When Strikke finished the fitting, she handed the dress off to Weber. “Get those seams in as fast as you can. We have to get Maran out the door.”
Weber went upstairs, where something caused a thrumpity-thrumpity. Maran did her best to identify the sound but remained baffled.
Strikke said, “That’s my secret advantage, baby doll. I dreamed it up one night, then built it myself. Top secret.”
With the fitting done, a cobbler fitted her with copper buckled shoes while a wig maker cut her hair. Between snips and prods, Maran ate butter cookies and gulped tea.
After the hairdresser came the bath.
Strikke said, “I have a water tank attached to my stove upstairs, which gives me hot water whenever I want it. I don’t need to go to the baths. It’s a pretty good system when it works, but it does have its problems. It really needs a redesign.”
Maran settled into the wood tub and one of the apprentices helped her scrub. After that, she wrapped herself in a blanket and settled on a bench. All too quickly, lack of sleep won and Maran nodded off, dreaming of glass-fronted shops with excellent coffee.
Strikke woke Maran several hours later. “Time to see how I did,” she said.
The seamstresses dressed Maran in a chemise, dress, smock-frock, and apron, adjusting each article as it went on. With the bonnet put on Maran’s head, Strikke stood back and looked over her composition.
“Given the pieces I had to work with, I did acceptably. I do look forward to getting your proper dress made. You'll look utterly enticing even while looking proper. I think that you merely look tasty here, which isn't bad. The important thing here is that you must pass muster for the Missus. She has a good eye and knows what she's talking about. There’s no cheating with her.”
Satisfied with her work, Strikke grabbed Maran’s hand and pulled her out of the shop. Maran found herself pulled behind the woman at breakneck speed, slipping and sliding across the stone, her heels echoing through the streets. She felt like a little girl being pulled behind her aunt.
“Time to go see the ogress!” Strikke chimed.
The Kurfurstin Mother
The Burggraf briefly inspected Maran. “The Missus might not be displeased. Come. We are expected.”
Maran followed the Burggraf, winding through the maze of corridors, her shoes clogging awkwardly, slipping on the slick metal floors. A circular stairwell eventually deposited them in the grand foyer.
Everything about the room spoke beauty. The ceilings were painted with murals showing the great forges at work, highlighting a one-eyed dragon breathing into the forges. The tables and chairs were all of wrought iron, painted and gilded fancifully. Well dressed Hadeans played an assortment of complicated games. Even the servants here were fanciful, all of them dressed identically.
Stopping for a few moments, the Burggraf commented on the room. “This is where we hold our great feasts. Back there is the upstairs kitchen. We open it only for important occasions. During those times, you will be in charge of the food. Properly speaking, it is the Kufurst’s cook who directs the feasts, but with Kurfurst Svero in exile, we must use the Kurfurstin Mother’s cook.”
The Burggraf walked up wide stairs, leading them down a corridor to a iron door guarded by two protectors. Saluting the Burggraf, they opened the door for him, revealing a foyer with a several couches, a big door leading further to the apartment, and a little door leading to the servant’s area.
The Burggraf noted softly, “The Missus is attended by her family and allies. Be respectful. Her attendants are Hadeans of the highest order.”
The Hadeans were the original dwarves of Jura City. In ages past, they formed the backbone of Emperor Thule’s army. It was they who created the Great Dwarven Union. Because of that heritage, they formed the highest caste of dwarven society. Their allocation of profits was the highest. Their votes counted the most. All the best went to them. For all practical purposes, the Union belonged to them.
A well dressed attendant came out and greeted the Burggraf. “The Kurfurstin Mother is eager to meet her new cook. I will inform her that you are here.”
A few moments later, they were ushered into the Kurfurstin Mother’s apartment.
Entering the presence of the Kurfurstin Mother was like entering the presence of a dragon. She sat there as the corpulent possessor of the world, her word law, and her name carved for eternity into slabs of iron. Her unworking eye somehow beheld Maran, piercing through her, full of pain and misery.
