With weak volume, Bertra spoke. “Is this what you meant, Altyn? Did you know? I feel betrayed by you for this.”
Altyn spoke loudly back, “Maran is not evil.”
“I have no doubts of that, but the Ancient One is still the Ancient One. Never has she appeared for us. Never. It is remarkable if one god appears in a story. Two gods appearing happens once or twice a generation. That gets remembered. When I was an assistant cantor, those were the first stories that I learned. Those stories are important and we routinely play through them. But three gods? She spoke to three gods, Altyn, and one of them was the Ancient One. Nobody speaks to the Ancient One. I don’t know what this means.”
“Neither do I,” replied Maran. “And you forgot to include Eth, so that would be four gods.”
Bertra made the sign against evil again. “Four gods, my heavens. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Let me pray about this. Now take that woman from this house.”
Commotions and Promotions
Maran had a lot to think about as she walked home. People were scared of her. How did that happen? Altyn said she was doing the wrong thing. What was the right thing? She was in the wrong place. Where should she be? What could she do differently? In all honesty, Maran could not answer those questions.
Arriving back at the Ironmongers’ gate, Maran smiled at the guards. They returned her smile with impassive faces and pro forma salutes, which marked a distinct improvement in their attitude toward her. The first time she had come to the forge, the guards had spit at her and had forced her to use the human gate. Now they saluted. Sadly, most of that new respect came from her meeting the Iron Duke, god of the Ironmongers; that had made Maran special in their eyes. The same deference would not be applied to her own people, who would still be forced through the human gate. Those guards feared her but they did not respect her.
In the yard, the remaining drifters busily arranged tables for the evening’s feast. Maran had to stop herself there. “Drifter” was a derogatory term. They were humans. Although many had come to this slum outside the city, many were born here as well. They celebrated this holiday with dwarves, just as their ancestors had allied with dwarves. They were equally at home here. They were fellow residents, not drifters.
The humans arranged the tables without chairs. The Ironmongers would eat cold food standing. Long ago, before the Battle of Knessex, the armies had eaten standing up as they forced marched to Lagan. Tonight’s simple fare, and the simple fare of the next few days, would commemorate that hardship.
The prepared food was quite traditional. The Ironmongers would eat cold roasted horse with horseradish, pickles, and sweet buns. There was also enough short beer for everyone to drink their fill twice over.
Earlier, Maran had heard some Ironmongers complaining of their privation in fasting. They would go without and they resented it. Had they ever fasted? Had they ever truly gone without? Maran remembered the expulsions after the Day of Hard Forgiveness. All the Loam people were ordered to leave Jura City immediately. No one was prepared. She knew what it was to walk until you could no longer walk. She remembered eating dandelions along the road. They had no sweet buns. They had no horseradish. All they had were bloody feet and dysentery. These Ironmongers did not know privation. Even their meager meals were feasts.
“Ma’am!” yelled a squeaky voice. Annalise ran up to her, her blue eyes intent against her black hair. “There’s your sails, ma’am! Were you away with the tide? People keep begging me answer if you please. You need to tell them where to.”
Maran always had trouble understanding her scullery maid. Annalise was a Demmarian, and the Demmarians never quite learned to speak Hadean correctly. They had this mixed-up way of saying things. That made it hard for Maran to understand Annalise, but once she had gotten used to the phrasing, Annalise usually made sense, except when she didn’t.
“I was visiting Miss Altyn.”
“Oh, no! Ma’am, you were visiting HER? She’s one of those wind witches of Groppekunta Street. Be careful ma’am, they say that pair went crazy. Stay away from them.”
The accusations against Altyn caught Maran off guard, and given what she knew of Altyn, seemed entirely fanciful. The reference to ‘pair’ caught her attention, though. This was the first time that Maran had heard about two Astreans.
“Did you say a pair of wind witches? Who was the other?”
“That was Imeni Uul, ma’am. They say that Miss Altyn went crazy, chopped up her body and scattered it around Irontown. Miss Imeni’s ghost walks Groppekunta Street searching for all the pieces.”
