Maran entered, feeling overwhelmed by the power inside the small room. Her teeth ached as she looked over the stones carefully fitted along the floor.
“This is a gate stone,” lectured Gamstadt, “It will take us to any other gate. When Fera Nea fell, we carried this one out. This is what won Kurfurst Svero the election. No other guild has such a stone, not even the Stonehandlers and their Stonebrothers, and certainly not the Kommissars. Jasper knows about it, I suspect. If he gets elected, the Kommissars will surely take the stone for themselves.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Maran, witnessing the many colors that swirled there.
“It’s worth an empire. Nobody knows how the Uma seers made these things. They are enigmas. They are also strategic and tactical weapons. Anyone can go from one gate stone to another. That’s why we sealed this thing in a steel vault. It can hurt us as easily as it can help us.” Gamstadt pointed to a dent in the wall with pride. “Something got in here. Eight hands of tempered steel, single pour, and hot rolled, and still it dended, but it didn't break. So far, nothing has broken through.”
“So where am I going?” asked Maran.
“That’s for Kurfurst Svero to say. You are joining him in exile. Are you ready to go?”
“I don't know.”
“Let me blindfold you now. If you go through with clear eyes, they’ll be too suspicious for their own good. I don't want you dying by accident.” Gamstadt handed a cloth to Maran, who tied it on herself.
Unknowingly, in the next instant, Maran left Jura City and traveled to the other end of the world.
Kitchen of the Damned
Going through an Uma gate felt like having your stomach shoved into your brain. In that brief moment when the world was turned inside-out and upside-down, the gate whisked you. Where that might be, Maran had no clue. It was in that final second, in getting there, that she hit the ground.
Picking herself up with a moan, Maran was immediately aware of dirt. She smelled it. She was surrounded by it. It was sterile. Never had she known dirt so dead.
The door opened. Hands picked her up, leading her out of the room, aiding her against her vertigo. She heard an iron door close behind her with a ringing thud. Someone removed the blindfold. Maran’s eyes adjusted to a lamp-lit tunnel with iron beams holding back the dirt. A squad of soldiers surrounded her.
“Orders,” the gatekeeper ordered. Maran presented her orders, trying to ignore the world drifting sideways. The gatekeeper showed surprised. “That’s real all right. It’s got Gamstadt’s seal. Escort this Loam down to the kitchens where she belongs.”
Taking back her orders, Maran made a note to copy Gamstadt’s seal. That would be useful.
A soldier led Maran with a lamp, letting her stumble through a round tunnel big enough for a wagon and a team of horses. After following the gently curved tunnel for several hundred yards, it opened up into a much larger round tunnel. The guard took Maran down that sinuous paths, passing other round tunnels veering off everywhere, eventually bringing arriving at a dining hall.
The door was guarded by an old dwarf woman. Her right arm was missing, her left leg was crooked, her face was bashed in at least once Her good eye drifted oddly.
The soldier motioned to the door.
The woman struggled as she stood.
“Good morning, Miss,” the old woman spit out. “Good to see a proper cook come to the kitchen. I’ll let you in.” The veteran fumbled with a key, opening the iron door.
A locked kitchen declared Maran every horrible thing that she needed to know. The people in there were prisoners.
Maran smiled back at the old guard. “I have a few things to arrange in here, Auntie. I might have to make a bit of a mess, though. Don’t mind us girls.”
The old guard chuckled.
“And Auntie,” Maran said, “as you open the door, please say, ‘Welcome, Meister Maran’ quite loudly.”
“Yes, ma’am. I'm Greis. You just call on me whenever.”
The old woman clumsily opened the door, blurting out, “Welcome Meister Maran.”
Beyond that door, all eyes focused on Maran as she entered. Maran focused back on all those eyes; all those eyes without hope. Her fears were correct. All the women before her were as ghosts wearing chains. She even recognized some of the women there, rumor saying that they had run off. Here they were now, at these predawn hours, toiling in fear.
