Greenstone and Ironwood, Book One

by Luke Webster

  “A man must take time in his prayers, my child. It is the truest path to the Manati.”

  The arm creaked as a tense hand squeezed it. The word ‘child’ infuriated Callis. At thirty eight he was the youngest council member in the church, only possible in the weakling faction. Callis saw a literal interpretation of the Bestial god, seeking to imitate its own ethical nullity in his own career. He sought power for himself, desire for it over all else. During the inauguration he had sided with the Bestial faction more as a means of promotion than idolatry worship. Members of the Triumphantes were entrenched. Acolytes sought the sect for security in numbers but promotion was slow. Few rose higher than the rank of Copi, a standard priest or warrior. Those who chose a minor faction could expect to rise faster with more room to move. Yet if the church followed set trends then Aea-Baeni would never contend with the power of the Triumphantes. The Triingrates held half the voting power in the council, weakened to a point where two majors could control the outset of power with the help of a single minor. The Wrathmen and the Builders had held an alliance, the Singers backing them. The coalition had lasted for nine years, controlling the sway of the church despite the frustration of excluded sects. Callis was determined to change the system.

  “The Beast does not pray,” Callis spat back.

  “That is blasphemy,” Gustus sneered, taking his own throne with an air of gesticulation. “It is scripture that we pray to the Manati,” he noted, facing Callis. “Are you speaking heresy?”

  “Of course not, mere sarcasm. I drip with it these days.” Callis detested the pudgling bald man, his skin scarred by years of self-flagellation. He followed the Scripts to the letter, his sense of routine and ritual at odds with Callis’ interpretation of the god.

  “Well I am here now. What did you want of me?”

  “Are you unaware? There is a council vote tonight and we have not discussed the issue.”

  “What’s there to discuss?” Gustus glanced, running fingers through his servant’s hair. Dervon was used to the affection, eyes pinned on Callis lest he sought to attack.

  “The decision to adopt Danick wine into church ceremony should not be lightly considered. There will be a major shift in commerce and trade if we start using barbarian imports. We must have a say.”

  “The major three will decide that,” Gustus brushed off, keeping his attention locked to the boy. “There is little opinion that we can sway.”

  The armrest creaked.

  “The council needs to hear our opinion still,” Callis vented through taut lips.

  “We don’t have one as far as I’m concerned.”

  “You don’t have one. I do. Would you hand over all our affairs without struggle?”

  “The Three handles foreign affairs, let them bicker over trade and wine. Our true purpose is to instill faith and convergence with Ea-Manati, not to play in this pathetic game of politics.”

  “Are you so blind old man?” Callis rose, his body leaning forward. “The church has always been a player in politics. You would seek not to vote on this issue just to spite me.”

  “You’re right,” Gustus spat back, his speckled cheeks growing flushed. “I will challenge your decision with abstinence tonight. Aea-Baeni does not exist for the ignorant scheming of a spittling child.”

  Callis snapped at the insult, standing tall and lavishing a kick into Dervon, sprawling the boy back across marble steps. He stood to run, taking a hard slap across the top of his head in the process.

  “You fool,” Gustus ranted. “You are no leader. You’re not fit to empty the latrines.” He slashed his cane, rasping Nielle in the face. The boy buckled back, a bloody mouth cradled in tender hands. Under church law it was not permitted for members of a same hierarchy to come to blows. Doing so would bring the matter before the council, something that neither man was want to do. All outbursts of rage had to be directed to the innocent boys that waited on them.

  Gustus left, calling after Dervon in a cooing tone. Callis sneered as he retook the throne, stepping over Nielle. The knight’s veins bulged in frustration, angered by his counterpart’s ignorance of the church histories. For all his battle-hardened history, Callis was a devout learner, spending many hours entrenched in history books and religious script. The church had always sought to interfere with the political landscape of the city, testing its power among the nobles and kings. El-Manate spent more time concerned with the manipulation of state figures than it had ever spent caring for the wayward souls of the poor. Callis Ipsum was not prepared to let a fat cripple hold back Aea-Baeni any longer.

  16

  Freeman lectured the children on the volatility of church and state and how the regency sat amongst them.

  “There will always be a struggle for power in the city, it is part of its lifeblood and heritage. History is written through this game, a division that is both worrying and fascinating. As you are no doubt aware, the past kings were part of this struggle too, eventually falling prey to a united church and noble sect. That partnership did not last long but its aftermath bears with us today. The wealth in unity is to make sure you are one of the unified.”

  “What of the commoners?” Asked Haylee.

  The old man nodded, taking the question.

  “That is more of a recent issue,” he admitted. “With the advent of steam and technology we have seen a burgeoning middle class with enough wealth to challenge their established role. Ironwood is a city that is built on the foundation of trade after all. With money comes a degree of power but without the right to vote or affect council it is an empty source.”

  “Could they not use money to influence council?” Haylee continued, intrigued.

  Master Freeman was impressed with the child’s curiosity and understanding, paying keen interest while his two other students pretended to be awake.

