Ammelites
Altyn guided Maran through the maze of makeshift buildings, shacks, and ramshackle assemblages that was the outer city. They passed houses made of sticks, boards, plaster, cloth, paper, and every other combination of materials. Humans were not allowed to live in Jura City except in special circumstances. Undaunted, the refugees built houses outside the walls according to no plan with whatever they could find. What they produced was a confusing mess. Without Altyn guiding, Maran would have been lost.
Above the buildings, to their right, Maran could sometimes see the Beehive, that wobbly pile of shacks constructed on top of the Ironmonger’s massive debris heap. By all that was just, those buildings ought to fall over in the first stiff wind. That last night’s storm hadn’t blown them down said something about appearances.
“Which section of town is this?” asked Maran.
“Shuffle Dog. More properly, Sefydlog. Mostly refugees from Cartref. They hate the Demmarians around the Beehive and they are hell bent on killing each other. Expect a few riots mid-summer. A couple dozen hotheads get killed every year, but sometime it’s a couple hundred.”
“That’s terrible.”
“It happens all the time. Everybody takes care of their own, and that’s about it. As long as they keep their nonsense out of Groppekunta Street, I let them be. If they cross that line, I cross that line.”
The next turn brought them near a graveyard. Maran could smell it before she saw it. The place looked overused and completely untended. From the look of the dirt and the haphazardly scattered bones, people just got buried anywhere that looked good.
To Maran’s eye, the graveyard was clearly Loamish. Enough of the original layout remained. This was a reminder that a hundred years ago, this area was farmland. Most of the outer city had been Loam farmland. When the refugees came, the Loam gave the land to them. They helped them build. They helped the refugees survive. Politically, they sided with the refugees and lost. The Ironmongers hunted down and executed the humans’ governments and kicked the Loam out of Jura City. No one was left to build or organize. The outer city sprawled into its current mess, just like the graveyard.
A group of unsavory men sat near the graveyard, shovels in hand. They were gravediggers waiting patiently for someone to die so that they could earn their living. They sat with their tools before them, showing themselves ready and willing to push their shovels through the putrefying corpses in a vain attempt to put somebody’s loved one in the overused ground.
There were so many corpses planted in the ground that Maran could literally feel them nearby, just as she could feel the roots of trees. It was like worms wiggling behind her eyes. How could the men there not feel that? Maran didn’t know. All she knew was that the graveyard was mismanaged, and she had no respect for that. As she walked past those men, she refused to meet their eyes lest she show her own disdain of their reckless office.
The care of a graveyard was holy work, just like farming or cooking. Fossors took care of graveyards. When the Loam court had defied Chairman Svero, the fossors died in the massacre that followed. Nobody buried them. The Ironmongers cremated them, just to prove their power. In their absence, unskilled hands took up the work.
Past the cemetery, Altyn brought them to a converted stable, which was the only proper building they had seen in blocks. Some care had gone into this building, as the boards were painted and well maintained. Maran could see evidence of both Loam and Kalt construction, and large amounts of human construction as well.
Altyn knocked on the front door using a copper knocker shaped like a rose.
After a brief wait, the door opened. A tall, thin, middle-aged human woman in a simple but archaic dress greeted them. She smiled at Altyn. “Good morning, Miss Altyn. It is a pleasure to see you.”
“Thank you, ostiary. My friend and I would like to see Cantor Bertra.”
The ostiary looked down at Maran, then showed great hesitation. “A dwarf, ma’am? I am not sure. You understand my caution. You know how the cantor feels.”
“Yes, I know. I will take responsibility. Please welcome us in.”
“It’s on you, ma’am.”
The ostiary backed away from the door, letting them into the hot and stuffy interior. Clearly there would be words between Altyn and the cantor, whatever a cantor was.
Altyn entered, so Maran followed, leaving the scorching sun behind. Without a word, the ostiary led them past many stalls now converted into cells. Burlap curtains, painted with designs, served as doors to the simple rooms. All the floors were dry, even after the last night’s downpour. Their beds were simple mats of straw.