The previous kitchen meister walked up to Maran, belligerently demanding answers, but Maran drowned him out with her own orders. “Get me a head count. How many in each area? What’s on the menu? How many do we feed? Get me the schedule.”
“Who are you?” he barked even louder.
Maran met his eyes, “You say, ‘Who are you, Meister Maran.’ Be respectful or I’ll throw you out of my kitchen.”
The dwarf grew irritated. “I RECKON that I am master of this kitchen. No dwarf has told me otherwise.”
Maran pulled out the larder list, waving it about. “These orders put me here.” Maran waved the list threateningly.
“I don’t see a paper,” he laughed.
“By order of Lord Protector ...”
The dwarf grabbed at the paper, which is what Maran wanted. She lightly caught his hand, guiding his body around into an arm lock.
“Out of my kitchen,” Maran ordered.
Greis still had the door open, her half-toothed grin beaming. Maran pushed the former meister, kicking him forward. The old guard stuck her foot under his legs, making Greis to fall face forward.
The bloody-faced dwarf rose back up. “I have your orders!” he yelled in triumph.
Maran shook her head, “That’s my larder list.”
The old guard slammed the kitchen door, all the while howling with laughter. The former meister argued with her for several minutes, but Greis refused.
Maran kicked herself for being too hasty. She shouldn't have done that, but if felt so good. The elation would be short lived. She would have trouble soon.
Needing to take the initiative, Maran climbed onto a table. “Hello girls, I’m your new boss, Meister Cook Maran. We’re going to cook together. I’ll be tough on you, but not like that jackass that I just tossed out. I work hard, and I expect you to work hard, too. Who here is free? Raise your hands. I need to know.”
No hands went up.
“That’s a problem. One step at a time. I have no idea why we’re using forced labor. I’ll get that straightened out, one way or another. What a mess. In the meantime, we have work to do, and I have a whole lot to teach you. I will be teaching you how to cook and how to run a proper kitchen, even under these terrible conditions. I’ll improve what I can. Somebody needs to stand up for you, and that’s me.”
Maran had to notice how skinny each one was. “You all look starving. How come you look starving?”
One spoke up. “If one of us gets punished, we all get punished.”
“By the Alliance of the Sun, this is an embarrassment! I bet that they control the food stores, don’t they? I’ll figure something out. Here’s the deal, though. I’ll pull for you but you need to pull for me. If you don’t pull for me, they kick me out of here and any hope that you might have goes with me.”
Kepi padded into the kitchen, settling near her table. Her tail wasn't wagging, so Maran wrapped up her little speech. “I expect we’ll have more trouble here soon. If things turn violent, please stand back.”
Sure enough, that meister returned and yelled at Greis again, this time joined by new voices and new threats. Greis repeatedly defended herself, stating “She’s a meister.” She would not give them the key, so they beat her and took it. A few moments later, the lock clicked and the door slammed open, revealing a mixed group of dwarves moving into the room as an intimidating knot. All the slave women knelt face down. Maran alone stood her ground and looked those dwarves in their eyes.
One dwarf stood out: Stechen who had attacked her. He was certain to attack her again. Maran made up her mind to stay as peace
able as possible despite her fear. That might be the wrong thing to do, but with Kepi here, she wanted to avoid death violence.
The former meister pointed at Maran, as if she needed identifying. “That's her.”
Stechen needed no such aid, strutting up with his thumbs hooked through his sword harness. “How the smug have fallen. You thought that you are something special, but here you are, in this dirt warren with the rest of us. You aren’t better. You're just the farmer that you’ve always been.”
Maran stared forward, letting Stechen walk around her.
“You make me sick, farmer. By Iron, I have no idea how we tolerated you for so long. There you live, forever in dirt, showing that dwarves are people of dirt. Do you know what happens when you bury iron in dirt? It corrodes until there is nothing left. That’s what you do to the Union. You place our foundation in dirt, corroding our strength. Look how low you've brought this Union. The time has come to sweep the floor and make this a respectable Union again. But first, let’s find out how much dirt comes out.”
