Also new to the room was an iron altar holding the urn of ashes that were the Kurfurstin Mother, along with trinkets of gold and silver.
Svero lit a thick cigar from one of the sacred lamps. “Maran,” he puffed, “I see confusion in your eyes. Why am I here? I’ll tell you why, because you are the Eighth Rod and you need to know these things. The law gives exiles, that’s me, the right to attend funerals. No mortal may stand between a dwarf and his ancestors. None. That would be impious. So, I have a few precious days here in the Union before I have to march out again and I intend to make the best of those days–but first, I need to be pious. The men like their leaders pious.
“Let’s start with New Year gifts. It’s a grand tradition. A pious leader shares with his people and gives gifts. I’ve had some of my boys digging into mounds around our Broadford Ironworks. They sent me some good stuff.”
Maran knew nothing about mounds, but she suspected that there was some degree of blasphemy or impiety going on. This was Svero.
Lord Svero took a silver spindle from the altar.
“For Strikke, I chose this silver and onyx spindle. It must have belonged to a queen. I understand that she drank herself under the table again, as usual. I will give it to her when she wakes up.”
Everyone passed the little treasure from person to person. Maran had never seen such a pretty spindle. After everyone had examined it, Svero placed it back onto his mother’s altar and removed another piece.
“For you, Quema, I chose this bracelet. The gold work is astonishing, especially for human work.” He handed it forth.
Quema accepted the bracelet modestly.
Svero took a pistol off the altar.
“Gamstadt, my old friend, here is a pistol. It’s new. It’s got that new percussion cap system on it. No more powder in a tray. Now that you aren’t a Lord Protector anymore, you can have one of these inventions. I hope you enjoy shooting people as much as I do.”
Gamstadt accepted the pistol and stuck it into his belt.
“I’ve got something for Maran, too, and I don’t want to hear your moralizing. You’re an Eighth Rod, and you should get gifts. Here’s your gift. It’s a little funerary friend.”
Out of his pocket, Svero took out a small ceramic skull, glazed white like a skeleton, with dirt still stuck in its teeth. Maran accepted the little figure cautiously. It fit neatly in the palm of her hand.
The skull looked like Loam work, and it seemed quite old. Its style was closer to the porcelain statue of the White Lady than it was to a modern style. That made the little skull extremely old. Maran had heard about funerary friends, but that was yet another custom little followed these days. Funerary friends were small statues buried with you to help you on your way to Endhaven. If Maran remembered correctly, skulls were buried with bad people to help them stay dead. That was disturbing. What kind of mound did this come out of?
“Thank you, sir,” Maran said, not sure whether those were the correct words or not.
With clinks and rattles, Annalise stumbled into the room with the drinks. Maran put the little skull into her apron and took the tray from Annalise. They handed the drinks around, starting with Svero, but skipping Quema. Maran gave Quema’s ale to Annalise. “Stay, because I said so.”
Annalise showed every bit of discomfort that she could, but Maran did not let her walk out. Even Quema showed a bit of wonder at this. “Annalise is my student,” said Maran, “and we look upon our students as family. I would have her stay here.”
Svero laughed, punching Maran hard in the shoulder. “Right you are. Your toast, Eighth Rod. May we appease the gods first and my mother never.”
Maran’s arm throbbed. Svero had not pulled his punch.
Drink raised, Maran spoke. “To the gods of the Alliance, both living and dead. To Justice, for showing us mercy. To the White Lady, for staying far away. To the Iron Duke, for his protection. May our new year be grand. Look to the Sun.”
“Iron kills dragons,” Svero replied.
They all drank.
Svero now took his drink and set it before his mother’s altar. “Hello, Mother. This is good ale. We tried it ourselves. No poison. This is for you. It’s the best in the house. Happy New Year.” Svero turned around and ignored the altar, any sense of respect now gone. He looked at Maran. “I will need you for a few days on guild business. We’re heading up to Langurud.”
Maran’s gut sank. She had no idea what lay behind this.