In the corridor sat a single iron stove which provided heat in the winter. It was good Ironmonger work, well installed.
Bertra lived in a room better than most. This room was once the stable meister’s room. It had a packed clay floor, red like iron, and a large painting on the wall, gilded and colorful. The goddess in the picture had a golden sword in one hand and a severed head on a serving tray. Maran knew that goddess. That was Tythia, the Goddess of Justice and leader of the Alliance of the Sun. Other icons were there as well, but smaller, showing many other gods and goddesses. One icon was all white, showing nothing. Maran identified that as the White Lady. Outside of funerary depictions, she was simply never shown. She was often included as a white object of some sort.
The ostiary walked forward toward an archaically dressed elderly woman praying before the icons.
“Miss Altyn and guest are here to see you.”
The old human woman squinted in their direction, then frowned at seeing Maran. She showed her displeasure clearly, then let that emotion go. She looked back to Altyn and let a smile come over her face.
“Dear Miss Altyn, I am glad that you came to visit us during this festival. I hope that you are well.” The ostiary helped Bertra stand so that she could reached out her trembling hands.
Altyn took those blotched hands and held them, speaking loudly,.“Visiting is my pleasure, Cantor Bertra.”
Bertra’s voice turned curt. “Why do you bring a dwarf into our house? There is no work to be done.”
Altyn put her arm around Maran. “This is Maran of Zarand Agricultural Territory. She is a farmer and a cook. Her people have felt the heel of the Ironmongers.”
The old woman looked to Maran. “If Miss Altyn says that you are acceptable, then I will tolerate you. However, know that I remember your people. You said that you would stand with us through anything. Your king said that in this very room. Instead, you Loam crumbled when the Ironmongers killed your court. You stood by when our Judge was beheaded for spite. I was a fool to trust you then, and I will not be fooled again.
“I saw the suppression. We were not fortunate. That graveyard out there is filled to the brim with the people that your Svero killed. We’re not sure, but we think that he killed over ten thousand people, most especially every priest that he could find.”
With those accusations pronounced, Altyn hurriedly squeezed Bertra’s hand and held it closer. She spoke in her usual dry tone. “I would like your services. I want to vet Maran.”
“Altyn, of what use is that? It won’t accomplish anything. They are all doomed by Justice. She has hurled curses upon all of them. All dwarves are foul in her eyes.”
“I think that Maran will be find favor, ma’am. I found that she can see the most interesting things, yet she is blind about herself. That is why I need your help.”
“Not for anyone else, Altyn. Not for anyone else. I will only do this for you. But in exchange, I demand your services. Some of the new girls need voice lessons.”
“That is fair, ma’am.” From the way that Altyn sounded, no matter what the cantor had asked for, Altyn would have provided it.
Bertra stared at Maran with her dulling eyes. She looked several solid seconds, then turned back to Altyn. “Have you explained us? You haven’t. You just assume, as always. Not everyone is like you, Altyn. Most of us are ignorant.”
&
nbsp; Bertra turned to Maran. “We are the Ammelites, or more formally, the Sisters of Amelioration. We are followers of Justice. All that passes here is confidential. We do not traffic in secrets. You need not fear what we learn as all your life will be exposed. If you have committed crimes, they will be revealed. We are neither pretenders nor charlatans, unlike the other so-called prophets. Money is the least of our interests. Is this vetting voluntary or involuntary?”
Maran nodded. “Voluntary.”
“Then follow me.”
Together, they slowly walked to a huge room.
The room was dominated by a low stage and many chairs. The stage was about ten paces in each direction, forming a large square in the center of the great room. Circling the stage, chairs of many styles and sizes sat empty, waiting for the entertainment to begin.
The room was occupied by many women, all archaically dressed like Bertra and the ostiary. Most were busy chatting away, or otherwise occupying themselves with the looms that lined the walls. Even so, the room easily accommodated everyone. Ten times that number could fit into this room.
