Eventually Maran found some machines that made sense, the farming machines. Most were too complex for Maran to understand. Ignoring the most complex machines, Maran turned her attention to the most basic ones in a bid to learn their working principals. She focused most on the reaper. If her people could build that, then they could harvest more grain and hay, doubling or tripling their harvest speed.
The world jumped a little bit. After several moments, Maran reoriented herself. Her time in the dreamlands certainly was ending. Looking for any last details, Maran realized that she still had the child’s book in her hands. An intuitive idea seized her. Maran gave the book to the soul hound. “Take this to my room! To my room!”
The hound took the book in its mouth and as it ran off, Maran felt that world unslipping away. With a jerk, as though she had fallen two inches, Maran woke up. Groggily, she lifted her head, doing her best to focus through the sleep. She was in the empty kitchen. Someone had thrown a blanket over her.
Still aware, she needed to write.
Maran used some scrap paper to sketch the reaper that she had seen, as faithfully as she could draw it, racing the fading dream. This knowledge alone made all the danger worth it. If that machine did what Maran hoped it could do, it would be the single-most important agricultural development in their history.
A padding and a plop next to Maran caught her by surprise. Maran looked over to see the soul hound sitting down with a children’s book between its paws. Maran took it gently, giving the dog a rub on his forehead. “You are such a good doggie!!!”
Maran flipped through the book. It was still as incomprehensible, but it had all the pictures.
The dog shook his head and something jingled again. Maran realized that the dog had a collar on. She hadn't remembered such a thing before. Was it there in the dream world? The collar had several round pendants on it. The pendant contained words in many languages. Maran recognized a word written in both Hadean and Charyastan letters.
“Kepi. Are you Kepi? Is that your name?”
The hound reacted to its name.
Maran gave that dog a big embrace. “You are the best boy ever ... err, excuse me. You are the best GIRL ever. How did I not notice that before? Some farm girl I am. Dreams just make no sense, do they girl? I wonder if this world is as strange to you as your world is to me?”
Settling onto the ground, Kepi put her head into Maran’s lap as she flipped through the children’s book, slowly this time. It was amazing. The pictures showed her far more than she had ever dreamed of. Some pictures showed farm equipment torn apart with every working piece labeled.
“Kepi, I fear that I may die from your Mistress. If I do, will your carry my soul to Endhaven? I would be quite grateful. You can even play catch with me. I would be honored.”
Maran thought for a few minutes. “Kepi, do you know who King Oro is?” Kepi perked up. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Maran wrapped up her book and sketches. “Take these to King Oro. Some good has to come of this. If I die now, I die a hero.”
Preparations
The new week brought an onslaught of activities. The Feast of All Gods approached and everyone had extra work do to.
That week, Maran was in continuous meetings with Quema and Siberhaus, where they planned out the five day Feast of All Gods. Not only did the Ironmonger guild need food, but the allied guilds, such as the Horsebreakers, needed food as well. Likewise, all visitors would be welcome. Many veterans would walk in from the countryside to attend the events. No dwarf would be turned away or left unfed.
The same was not true for the drifters. Food for them would be in short supply.
Annalise dismissed Maran’s worries. “When I was wee, mom called this ‘hungry time.’ Wash it out. We’re used to it.”
That very fact is what disturbed Maran.
Despite those inequalities, Maran embraced the festival. All the work helped her to forget her own worries. Yet, when the night came, and Maran sat alone in her room, one by one the worries returned. Another ceremony would come. The Missus would command her out again. She would obey. Would she survive this one? Maran didn't know.
If Maran had felt no obligation to stay, if she hadn't promised Oro to sway these people, she would certainly have walked out of that guild and never come back — but she did have an obligation. She had made a promise. She had to see that through. She had to keep her word.
When the next ceremony came, what could she do? How could she survive? How could she change her fortune? What if she drank something different? Weeks ago, there was that dream in a coffee shop. Rem was there. Would coffee help her? She had no idea, but she did know where the Missus kept her coffee, imported from who knows where. She would use that.