“Sir, what do you need me for?”
“Two things, and they should be obvious. I need to find a site suitable for the Iron Duke’s temple up in Langurud. I want your blessing as Eighth Rod. I also need to start negotiating with your Loam elders. They might not listen to me. Better if you start the talks for us. This is your temple I’m building, after all, and your people have to pay for it.”
“I have a party to cook for! Can you put this off for a day?”
“No. I only have so long to get business done. You can bet that Jasper is keeping an eye on me, just waiting for that inevitable mistake. That bastard wants to throw me into Joramy. I’d hate to be the first person to escape from the inescapable prison of the Kommissars. Better for them if that doesn’t happen. You see my dilemma, right? My only other option is to deploy a company and make people work at gunpoint. Your choice.”
Maran knew that Svero was good for his threats. “Do I need to make arrangements, sir? Do I need to get another cook?”
“That’s the good news. You’ll have time to cook for my sister’s party. I need to be here to point more guns. The meisters need to know that I support my sister, and that not supporting her is a very bad idea. That will take some time, as those damned meisters are hard-headed. I don’t see leaving before midnight.”
Maran stifled a groan. She had just spent one night awake. She did not want to spend yet another night awake.
“Yes, sir. May I go now? I have cooking to do. We haven’t even started the potatoes.”
“Gotta have potatoes,” echoed Svero. “That’s what I like about a Loam in the kitchen. You know the traditions.”
Maran took Annalise with her as she left.
“Looks like you’ll have to cook over the next few days, Annalise. Sorry to do this to you. I’ll write out a menu. Ask Quema for help.”
“I’m more worried about you, ma’am,” Annalise said. “Just tell it to me and I’ll remember. I can’t read.”
As they returned to their work, Maran began cooking in her head. She needed meals that Annalise could make on her own as she wouldn’t have an assistant cook or a scullery maid. Or could she after all? Annalise knew people down in the kitchen. The only reason that they didn’t work up here was because of the wicked old Kurfurstin Mother. That was no longer true.
“Why don’t you get somebody from the night shift to help you? I’ll send a note down to Quema with the information. I’ll also get you a scull.”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. Thank you ma’am.”
With a bang, Svero slammed his way back into the kitchen. This time, he walked over and settled himself in Gamstadt’s spot by the window. “I could use a bite. Anything, really.”
“Anything?” Maran asked, sounding mischievous.
Svero picked up on her tone. “Anything edible. You know what I mean. I rely on your professionalism.”
Maran tossed some leftovers from the night before into a pan and warmed them on the crowded stove. Once they began sizzling, she tossed a few eggs in as well. When they were firm, she presented the mess to Svero, who wolfed it down without comment.
Now sated, Svero stretched out his iron-heeled boots. “Meister Maran, you have inspired me. I wanted you to know that.”
Maran began chopping. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t you want to know how? That’s the brilliant part.”
“I fear the answer, sir.”
“Well, then, I’ll tell you. The other day, when those men were dead from that boiler explosion, you got all afluste
red about them. You got the gods up your ass. You embraced this whole religious thing. Amazingly enough, so have some of the folks around you. That’s a rare and powerful thing, and that got me thinking.
“You see, people care passionately about things, but they don’t always have reason to show it. They forget it, or hide it, or get too busy for it, but once you bring those things back into the open, because they matter to the person, it’s like relighting all the fires on New Year’s Day. Suddenly, that passion is back as powerful as it ever was. Do you follow?”
“Yes, sir. I don’t know what you are driving at, except that it must involve a war.”
Svero slammed his hand joyfully against the table. “Exactly! You are brilliant, like I thought. What great religious cause is on the table that has a big reward of gold at the end? Fera Nea. We lost her when I was young. Nobody thinks that she can be recaptured, and so nobody tries. But – and here’s the important but – Fera Nea is the big thing that everyone cares about but that everyone has forgotten.”
Maran made eye contact for her next question. “I thought that the city was impregnable. I thought no general alive could take that city.”
