Altyn was an Astrean woman who lived on Groppekunta Street. Maran had stayed with her when she had first reached the Outer City. Altyn was knowledgeable and serious, and somehow a little scary, like viper scary, but Maran could never quite put her finger on exactly why. Altyn also had a whimsical side that sometimes peeked through, like a bird song. If it wasn’t whimsical, it was certainly idiosyncratic.
Behind Altyn’s house was a vegetable garden. Altyn never took care of it, so when Maran had arrived, she had spent long and satisfying hours getting the vegetable garden back into shape. The soil grounded her. She needed that grounding right now.
For the Loam, a garden was not merely a garden. All gardens were shrines to the White Lady, who first taught the Loam all the secrets of farming, and so set them apart from all other dwarves. To tend a garden was a holy duty. It showed the holy cycle of germination, fruition, and decay. In that cycle, life and death were intimately intertwined and utterly dependent on each other.
Maran walked through the back gate, then gathered up her skirts. Kicking off her shoes, she felt the soothing peace of dirt again. She missed the dirt on her feet. The Ironmonger forge was all steel and stone. It was all too hard. Maran sank down to her knees, then breathed a sigh.
“Thank you, White Lady, for the bounty of this garden. I have not been here tending it, as I’ve been busy on other work. I have a great deal to talk about. Things have happened. I hope that all those other things are done. I think things are settled now. From now on, it’s cooking and gardening, just like it should be. I will like that.”
Grandmother always said that tending a garden put you right. Once again, her grandmother’s wisdom provided fruit to Maran. This was exactly what she needed. This world of iron and stone did not feel right to her. She was a visitor here, not an inhabitant. She would not feel right unless she was digging in the dirt and planting things in the ground.
A grin played across Maran’s face. She could dig all day.
“Cucumbers! I forgot that I planted you. It’s pickling time for you, I think. You’ll make nice ones. Cold pickles, though. No fires on the holidays.”
With many songs to sing to herself, Maran went about her business efficiently, gathering what vegetables she could for her kitchen. Loam gardens were quite prolific, able to provide immense amounts of food. That was her people’s secret. They could grow food like no one else. The Ironmongers knew the secret of mass-producing steel, and they guarded that secret jealously. The Loam knew the secret of mass-producing food, and nobody cared about their secret at all. No others dwarves would learn that skill, even for free.
In years past, Loam wayfarers had gone out into the world to show humans how to grow food better. That had helped the humans some, and certainly helped them produce an excess, but the humans just did not have the knack for growing food fast like a Loam did. They certainly wanted the secret, as they needed food like everyone else, but too few of them could understand the secrets well enough to make much difference. There was simply too much to learn in their short lifetimes.
A noise caught Maran’s attention. Altyn rattled opened her back door and motioned Maran in. “I heard you upstairs. You were singing a little sharp. Come in. Make me something and debrief me on your travails.”
Maran really could not refuse the request. Altyn was her first friend in this city, and she did give good advice. So Maran went in and discovered the kitchen in utter disarray. Dirty plates were piled haphazardly on the floor with long lines of ants crawling across them. Cups were stacked in odd places. A game of tiles lay scattered on the kitchen table, the winning hand showing full honors and three winds.
Altyn vaguely motioned, “The girls next door are busy with the festival. They haven’t had time to clean.”
Altyn gathered up the game of tiles, putting them away in a battered paper box. She put the box away in her dining room, which stored a vast pile of useless stuff that she had accumulated. Where had she gotten all that stuff?
Never mind. Maran had work to do. She checked the stove out of habit, discovering that it still felt hot.
“You still have coals in your stove, ma’am. They have to go. It’s the Feast of All Gods. It’s time to put away the old year. Time to put the fires out.”
Holding up a hand, Altyn stopped Maran. “I was thinking that Zebra would show, but I will now guess that he won’t. He is, once again, King of the Feast, a position that he rarely misses. It’s all the coal oil he can drink and all the poetry he can recite, and everyone loves it. Still, he has not arrived. Damnable elf kept me waiting again. Put it out. I’ll be forced to have peace and quiet this festival.”