  “You are referring to corruption,” he smiled. “To which there is some degree within the chamber of council at any one point. It used to be a requirement for councilors to be voted in on merit and establishment, passing a rigorous examination before they could achieve status. Unfortunately that was abolished along with the kingship. The councilors that beset the regent now need not have qualifications and therefore must be chosen with deeper care… and yes, there is nothing to say that they could not be influenced by a healthy dose of coin.”

  “So the merchants have informal power,” Haylee concluded.

  “You are insightful,” Freeman declared, delighted that the young child showed promise.

  “And what of the church?” she probed, eager to learn. Her question was met by a disgruntled sigh from Damian, a series of scabs collecting on his desk as he tugged at the dead skin on his face.

  “You would do well to show such interest in the makeup of the city, young sir.”

  Damian looked up, aware of the old man, staring down at him.

  “Sorry Master,” he offered without authenticity. The grey haired man scowled, he knew of Ivan’s plan to anoint the child heir, a mistake in his eyes. The boy showed no promise, his mind unfocused and rude. Freeman saw an upside to his demotion to educator, allowing him a chance to assess the future heirs of Ironwood. Within one lesson he had decided that Haylee would make a more suitable regent than either of her two siblings. It was an opinion that he wished to share with the regent.

  “Going on, I want to discuss the break up of the kingship and the role of the regent.”

  “Master Goldstring already drilled that into us,” stated Ammba, annoyed at Freeman who was rude and unresponsive to her charms. Goldstring had always favoured her with a smile, regardless of her responses to his questions.

  “Master Goldstring was removed from service for incompetency. You will learn it again and I will test you on it. Understanding your station is vital if you ever hope to run this city.”

  “But the regent only needs to worry about trading partners and ensuring a healthy exchange rate,” Ammba continued, remembering part of her lessons.

  “If tha
t is what your last educator told you then I know why he was expelled.”

  “Actually, it was because of me,” Damian shrugged.

  “Enough,” Freeman barked, his face turning red. The three children recoiled. “I will not tolerate insolence in this classroom. I am extending class to the end of lunch due to your back chatting. The room settled and Freeman’s face returned to its original hue.

  “I will continue… the regent’s role is more than just trading and entertaining ambassadors. It is the highest station within the city, a figurehead to deal with problems concerning the nobles and issues of churchship. The regent has a duty to the city, one that cannot be denied by squabbling nobles. His role is to drive the city, to be the ultimate factor in steering the ship.” Freeman continued, discussing the role of past and future regents and how they related to the power plays of the city. Only Haylee listened.

  17

  Maria Bridestone lay in the dull lit alley. The drunken miner left her, used and paid, the last of the day’s wage spent on the whore. With a free hand she worked out his seed, splashing fingers in the pooling rain to clean away the last of his scent. She hitched up and buckled her pants, two coins pressed tight in a hidden pocket, and laid still. She savoured the rain tapping her features. It felt good, the brisk touch keeping her alert.

  Maria was ‘Ironborne’, one of the hardiest denizens of Ironwood. She felt most comfortable in the cold alleys and sodden streets, working her craft deep into the winter when most prostitutes were inside by coal-lit fires.

  She straightened her leather coat, loose tunics soaked beneath. It was time to retire for the night, the streets emptying of hard drinking men, leaving the poor and broken, neither of whom would offer coin for her services.

  Maria stepped into a main channel of Poor Man’s Quarter, a simple tarred street blurred by poor light and slanting rain. The quarter was a maze of sorts, poor slums packed together to afford cheap housing for the short-lived miners and factory workers. She navigated the streets, knowing them well. Muggers lurked in droves throughout, a paid up whore an easy target.

  Peering eyes knew Maria though, her proud stride and firm body renowned amongst the underbelly of the city. They knew her connections and violent temper, her ability to kill when necessary. She had lived as though a fire existed in her, striking down her enemies. Menacing eyes watched from cover as she strode with defiance, facing the harsh beat of Ironwood’s autumn.

  She paced for a time, feeling in tune with the city. Her mouth tasted of minerals, carried by the rain, residual aftermath from churning mines that pocked the surrounding mountains. Summer was over, the pollutants that had clogged the city for months were washing away, emptying into the Milkweed river and out to sea. She saw autumn as her cleansing time too, embracing the harsh winter that follows with a fanatic’s intent.

  *

  Maria’s home stood as a featureless stone and iron structure, a clone of every other apartment that ran alone the small side street, a two story apartment set in a better area of Poor Man’s Quarter. While wealthy enough to afford finer lodgings Maria craved the rough stones of her birthquarter. Simple furnishings lined the entryway, several glass ornaments and mirrors, nothing extravagant. She pressed a switch near the heavy iron front door. A click resounded and lights flickered then powered on.

  Ironwood was new to electricity. Massive coal deposits found throughout the region provided a cheap fuel that city scholars had learnt to harness. Coal plants littered the north end of the city, puking out constant fumes of heady ash. It was not a reliable source of power, blackouts common in the city as harsh weather, flash flooding and tremors loomed ever present. Maria kept a bank of coal in her basement in the event of power failure.

