Weeds Among Stone (Jura City Book 1)

by Douglas Milewski

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, to more unpleasant business. Can you tell me anything about my mother’s present condition? You worked in her kitchen.”

  “I know little, sir. Your mother has been sick for a long time. She took some sort of turn for the worse. Fearing that I would be unfairly blamed, Lord Gamstadt sent me here for my own safety.”

  “That agrees with the note that Gam sent me. That doesn’t explain all the facts, however. You yourself remain an enigma. Beyond all reason, I don't know why my mother hired you.”

  “Your mother did not give her reasons, sir.”

  “She never does. I'm done for now. You're dismissed.”

  The Grave of Nomos

  Greis wobbled her way ahead of Maran. “That tunnel leads to the surface. No reason to go there. It’s a wasteland.”

  Maran felt determined to show that she was no prisoner. “A cook needs her own garden. It's the first and most important thing.”

  “It won’t grow,” Greis declared. “I don’t care who you are. Even if you're the best gardener in the world, it won’t grow.”

  “Auntie, I can make anything grow anywhere.”

  “Not here,” she said. “Not even you. But go on up and see for yourself. When you get tired of being up there, come on back down.” Greis turned and wobbled back down the ramp, returning to her chair.

  Maran followed the dirt ramp upward. On seeing daylight, Maran’s heart was lifted, like a flower opening. Then, as the land came into view, her heart sank. As far as her eyes could see lay melted rocks and barren earth. The land was dead as dead could be.

  About a mile off, dominating the landscape, a impossibly large sarcophogus rose as if carved out of a single piece of stone. Inscribed upon its side, in many languages, read, “Here lies Nomos, King of the Gods.” This was the Grave of Nomos, and so this land was Glittering Vale, where the great elven trees once rose far into the sky, and their great roots extended far into the earth. This was the place where the God-King of Fire died. This was holy ground. Maran knelt, giving respect.

  Curious, Maran slid her hand over the ground, but never before had she felt such nothing. The land was dead, not merely in appearance, but as deep as Maran could feel. Concentrating, she felt her way through a dry web of parched channels, arranged so beautifully and gracefully that her heart ached, and even there it was all dead.

  A purposeful step caught Maran’s ear. Expecting a guard, she looked up, but instead saw Zebra nursing the stub of his cigar. He, too, stared at the mausoleum. His odd appearances now seemed normal, if not comforting.

  “Grave robbers,” Zebra accused. “If the world should witness your hands defiling these graves, all good men would rise against you. The Ironmongers live in the roots of the Great Trees, our gods, who burned to ash, twig to root to leaf. Those trees were children of the True Tree, and never again shall their kind exist upon this world, consumed in fire, lying in ash about us.

  “I remember the trees burning, like funeral pyres, sending flames as high as high could reach, so hot that the sun moved away. Those who dwelt highest up flung themselves off the branches, plummeting like rain, their bones consumed before their flesh touched the ground. Those fires were eternal fires, raging until there was nothing left to burn except the future. And in that inferno, Passion became Fire, and so the whole world did not burn, and this elven paradise was covered knee deep in bones.

  “Know this: all things that you see are the bones of the dead. This is our crematorium. Those tunnels below hold the ashes of our gods. You live in a grave, and your people are grave robbers.”

  “How is that so strange?” asked Maran, genuinely struggling with understanding. “The mountains were once our gods, and the died. We mine them. That is the cycle of the earth.”

  “You are a dwarf. You can never understand.”

  “I am a farmer. Here is what I understand. The summer makes the winter, and the winter makes the summer. They are the same. If you keep a field growing the same crops all the time, then the ground soon grows bare and supports nothing. Maybe it was just time to change this land so that this land could grow again. Maybe all this was so that we would come here and fix what needed fixing. Maybe we need to prepare the soil so that the trees can grow again.”

  Zebra scoffed. “Maybe you've transgressed, and don't know that ghosts haunt you. Maybe this place'll be your death. Maybe your transgression will break your Union, resolutely and completely, as this kingdom has been broken.”

  Maran kept her voice steady. “Maybe we have already been broken, and maybe we are as barren as this land. Maybe we need fix our own desolate fields.”

  Zebra smiled. “You are not so literal as I have believed. Perhaps there is hope for you.”

  Maran fell silent. Zebra stood silent. The hot wind buffeted them.

  Working up her courage, Maran asked the question that burned in her. “How did you get here?”