To keep the Missus from being suspicious, Maran gathered all the coffee grounds, resteeping them for herself. Enough guests came by that her weak sludge quickly became strong sludge. When the time came, she could drink it down and hope for the best.
The next night, Maran heard the Lord Protector order everyone out of the apartment. An iron nail lodged in her stomach and burned there. Even with all the preparations that she had made, she was not ready for this. She didn't want this again. She didn't want the opium in her mouth. She didn't want the floating sensations. She didn't want the iron thing ripping her into pieces.
After Annalise left, Maran mixed her coffee brew up with water and gagged it down. The horrid taste almost caused her to spit it up again. The nail in her belly burned hotter.
“Don’t die,” said her mother. How had her mother known?
The knock came. The Missus commanded her. “You are under my power and you will obey. You will undress and walk into the sitting room.”
Numbly, Maran undressed, letting her new clothes fall to her feet. They did not want to fall. They wanted to stay close to her body and protect her from the thing of iron which stood before her. Yet, when called to surrender, they surrendered, falling, as if from a great tree, swirling to the ground.
In the next room, Maran held her tongue and lay down on the steel plates, face down. This was for her people. This was for Oro. This was for secrets that others died for.
“Let’s hope that it works this time,” the Missus muttered to her. “The Duke grows impatient. He demands you and he shall have you.”
Once again, Gamstadt interrupted. “I believe that the Duke is angry with us.”
“You know nothing. Be quiet.”
“The Loam sees what she should not see. She is not of the correct Rod.”
“It never mattered before.”
“They weren't dwarves before. This one is a dwarf. We must respect all the laws, not just those that we wish.”
“You try my patience.”
“She does not have the right to see the Duke. Admit her to the Eighth Rod.”
“You are mad.”
“I am certain.”
“All secrets will be open to her!”
“What does that matter to you? She is in your control. She has no will of her own. Place her name in the book.”
“You are a fool!”
“How many more opportunities do you have? This one. Maybe another. You decide. Can you afford a mistake?”
The Missus scowled, then relented, unlocking a cabinet and opening a great iron folio. She wrote Maran’s name. “I admit you to the Eighth Rod. All secrets are open to you. Lord Protector, if you have any more objections, please shut up.”
The Missus lit her long pipe, spreading opium about its iron disk. Taking long puffs, she began the same ceremony as before. As before, the Missus painted ochre onto Maran’s body. As before, she placed opium in Maran’s mouth.
Maran grew aware of herself, but as before, could not move. She floated, then dreamed. Opening her eyes, she saw a woman feeding cloth to an iron machine. The woman’s feet rocked on a plate of some sort, pushing it down and up in a steady rhythm. It made a thrumpity sound that Maran had heard before. The plate rotated a wheel, which moved a belt, which made
the iron device do something to the cloth, but Maran could not see for all the material in the way.
Unable to move, Maran looked about with her eyes. She could see her own feet and arms nearby, but from the elbow and knee down, they were made of porcelain.
The woman at the machine worked steadily for a while, occasionally stopping to check her work. Apparently, the machine sewed faster than a hand could.
Outside, in the night, Maran heard heard something pushing through the trashcans.
The woman looked up. “Don’t worry about that. He’ll never get in. He has no thumbs.”
Maran recognized the woman now. It was the goddess Rem.
The goddess continued her commentary. “They sure did make a mess of you, but I’ll fix you up. Relax. Loosen up. Put your legs up.”
Outside, the frustrated creature made a trashcan its next victim. The ensuing battle sounded like a thunderstorm.
Oblivious to the noise, Rem laid out an empty doll's body on the table. Stitching by hand now, she attached Maran’s arms and legs.
“Did you know that I’m a comedian? I’m keeping you in stitches. Do you get the joke?”
