Maran had never heard that prayer before. Likewise, she had never heard a single religious word out of Annalise before now.
Annalise lit straws from the candle, let them burn for a few seconds, then placed them into the oven. In the fading light, the fire quickly grew in intensity, casting red shadows across the room. The stove was alive. The kitchen was a kitchen again.
“Time to start loading the coal,” said Maran.
Just as Annalise dropped the first piece of coal in, the stove stopped drawing air, billowing smoke into the room.
“I did it right, ma’am! I did it right!” said Annalise, waving into the stove. “What’s going on?” She turned away, eyes watering.
“I don’t know. You did it right.”
A sound came from inside the stove. Something scrambled there. The piece of coal and flaming tinder rolled out. Then a copper-skinned foot emerged, shiny as a new penny, sending more wood scatting onto the kitchen floor. With a kick, a second foot emerged. The coppery feet flailed about in the billowing smoke.
Annalise stifled a scream.
Maran knew those feet. It was Zebra. What was Zebra doing in her stove? She did not have time to ask. She grabbed those feet and pulled, delivering a naked Schan back into the world.
“Zebra!” Maran yelled. She had last seen him far across the world. “Hold on, Annalise, he’s a friend.”
Maran propped Zebra up against the stove. With his emergence, the smoke flowed correctly again. The kitchen began clearing.
“Coal oil! Coal oil!” croaked Zebra.
“Annalise, get it! Run. There’s some down the hall.”
Annalise backpeddled out the door, clearly enamored, eyeing the naked Zebra.
Zebra shivered.
“I’ll get you something,” said Maran. She dashed downstairs and rifled through a closet. She found an old footman’s uniform. It would not fit, but it was better than nothing. When she returned, she found Zebra chugging down a bottle of coal oil and blatantly eying Annalise’s chest. Annalise returned the fascination.
Maran dropped the clothes onto Zebra’s lap, if only to please her own modesty. Zebra did not seem to care.
After drinking down a few bottles of coal oil, Zebra returned to something of his incomprehensible self. “What say you, here at the far end of day, with the nether time so triumphant? Why do you only now strike sparks and let the feeble tinders give forth their last vestige of life?”
“It’s the Feast of All Gods. We put out our fires. We only just lit them on again.”
“They are empty flames, filled with heat but feeling no passion. Stove, open your legs and receive my Lady’s gift.” Zebra took a swig of coal oil, swishing it about his mouth. He leaned into the stove, then spit out the oil in a gout of the hottest, brightest flame that Maran ever saw. Intuitively, she knew that this was sacred flame, from Queen Plasm herself, carried by Zebra into this world.
Zebra dropped back down again, looking relieved. “No purer oven there be o’er this world or under it.”
Of all the things that Maran could ask, she started with the stupidest one. “Why were you in my stove?” Maran kicked herself for asking it.
“Lovers talk a thousand times of falling upon their daggers in anguish, and then to visit the gentle arms of the White Lady, while I fall a thousand times upon my daggers in anguish, and am reborn a thousand times by burning Passion.”
Maran knew that Zebra did not die, but rather always found himself reborn in fire. He used that trick to travel the world, usually by killing himself first, reprehensible as that might be. He must have tried traveling back to the city a few days ago, but there were no fires large enough to be reborn in. Where was he for those few days? Was he with the Queen of Fire?
With fluid grace, Zebra stood. He slowly dressed, utterly unconcerned about his company and Annalise’s wandering eyes.
“Poets give us questions while philosophers give us answers. I will poetize. Maran, servant of the Mistress that I long to meet. Even the fortunate clay has met my Mistress and been transformed to earthen bone. Why, then, stand you upon this tiled floor?”
These question and answer sessions with Zebra always seemed a farce. It was like a fight between a frog and a dragonfly. Still, Maran croaked as well as she could, knowing that he already had an answer inside his head. “This is my kitchen. Why else would I be here?”
“Why do you break bread with those who use an axe to cut the loaf?”