Bertra weakly clapped her hands together. “We have a vetting to do. Chorus, to the stage. Musicians, to your instruments. Initiates, to your places. Altyn and Maran, please choose a seat.”
Altyn chose an ornately carved, high-backed walnut chair with a tung oil finish. She sat down in it, perfectly postured. Maran chose the unfinished hickory bench next to Altyn’s chair.
Looking about the great room, Maran realized that the space used to be something else. If this room had once been a stable, then this area had likely been a horse ring.
Examining the complex of hickory beams that held up the ceiling, she saw that all the fittings were mortise and tenon, pinned with pegs. The bowing and bending of the wood told Maran that this roof was not Loamish work. Maran had never seen anyone steam and bend beams that big before.
Underfoot, the floor was entirely packed clay. It was all excellent work, and supremely even. This surprised Maran. Before this, the only human work she had seen were the lousy shacks that humans built. How could they construct this?
Altyn gestured toward the whole room. “This building wasn’t like this when I first came here. It was uninhabitable. The Ammelites lived here anyway and I lived with them. That was a bitter winter, as bitter as any in the field. When I got better, I paid for all these improvements. It may not look like much, but good roof work costs a substantial amount of cash. I found some Demmarian shipbuilders who still had their tools. They were still alive back then. This is their work. I made myself a pauper for Bertra, and I still owe her.”
Two elderly claps grabbed their attention. Bertra now stood on the stage supported by an initiate. “Friends,” said Bertra, “We need your attention. We are ready.”
Bertra turned towards a two-person-high burlap painting of Tythia, bare breasted, holding a bloody sword in her right hand hand and a severed head in her left. “Justicer Tythia, daughter and heir of Nomos, punisher of the wicked, protector of the weak, assayer of truth, and leader of the Alliance of the Sun, we bring a supplicant to you. We entreat you to look upon this woman and see her soul. Use us as your mouths, and tell us her story.”
Bertra addressed Maran. “Please, Maran, tell us about yourself.”
Maran could think of nothing to say, so she blurted out what she could, speaking far too fast. “I’m a widow, ma’am, and my people sent me out as a wayfarer. My job is to learn new things and bring that back to my people. I wound up working for the Ironmongers. I worked for the Missus. I was her cook.” Maran paused and whispered to Altyn, “Should I say the rest?”
Altyn nodded. “Yes, they do not repeat this. This is entirely between us.”
Maran took a breath, feeling the fear in herself. “The Missus did something to me. She initiated me into the Cult of the Iron Duke, and now I can see things, like soul hounds. Supposedly, she used Flintlander techniques. I don’t know what to do from here.”
Bertra hesitated for a moment, giving a angry glare to Altyn. “Thank you. Yes, we do need to vet you. The last Kurfurstin Mother was a wicked woman and deserved a brick in her mouth. Let us hope that this new Kurfurstin shows more wisdom.
“Choir, begin in your own time.”
With help, Bertra shuffled away from the stage and sat near Maran. The ostiary sat with her.
The players stayed silent for a moment, then one stepped forward. “I am Maran,” she stated. She turned to an invisible person, asking in a conversational tone, “What can I do for you?”
A different player stepped forward, speaking as deeply as she could. “Can you tell me where the knife maker is? I want to buy a knife.”
“He’s back in his workshop. Over there. Is he expecting you? What is your name?”
“My name is Kirim. I walked up from Sureh.”
Sitting in her chair, Maran looked about in a small panic. How did they know her husband’s name?
Altyn touched her arm. “This is normal.”
The Maran-player walked away. Kirim stared at her as she left. “Wow,” he said to himself.
Maran leaned over to Altyn. “I didn’t tell them that. How do they know that? Nobody else was even there!”
“That’s what they do. I can’t explain it. Nobody else does anything like this.”
A player brought out a bench. Another player played some bells. The chorus clapped three times.