“This is absolutely outlandish. Where did you hear that from?”
“Everybody know it, ma’am. It’s fact.”
“How about we change the topic. Who wants what?” asked Maran.
Annalise made contradictory motions with her arms. “There’s this guy with the brown and white beard who begged about the ale keg, and this other woman who begged a table change, and I forget the others. Oh, and pickles. It’s a Relentless Legion of beggings.”
“From now on, tell them to talk to Freifrau Quema. She is still in charge of the feast.”
“Oh, yeah, the Freifrau wants you on deck. Schnell.”
Reliably, Annalise never related information in the proper order. Messages from Freifrau Quema should have been mentioned first.
Traditionally, as the Kurfurstin’s cook, Maran was in charge of this festival. In practice, as Freifrau Quema had run this festival for several decades, she was in charge and Maran was learning the particulars from her. In reality, Quema would always run the festival as she was the trained logician.
On entering the big kitchens, Maran found the place unnaturally cool and quiet. She was used to the hustle and the shouting as cooks raced to complete their tasks. Now the fires were cold in honor of the festival. A few people worked at odd tasks, but they worked quietly.
Quema herself was busily inventorying each station. Maran approached her.
“Freifrau, you asked for me?”
“Hello, Maran. Yes, come on back to my office for a few minutes.”
Quema led them back to her office. Maran prepared to sit in a chair, but Quema shook her head. “Back here,” she motioned.
Behind Quema’s office was her small bedroom. It was a crowded little room, with a bed and several old but beautiful chairs, all in Loamish style. Their leather covers had ripped long ago. Light came in through two narrow windows rigged with mirrors. Before the Loam were kicked out of Jura City, they had run this kitchen. Maran found it odd that a Hadean would keep the Loam décor.
“Do you want some mint tea?” asked Quema, sitting. “I got get the Steamfitters to tap the boiler for me. That big water tank stays hot for days. I will not be denied my tea.”
Maran poured the tea for them, holding the tea pot high in the air, letting the tea stream down a long way, yet spilling nothing.
“How do you do that?” asked Quema. “I never quite learned that trick.”
“Practice, ma’am. My grandmother insisted that we all serve tea properly. It’s part of being a proper cook. Nobody is born a cook.”
“I miss those days,” said Quema. “I am so glad to have a Loam back in the kitchen. It brings back my childhood. I remember Cookie, our cook, trying to teach me how to do that. I miss Cookie. After my mother died, Cookie became my mother.”
Quema raised her cup. “Here’s to Auntie Cookie, who made a better mother than my stepmother. And here’s to a few days of quiet and a freshly cleaned kitchen.”
Maran smiled and raised her cup in return. The events of the last few weeks had been hard on everyone and nobody needed more upheaval.
Quema put down her cup. “I have some bad news, Maran. I talked to Burggraf Siberhaus. We don’t have the cash to pay off those forced laborers. There’s no way that we can make those payments. Siberhaus made it quite clear, and in no uncertain terms, that we lack funds.”
“I’ll go over his head. I’ll talk to the Kurfurstin about
this. I made a promise to get them their pay.”
“This will require more than a talk. I’ve known the Burggraf most of my life. Mathematically, he is compulsively honest. If he says that the money doesn’t work, then it doesn’t work.”
“So where does that put us? I promised those people their back pay, and I stand by my promises. We must be fair.”
“I don’t know. That’s for you and the Kurfurstin to work out. It’s not my call.”
“Of course it’s your call. Why wouldn’t it be?”
Quema shook her head. “That’s the other piece of news.”
“She fired you? I don’t believe that.”
“No. I’m not fired. I have a better offer, and I’m accepting.”
“Who? What?”
“Lord Svero. He snuck in this morning while you were away. He gave me a terrific offer. He wants me for Burggraf for his new temple up in Langurud. I accepted.”
“What about all the good we’re doing here?”
“You are here. You’ll keep an eye on things. The bigger concern is my brother. Without a firm hand, he’ll fall back on his usual ways. This way, I’ll be in charge of the servants and can hold him accountable.”