“I’m a cook.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
“What else should I be doing?”
“Digging in the ground and debating with princes.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Do my question confuse? Am I but a wisp flying along in the night, tricking your sight, and soon leading to crocodiles? Am I the waves to the fire? Am I the wind to the stone? Offer your ear to me, dear audience, and answer my question anew. Who gives you your truest wages?”
“Kurfurstin Strikke. I work for Kurfurstin Strikke.”
“How does a drunkard disguised as a seamstress become a Kurfurstin?”
“She’s a Saargi,” explained Maran.
“Dumb decision. I would have elected Jasper. I know what his agenda is.”
“What do you think her agenda is?” Zebra knew something, so that meant wandering through his word mazes to find out what.
“Beside getting drunk and getting laid?”
“Yes. That seems like a simple agenda. What else could she want?”
Zebra thought for a moment. “Nothing,” he said, “And nothing is the canvas of infinity. Surely someone will propose that a something should be there, and that is a very dangerous thing. Who can guess what it will be? What you can guess is who it will be. Myself, I would have picked Jasper. You know which painting he paints. More fun, too, I think. All too sober and easier to heckle.”
“Altyn’s working for the Ironmongers, too. She’s straightening out the money. She’s down the hall where I used to be.”
Zebra shrugged at that. “She won’t last.”
“Why not?”
“Peahens don’t like iron cages.”
“Do you have anything useful to say?”
“No.”
Maran took a dare. “Ever heard of Imeni?”
Zebra reacted with fire. Maran could swear she saw his eyes light up.
“You hear sirens upon the wind and wonder what they mean. Be careful of the tombs you open, lest you let out something more than gold.”
“Just tell me, Zebra. This is important.”
Zebra thought for a moment, then thought.
Here’s a rhyme
About a time
So sublime
It was a crime
Two peahens
Flown the coop
Land in bars
Iron dupe.
One does questions
One does kills
Finding secrets
As Saargi wills
Serpent friend
Red as blood
Smoke is friend
Red as blood
Who knows secrets?
Who sees far?
What burns eyes?
What veils war?
Besides being bad poetry, Zebra’s answer was even more incomprehensible than Maran had expected. “I don’t know what that means.”
Done dressing, Zebra bowed, staring Maran straight in the eye. “You do not know? Stop talking and thinking and there is nothing you will not be able to know.”
Gifts of the New Year
When Strikke arrived at the great feast, the crowd fell silent. Her new dress shimmered gold in the lamplight, throwing off colors in every direction. A dragon swirled about her skirt, its head resting in her lap. Firm lacing and steel boning lifted her hefty chest. Every finger bore a ring. Both arms were packed with gold bracelets. She wore at least five necklaces. On her head, she wore her brother’s non-rusting crown, wrought of strange steel.
A wrinkled wom
an near Maran muttered, “There are stories about dresses of gold to honor the Duke. I never thought I would see one.”
Looking into the crowd, Maran saw more gold. Everyone wore every piece of gold that they owned, and in her heart, she knew that almost every piece bore blood.
The Ironmongers were not poor. There was more wealth in this room than in all the Loam lands. Each guild member hoarded his own riches, even at the expense of his own guild. Was this the sharing that the Great Dwarven Union promised?
If Maran knew a way to divorce these dwarves from their gold, she would do so. She could, she supposed, make a declaration from the Iron Duke that each person should submit gold, then use that gold to repay the humans, but that would be wrong. A lie would not bring justice.
Once Maran lied, how many other lies could she tell? Where should she stop? She could easily override Strikke constantly, making her appointment as Kurfurstin meaningless. That idea seemed attractive at first, but that made a mockery of Strikke’s election. The guild had elected her by its own rules, and Maran felt obliged to honor the rank and file. She was there to support the Kurfurstin, not replace her.