With the limbs attached, Rem stuffed the arms and the legs with assorted flowers. “These are from the White Lady’s garden. I had Jack drive me over the other night. It was...” she paused, “it was a pansy raid.”
Rem frowned when Maran didn't laugh. “Now for the organs. Let’s see what I can find.” For Maran's stomach, Rem filled a pillow case with dirt. For the liver, she used a bowl carved from olive wood. For the kidneys, she used two beer bottles. For the lungs, she used some semi-deflated balls. For her heart, she used an empty mahogany box.
“That should do it. It’s ad hoc. I admit it. I don’t normally do this sort of thing. It’s kinda fun, though. I should do it more often. Now, let's do the head.”
Rem picked up Maran’s head and attached it to the new body. Tingling ran through Maran’s limbs, like the sharp prickling of deep needles. Her entire body woke up, and Maran realized that she herself was waking up.
That had been a strange dream.
The Missus muttered. “The ceremony failed again. I couldn't find her. I do not understand it. I did all the steps perfectly. Nothing was wrong. I even gave him bones, whole and unbroken, yet this was unacceptable. We'll need to do this again. Meanwhile, I will make her forget.”
Maran let the Missus touch her soul, gladly slipping into a dreamless sleep.
Zebra was smoking something when Maran awoke. He said no words for a long time while Maran said none as well.
Maran spoke first. “She smokes opium, placing her essence into my opium. Others then smoke the opium. The soul hounds kill the wrong mortal, and so the Missus lives.”
Zebra nodded at this. “So your plan begs an action.”
Maran closed an eye. “What plan?”
“The Missus smokes opium before she rides her iron dragon,” said Zebra. “If she smokes her own bad opium, would the soul hounds know her? Perhaps we should bring the head around to eat the tail. Oroboros.”
Maran tried to understand that. “She would be destroyed through an action of her own making. There must be a word for that.”
“There are many,” assured Zebra, “and each one is beautiful.”
Running
When Maran awoke again, she felt an empty place that only opium could fill. She hated that feeling. The first time, she had felt sickened for days, but this time she felt worse. Sometimes she just found herself staring into nothing as her hands chopped nothing. The numbness returned. Faint wisps of opium sometimes crossed her senses, making her want it again. It felt like some vine was growing about her heart, slowly working its tendrils into her.
If not for Annalise, Maran would have given up. She would have crawled into bed and never woken up again.
What Maran hated most about the opium was the peace that it brought. The only time she felt the weight lift from her heart was when the opium ran through her. That was the false peace of the Red Lady, promising a life without burden. But to live without burden was to live without work. That temped Maran and she hated herself for it.
Fortunately, the Feast of All Gods did not care about ceremonies or opium. All that extra work pushed Maran back into the present, keeping her blissfully occupied. Her nights ran late. Her mornings came early. She enjoyed every minute of it.
The next ceremony came sooner than Maran expected. When Gamstadt began dismissing people, Maran realized that the Missus needed to do her ceremony before the feast days. That meant now.
Maran took Annalise aside. “Strange things have been happening here. I wish that I could talk about them. If I don’t see you again, I have something for you. This is a recommendation. Go upriver to Sureh and find Delaram. She’ll teach you. You’ll make a fine cook someday.”
“Meister, hush on that. I’m all cozy here.”
“Here isn’t all cozy, Annalise. I don’t want you to caught in this. Here. Take your pay and a little extra. Stay safe.”
“Oh, Meister, what’s fraying?”
“The less you know, the better. Now hie on out of here. If you need a place to stay, go over to Groppekunta Street and ask for Miss Altyn. Tell her that Maran sent you. She’ll give you work.”
Annalise looked conflicted, but resolution quickly followed. Boldly, she knelt and gave Maran a hug. “For keeps. No take-backs. But I don’t want to skip. I’m your shadow.”
“I want you here, too. If everything goes well, and I pray that everything turns out, I'll take you back.”
