“Don’t tell me, cockroach, tell my scullery maid. You’ll deliver. If you need me, I’ll be over at the cock fights.”
Maran fumed as she watched Volkenrod walk out to bet against the other meisters. Stur welcomed him into the circle enthusiastically, patting his old friend on the back.
Maran went over to the night-shift area, plopped her knives down on the table, and looked at her lone worker. The drifter was a blue-eyed, black haired girl in a patched dress, but at least she had hands as hard as any cook’s.
“My name is Maran, and I’m a Loam meister cook. We’re going to make a Loam feast tonight, and we’re going to make it damned fast. We have a lot to do and no time to do it. What's your name?”
“Annalise, ma’am,” she squeaked.
“We have a lot to do tonight, Annalise. I ought to have a few more helpers, but I don’t. Instead, it’s just us. We’re both going to work very hard and very fast. Now, race over to the roasting pits and grab whatever meat you can get. Same with the vegetables. Same with the sauces. Get whatever you can. I’ll figure the rest out.”
Maran opened the stove to stoke it, only to find it at the right temperature and ready to cook.
“I already did that, ma’am.” said Annalise, “I’ll go get stuff now.”
Even as Maran figured out where everything was, her brain raced through possible menu items, settling on the quickest ones to make. Given random ingredients, she would make some very nontraditional items, meaning that she would either be praised gloriously or hung for blasphemy.
When Annalise brought back a brimming basket, the assembly began. To Maran’s pleasure, Annalise took direction well. The drifter learned fast, picking up Maran’s intent even as Maran explained the tasks.
An hour into the task, footmen began taking up whatever they could. The last dish went out almost an hour later. Given that she was short handed and unprepared, Maran called her meal a grand success. Grandmother would never approve it, as the spread was not good enough for a king, but Strikke was no king. According to Annalise, she was a seamstress who liked to throw parties and knew what strings to pull to make it happen.
Their immediate work done, Maran sat back and waited for the response. If Strikke had any culinary sense, Maran would get read the riot act, but she would not be shamed. No one in that kitchen could have done better.
The moment of truth came when a beautifully dressed drifter entered the kitchen and sought out Volkenrod. Handing him a gold octet, she said, “Meister Strikke expresses her delight in these dishes. She is well pleased.” Maran felt the rush of success wash over her. Her gambles had paid off! For the first time, Maran felt like the meister cook that her grandmother had trained. Maybe she did have talent.
Volkenrod pocketed the coin, returning to his gambling.
“He didn’t share,” said Maran.
Annalise nodded. “He always takes all the tips for himself. We expect that.”
Maran frowned as well. That was wrong. A good leader shared with his people. That was tradition. That was dwarvish. That was what made the Union strong. Unwilling to be shamed before her helper, Maran reached into her apron and pulled out a few coins.
“Volkenrod is selfish. His greed is an embarrassment. I won’t be a party to that. You're a good worker.”
Annalise’s face lit up like a child’s. “Shinies, not script!” She held up her coin. “Thanks, meister. You’re fair dice.”
Maran stepped on a stool so that she could look Annalise in the eye.
“I’m going to teach you about cooking. This is your religion. Believe this and live this. There is no other truth, for food is the foundation of all things. The preparation of food is holy work, as holy as the highest priest before the highest god. You do not skimp, or rush, or say good enough. As cooks, we are the priests that stand between the field and the table, taking these gifts and presenting them to Her people as a holy sacrament. I know of no other priest whose job is to give.”
Maran spent the night teaching Annalise all the basic skills that she could and correcting Annalise’s bad habits, which were bad habits mostly because they could get somebody hurt.
In the morning, Quema summoned Maran back to her office.
“I am sorry that I need to do this. You’ll be working for Volkenrod from now on. I’ll be honest with you, Volkenrod knows his politics.”
Maran showed her ire. “I don’t want to work for him. He doesn’t share with me. He doesn’t share with his people.”