With the feasting begun, Maran had no more time to think or philosophize. She and Annalise were preparing two full meals for the Kurfurstin’s table. The two of them could barely keep up. At least Maran got to use Cookie’s tripod, setting it up in the hall, rather than the busier kitchen downstairs. In front of the guests, Maran did not merely cook the food, she performed, using every cooking trick that her grandmother had taught her to entertain the table. If she could show off, she did show off. In her grandmother’s opinion, the better she showed off, the more she showed the greatness of the Kurfurstin. Great rulers should have great servants.
Dinner took a long time. An Ironmonger feast was a long and inebriated occasion. It was literally their goal to feast until dawn. That brought good luck. That helped bring in a bountiful new year. Thankfully, everything went well and the table toasted their cooks with great satisfaction.
“Just like the old days!” pronounced Gamstadt. “Cookie would be proud!”
Predawn lit the sky as Maran and Annalise carried their equipment back to the kitchen.
“Get some sleep,” Maran told Annalise. “I’ll wake you up for lunch. I’ll get things situated here. We’ll leave the leftovers out for the guards.”
Annalise skipped downstairs to her new room. How did she have that much energy?
“Maran,” begged Osei’s voice from the doorway. Maran turned to see Osei carrying Kurfurstin Strikke over his shoulder as easily as a wave carries a boat. “I need help with the Kurfurstin. She can’t sleep in this dress and I can’t undress her. I can’t find Weber.”
For a moment, that much more work seemed like too much to Maran, but that moment passed. “I’ll take care of it.”
Osei took Strikke down to her room and dropped her onto her bed. He bowed respectfully, then left.
As gently as she could, Maran removed the necklaces from Strikke’s neck, hanging them on the chair. She piled the bracelets and rings onto the chair as well. Unlacing the dress took a considerable time, as the dress could not be removed until it was entirely undone. Why did she dress in such impractical clothes?
By the time that Strikke was in bed, the sun peeked in. The room already felt a little hot. Maran closed the drapes. They were undyed wool, rough to her hand and completely unlike Strikke’s dress. They were like the curtains in her own home, so far away in the mountains.
Looking at that pile of gold, Maran doubted her place here again. Everyone was right. What was she doing here? Did she really belong in a place where the rulers wore glittering gowns of stolen gold while so many made do with undyed wool? Or was Strikke just playing a part, like those Ammelites did, dressing herself in the costume that her people demanded?
Strikke had a way of seeing people in costume. She called it her seamstress sight. She had learned it from elves. What did this costume say of Strikke? Maran had to admit that it seemed glorious, self assured, and sparkling. If Maran had to guess anything, it was that Strikke saw herself leading the Ironmongers to a new golden age. Had she made this legendary dress because she herself would be a legend? That hewed too close to prophecy for Maran. Destiny was dead and rotting in her long lost grave. Even so, Strikke might not be able to tell the future, but she could see where you were going, and Strikke saw herself heading someplace very impressive.
A yawn interrupted Maran’s thought. She was just too tired to think about this too much. There was lots of deep thinking that she needed to do, about too many things, but she had neither the time nor the attention to spare. Maybe she could think tomorrow after she slept some.
After exiting Strikke’s room, Maran went to her own room and absently took off her good overdress. She wore it for special occasions, such as the feast. Now that she was back into routine, she could wear her plain overdress again.
A knock at the door surprised Maran. Weber was there.
“Finished this for you, ma’am,” Weber said, holding something forth. She saw Maran’s confusion. “This is Annalise’s dress and her apron. Do you remember? You had them commissioned.”
Maran had completely forgotten. “Oh, I remember now. I did. Thank you. I need to give this to Annalise today.”
“I hadn’t forgotten, ma’am. I did a good job for her. The fit should be fine. If you have any trouble, just have Annalise come across the hall and I’ll fix it. I’m off to sleep. I haven’t seen the back of my eyelids in days.”
Maran would like sleep, too, but she had lied to Annalise about sleeping herself. There was a party tonight and far too much to do. Annalise would not survive with so little sleep, but Maran could do it. There was just one more day to go, and then she would be able to rest. She would settle into routine. She yearned for routine.