The Kurfurstin Mother raised her spine-like cane, barking orders. “Stand straight. Turn around. Your dress is out of fashion. Get a proper one. Let’s see your hands.” Maran showed her rough and calloused hands. “Good cook hands. You will do. Get in the kitchen. Burggraf, see that she gets herself settled and arranged. Meister Cook, order what you need. Ten for dinner at sundown. You are dismissed.”
Maran turned to leave, but realized that she had no idea where to go as the beautifully overdecorated room confused her. A simple touch from the Burggraf sent her to a door.
One step into the kitchen almost set Maran to cursing. The place was an utter disaster. Who could do something that horrible to a kitchen?
“How did this kitchen get this way?” Maran asked the Burggraf.
“The previous cook left unexpectedly.”
“Where are the log books?”
“The staff did not keep logs.”
Maran threw her hands to her head. With no logs, how could she tell how many to feed? “Where are the ration books?”
“We don’t use the ration system here.”
That point incensed Maran. Everyone else starved, and they had full pantries. “Fine. Get me Annalise. I want her up here.”
“I will send her up. In the meantime, I must introduce you to someone.” The Burggraf pointed to the old dwarf by the windows. “Meister Maran, this is Lord Protector Gamstadt. Obey him as you would obey the Kurfurstin Mother.”
Gamstadt’s looked up from his whittling and nodded to her. “Good day, meister.”
A Lord Protector in the kitchen? Maran was not ready for that. They had almost as much prestige as Hadeans.
The Lord Protector lazily produced a key, handing it to the Burggraf, who handed it to Maran.
The Burggraf said, “You are responsible for the kitchen purse. Keep your budget. Remember to pay your people promptly. My cashier allocates new funds on Monday mornings. If you need additional funds, please see me. It is my job to say ‘no.’ Be prepared to fight for what you request. That is all that I have to offer you. Please communicate with me if you have any more needs. You can talk into this pipe here if you need anything. Start by saying ‘messenger’.”
With that presentation, the Burggraf left.
Maran looked about her new kitchen and almost despaired. What had she gotten herself into?
In the back of her head, her grandmother got offended. “If you keep standing about like that, you can scrub the floor.” Those words got Maran moving. There was no way to start right, so she cleared a space and made a home for her knives, only to realize that her knives were downstairs. Maran sighed. That would need to wait. Other things were more important. She needed food first.
Maran went to the tube. “Messenger.”
“Messenger,” replied the tube.
“This is Meister Maran up at the Missus, the Kurfurstin Mother, her kitchen. I need today’s milk and cream and butter. Today’s dairy.”
The voice replied, “From Meister Maran. To kitchen. Need dairy for Kurfurstin Mother.”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“Messenger away.”
That was one problem down out of ten thousand more to solve. Maran picked another problem. The stove was cold. Nothing would happen if it was cold. It needed work first.
A few minutes later, Annalise showed up with a basket of dairy. “I brought your knives, too. I’m watching your back, ma’am.”
“Thank you. Now get to the dishes. We don’t have any clean ones left.�
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Starting from nothing, Maran had almost nothing to offer. Most food existed in a stream of prep work, where you were constantly taking advantage of yesterday’s work and setting up tomorrow’s work. At a minimum, something should always be soaking and boiling.
Up here had nothing, but downstairs had all sorts of food in prep. “Annalise, keep cleaning up. Keep that coal stoked. I’m heading downstairs for some raw ingredients. I’ll be back as soon as possible.”
Maran stormed through the downstairs kitchen, claiming a ham, bread scraps, eggs, yesterday’s beans in all varieties, bones, and a few chicken carcasses. By the time that she had everything assembled, she had dinner in her head. The bones and the carcasses went straight onto the stove to start a stock for tomorrow. The bread and the eggs went into a savory bread pudding. The cold ham got layered with sliced pickles. The beans and rice were mixed and tossed with a honey-mustard vinaigrette. The garnish came from dandelions growing in the kitchen's overgrown herb pots, each plate getting a single yellow flower and a few cubes of cheese.