Quema shrugged. “Yes, I know, but I can’t do much about that. Volkenrod wants you to work for him so that he doesn’t have to work. He rigged the politics, and you can expect more of the same. You’ll be doing his job and he’ll be off drinking.”
“There has to be something that I can do.”
“Yes, there there are things that you can do, but for right now you’ll be quiet and do his work. He’s got pull somewhere, and I need to find someone who outranks his pull. In the meantime, be a good worker and impress the folks upstairs.”
Meister Maran
A week later, Freifrau Quema hustled up to Maran as her shift ended. She skipped any sort of greeting, grabbing Maran by the arm and dragging her back to the office.
“We need to get you more presentable. By all the good gods, look at you! We can’t have you seen this way! Do you have any better clothing? No, I suspect not. We need you presentable, and we need you presentable right now. The Burggraf wants to see you as soon as possible.”
Maran didn't know if she was in trouble, but her gut told her that she would be better off in trouble.
“Let’s get you to the laundry,” said Quema.
Down at the laundry, the drifter women shook their heads at Maran’s clothing. First, they cleaned off all the dried mud and dirt with brushes and songs, making the dust and dirt fly off. Rather than make the mud come off the clothing, their songs entreated the clothing to reject the mud, and the cloth responded.
Now that she was somewhat cleaned up and as presentable as possible, Quema took Maran through more corridors underneath the building.
“The Burggraf supervises the guildhall. Be very respectful of him. He only answers to the Missus.”
Burggraf Siberhaus occupied an office on the third floor, overlooking the river and the canals. He sat in an over-sized leather chair that once belonged to some lord in some far away land. Maran had to keep from laughing or smiling, as the results seemed somewhat comical.
The Burggraf examined Maran from head to toe, presumably noting many things, none of which he shared with Maran. Yet, Maran knew what he thought. Her dress was thin, her feet were bare, and her apron soiled. Behind his eyes, two ideals warred with one another. One idea was an unstoppable force, and the other ideal was a Loam. Somehow, the tension between the two ideals broke, the unstoppable force winning.
“I will be direct,” said the Burggraf. “There is no gentle way to approach this. Meister Maran, the Kurfurstin Mother needs a new cook. Somehow, beyond all reason, she heard that there was a Loam in the kitchen, and she requested you.
“As it stands, she is something of a traditionalist. She has never stopped speaking of the days when the house had proper Loam servants. She detests these drifters that we’ve hired, and so is resolved to have a proper staff again, although there is some reasonable argument about who is proper and who is not.
“As a servant of the Kurfurstin Mother, you would report directly to her. She will provide you with a bed, a kitchen, and an assistant of your choice. Pay is five times schedule. You will not retain a formal day off, but should you desire discretionary time, your helper can cover for you, or you can request staff from the main kitchen. The Missus often goes to the Slagsmal, and those days may be available to you for time off.”
The Burggraf paused here, having said what he must formally say. He thought about his words. “I will be forthright here. The Missus is a notoriously difficult and challenging woman. Even with excellent pay, her servants frequently quit
without warning. The position is very challenging at best. You will be exposed to a very powerful woman with an unpredictable temperament. I assure you, the pay does not rise to the challenge. Is this a position that you will accept?”
By all rational standard, Maran should have walked out of that office right then, which is exactly what the Burggraf wanted. The Hadean projected his will clearly and expected that it be obeyed. Maran looked to Quema and she could see worry there. She was as eager as the Burggraf for Maran to say no.
“Burggraf, if the Kurfurstin Mother offers, then I must accept. My family were once cooks to Emperors, and we will be again.”
The Burggraf did not acknowledge her answer. He folded his hands, then settled back in his chair, like a king considering making war upon his own kingdom. After thinking for that moment, he enunciated his opinion clearly. “I can not overemphasizes my love for this house and for the Kurfurstin Mother. I began serving Kurfurst Kavre, and through hard work and his great trust in me, advanced to this critical position.
