Altyn poured her concoction into the man’s ear. When then methodically returned her things to her bag, she showed no signs of any emotion other than annoyance.
Neighbors, curious about the wailing, crowded the door as they left. All showed deference to Altyn.
“What will become of her,” Maran asked Altyn as they walked along the dusky streets.
“I have no idea. Most likely, she will sell herself as all these girls do. There is nothing else for them.”
“Can’t you do something for her?”
“Opium addicts? No, there’s nothing to be done. Their souls are irretrievably bound to the poppy. I have tried. They always descend back again, seeking out the dealers and the dens. Whether the poppy comes from Fera Nea or the Flintlands, opium wins. For the love of all the gods, don’t ever touch that stuff.”
“Can’t their surgeons or whoever do anything?”
“These people have no money for a proper healers, assuming that they could actually find a proper healer. No, they have nothing but charlatans and thieves who call themselves healers. You are fortunate that the Union takes care of its own. No dwarf need suffer this.”
“Did you really need to poison him?”
“I suggest that you abandon your rural righteousness. This is Jura City. Even with trade shut down in all directions and soldiers guarding all the borders, boycott runners still get the poppy through. I would stop it if I could, but such things are beyond me. In the end, desperate people act to soothe their own sufferings, and we are left to clean up the mess.”
Rules and Regulations
Two nights later, Maran dreamed again. Kirim fell again, flipping backwards. Maran shoved herself into the forsythias to break his fall, but instead of catching him, his halberd hit her. Maran awoke screaming, her head pierced by pain, curling into a fetal position, holding her head.
“By the secret in the stars, woman!” Altyn swore, fully awakened by the screaming. “Those damned dreams are not natural. You can’t ignore them. You have to see Osei about them.”
Breathing carefully, Maran could not respond. The world overwhelmed her. The only thing that she wanted in that moment was to cover herself and sleep forever. Of all the nightmares that she had, she hated this variation the most.
Altyn rubbed a glass rod, bringing it to a mild blue glow. She scribbled a note onto a paper, then set the paper free in the moonlight, fluttering away as a moth. “That should find him. Why didn’t Osei notice these dreams when you traveled with him?”
“I didn’t have bad dreams on his boat.”
“Hopefully you don’t have any more dreams tonight.”
“I hope not. I don’t like thinking about them. Give me something to think about. Tell me something about Astrea.”
Altyn sat silently for a few moments, then spoke, “When I a girl, I would find a balcony and watch land flowing by. I loved seeing the patterns in the lands below me. I would wonder what it must be like, living someplace where you could just walk, wherever you wanted, whenever you wanted. What must it be like to be free of the Saints? Down there seemed so romantic.
“The maid would always scold me when I climbed rails to get a better look over. If I stretched really far, I could even see a little of Lord Astrea, the Lord of Air himself, carrying about our fair city. I was little then, and I could still see such things. I always wished that he would recognize something great in me. He would take me forward, teach me all his secrets, and make me a storm-caller or First Minister. I would have my own bed and all the coal that I could burn and I would never be cold again.
“It doesn’t work that way, of course. The god never turns to see you. What god does? The last thing that you want is a god noticing you. They are terrible beings, but back then I didn’t know any better and I so yearned for it so. All the way through that hell that was school, I yearned for it. Then the day came when we broke one too many rules, and my triad got kicked off the city. They threw us out at twenty thousand feet into a thunderhead. That day, I learned what it was to land with your feet on the ground, have all the world open to you, and have nowhere to go.”
“That sounds awful. Will you ever go back?”
“I hope so. I detest this dirt. If I can earn enough money, I can buy a citizenship. If I can win enough fame, I might be asked back. Either way, I’ll be old before that happens.”
“What about your family? Will you ever see them?”
“I suppose so. My parents were kind enough. They were Alliance worshippers of the old school. They did not care much for either the Axiomites or the Transgressors. They thought that both philosophies lost the inner light, and that knowing that light outweighed anything that those philosophies might provide.”
Talk of the inner light reassured Maran. “Thank you. I can go to sleep now. I’m fine. The pain is gone.”
Maran couldn't get back to sleep. She desperately wished that Zebra would come around so that she would have all the excuse that she needed to stay awake.
There was nothing that Maran could touch or do to soothe herself. She could't settle into a familiar rhythm. She could't take her mind off her troubles by throwing herself into chores. Even wading down into the dirt did not soothe her.
Why had Altyn killed that man? Even in mercy, Maran found that idea repugnant. Did she feel herself so superior that she could decide who lived and died like you decide which way to walk? Could Maran stay in a house with such a person? Yet, if that man had no possible way to live, and would only die in horrible, slow misery, did she not show mercy? Did she just accelerate the will of the gods, rather than defy it? Was she merely an agent of certainty?
As to religion, Maran had no idea what Astreans believed. In the morning, while Maran cooked breakfast, she asked Altyn that question.
“Belief? I believe nothing. Philosophy has little room for beliefs. Everything that we know should be the product of experience or reason. It is experience that gives us a practical foundation to begin reason, but it is ultimately limited by the quality of observations that we make as well as the values that we bring and place upon experience.