Maran found a bucket and cleaned out Altyn’s stove.
“How did the funerals go?” Altyn asked.
“We cremated the Missus and a few others, then put everyone else away in the ice house until after the new year. There were just too many corpses. We’ll take the ashes up to the city after eight days of mourning. The Missus went into ovens without a hitch, but she was so big that she took a long time. Then, the crematorium meister wouldn’t handle her remains. He was still too afraid of her.”
“Not surprising.”
“There, cleaning done.” Maran poured the bucket out into the garden, scattering the ashes and coals among her vegetables.
“You work quickly,” noted Altyn.
“I used to be a hearth tender, ma’am. You know that. I did this every morning, every fireplace, every stove, for a decade. When I get home again, I’ll be a kiln tender.”
“I doubt that.”
The statement caught Maran unaware. “Excuse me, ma’am?”
In her calmest voice, Altyn spoke again. “You will never be a kiln tender. That much is obvious to me. I think that this is obvious to everyone. You are the only one who does not see that.”
Now Maran did feel confused. “I’m not sure what you mean, ma’am.”
“Why are you still working for the Ironmongers?”
“I’m their Eighth Rod and their cook, ma’am. Remember? I’ve met their god, the Iron Duke.”
“Why are you still a cook?”
“That’s my profession.”
“Why do you still work for the Ironmongers?”
“They are my employers!” Maran felt like Altyn spoke in circles. Her friend asked the same questions again and again.
Altyn folded her hands, resting her chin on her knuckles. “Yes, they are your employers, but why do you still work for them? Are they not also your enemy? Are they not unclean? Do you not serve the interests of your own people? You have a choice, do you not?”
“I’m a cook. This is what I do. It is holy work and I am proud of that.”
Altyn frowned. “I see that I am confusing you. I will change my question. Who else could you work for?”
Maran shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Where else could you work? Could you go abroad?”
“I think so. Ma’am, why are you annoying me? Do you miss Zebra?”
Altyn put her hands down, then slouched back, letting her legs rest against the table. “I am not annoying you on purpose. It is a matter of my great respect for you that I address you so bluntly. If you were a lesser woman, I assure you, I would humor you in your ignorance.” Altyn paused, apparently thinking about her words. “Maran, you met the Ancient One. What makes you think that you can be a cook again, or any other thing of your choosing?”
“She’s done with me, ma’am.” Maran felt certain of that.
“Is she?” Now Altyn’s voice sounded of great doubt. “Maybe for now she is done with you, but I guarantee you, Maran, try as you might, your life will not return to the normal that you desire. You live in a new normal, and it is up to you to accept that. The choice before you now is choosing where you go.”
“I don’t see how. What else should I do?”
“I don’t know. Dwarven traditions confuse me, but I do know some people that can help you. I had not planned on this today, but I think tha
t this is a good time. Breakfast can wait. You can tend the garden some other day.” Altyn dropped her feet to the floor, slipping on her shoes.
Knowing Altyn’s determination, Maran relented immediately. “Alright, I agree. Lead me where I should go.”
“Good. Come along, Zarander.” Altyn stood with fluid grace, as if the wind lifted her. Quite honestly, Maran was not sure whether Altyn lifted her straw hat from the peg of if the wind blew it down to her hand.
Altyn walked out of her front door into the bright light of Groppekunta Street. Maran followed, blinking from the sun, the surprisingly hot air blasting against her. The storm had brought in some scorching weather.
Outside the door, Groppekunta Street celebrated the Feast of All Gods. Humans were everywhere. Maran had never seen this street so busy before midnight.
Standing on the stoop, Altyn pointed across the crowd. “You’ve not seen this before. The neighborhood girls and boys and the bouncers work all year putting this festival together. They love it. They dress up as the gods and their retinues. Each brothel does a different god, both Alliance and Oathbreaker. They draw lots to see who gets which god. Right now, we are seeing last year’s costumes. The new costumes won’t come out until the battle. That’s when they have the parade, dances, and mock battles. You should see what they do. The competition is fierce. I am usually invited to judge the contestants.”