A knife showed up in Stechen’s hand. He stabbed fast, far faster than Maran could have dreamed, doubling her over and backwards. Stechen stepped forward, grabbing her arm and stabbing a few more times into her belly, laughing, “Bleed, piggery, bleed!”
Kepi leapt forward. Maran reached out her hand to stop Kepi, but it was too late – the hound had pushed its muzzle through Stechen’s left side, sinking its teeth into the dwarf’s soul. Stechen wheezed as his wind left him, grabbing onto his chest.
“You witch,” he gasped.
The soul ripped the soul from Stechen’s chest, leaving the corpse to collapse onto the kitchen floor.
On seeing this, Stechen's allies made the sign against evil.
“He’s dead.”
“He can’t be dead!”
“He’s really dead.”
“Remember the laws of the gods,” Maran gasped out, addressing the Reckoners, “The gods struck him down, for he attacked a meister in her own workshop. Do you wish to disobey me as well? Or you? If not, then leave.”
“She doesn’t bleed,” said one. “The knife didn’t hurt her.”
Maran looked down, expecting to see blood, but none showed. Not even her apron showed any marring. The elven cloth had held against a Stechen's knife point. Strikke’s fashion sense had saved her life.
“Ma’am,” said one of the Reckoners, “may we remove Stechen?”
“Remove him,” Maran winced, “then don’t come back.”
Once the Reckoners left, Maran collapsed, agonizing over the pain in her abdomen. Stechen’s knife may not have pierced her skin, but the blow may have cracked her ribs. If it wasn't cracked ribs, it certainly felt like cracked ribs.
Greis wobbled over, swaying to and fro. She clapped Maran on the shoulder. “The Lieutenant isn’t going to like this. That was his nephew.”
“No, Auntie, he won’t like it. He’ll be summoning me soon enough. It shouldn’t have turned out this way.”
“Too true. Good luck, ma’am. I don’t know how you survived that, so I have to figure that the gods are with you. Maybe it’s a sign that they're going to straighten this place out.”
“I hope so, Auntie, I really do.”
While Maran waited, she greeted the staff who she already knew, asking after them. They were no longer afraid, having seen Maran stand up to the guards and succeed. They all told the same story: they were kidnapped from the kitchens, sent here, and put into chains. Now Maran understood Quema’s job and understood why she despised her position. She had to supply these kitchens with people. Maran wasn't sure whether she hated Quema now or pitied her.
Maybe she could speak to the Iron Duke? Her would lend gravitas to anything that Maran wanted.
Maran now knew where the food was going. Based on the size of the kitchen, the Ironmongers had a considerable presence here. They would need to siphon off a significant amount of food to support this place, which meant shorting others of food. Multiplied out, they were likely starving ten or twenty thousand people just to keep the operation going. On top of that, the main Ironmonger forge was already shorting ten or twenty thousand people. All that added up to an unconscionable degree of human misery.
As expected, a protector came to march Maran up to Svero’s office. She walked as tall as she could, holding her chest where the bruises formed. She asked for no help and accepted no allowances.
As Maran walked, she studied the odd tunnels. Dwarves didn't dig round passages. No one did. So why were all these tunnels round? The only possible explanation was that the tunnels were formed by massive roots, but what kind of tree had roots this big? Maran found herself baffled.
The passage circles about a massive vertical shaft. Workers hauled charcoal up from below. That was even more inexplicable. How do you get a charcoal mine?
The protector walked around the pit for a ways until they came to a glass-fronted room overlooking the operation. In that room, she was sure to face the Ironmonger's wrath.
Behind his desk, Svero Saargi sat in a fortress of his own making. He relaxed in a huge leather chair overlooking stacks of paper. His keen eyes peered out through a scruff of white hair that tried its best to obscure his sight. With Maran entering, he took up his pipe, using it as a pointer, motioning to Maran where to stand.
Svero offered no seat. The only chair in the office was his and his alone.
If one did not know Svero, and had to read his character from a visual impression, one would say that Svero was a jovial man, of wit and character, likely to turn a clever phrase and make the party laugh. Indeed, one expected to meet him in the street somewhere, get into talking with him, and then lose all track of time.