“Ultimately, we must trust more to reason. It is reason that pries open the vaults of power and shows us the hidden truths of the universe. As the universe is inherently divine in origin, reason gives us an unfiltered and unambiguous view of its hierophany. With philosophy, we come to understand the depth of this hierophany and so achieve apotheosis.
“You, I am sure, see this world as fixed. It is what it is. You people are so literal that way. However, it is not fixed. It is imperfect and so it is changeable. We observe it and affect it. We interpret it. We shape it. This world is no more fixed that the seasons or the weather. It is in believing that the world is fixed that blinds most beings. They simply do not have the tools to break that veil before them and see what lies beyond.
“The only thing that is fixed is an essence. The essence is perfect, so it is unchanging and it is eternal. Everything has an essence, from the smallest flower to the greatest god. It is at once a simple truth and an incomprehensible truth. Everything wraps around it.
“What we understand as gods are but fictions built in order to interact with us. Call it hierophanic theatre. The seeming of gods has no relation to their essence. Think of it as street players, where someone announces that they are the Emperor, and everyone in the play acts as if they are really the Emperor, and even you and I as observers accept them as the Emperor. Start a new play, and someone else announces themselves as Emperor, and we accept this again. You see, it is the essence of the character that they share. That character exists independent of the person who plays that character.”
“Wait,” begged Maran. “That is too much.”
“Where did I lose you?”
“I don’t know. I followed that, I think, a little, but I really can’t think about it.”
“So what induced that question of religion? Do you wish to inquire about my actions last night?”
“Yes, ma’am.”<
br />
“Then you must be ignorant of the last step, where the patient screams for two hours as his soul is slowly ripped from his body. Death is certain. At that point, I merely help nature along.”
“It still seems awful.”
A bell rang at the door.
“Interrupted. You have a reprieve. Please answer the door. If it is a delivery, there are some half-pennies in a bowl so that you can pay the messenger.”
Maran answered the door and paid the messenger, bringing back a letter for Altyn, who perused the letter several times during breakfast.
“I happen to know that your people have some laws concerning your particular tribe, and I wanted to know if I could legally employ you, so I wrote Strikke and asked her a few questions. She is the only dwarf that I know who both knows the regulations and will answer questions. I will paraphrase her reply as she is rather colorful and tends to ramble.
“In matters of the law, Strikke emphasizes that we must look at the words of the law and not the political intent. No matter what that intent, the Kommissars only enforce the word of the law.
“Strikke notes that there are quite a few irregularities with the rules and regulations concerning employment in general and Loam in specific. We will begin with non-dwarves. Non-dwarves may not be employed in guild tasks or engage in activities covered by dwarven guilds, nor instructed in guild secrets. For example, a smith could not use a non-dwarf at the forge, which is a guild task. However, the master could hire a non-dwarf to chop wood, guard his person, or unload a cart of supplies as those activities are not specific to dwarves or dwarven guilds. Interestingly, the guild laws only cover Union guilds. Imperial guilds or common guilds do not fall under guild law.
“There are no similar restrictions on a non-dwarf hiring a dwarf. I can teach your any secret that I want and you are free to learn.”
“We de-guilded,” Maran said, “That doesn’t matter.”
“Could you elaborate?” Altyn responded.
“Our guilds significantly overlapped drifter trades. About twenty years ago, when we sat down in protest, we de-guilded, which meant that drifters could now do any of our restricted professions, such as carpentry, brewing, cheese making, pottery, and the like.”
“I see. That explains this next part. Loam are forbidden from teaching their unique skills to non-Loam. However, the law does not enumerate these unique skills. That is an important omission. As long as you can demonstrate that you teach something non-unique, you may teach a skill. As non-dwarves can already learn to cook, it follows that Loam can teach non-dwarves to cook. This means that you may safely work among drifters, and can take them on as employees or apprentices without regard to professional secrets. I suspect that the same is not true of your pottery, unless you find some able potters with similar skills.
“The Loam were expelled from Jura City by executive order of Chairman Svero, but not formally banished by the Slagsmal. That means that twenty years ago, your people only had to leave the city when Chairman Svero ordered it. There is nothing that keeps you from returning to the city other than fear of violence — which, considering my limited understanding of your recent history, is a well justified fear.
“A potential complicating factor is a more recent Outer Authority regulation that says that the Loam may only work on their own lands. Fortunately for the Loam, Emperor Thule himself granted the Loam those land rights, and nobody may revoke that right. As the Outer Authority sits on Loam Lands, that means that you can work anywhere in the Outer Authority that you wish.
“Finally, Strikke has included a pass to the Ironmonger forge and a letter of introduction. I must quote this next passage. ‘Do you really have a Loam there? Get here over here! Don’t let her say no. Don’t accept no for an answer. I can get that cockroach in the door. Talk to Freifrau Quema. Do you know the last time that I had a good curry? It’s been twenty years. What’s more dwarvish than curry? You should taste the sad excuses for stuffed grape leaves the drifters make. How am I supposed to throw a good party with this lousy food?’
“It seems, then, your skills are in demand.”
