms to search for coin.

  14

  “Poor Master Goldstring lost his job because of Damian,” complained Haylee. Her mother lay propped up in bed. She was frail, a light gown showing off the gaunt ribs and thin limbs underneath. Haylee combed her mother’s hair, grey and oily, removing knots and flattening it out against the woman’s clammy skull.

  “When was this?” croaked Kayla, the words difficult.

  “Last night. Didn’t father tell you?”

  Kayla smiled, betrayed by sad eyes. Ivan had not come to her in a week, too busy with council and politics. Each visit was harder for the regent to bear. He was distancing himself, ready for the time that she must die. A horde of doctors, herbalists and surgeons had swept through her chamber over the years, each providing different opinions and medications. No formula worked to cure her illness and over time her despair had given away to acceptance.

  “He didn’t mention it,” she replied, breathing heavy.

  “Well he should have. Master Goldstring was an excellent teacher. It’s not his fault that Damian skips class.”

  Kayla turned a weak head. “What has your brother been doing?”

  Damian visited his mother every few days, their time together somber and uncomfortable, her questions returned in one-word answers.

  “Being a fool, like usual,” Haylee’s reply made Kayla smile. “Playing in the ruins and thinking he’s some great warrior. Ammba thinks that father will make him heir.”

  Kayla looked up at her youngest daughter with those sad eyes.

  “What do you think?” she wheezed.

  “I don’t care… If Ammba becomes regent she’ll fill the court with boys.” Her mother convulsed with a tiny fit of laughter, black spittle rising to her mouth. Haylee held a clothe, catching the filthy bile.

  “What would you do as regent?” came an exhausted breath as the convulsion settled.

  “Promote Master Goldstring for one. Make the nobles have fairness of passage like the regency is supposed to,” she was referring to the point that nobles still passed their estates through the eldest male heir. “Reinstate the Patriarcht’s Day Parade.”

  “Why would you do that?” Kayla asked, suddenly perplexed.

  “Because I think he deserves it. He is our founding father, I think it a shame that we have forgotten him.”

  “No one has forgotten him. He is not a man that should be celebrated.”

  “But he’s over a thousand years old. He founded Ironwood.”

  “Is this what you have been taught?”

  “Yes, Master Goldstring told me about the history of the Patriarcht’s office… why?”

  “The Patriarcht is not the noble figurehead that history books tell us… He is twisted and dangerous, reviled among the church and nobles alike… He is only kept in station because of the twisted words of a prophet.”

  “The prophecies?” Haylee asked, unaware that there was a different story to the one Goldstring had retold. Kayla was too exhausted to continue, struggling to keep her eyes open.

  “Your father knows,” she whispered, falling back exhausted. Haylee watched, a tear rolling across her tender cheek. Her mother meant more to her than anyone else, the last haven of security for the middle-born child. No doctor could predict how much time Kayla had left. Some would say a week, others a year. With fingers running along a clammy hand, Haylee closed her eyes and wished for a year.

>   15

  Callis Ipsum ran a calloused finger across the carved oak armrest, a faint layer of ash streaking clean. Even in the most holy places of the city, he thought, one could not escape the polluting smokes that swirled in the autumn winds. His bitterness for the city had grown strong, forming in tandem with his rise through the knighthood of El-Manate. Two years past he had been sworn in as Ihn-Manati, highest select knight to Ea-Manati, the official god of Ironwood. The church was divided into six factions, stemming from the twisted and confusing lore that the god, ‘Ea-Manati,’ was formed.

  Callis was a member of the Aea-Baeni, a minor faction within the church. Since his inception into the church he had maintained a fascination with the god’s primordial creation tale. They worshipped the earliest incarnation of the god, the raging destroyer, fighting other gods and rending the earth. Within the church they were the least popular of the factions, receiving a tenth of the members that the major parties held. Even the other minor factions, the Ea-Eaedit, ‘The Artists of Manati’ and Ide-Eldeni, ‘Chosen Singers of Manati,’ held more members. It concerned the knight that he had inherited such a weak faction.

  Callis drummed dull fingers to the beat of an armrest, watching the empty throne that stood astride his. Gustus was often tardy, the old man slow and rigid, spending more time chatting on the rounded steps of the Grand Tower that plying his command within it. It infuriated Callis that he shared power with the inefficient old man, lacking his own ambition.

  As the god was dual natured, so was each factional head. Churchmen were divided into knights and priests, the choice made as acolytes. At the highest levels of hierarchy the positions had to hold both members, a dual leadership that caused conflict in itself. Callis did not relate well with his priestly counterpart, Gustus Esum, the man many years his senior and following a differing interpretation of their faction’s roots.

  Gustus came in late, scowling at the younger man in wait, a returned expression. He was a hefty man, requiring a cane to stay upright.

  “You’re late, brother,” Callis chided, tapping the armrest. His personal servant, Nielle, stood behind Callis’ throne. There was a look of concern evident on his face, fearful when the two men met in council. He was a young boy, the fourth son of a small noble family sent away like so many late born sons were. As a Golden Fledgling he was at the pinnacle of servanthood in the complex, his external social rank recognised by the church. His overbearing masters held physical command over him, too ready to strike when things went amiss. When arguments grew heated in the chamber it was Nielle and his counterpart Dervon, that bore the violence.