Both Kirim and the Maran-player sat on a bench. They sat in silence, contemplating the room.
At the same time, the two turned to each other and said, “Married.”
With great drama, Kirim collapsed off the bench, as if from a great fall and the Maran-player rushed to him. “Kirim! Kirim!” Kirim stopped moving. The Maran-player wailed as deep and hurt a wail as Maran herself had wailed that day that Kirim had died. The Maran-player collapsed over the body and cried.
A new player stepped forward, then sat on the same bench watching the Maran-player cry.
“Maran, come sit with me,” she said in a deep voice.
“Yes, grandfather.” The Maran-player sat next to Grandfather.
Grandfather pretended to smoke his pipe. Again, they sat in silence. “The elders and I talked it over. It’s time for you to stop mourning. You’ve given her your due. You should be a wayfarer now. Will you go?”
“I don’t want to go.”
“It’s you or nobody.”
“I’m not done mourning, but I’ll go.”
The Maran-player stood up. Grandfather stood and removed the bench, returning to the chorus.
The Maran-player addressed the chorus. “Ironmongers are unclean. Why should I work for them?”
All the players answered in one unearthly voice. “It is true because it is beautiful.”
Another player wobbled out, using a pretend cane and staring with one squinted eye. She spoke with anger and with detachment. “I am the Kurfurstin Mother. I employ you. Lie down. Chew this opium. Obey me.”
Maran saw several of the chorus give each other strange looks and hesitate. They looked towards Bertra, and Bertra nodded. The unease left their faces.
The Maran-player lay down. “I dream.”
All the chorus now rushed forward, seemingly rending apart the Maran-player. Finished, they retreated back to the chorus.
One player walked forward. “I am Rem, Queen of Dreams, and I will sew you back together.”
The player for Rem paused and covered her mouth, then looked nervously toward Bertra, who once again nodded. Rem still did not move. Bertra motioned again, more forceful. Comforted, Rem returned to her part. She moved her arms about, miming the re-attachement of limbs, one by one. She sewed with great gestures. “Time for you to move on,” said Rem, who then returned to the chorus.
The Maran-player stumbled up and about.
All the chorus now formed into a single file and placed hands on each other’s shoulders, so forming a great chain. The chain moved sinuously. The lead player used her arms to m
ake a mouth that moved as she spoke, but when she spoke, all the chorus spoke together in a booming and terrible voice. “I am the Iron Duke, god of the Ironmongers.”
The entire chorus paused. This time, Bertra grew pale. She turned and stared deeply at Maran. The choir waited. After a little thought, Bertra nodded her head. The play continued.
The Maran-player knelt to the Iron Duke. “My Lord, we Loam did not know that we offended you. How can I make amends?”
“Sacrifice horses to me.” His voice reverberated through the room.
“If I do so, may I have a boon? It is just one soul that I desire.”
“That is a small thing.”
“Give me the soul of the Kurfurstin Mother.”
In surprise, one player uttered a profanity. “Sorry,” she confessed.
The Maran-player stood up, then the Iron Duke unlinked back into the chorus. A player twisted herself back into the Kurfurstin Mother, and so the Maran-player took her by the arm.
“Come, Auntie. I will take you to a better place.”
A motion next to Maran surprised her. Bertra stood of her own accord and strode forward as if she were ten thousand years more ancient than she was now. The chorus looked rather astonished. She moved so quickly that the ostiary could not help her. Bertra herself seemed a little surprised as she climbed swiftly onto the stage and sat down in the middle. The chorus surrounded her, making a cave with their arms.
Bertra intoned, “I am the Mother-of-Storms.”
Bertra covered her mouth.
The choir stopped. They looked at each other. All made the sign against evil.
Bertra shook her head. “I can’t do this. We can’t do this. I’m so sorry. That is all for now.” Bertra stood shakily, almost falling, waving the others away. A nearby player caught her in time.
Standing Between Earth and Heaven Page 3