In the meantime, she had preparations for the Kurfurstin Mother’s memorial feast to hammer out.
At lunchtime, Maran presented Annalise with the new dress. “There’s a party tonight, and you need to look your best. I am honored to present you with a new dress and a new apron, as is traditional for this holiday. Your apron is made of the same elven cloth that my dress is. This stuff is tough. It won’t burn, tear, or stain. At least, I haven’t found a way yet. Put them on. I want to see.”
Annalise glowed at the present, holding the dress to herself. “I never had a new pretty before. I did the standing and pins and needles, but it’s really here now for keeps. Oh, ma’am, you’re such a light.”
Annalise put her new dress on. It looked very plain on her, yet it looked far better than the castoffs she had woren before. She twirled in it. “I love it.”
“That really works on you. You look gorgeous. I had never quite realized how pretty you are.”
“I’m nothing, ma’am.”
“I quite disagree. Now I see why Zebra stared at you so. And keep away from him. I won’t have you fooling around with him. He’s trouble for you. His heart burns like a taper. Tomorrow he’ll be onto another love. Just stay away from him, no matter how pretty he is.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Annalise, clearly hesitant to listen, but Maran knew better than she did and would have it no other way.
Annalise followed Maran up to the newly cleaned kitchen. Cookie’s knives caught Maran’s eyes. Maran already had a set of knives, and could not bear to see these idle, so she made a snap decision about them.
“I have another present as well. Do you see these knives? They were left by the last cook, who everyone called Cookie. My grandfather made those knives. I don’t need them, so I’m giving them to you. If you are going to be a cook, you need good knives.”
“Oh, ma’am. I’m going to cry, ma’am,” said Annalise.
“Now get working. Slice that haunch into thin slices, then chop the potatoes. We need lots of mashed potatoes for the New Year. Mashed potatoes are good luck.”
Before either could move, the kitchen door banged open with the force of an
sledgehammer. Maran spun to see Lord Svero stride into the room. To her surprise, Lord Svero was bald. More than that, Lord Svero had no beard.
Among the Hadeans, an archaic tradition held that when an elder of the family dies, the male children shave their heads and beards as a sign of mourning. Svero had followed this tradition. It unnerved Maran, yet it felt powerful. Lord Svero had a battered and craggy face, much abused by his years of campaigning.
To many dwarves, Lord Svero was everything that a dwarf should be. He walked like the best of all dwarves, talked like the best of all dwarves, and was worshipped as the best of all dwarves. He had once been the Chairman of the Union, before he was exiled from the city. He had once been General of the Army against the Malachites. He had once been Kurfurst of the Ironmongers. He had also been a callous butcher, a brutal dictator, and a slaver. As far as Maran could tell, none of those facts bothered the man.
What was Svero doing here? She had not seem him during the feast, but that was not significant. Maran had mostly seen own cooking during the feast. Shouldn’t he be in exile? Wouldn’t he get arrested or something? Surely Kommissar Jasper would arrest him.
None of that mattered. Politeness mattered more. Maran curtsied. Annalise, unsure, curtsied as well, clearly having no idea who Lord Svero was, but absolutely sure that he was someone important.
Svero pointed to Maran. “Meister, come across the hall. Have your scull bring us stout for the New Year. It’s time to honor my ancestors, all of them, even my mother.”
Maran followed Svero across the hall to the the Kurfurstin suite, now far less of a mess than it had been. Now that it was somewhat cleaned up, Maran appreciated how huge it was. Once everything was done, it should look wonderful.
The curtains caught Maran’s eye. The seamstresses were still busy hanging them. Maran had heard them this morning. “Stay out of the curtains!” they had yelled at their small children. The seamstresses were nowhere to be seen now. Svero had likely chased them out. Instead, Gamstadt and Quema stood there waiting for Maran.
Standing Between Earth and Heaven Page 13