“What about Astrea? Do you celebrate it up there?”
“Yes, we do celebrate the new year. Everyone does. We hold four days of dances, music, and singing. On the fifth day, the new year itself, those who reached the age limit leave the city.
“Down here, there is an astonishing amount of space to live in. Up there, on the flying city, we don’t have room. All young must go when they are twenty, or even before that if they have the gumption, except those lucky enough to earn special positions. No matter how much anyone might want to stay, or how much power they possess, we have no place to build, so I am here. The only way I get to move back to Astrea is if I become sufficiently rich, famous, or powerful. I am none of the above, so I am stuck down here in this hellhole. Given my option, I’d blow this whole place down and start over.”
Altyn stepped into the crowd. As they walked along the hot street, many women and men greeted Altyn, paying their respects.
A group of half-naked young women, costumed like sex crazed dryads, rushed over to Altyn. They waved their fake bows.
“Miss Altyn! Miss Altyn! Give us a wail. Scream like a banshee!”
“Darkwood Dryads, this is not the time.”
“Come on, scream! Please!”
“No.” Altyn waved them off.
“We do you favors! We run your errands!”
“All right, all right, you do me favors. For you, I’ll scream.”
The girls covered their ears as Altyn breathed in. Thinking better of it, Maran did the same.
Altyn opened her mouth and blasted a wail. A chill ran up Maran’s back as if death itself were coming for her. For a moment, she remembered every death wail that she had ever heard. She remembered her own death wail. She remembered her husband, dead in her arms. In that moment, she did not recall merely a memory of grief, but the entire grief itself as she had felt it. Her grief pushed her to her knees.
When Altyn ended her wail, the girls shrieked with laughter, in contrast to the surrounding crowd who sighed with relief.
Altyn looked down at Maran. “Was that too much?”
Maran breathed deep. “Yes, that was a lot. I remember that feeling when Kirim died. It brought it all back to me. I’m done mourning now, but there are still some tender spots. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
“I should have warned you. I forget that you don’t know.”
Maran stood, feeling a little wobbly.
Altyn looked about. “Let’s get you out of the way for a few minutes. Step up.” Altyn found some steps and climbed up, looking about. “You should see some of the god costumes. I saw a Butcher earlier. There he is, over there.”
The Butcher was a man on stilts, wearing fake ram horns and carrying an impossibly long, phallus-shaped sword. All about him, humans wearing fake animal heads and huge phalluses threatened the other attendees.
Altyn stood on points of her toes, perfectly balanced, but her small frame could not see much. Even so, she was easily taller than Maran.
“I don’t see any of the others right now. They might not be out yet. Oh, there’s one over there.”
A procession slowly pushed through the street. At their head came a man riding a hobby-horse, dressed in an outrageous helmet. Behind him were people wearing mouse heads and carrying dolls.
“Oathbreakers again. The Insatiable Lord of Vermin and the Relentless Legion,” said Altyn.
Mention of the Lord of Vermin sent a shudder up Maran’s back. “We remember him. That is, my people remember him. He is still our enemy. If he should come back, I hate to think how many of us would break our oaths to fight against him.”
A mild look of interest crossed Altyn’s face. “You are such dedicated pacifists. Would you truly take up arms?”
“Oh, yes. Back home, Grandfather is recounting the making of the Terracotta Army and its battle against the Relentless Legion. For these four days, we drink nothing but water and only eat a handful of rice. We were the best growers in all the world, and against the Relentless Legion, even we almost starved. In the end, we won and the food was saved. If not for us, the Alliance army would have starved in the field. Armies don’t fight without food. After the battle came the digging. Somebody had to dig the graves, and that was us, too.”
After the procession passed, they descended the stoop, again aiming to leave the street. As they proceeded towards the nearest intersection, they approached several biers covered in flowers. Figures made from flour plaster lay in state. Altyn knelt, inviting Maran to join her. “These little shrines commemorate the dead gods. They run up and down the street. These two are Nomos and Destiny. It is traditional to place flowers on the biers. That brings good luck for the year and wards off illness.”