Unlike most people who talk on-end about things, Svero had a reputation for speaking interestingly and engagingly about any topic imaginable. There are those who said he could enrapture an audience with tales of drying paint, and reputedly often did. Indeed, his audience left that story quite excited about the subject.
It was this remarkable mind that looked at Maran with a set of emotions so complex that Maran found herself quite unable to glean any useful information from his countenance, let alone whether she would live or die from her actions. For even as he looked at her, Maran remembered what a butcher he truly was. Svero was the general who razed cities. Svero was the meister who starved humans. Svero was the Chairman who put down uprisings using lethal force and mass executions. Svero was the son of the Missus, by word and deed.
Svero held his hand out. “Papers,” he ordered. Maran gave hers.
“Lord Gamstadt writes efficiently, as usual. I like that. He is very direct.
“If you remember anything about me, young woman, it is that I hate wasted words. Use as many as you need, no more, and no less. Too few, and you leave your listener irritated, for he must struggle to understand what you mean. Too many, and your listener grows irritated by the needless delay. But if you use the correct number of words, and do not unnecessarily embellish, nor avoid necessary detail, then your listener is well satisfied and all the better disposed towards you.
“Now that you understand me, please explain to me exactly how my nephew died.”
With the silence that followed, Maran found herself in total discomfort.
“He ... umm ... Stechen. He struck me in my kitchen ... the Missus’s kitchen. The Lord Protector punished him for that by sending him here. When I got here, he still had a grudge and attacked me again. He stabbed me. That’s when he died.”
Svero nodded. “How exactly did he die?”
“He grabbed his chest and fell down dead, sir.”
“He just unexpectedly dropped dead?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You said that Stechen stabbed you. Did you know that he was the best knife-fighter that I’ve ever seen? Where are your stab wounds?”
“I have none, sir. He didn't pierce this cloth. It is a very tough e
lven cloth, sir, and very resistant to cutting and burning. The cloth saved my life. My seamstress, Meister Strikke, says that it takes Vitrean scissors to cut this cloth.”
Svero folded his hands. “Witnesses say that you made some sort of motion towards Stechen just before he grabbed his chest. How do you explain that?”
How could Maran explain Kepi at this point? The question made her fear for her own life, so she lied. “I was pleading for my life, sir. I had not realized that my dress had saved me.”
“That is quite the implausible story, young woman. So, let us review what the other witnesses saw.
“Stechen’s friends say that you should have died from the stabbing, but that you used some strange Loam magic to protect yourself. The kitchen meister claims that you are such a strong sorceress that the knife could not harm you, then you used your magic to kill Stechen. You claim to be wearing, of all things, an elven dress and then, even more improbably, got lucky when Stechen keeled over and died.
“In your favor, the Vodie says that Stechen died of a massive heart attack. Such things are not unheard of, according to him, but is exceedingly rare among the young. That does not exonerate you. You could have used some sort of magic on him.
“Fortunately for you, there are several factors in your favor. You are a Loam. I have never heard of a Loam taking arms against another dwarf. Quite the opposite, your people accept death rather than fight, so to believe that you killed Stechen with magic seems somewhat implausible.
“I also happen to recognize that cloth that you're wearing. We found it here among the ruins. I had no use for it, so I gave it to my sister. I see that she sold it to you. So, I happen to know that your claims about the cloth are true.”
That fact surprised Maran. Strikke was Svero’s sister? She was the Missus’ daughter? That explained some things about Strikke. Mostly it explained why Strikke put her mother in nothing but unflattering clothing.
Svero continued, “To my own dismay, I am forced to rule in your favor. I find you not guilty in the death of Stechen. Your life is still your own.
“I will also accept your appointment here. I trust Gamstadt absolutely. In any other circumstance, I would suspect you as an enemy. You have every reason to cause this project mortal harm, so let us keep a peace between us.”
Weeds Among Stone (Jura City Book 1) Page 18