  Her coat made a wet thud as it dropped to the floor, Maria stepping over it and checking herself in the entryway mirror. Her shoulder length hair was plastered in chaos, white lips pressed hard from the cold. She was ageing, lines forming that would in time dominate her features. She knew that men would not always find her desirable, that her looks would wither and she would have to survive on her savings or find another profession. She was not a thief, too brash without the grace of a cat burglar.

  She unwound the clinging tunics, dripping onto the rough tiles. The clothes dropped in a sodden heap and she stood naked, her muscular body trembling.

  Carpet lined the upstairs floor, the coarse hairs soaking in the wet as she strode to the bedroom. Maria did not recoil or show surprise at the intruder who confronted her. A gentle snore greeted her from the bed.

  “A hard night?” she asked, standing hands on hips, stark naked in the doorway. The man startled, waking from a dream. He looked up and gave the faintest grin, propping up on one elbow.

  “You need a softer bed.”

  “And risk you coming around more often?” she asked in a half threatening voice, swaying towards him. Locke took in the view, noting the strong thighs and flat belly, excited by the dangerous woman’s presence.

  “Your door was practically open,” he told her with a slight slur in his voice.

  Maria interrogated him with her eyes, an accusative stare. “Did you get paid today?”

  “You know you are a beautiful woman, don’t you?”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  Locke slunk back into the tough mattress, staring out.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you are a fool,” she admitted.

  “A fool that you love?”

  “No,” she saddled the bed, looking down, “I could never love a fool.”

  “Well, at least comfort one for awhile.”

  “You’re pathetic,” she insulted, taking his hand and placing it to her breast.

  “I know.”

  Locke’s fingers encircled the hard nipple, still wet from the night.

  “You know you can’t stay here,” she warned. “You need to sort out your landlord.”

  Locke breathed deep as her hand slid under his shirt, wet hands feeling the warmth of his body.

  “You’re freezing,” he gasped.

  “You’re soft,” she chided, stretching out a well toned leg and mounting him, tearing back his linen shirt. She pulled his head into her breast, his flushed face at odds with her still trembling figure. He tasted the water clinging to her body, savouring the taste.

  “You going to forgive me?” he managed, taking his lips away from a nipple.

  “No,” she whispered, “but tonight I’ll let you fuck me.”

  With a free hand she pulled out his swollen figure and pressed herself onto it, making him groan and forget his loss.

  18

  Harmond Goldshore loitered in Greenstone courtyard with his cousins, the Longshores. The young men were boasting, telling tales of ladies they had bed. Harmond was younger than the other boys and at fourteen he had no tales to speak of, his composure amongst women shy and clumsy.

  “Don’t tell me Little Harm likes the boys,” laughed Thomas to a chorus when Harmond was pestered to share a story.

  “Piss off,” Harmond growled, intimidated by the older boy’s presence.

  “Why, haven’t you felt a woman’s touch yet?” asked Helmut Longshore, a tall boy with shoulder-length dark hair and a podgy face, stepbrother to Thomas.

  Harmond shrugged. “I haven’t tried.”

  “Now that’s bullshit if I can’t spot it,” laughed his brother Ramond Goldshore. “I’ve seen this little soldier pressing all the chamber maids, trying to get his end wet. All the girls laugh at our Little Harm.”

  Another chorus of laughter.

  “They do not,” Harmond lied. It was a legendary story among the ladies of Goldshore manor that Harmond was short hung.

  “Yeah right. All the girls talk about your tiny stump,” continued Ramond, slapping Harmond on the back.

  “If you can’t give it, maybe you should start taking it like our Lord Damian over there,” Thomas said, pointing a gloved hand across the courtyard. Damian was pract
icing swordplay with Fredrick, their wood-crafted blades cracking against each other. “Lord Damian loves the boys,” taunted Thomas, looping an arm around Harmond’s shoulder. “Maybe he would let you join in on a little three-way action.”

  Harmond tried to push the older boy away, only to find himself in a chokehold.

  “Who is he fighting with?” asked Ramond, pointing out Fredrick. As distant cousins the Goldshores stayed little within the citadel, spending more time in their Highland villas.

  “Just some foreign whelp,” shrugged Helmut. “Likes it up the arse more than Little Harm.”

  The boys watched the duel across the way, the two boys oblivious to their audience. Fredrick was a much better sword hand, knocking away Damian’s blade with ease and tapping him across the arms, shoulders and body several times.

  “A foreign dog shouldn’t treat our ruler like that,” declared another Goldshore boy noting the one-sided fight. “It’s an insult.”

  “That’s always happening,” shrugged Helmut. “The lord can’t hold a sword any better than his dick.”

  “Pathetic,” agreed Thomas. He watched as the blade tip pressed Damian’s chest, a fatal blow. “I think our Little Harm should redeem his honour by challenging the swine to a duel.”

  “What?” asked young Harmond with wide eyes.

  “Why not,” continued Thomas. “After all, you want to prove that you have the balls of a man?”

  All the boys grinned, gathering around the younger child and pressuring him.