Altyn touched her forehead to the ground. Maran knelt and did likewise. Down south, in the desolation that was Glittering Vale, Maran had seen the actual sepulcher of Nomos. She had not prostrated herself to it.
“One of the great mysteries,” said Altyn, “is why the White Lady killed Destiny and where she hid her grave. According to legend, any oath sworn on the Grave of Destiny has the power of Destiny behind it.”
Deep drums sounding silenced any further explanations. Another group pushed through the street. A quartet of nearly naked men in feathered hats carried a woman in red on a gaudy palanquin.
Maran guessed at this group. The girl played an Oathbreaker, the Red Lady. She was a Savage Sister, together with the White Lady and the Wild Woman.
On approaching the biers, the Red Lady motioned for a stop. She pointed to Altyn and Maran. “Attend me, my subjects!” The actress itched her arms, rocking gently in her seat.
Altyn walked up, but did not greet the woman.
The woman spoke again. “If you serve me in this upcoming battle, I will reward you. Know that your allies will be weakened and ripe for betrayal. Fight hard, but encourage them to fight harder. Drive all others forward at all costs, so when the battle is over, they will be weak and you will be strong. Sacrifice their lives on the battlefield, and I shall give you victory.”
Maran did not know how to respond.
Altyn stood there, showing no emotion. Something in her looked concerned. Altyn tilted her head. “I know that itch, girl. I know that rocking. Lift your veil. Show me your eyes.” Something in Altyn’s voice sounded dreadful.
The whore hesitated at first, but after Altyn’s glare continued, she lifted her veil, showing her pale, almost gray face. She blinked quickly in the bright light. Her eyes had trouble focusing. They stared into nothing, seemingly empty. To Maran, the woman seemed a little hollow on the inside, almost mechanical.
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Even more disturbing to Maran was the woman’s skin. Maran saw tiny red vines growing around her head and face, and into her eyes. They obviously bothered the woman. She had raw patches on her skin where she had dug out the roots with her fingernails. The vines even grew into her lips, creating sores and blisters.
“What’s wrong, ma’am?” the woman asked.
Altyn met her drifting gaze. “I will have words with your madam. She’s giving you garbage, or she’s allowing you garbage. How long have you been up?”
“Four or five days, ma’am. We have to finish the new costumes. They aren’t done yet.”
“Who’s your supplier?”
The woman paused. “I don’t know, ma’am.”
A look of absolute vexation formed on Altyn’s face, much like a parent who has just seen a child do something lethally stupid.
“Drop this stuff right now. It will fight you and it will kill you. If you want to stop the Red Snake, then go to the Ammelites. They might just save your life. Do you have any Red Snake left?”
“No.”
“Liar.” Altyn waved the actress off. “I don’t believe you. Now get out of here, and if I see you on that stuff again, I will personally whip you naked out of this town.”
The feathered men quickly picked up the palanquin, then hurried off into the crowd. The drummer scrambled to keep up.
Those vines disturbed Maran. “Are there more like her?” asked Maran.
“I hope not, but I would lie to myself if I believed that. She’s addicted to Red Snake. Nasty stuff. Every so often, someone turns up a cache of it and that poison hits the streets. Fortunately, it’s a self-limiting problem. Nobody knows how to make it any more. She’s going to have a hard time when her supply runs out. She’ll turn to something else.”
“Do they all have those icky vines?”
Altyn whipped about like a snake, meeting Maran’s eyes. “What vines?”
“I saw vines. They wiggled around her skin and eyes, like garden snakes.” Maran made little motions with her fingers, around her eyes, just to add to the point.
Altyn crossed her arms. “No one has ever mentioned that before, but the notes do talk about it. Zebra mentioned smoky snakes in his poetry, but I always thought that was just a trite metaphor. I never saw them myself, so this must just be a you thing. Interesting. You already see the world differently from the rest of us. As I said, Zarander, you now have a new normal. Come, let us visit the Ammelites.”
Standing Between Earth and Heaven Page 2