“The Kurfurstin Mother’s trust is everything, and I value it more than I do my own life. She places her trust in you. I know that your people do not lift your hand in violence, but I also know that violence is not the only means of action. For example, you could be a Malachite spy intent on stealing the secrets of steel. Fairly or unfairly, if anything untoward should happen, or if any secret is stolen, you will bear the suspicion. We will nail you to the wall. Knowing this, I ask you again, will you work for the Kurfurstin Mother?”
With a slight curtsy, Maran answered, “I serve as requested, sir.”
The Burggraf nodded, surrendering before the inevitable. “Please be at ease. You are now among the highest ranking servants in this forge. Please act and behave with this in mind. For all practical purposes, only the Kurfurstin Mother can order you. That is both a blessing and a curse. Should you need help, please come to me personally. We have our internal politics, which you should learn, but we all are dedicated to serving this guild, so in that way we can trust each other.
“Know that while I defend those under me, I can no longer do the same for you. You serve at the whim of the Missus. My ability to intervene in such situations is limited to mere persuasion. It would be easier to slay a dragon with words than to change her mind. However, I do manage a few of her affairs when requested. I can easily aid you within those limits.
“As for your clothes, you must get a new dress. You had best go to Meister Strikke. Freifrau Quema can take you.
“Now, I think it best to get you moving along. The Missus wants her new cook. Come back when you are more presentable.”
Maran and Quema backed out, keeping the Burggraf in their gaze, quietly closing the door behind them.
Wending their way through more stairwells, Quema held silent until they were out in the work yard, near no one.
“Niece,” Quema began affectionately, “be careful up there. Be very careful. If something goes wrong, I can’t accept you back in the kitchen. It would be political suicide for me. I wish that I could accept you back. I wish that I had a kitchen full of you Loam. I would love to get my kitchen back to normal.
“Be warned: my stepmother is a horror. To this day I can not fathom why my father married her. Her temper and ambition are both brutal. She regularly breaks arms. That steel cane of hers is a weapon. Some rumors say that she’s become a Bloodletter. Who knows what that could mean.
“I do fear for you. If you need to get out, talk to me. I can arrange an escape for you, but I’ll need time to work things out. Give me as much warning as you can.”
Maran looked at her friend in shock. “I understand.”
Quema looked at Maran. “I should hate to see you chewed up by the politics there, or that cruelty. You don’t deserve that. Not like me. Don’t become like me.”
Strikke’s seamstress shop was just outside gate “C”, near the Ironhaus food bank. The only thing to distinguish her shop from any other was her unusual sign, which showed a crow, stiff legged, pecking the ground with a stick.
On walking in, a plump dwarven woman, well into graying, threw her arms wide open. “Quema! Come on in, woman. Weber, put on the water!”
Quema hugged the woman warmly. “I’d love to stay, but I’m too full of busy and then some. However, I brought you Maran of the Loam. She will be working for the Missus and needs a better dress.”
Strikke beamed. “Well, it’s the famous Maran Zarander. Good to finally meet you, hon. I knew you would do good, or bad, depending on how you looked at it. Oh, and that spread, I loved it! All original. Nobody ever had anything like it. That really made the party. The curried tendons were just lovely.”
Quema drifted back through the door. “You’re in good hands, Maran. Strikke’s the best. Go see the graf when you are done.”
“Come to my next party!” said Strikke. “She never comes to my parties. Did you know that she doesn’t drink. How weird is that?”
Strikke put one hand on Maran’s back and pushed her to the center of the shop. She peered intently through her steel-rimmed spectacles as she paced in circles. “Baby doll, I’ve been dying, just dying, to dress a Loam for years. Magnificent. Oh, you are far better than I ever hoped for. This is going to be so much fun.
“I can match you up with a few old dresses, but why bother? They are old, and there’s no challenge in that. Couture for you. Still, I want some old in the design. Weber, hon, hop into the back and find the Loam dresses. Put them on the big table.”
Continuing her slow circles, Strikke kept thinking aloud. “Here’s a puzzle. What’s Loamish, but more sexy? How do you make black and white less severe? Do I want color? You Loam used to be such the colorful people. I really admired that about you. Do I want to play on severity? How does that work with your excellent figure? I do like this challenge.