After Annalise left, Maran undressed herself, methodically laying her clothes across her bed. She didn't bother wrapping herself in a blanket as she waited, opening the windows instead, letting in the summer air. She stood there in the sunlight until she heard the tap-tappity of the Missus’s approach.
“Come,” the Missus said, and Maran obeyed.
As Maran lay down on the plates and waited for the ceremony to begin, she heard Lord Gamstadt's pacing. “Forsythe, this is the third time that you are trying this. I fear for you. I believe that that gods favor you and have given you fair warning. Her sacrifice is not acceptable. They do not condone bloodletting.”
“The Duke demands this. I obey. You obey. This will happen. Or do you want the Duke to know what you did?”
Gamstadt stopped speaking and sat down.
As the Missus painted ochre onto Maran’s back, Maran let her mind go, listening to her own heartbeat. As Missus stood to conduct other preparations, Kepi entered the room, licking at her. The Missus gave no indication that she saw the soul hound.
It occurred to Maran that Kepi carried souls. If she could carry the soul of the dead, surely she could also carry the souls of the living. She might even break the grip of the Missus. Where should she go? If this were truly her last night, then she would see her husband one last time. She would go to the place of fallling.
“Kepi. When my soul is free, take me to Kirim. Do you understand? When my soul is free, take me to Kirim.”
As the ceremony began, Maran felt the false peace of the opium flow through her. The opium was much stronger this time. It was too strong. The Missus intended to kill her, one way or another. When Maran felt herself leave her body, she felt gentle teeth and some drool wrap around her soul, pulling her in a strange direction against a tide of inevitability.
As if waking, Maran collapsed onto those black streets again. Maran looked up and around, becoming aware of where she was. Kepi jumped up beside her, gleeful. Looking up and down the streets, Maran saw nowhere that she remembered.
“We’re not there, damn, but they're not here. She’ll find me soon, I think. Kepi, find Kirim. Find him now. Run.”
Kepi ran in a circle a few times, then dashed off through an alley. Maran followed as fast as she could, faster than she ever imagined that she could run. Sap pounded like fire in her veins. No breath passed her lips. No burn filled her muscles. In this dream, she possessed no mortal form. Her bod
y was made of flowers and sunlight.
Each corner brought new vistas. The lights played across the buildings in circles and shadows, Maran flickering between the two.
Behind her, Maran heard the pounding of metal feet, and knew that the Missus had found her. She ran faster, but the pounding feet behind her stayed steady. Her steps grew slower and slower, despite her courage. All the world seemed to hold her back.
Something in Maran shifted. She did not like this anymore.
Maran stopped and turned, facing the thing that chased her. She examined her pursuer, a small mechanical bear with a light mounted behind it, throwing off a shadow. The whole effect suddenly seemed a cheap trick, down to the whirring sound that it made as it moved.
“Don’t you dare, little bear. Don’t you dare.”
The little bear stopped.
“I was going to see my husband. I was. Now that’s all gone wrong. I lost my dog, too. I’m all done and I have nothing more to say. So go away. Go. I don’t want you here, no how, no way.”
The bear looked ashamed, then shuffled away, its light making a massive and intimidating shadow before it.
How could she have been afraid of that?
Jack
Maran found Kepi standing before a glass door, so she opened it, revealing an empty cafe. Chairs sat placed on tables. No one stood at the bar. A stage held some sort of instrument. Maran knew this place. This was where she had sat down for coffee. This was where Rem had told that story about Jack.
From upstairs, Rem said, “Come on up, hon.”
Maran found a door leading to a narrow stairwell. The stairs had some sort of tread on them, black and rubbery. The air smelled musty. Her feet thumped hollow as she gently ascended, entering a large, cluttered room with all sorts of things were piled everywhere. Before a lighted mirror sat Rem, the goddess of dreams, putting white cream on her face.
Weeds Among Stone (Jura City Book 1) Page 16