Svero smiled a hideous smile, full of hubris and confidence. “They said that before I was born. I can do it. In my head, I’ve been capturing that city for decades. When I was a captain there, I would get bored and work out ways to capture her. There are lots of ways to do it. It can be done.”
A dread came across Maran. “Begging your pardon, sir, but please do not claim me as your inspiration.”
“Why not? It gets better. Our retaking the city will require considerable arms. If we go in fighting for free, and inspire others to fight with us, we’ll sell lots of armor and weapons. When we retake Fera Nea, I’ll make sure that everyone shares generously in the gold, which will make many warlords rich. Naturally, they will want fancy armor and weapons to celebrate their new status. And also naturally, they will turn against each other and fight some more. They will require more armor and more weapons, which we will sell. In fact, I’ll make sure that we stay friends with everyone so that we can sell to both sides. All we have to do is to keep them fighting every time that they consider peace. It can’t fail.”
The whole idea sounded so ghastly to Maran that she could not speak.
“Horrible, sir, that is horrible.”
“But it’ll work. Our nature doesn’t change, Maran. People are bound to stab each other in the backs. You only thing more dangerous than an enemy is an ally. You can bank on that.”
The Road to Langurud
Maran and Annalise worked all day without sleep. As long as the sun was up, they both kept going. Maran opened up the lockbox, and they both ate the last of the coffee beans. Even so, they were both so tired that everything about the party seemed like a waking dream.
The Kurfurstin needed them to make the party go right but nothing did. Maran and Annalise made one mistake after another. Half their mistakes were made by their lack of sleep. The other half their mistakes were made by rushing around trying to cover over their previous mistakes. The guests would never know it, but almost every dish needed some sort of salvaging.
Thanks to Quema, the endeavor was not a total disaster. Quema had assigned herself as scullery maid. She would hear of nothing less. “I can wash dishes or I can be at my stepmother’s memorial party, and I guarantee you, I would far rather wash dishes.”
Quema showed herself a good dishwasher, too. She knew how to manage perfectly. “Years of campaign,” she said. “Dad made us work our way up through the ranks. I had to buy every promotion just like everyone else.”
The party ran well, as formal parties run, but few people were determined to stay long. After midnight, most of the attendees drifted off. Only Strikke and her gaggle of determined indigents stayed after that, drinking and playing tiles on Forsythe’s altar. The urn played open hand.
When Gamstadt came into the kitchen, Maran sighed. He didn’t need to say anything. It was time for her to head off to Langurud with Lord Svero.
“I’ll be ready in a few seconds,” said Maran.
“Both of you,” said Gamstadt, indicating both Maran and Quema.
“My bags are packed,” said Quema. “I’ll head to my room and be out front shortly.”
“You, too?” This was a new addition.
“Of course, me too. Once we pick a site, I need to start figuring out logistical issues. This is a working trip, Maran. Everyone has a job.”
Maran sighed, then walked back to her room. This whole mess kept getting more and more complicated. Things that seemed settled raised their heads, like the dead out of their graves. Why couldn’t Maran bury these things?
Not unexpectedly, on entering her room, Zebra was there sitting on the hearth and drinking a bottle of something expensive.
Zebra stared at Maran in his particular way. He was going to start into philosophizing again. Lack of sleep had her brain too addled to resist. The only real question was which question he would come up with this time.
“Are you a witch?” Zebra asked.
Maran found that a stupid question. “No, I am not a witch. You know that.”
“Are you a healer?” he asked.
“No. And I am too tired your word games.” The questions already aggravated her.
“Are you a teacher?”
“No, again. Zebra, what do you want? I can’t think.”
“What are you then?”
“I am awake.”
Maran grabbed her everyday overdress and plodded out, leaving the elf behind. She had no will for any more of this.
Stopping in Annalise’s room, Maran absently took off her fancy overdress and hat. It took all her remaining will to go through the motions of changing into her plain overdress. The elders would prefer seeing her in that.