  “I killed myself.”

  “Is that a real answer?”

  “What is real? This world is an illusion. It is a street play with each character doing the same stupid things over and over, in different combinations, but without the happy endings. The lovers never meet. We live in a cycle of suffering, and even knowing that fact we cannot break the cycle of suffering. The play goes on. We are all the players. We are cursed by life and death. We die only to be reborn, again and again, over and over, eternally and eternally, condemned to live and condemned to remember. It is always the same play. So we live, and strive for forgetfulness, and hopefully emptiness.”

  The implications began filtering down through Maran’s understanding. “Do you mean that you can't die?”

  “We must be reborn. We must leave our spiritual existence behind and fly again to this world. Queen Plasm calls. We must carry fire to the sun. We must light the hearths. We must eat the ashes. We must burn and smolder and smoke. We fly the unbreakable cycle.”

  Maran did her best to understand this quickly, but couldn't. She had to think about this.

  “What will you do now?”

  “Mourn. There have been no funerals. There have been no poppies. Someone has to say the prayers. If you dig the grave, then I will mourn the dead.”

  Maran stood, stepping back, looking down.

  Zebra knelt onto the ground, grabbing large handfuls of dirt, pouring it over his head. He uttered words in a language that Maran didn't know. Those ugly and cacophonous words sounded of pain and misery, like birds screeching. They were actual birds screeching. Where were the birds?

  Maran looked up, finding herself in a different desolate land, but it felt like the dreamworld. How could she have crossed without opium?

  Large trees with human faces lay silent, as if felled statues, staring at the nothing before them. From their branches, swaying in the barest breeze, bones clattered like wind chimes, sending a hollow echo throughout the plain. Among those corpses nested crows. Thousands, or millions, or billions of them. It was a genocide of crows. They cawed and cawed again, so many voices that Maran covered her ears.

  Under her feet, Maran crunched on sticks and branches. On closer inspection, they were ribs and long bones made of wood. Elven bones, Maran felt sure. An odd sound caught Maran’s attention. She looked over her shoulder to see Kepi crunching on a wooden femur with the foot bones still attached.

  “I don’t want to be here,” she said to Kepi. “How do I get to the Iron Duke? Do you know?”

  Kepi stood there, wagging her tail.

  Maran looked up, and there she saw a hawk traversing the sky. A hawk was not a crow. The creature flew down, landing near Maran. The mechanical hawk looked bigger than a horse.

  “What are you doing here?” the hawk inquired. “These are the Bonelands. Even gods fear this place. You are fortunate that my Duke sent me out to find you. Next time, sacrifice a horse like a reasonable person. The horse will know how to reach him. For now, I will carry you.”

  “What about Kepi?” Maran asked.

&
nbsp; “She has no worries, Stahlgarten. Few will cross her Mistress, and those who would are not here. Come. Let me carry you across the dreamlands to my Lord.”

  The great bird took off, circling several times, eventually grabbing Maran gently in its claws. The world pulled away, becoming nothing more than the impression of a thousand awful lands, none of which Maran would ever see again. When changing stopped, Maran saw the size of the Steel City below stretching as far as she could see, nothing but house against house. All houses, no trees.

  The great bird delivered Maran to the Iron Duke’s round house. With great sweeps, it hovered near the ground, dropping Maran as it landed.

  The Iron Duke turned his great lamp-eye upon her. “Your people refuse to accept my people.”

  The subject confused Maran. “I don’t understand, Lord.”

  “For a thousand years, your people have lived among the other dwarves. Yet, never have you purchased my goods. You keep yourself separate, in all things, at all times. Your language is separate. Your traditions are separate. Your worship is separate. You call iron unclean. Yet, look at those humans that live among your race. They learn to speak Hadean. They bend themselves to the Hadean will. They call themselves locals, believing themselves part of Jura City. They even sacrifice to me. I find them more pleasing than you.”

  “My Lord, it is your people who keep us out.”

  “Is that true? I think that you fool yourselves. You have done nothing. I think that you have brought this alienation upon yourselves.”

  “How can we integrate ourselves with a people who forbids us to live among them, who give us no rights, and who actively keep us from integrating ourselves in with them?”

  “You have no intention of integrating, so why ask that question?”

  “But we can, if we are allowed. We are already very integrated.”

  “I do not see that.”