Taken together, dinner was a wonderful spring assortment. Maran knew exactly what Grandmother would say about it. “They might complain, but they’ll eat it.”
Maran expected complaining.
On devouring her meal, the Missus showed her displeasure by slamming her fist into the table. “If I wanted to eat like this, I would go on campaign! I dearly hope for your sake that this is not the typical gruel that you serve yourselves, let alone your masters. If I get one more meal like this, I will personally bludgeon you with my cane. Am I clear?”
Maran did not take this personally. Grandmother had long ago inured her to this behavior. Cooking for the most powerful people meant dealing with the most powerful people, along with their insecurities. A professional cook could not afford insecurities.
As Maran tried returning to her kitchen, she could see that half the table wanted more. Every plate was clean.
Lord Gamstadt called out. “I would have seconds.”
Maran looked to the Missus, and great woman nodded a little, accepting the Lord Protector’s request. No one else dared cross that line. That small act told Maran more about the Lord Protector than any lecture could. She would need to understand him better.
After dinner, Lord Gamstadt came back into the kitchen, settling himself again at his little table. As he whittled iron, he spoke, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “You did quite well. She didn't beat you. One cook, about two years ago, lasted a day. One slam of that cane broke her cooking hand. To be honest, she deserved it. I don’t think she could slice cold pickles.
“You still have a few people to feed. Set two plates aside for the night shift protectors, who will be showing up in a few minutes. Also make two plates for the afternoon protector who will be rotating out. I rotate protectors every four hours. Protectors get fed every rotation. For the very late rotations, just leave food out, along with a pitcher of ale.”
After setting out the few plates, and watching the protectors eat everything offered and then some, Maran and Annalise continued their work cleaning the kitchen. Annalise had all the dishes and cutlery washed now. One of the suite's attendants, Vorrate, proceeded to count all the plates and silverware as she placed them away. Most plates were of silver, but the Missus ate off a plate so valuable that Vorrate hovered over Annalise as she washed it.
Annalise turned to Vorrate, “I have no idea what that plate is made of.”
“That plate,” instructed Vorrate, “is made of non-rusting iron. So are her utensils. They are the only examples of their kind. Even Kings and Emperors do not have such things.”
Satisfied that nothing had been stolen by the new servants, Vorrate went off to count more things and the Lord Protector wandered off to sit with some guests who came by. Maran threw herself back into work.
Somewhere in there, Maran sat down and simply fell asleep.
Dreaming, Maran found herself at a fence made of iron ropes. Beyond that fence lay a place of fear and doubt. If she crossed that line, the Bishops would get her. A dog’s incessant bark drove Maran back several steps.
Turning, Maran walked down through rolling farms and fields of greens and beans and young corn. The earth felt rough on her feet as she wore no shoes. The breeze blew her skirts like wheat in the field. A few steps more, and she could see the sea before her. Down a tree lined lane she walked amid well trimmed and green grasses, towards a house of white clapboards and tin. The strong sea breeze blew her skirts about and tousled her hair. Maran touched her hair, realizing that she wore no bonnet or cap, yet she did not feel naked for this.
Even as Maran saw the house and the lawn for the first time, the place felt quite familiar. For the first time in a long time, she felt as if she were coming home. There was nothing that she could do wrong or think wrong here.
Maran entered through the back door, light from three sides illuminated the kitchen and all its equipment sitting on the counters. Grandmother would not approve of so much clutter. Yet, each item felt in its place, giving the clutter a pleasing feel, as if all those items were placed meaningfully.
An impressive iron stove dominated the room, possessing several ovens and plates. Maran would be proud to cook on this thing, even if it were made of iron. After opening and closing the oven doors and seeing how the venting worked, Maran admitted that the iron stove here far exceeded what the traditional Loam stove could do. It was even better built than any Ironmonger stove she had seen.