Reality set in for Maran. She was going home to her own people. To her own country. To her own language. To her own rhythms. For a little while, this Ironmonger madness would be left behind. She would walk among small cozy houses on neatly arranged streets. The food on the table would be fresh, grown that day. No one would walk around armed, ready to kill at a moment’s notice. The rooms would smell right. The sounds would sound right. In the evening, spices would mix with wood smoke, creating something beautiful.
What a strange dream home was. How dearly she longed to fall asleep and fall into that dream.
In the meantime, she was still here among the Iromongers. She still dwelt in a hall of steel bound together with rivets. She still had a wagon to board, and a long journey with a brutal dictator and his cohorts, and she could not leave fast enough.
Knowing that her wishes grew no harvest, Maran walked herself slowly out the front door. The many-seated wagon sat there, lit only by a single lantern and the lights at the front door. Above, the stars twinkled in their spring brilliance, dancing about in their unfathomable patterns.
She did not need a shawl. The night was so warm and it was only spring.
The Horsebreaker strapped the luggage onto the back. Quema stood by watching. Siberhaus climbed in.
“Why exactly are we leaving so late?” asked Quema.
Gamstadt tossed a bag onto the wagon. “We have a list of enemies longer than most army trains. Fortunately, most of our enemies are sleeping off the Kurfurstin’s party.”
Footmen helped Quema and Maran onto the wagon. Maran sat next to the driver while Quema sat alone. Gamstadt sat next to Siberhaus.
Lord Svero walked out the front door, climbed up the wagon, and lay down in the back row using his coat as a pillow.
“Sir, can you really sleep like that?” Maran asked. If that worked, Maran wanted to do it, too.
“Of course I can!” answer Svero. “I can sleep any-damned-where I want to. Wake me up if you need anything.”
“He used to do that on campaign,” said Gamstadt. “Slept in the wagon during the day, then stayed up all night. It prevented assassinations.”
Maran nodded
a little, then suddenly realized that some time had passed by. That was a tiny sleep. Why weren’t they moving?
“Who are we waiting for?” Maran asked.
“Miss Altyn,” replied Quema.
“She’s coming?”
“Of course she is. This is official business. We might not need her, but we want to be sure that we wrap everything up quickly.”
In a flash of obviousness, it occurred to Maran that Lord Svero would know something about Imeni. Supposedly, Altyn used to work for him. If Altyn came along, she would never get the opportunity to ask Lord Svero about that.
Before Maran could ask, the door to the guildhall opened, spraying light onto the courtyard. Fleck emerged. He kept his voice low. “Miss Altyn sends her regrets. The Kurfurstin desires her continued assistance.”
“Outranked,” complained Svero. “We can do without her, so we had best be off. She can keep my sister happy. Driver, get us moving.”
The driver clicked a few times at the horses and the wagon rolled out, whisking them through the darkened yard, out the main gate, then onto the main road.
Their one lantern illuminated the road ahead, showing the occasional human walking along. The buildings passed as ghosts, each one dark and shadowed. The Food Bank, Strikke’s Shop, and the brilliant glow of Groppekunta Street flashed by. Soon the familiar buildings of Irontown drifted behind as they passed between the anonymous buildings that all looked the same.
If there was any time to ask about Imeni, this was it.
“Lord Svero, did you know Miss Altyn back in the war?”
“Know her? I hired her. I hired two Astreans, in fact, Miss Altyn and Miss Imeni. I was short on competent staff and those two were a literal godsend. If you could get over their constant bickering, they were amazing. They were the best damned field agents that I had.”
“You seem to respect them. May I ask about them? What exactly did they do?”
“The Slagsmal gave me command of the army, and I whipped those Malachites to the walls of Charyastos. I make it sound easy, but it was like forging steel the old fashioned way. We had the advantage of a pure dwarf army on our side, along the help of the Phoenix Empire. The Malachites had the advantage of numbers, because they used humans, but we had the strategic advantage, because we didn’t use humans.
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