“Listen up, people. Close the doors! No more customers today! We have a job.”
Strikke sent her apprentices running about like ants on an anthill. They helped Maran out of her clothing while Strikke took out her measuring tape, measuring here and there, this and that.
Meanwhile, Weber stacked clothing onto the large table that dominated the room, including such items as underdresses and bonnets. Strikke sorted through them rather quickly, pulling out several. She held them against Maran, one after the other.
“Nope. No good. These will make you look like a potato, and women should never look like potatoes. No, none of them will do, which gives me the excuse that I want. Oh, this will be fun. Get her a robe, then follow me.”
Strikke took Maran into the back, among other big tables, to a solid steel cabinet. She turned a dial on it in several directions, back and forth, turning a handle with a clack. Inside it was shelves of cloth. Strikke’s hand touched bolt after bolt, working through the possibilities. Eventually, she pulled out an undyed bolt.
“This one. This is finally it. I’ve been dying to use this stuff. I know some folks who did some exploring in Glittering Vale. They found this cloth tucked away. Marvelous stuff. It survived the fire. I fell in love with it when I first touched it. Unfortunately, it's elvish, and I can’t really use it in most cases, us dwarves being what we are. However, you're different. Let me use this cloth for your dress. Please. It's right for you. The real trick comes in getting the Missus to pay for it, but that is always the trick. She’s a cheapskate.”
Maran touched the material that Strikke proffered, feeling it tingle under her fingers. “This almost feels alive. It’s like bread dough, if you know what I mean.”
“This is the most ornery material that I have ever encountered. It took me six months to figure out how to cut it. Turns out, I needed Vitrean shears. Yes, Vitrean. Getting them smuggled in was difficult enough. If I’m lucky, I’ll pay off those overpriced thread snippers this century. This material is unbelievably tough, durable, and impossible to burn. I can’t think of anything better for a cook. It’s a good weight, too, and breathes well. I won’t let you say no.
You’re the Loam and you’ll listen to me. You’ll like this.”
Next, Strikke held up colors to Maran, combining and recombining them.
“I’m definitely seeing a harvest motif going on here. Yes, definitely autumn colors. Copper hardware. Good symbolism in copper. It starts off brown, then turns green. You are so seasonal, sweetie. I’m decided.
“Now, all that must wait. I just can’t rush this job, and that leaves you without a dress while the Missus is waiting, and you never, ever leave the Missus waiting. So, we’ll need to modify one of the potato dresses and do it quick.”
Muttering profanities under her breath, Strikke chose a dress and an underdress. The seamstress took out pins and soap, then spoke to the cloth, getting it to move this way and that on Maran’s body. Maran stood still, knowing what it meant to be covered with pins. She had never seen such seamstress skills before, but no one in her family was a seamstress, so there was no reason for her to have seen them.
“Now, let’s talk about your bare feet. You aren’t in the country any more. You need shoes. We’ll get the shoemaker in. You'll also need stockings. I’ll get you several pair. You'll also need to get your feet washed. You can take a bath upstairs. And don’t move.”
As Strikke worked, the dress resettled on Maran, slowly transforming around her from a shapeless mass to a structured union. She examined herself in the mirrors, seeing herself anew: her dimpled chin, her wavy black hair, and her deep brown eyes. For the first time in her own life, she saw herself as beautiful. She could adjust her head to see her fine, large nose prominent on her face. Her mother had always said that she had an amazing nose, and now she saw that her mother was correct.
“My hair needs cutting,” Maran noted idly.
“Get the hair cutter over here!” Strikke ordered. An apprentice left the shop.
That made Maran feel too prideful. “You don’t have to do that. I just mentioned it.”
“Yes, I do. You hair is a mess. I should have sent for her right away. She’ll do wonders for you, not that you need it. You’re a mighty fine example of dwarfdom. If I could get away with it, I’d put you in a short skirt to show off those legs. They’re like tree trunks. You have every right to show them off.”
Weeds Among Stone (Jura City Book 1) Page 11