Maran sat there, quiet. Once again, her path pointed to the Ironmongers. She could not deny the coincidences.
“Have you thought about something like this? This is a unique opportunity for you. It is my culinary loss, of course, but far better for you. You can go inside that compound and maybe find a sympathetic ear.”
She was never going to get a better chance than this.
“I’ll do it. I’ll go into that forge. Let’s see what’s there.”
The Iron Road
Maran tossed restlessly as she slept, worried about the Ironmongers. What were they like? What did they believe? What would they do to her? Would they nail her to the wall?
In her dream, Maran found herself at a little table. The coffee tasted bitter and a little scalded, the flavor ruined by the poor brewing. The scone was dry. The woman at the table next to her talked too loudly about her lover. The fans squeaked. Dishes clanked. A train horn blared two great bursts, low then high, low then high.
A goddess walked in, and Maran knew it was a goddess right away. One does not doubt gods. She wore a simple black dress which followed her figure in simple lines, and likewise wore an equally simple hat upon her head, cocked ever so cleverly to one side. The goddess sat down at an instrument of some sort, putting on black-rimmed glasses. She smiled out to the audience in the coffee shop.
“Hello, it’s good to see you here again. I’m glad you came. I am Rem, your goddess of dreams and symbolism and poets and all sorts of other odd things. I always enjoy my little dreamers who come here to visit me and drink coffee. There’s a joke in there, I think. Maybe some day I’ll explain it to you. Could someone write that down for me? I’ll forget by the end of the story. I do that.” The goddess turned her attention towards her instrument, keying out random notes that somehow made a tune; a melancholic and random tune; a tune of tunes that runs through all the poets of the world, hemming and hawing and somehow lifting the words as she spoke in and among those notes, her voice another instrument in that little symphony of two. She spoke in harmony among the disharmony, creating a whole that looked nothing like its parts.
“I call this one ‘The Iron Road.’ I talk like it’s about me, but it’s not about me, but it could be. While I tell this story, it always seems as if I remember it this way. You see, I’m no good at telling stories. I’m not. Really. My stories are just a confused muddle of events that all seem to lump together. So, I make up a characters who can tell stories, and what wonderful stories they tell me. Here’s one of them.
“The Iron Road.
“Jack operated the spinning drawbridge for the Seventh Street river crossing. I call it a drawbridge because it opens and closes, but I really don’t know what those kind of spinning bridges are called. That section of track is located on a big pillar, and it turns to open, letting boats through, then it turns closed, to let the train cross.
“Jack was like a wayward uncle to us. On summer days and weekends, we would walk way south to the Battery Bridge, then back up through the shantytown to visit Jack. They say that Jack helped some union boss with something important, and that got him this job. All he had to do was to open and close the bridge when they called him. Other than that, he drank, smoked, played with his two dogs, and told us lies.
“Jack adored drink of all types, but he especially loved hard liquor. If you knew that, everything else got simple. You see, we were poor back then, and in the heat of the summer, we wanted to cross the bridge so that we could go to the old boat dock that the city used to operate, way back when, but they ran out of money for that, times being what they were. They put a big padlock on the door and forgot about it and it wasn’t too long before the squatters moved in. Those crows yanked all the canoes and rowboats out because that little shed was a pretty good place to live.
“Of course, there was a hitch to us getting to the boathouse and that was the river
. We always said that we would swim that river, but none of us ever did because everyone knew that there was a kid who tried and never made it. They found him face down at Battery Park, his face eaten off by turtles. It’s a true story, I swear. Everyone knew it.
“So, since we couldn’t swim the river, that left us with the ferry, the Battery Bridge, or the Seventh Street Bridge. Being boys, we decided that the fastest route was the best, and that was the Seventh Street Bridge. Some of us learned to cross it. It was sort of a rite of passage. When you learned to cross the Seventh Street Bridge, you were lifted into the realm of something better and braver and more of whatever more was.
“You needed a few things to get across. The first thing that you needed was a good, strong soup bone to distract the dogs. Did I mention the dogs? Jack had two dogs, and they were mean curs. They went after anybody and everybody except Jack. They adored Jack. He was god-on-earth and bacon all wrapped up into one. If you didn't want to be bacon yourself, you tossed that big old bone to the dogs and they would fight for it. It'd keep ‘em busy for hours.
“As for Jack, he liked his liquor hard and his women dark. We never found out where he found those crow women, but he found quite a few of 'em. Since we couldn’t bring him a woman, we had to bring him the liquor. The best thing to do was to sneak into somebody else’s house and nick their liquor, because all the gods in heaven help you if you got caught taking dad’s liquor. You’d be in for one sore backside and two black eyes, and certainly you never wanted to do that again. However, if you got caught nicking from the neighbors, he just slapped you about, but he only did that to make mom happy. Truth was, dad didn’t care much about the neighbors.
“So, with bone and bottle in hand, the time came to cross the bridge. You knew it was time because you would hear the whistle blow at the South Avenue crossing. That was your sign to get ready, but you had to wait. It was no use crossing the drawbridge when it was open and the only way it opened was for the train.
Weeds Among Stone (Jura City Book 1) Page 8