Maran had to admit that Quema’s logic seemed prudent. Lord Svero had been using slave labor for his charcoal mine. The man had no shame in using every opportunity that came to him without once measuring the value of someone’s life. Having his older sister Quema there would temper his misjudgments.
Quema continued, “I’ll be in charge of support staffing and logistical operations. That’s fancy for hiring and firing the servants, and managing supplies.”
“That is terrific for you. Congratulations.”
“I look forward to working with your people out in Langurud. They will be invaluable to me. We’ll need to board our workers until we can get housing built.”
Maran realized that “getting housing built” meant an order coming down from the Agricultural Authority telling the Loam that they had to build housing in addition to their staggering farm workload.
“Ma’am, keep in mind that we build out of sod, clay, or straw bales. That won’t be good for your temple.”
“That will be good enough for the Kalts. If you people live in those kind of buildings, I’m sure that the Kalts can. The temple proper will be constructed of iron and steel frames.”
“When do you resign?” asked Maran.
“New Year’s Day. That’s the last day of the feast. The kitchen should return to normal. It should run itself until my sister, umm, I mean the Kurfurstin, can find a replacement for me. The meisters know what to do.”
“So, who tells Strikke?”
“You.”
“Why me?”
“You are the Eighth Rod. You outrank me.”
“No. You really should do this yourself.”
“I should, but I won’t.”
“That makes no sense. I’m not from here, remember. Please explain this to me.”
“I just don’t like going up there. You know that. I don’t have the heart any more. I ask so little of you, Maran. I gave you your break here. Just deliver my message upstairs. That’s all that I ask.”
Maran put down her tea. “Yes, ma’am. I will deliver your message. I should go now. The Kurfurstin needs to know. Thank you for the tea. I hope that we find some more time, soon.”
“Take some time, Maran. Take it. No one will give it to you.”
“I’ll remember that, ma’am.”
A few minutes later, Maran slowly climbed the stairs to find Kurfurstin Strikke.
Up near the suites, unusual voices floated down the corridor. Maran looked into the conference room to discover a gaggle of human seamstresses drinking and gossiping away. Some were playing tiles as they sewed. They had all sorts of clothing and curtains and empty pitchers spread out on the great iron conference table. By all measures, it looked like a golden clothing bomb had gone off in the room. Maran recognized the women as Strikke’s employees from her seamstress business.
“Hello,” said Maran, waving in. “Where is your meister?”
Weber waved back, “She’s down the hall holding her tongue. I never thought that would happen.”
Outside the Kurfurstin Mother’s suite, the protectors standing guard showed relief at Maran’s arrival, which made Maran wary. What could leave the protectors happy to see her? Maran hesitated a moment, then decided to just stride forward.
In the foyer, Maran found a well-dressed Hadean woman staunching a bloody nose. She eyed Maran, and it was clear that she did not want any sympathy from a lowlife like a Loam.
Inside the suite, Maran spotted Kurfurstin Strikke surrounded by high-ranking Ironmonger women as she divided out her dead mother’s things. The drapes were off the windows and a woman was trying them on as a skirt. Some furniture was already missing. There were signs of fighting. One old woman was trying to peel off the gold seal from the the Kurfurstin Mother’s jade urn. Duty being duty, Maran felt she had to intervene.
“Ma’am, that’s the Kurfurstin Mother. Please leave her alone.”
“Filthy cockroach, I’m not afraid of her. My ancestors will kick the hell out of her ancestors.” The old woman elbowed Maran in the face.
Maran ignored the elbow, pushed back, then yanked the jade urn out of the woman’s hands and aimed for the safety of the kitchen. This did not dissuade the woman, who continued punching Maran about the head.
Protector Gamstadt, sitting in his usual chair, chuckled at their entrance. Osei, the human who was training to be the Kurfurstin’s new Lord Protector, stood as well, preparing to intervene.
On seeing the old Lord Protector, the bitter woman scowled. She knew better than to pick a fight with him. “I will speak to the Kurfurstin,” she threatened, turning away.