The kitchen also had a sink. Maran played with the knobs there and water came out of its own accord, the taps being on some sort of artesian well. The sink itself appeared to be made of iron, but the outer surface was not metal at all, feeling more like a porcelain, which struck Maran as exceedingly clever.
Feeling as if it were time to go, Maran tried to wake up, but realized that she did not know how to wake up. She had no clue or concept. In fact, she realized that she was in a dream, dreaming that she was dreaming, yet not waking up. Where was she? Why was she here? How come she remembered being here, but had never been here? How could she leave as she had lots of work to do?
What had Osei said? He said something but she did not remember. He showed her a bowl of water.
Maran went to the kitchen, found a yellow glass bowl, filled it with water, then looked into it. She concentrated on home, but could not get there. She tried going to sleep, but that did not work either. She tried convincing herself to wake up. All of these attempts were fruitless.
Maybe she could leave through Endhaven?
Feeling desperate, Maran looked into the bowl of water and crossed over to Endhaven just as Osei had shown her. She stared into the bowl of a lake surrounded by rock, reflecting the perfect blue sky above it. All around the lake grew pines. In the middle of the lake rose a conical island.
Maran knew the stories. Only one place in the world looked like this. This was the Lake of Souls. This was the place of the dead. She should not be here!
Maran tried to leave, but she still couldn’t remember how to leave, so she ran. She turned around and scrambled up to the ridge, coming face to feet with someone or something big. Maran looked up into the hideous face of a twisted and dessicated giantess, looking as if she were left in the sun too long. Her lips, dried and blackened, pulled back. The hag pointed and spoke, “You have been invited. Your boatman awaits.”
Maran very soul quaked. Her eyes met the hag’s in fear, and she dared not look away lest the hag seize her and eat her.
“Juicy little dwarf, the Ancient One waits for you. Your boatman stands ready. But do not go. Stay here with me. What can I offer you? What can you trade me? What should I take?”
With a wrench, Maran turned her head anyway, scrambling back down that hill. She didn't hear the hag behind her, and didn't care, for before her she saw something worse. In a boat, far larger than any boat she had ever seen, stood a jackal-headed giant. It was Eth, the Librarian of the Dead.
Eth saw her as well, beckonin
g her to his boat. Maran stared for a bit, terrified. Fear raced through her and would not abate. Nothing seemed right in her head, yet the god kept beckoned to her. More scared of disobedience than of the god himself, or even of that fearful and bottomless body of water, Maran scrambled down the steep bank and climbed into the strange boat. The god nodded to her, poling into the lake, his boat making no ripples.
Once in the boat, a feeling of calm overtook Maran. This boat was safe. This god was safe. There were no reasons to fear. All was right with the world, and everything acted in its order. The towering god poled boat so gracefully that even Osei would appear clumsy next to him.
As the boat moved, Maran noted that it made no ripples. Looking downward, she saw an infinity of lights below her, each a soul. Among them, she saw many shapes. She saw the soul hounds moving to and fro according to Eth’s will, bringing deceased souls from the mortal realm.
A bump told Maran that the boat had met the island. Her brief respite was over , trepidation rose in her. This was not where she wanted to be. Despite this fear, Maran climbed from the boat, hesitating before an open cave.
“You have arrived,” spoke a voice, piercing the holy silence. “Come forward.”
As Maran walked into that cave, leaving sunlight forever behind, her mind cleared. The place that she entered felt more real than real, and less dream than dream. Here, there was nothing to fear and nothing to love. A small fire burned before the old woman who sat in the middle of the cave, in the middle of the island, in the middle of the lake, in the middle of the world. The Ancient One. The Mother of Storm. She sat as as the Kurfurstin Mother sat, as Altyn sat, and as Maran’s grandmother sat.
The Mother of Storms said, “Hospitality requires that I offer you something. This is ochre. It is the blood of your earth gods. There is no no ochre more powerful. Take it. Eat it. It is a sacrament for you. You will need that power in the coming days.”
Weeds Among Stone (Jura City Book 1) Page 12