“She’s an ornery one,” said Gamstadt. “Osei, that woman makes up rules to suit her own purpose, and then makes up ten more rules besides. Just stick to your anvil around her. Don’t fall for her deceits. She’s just wind and thunder.”
More yelling came from outside. That old woman still wasn’t done yelling. Many voices joined in, then trailed off. Kurfurstin Strikke slammed into the kitchen, her face flush. “Maran! Hon, what are you doing to me? Don’t insult those women out there. They’re your betters. If you were anybody else, you’d be fired.”
“Ma’am, I was defending your mother. We have to honor her, whether you like it or not. We don’t want her insulted.”
Kurfurstin Strikke put her hands on her deep hips. “Honey, trust me, we don’t want THEM insulted. That woman’s son died in the boiler explosion. I have to pay her off. I have people who voted for me. I have to pay them off. Then there are all my mother’s debts. We have to pay those off. We have no spare money. All I have is my mother’s possessions, and I need to give them all away. Those women need to know that I’m not holding back. Everything is going except the bed, and that’s only because it’s bad luck to get a widow’s bed.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
Strikke waved Maran off. She leaned against the door jam. “Don’t worry about it. Everything would have to go anyway. My mother had horrible taste. I have no clue how she lived in a room with auburn drapes and Ingot-Revival furniture. Ugly. I never could talk her into redecorating.”
Gamstadt cleared his throat. “Maran, just so that you know, the women out there – those most proper Hadean women out there – are permanently insulted. Any slight will be remembered for generations to come, handed down from mother to daughter. They will forge a shield of iron, and etch into it this day, forever committing to memory the details of your heinous acts. Forever you shall be Maran the Insulter of Your Betters.”
Maran giggled at that. “I am truly sorry, sirs and ma’am. I only came up to have a deliver a message. Ma’am, I need to talk.”
Strikke picked up a crystal decanter and took a swig of sherry. “That should have been ma’am and sirs. I’m the highest rank, so I go first. Now, out with
it.”
A knock at the kitchen door caught interrupted Maran. Strikke moved out of the way and allowed Burggraf Siberhaus, the guildhall manager, to walk in. He bowed formally.
“May I have a moment, Kurfurstin?”
“Can it wait? Whatever it is, just handle it.”
Siberhaus walked in front of Strikke, then spoke precisely.
“Kurfurstin, it is my sad duty to tender my resignation.”
Strikke sat down.
Siberhaus continued. “Working for this guildhall has been a privilege, ma’am. Your father, Kurfurst Verum, raised me from the ranks, and I have repaid him with faithful service. Only an extraordinary offer could induce me to leave. Lord Svero tendered me such an offer.
“By order of the Iron Duke, Lord Svero is building a new temple to the God of Iron in Langurud and is finally bringing those Agslavit Loam into line. He offered me the position of temple treasurer. I will handle the finances for the construction and the ongoing finances once the temple becomes operational. How could I refuse that offer? How could I refuse the call of our god?
“As there is much to do, I tender my resignation, effective immediately.”
Strikke sighed. “I expected you to leave, but I didn’t expect this so soon. Can you put this off? The finances are a wreck and I need a good Burggraf.”
“No, ma’am. When the Iron Duke commands, I obey.”
“I should stop arguing. I know your stubborn ass too well. Fine, fine. I accept your resignation, but I’m not happy about it.”
“Ma’am, I am confident that you will find a suitable replacement. May I be excused?”
“Yes.” Strikke waved Siberhaus away, and so he bowed and left.
Strikke took another swig of sherry from the decanter. “Terrific. Now I’m down a Burggraf. Get Quema up here. She’s getting that promotion that she always wanted. Maran, refill this.”
Maran shook her head. “Quema’s resigning, too. She just told me.”
“Quema, too? Why didn’t you tell me? Gammy, how can Ro do this to me?”
Gamstadt shrugged. “What did you expect? It’s a new temple. Half this guild would kiss elves just to work this project. The other half would kiss elves just because Ro said so.”
Standing Between Earth and Heaven Page 4