  “My Lord, is there anything more dwarvish than a curry? That is the food from my people. Can a household truly be happy without a Loam cook? Even in the greatest houses, we had our place. Even our greatest enemies opened their doors so that their homes could be complete. As to your products, we Loam are utterly dependent upon them. We take those things that you don't use and build with them, such as your tailing and slag to make our roads. We grind up your slag and use it in our walls and floors. Our red and yellow pigments come from your iron. You have a place among us, my Lord, and it's a good place.”

  “You convey compelling facts. Yet, the fact still stands that you do not integrate.

  “Also consider this. You are a people of fire. You take live earth from the soil, then perfect it before its time. Is that not so?”

  Maran knew the secrets of pottery. She nodded. “That is so. We take the living clay from the earth, as the White Lady taught us, before it has become stone. We place it in the Womb of Fire. I am the midwife. The kiln becomes Hawa, buried in the earth. I mature the clay into stone, then I birth the finished pottery.”

  The Iron Duke humed. “And the Ironmongers, they rip the living iron from the earth before its time. They place it in their womb, and they perfect it into steel. They make the steel into embryos which we call ‘cake’. The smith then takes the embryos and puts them back into the fire for their final maturation. He shapes them into weapons and armor. Iron is alive, my child. Each smith is a father, shaping my grandchildren into tools and weapons.”

  “I had not known, my Duke.”

  “You shouldn't know. That's a secret. Every first rod knows this, ut you are an Eightht rod. You must learn all the secrets of all the rods, from first to eighth. You will return and learn more.

  “In the meantime, let us return to our deal. I will grant you a boon. You may sacrifice before my altar is constructed. As a sign of my pleasure, once the sacrifices begin, I will lift the blight. I demand two horses per week until the altar is built, then I demand one horse per week. You may keep the flesh and the skin as I only care for their burned, unsplit bones, and the skulls with the brains intact. Those please me.”

  “Yes, good Duke. Thank you. With the blight over, we can grow coffee, and use that to trade for horses.”

  “Trade? You don’t need to trade. The Kalts have been rustling horses for decades. The whole lot of them deserve hanging. Tell the Kalts that you know what they're doing. Make them give you the horses. Use your advantages. If you want to integrate into this Union, you must use politics. Nail them to the wall. That’s what I do. My souls are so dear to me. I hear them now. I so enjoy hearing them howl when the wind blows.”

  Maran realized that the moan that she heard was the cacophony of subjects on the wall. Her spine shivered.

  “Yes, my Duke … My Lord, if I may ask, what amends do you make to us? Our king is dead, and our lands are still confiscated.”

  “You'll figure something out, I am sure. Use your advantages.”

  The thought of Svero’s blasphemy came to mind. She had an opportunity to undermine his power. “My Lord, can I request that you have Svero build you temple and that he should manage it all his remaining days? And he should start as soon as possible? He really doesn't need to be Kurfurst any more.”

  The Duke nodded. “He is a good servant. Yes. He is the best. He shall do it. He shall make the temple in the image of my workshop. Observe and remember it.”

  With Svero building the temple, the Ironmongers would need to shut down the Project and elect a different Kurfurst, like Jasper. Maran cursed herself for that. She'd forgotten about Jasper. Now it was too late. She needed to think a little more.

  “My Lord, another thing. I am tasked by the Ancient One. She demands the soul of Forsythe Saargi. Is this possible? What can I do?”

  The Iron Duke blew steam and black smoke. “SHE is an arrogant one. Does SHE forget? I existed before this world and SHE may not command me. If SHE would bargain for that soul, then we shall bargain, and I shall profit from my possession. What do you offer me for Forsythe’s soul?”

  Maran’s mind drew a blank. She hadn't expected that reaction, and she had nothing of any importance. Even her cooperation was already pledged. “I have no idea. What is her soul worth?”

  “Her soul is worth everything and nothing. I like my souls. They scream nicely when my hammers ring. Make me an offer.”

  “All that I have is my soul, my Lord. I shall trade mine for hers.”

  The great engine let off steam, shaking its head. “Do not be hasty, Stahlgarten! That is a rash bargain. Reconsider. Perhaps you can find something better to offer? If I would nail you to my wall, you would bear the pain quite stoically. No, you would not work. I give you another day to consider. We are done for today. Begone.”

  The great black thing waved its hand and the world receded.

  As Maran returned to the kitchen to supervise lunch, Greis called Maran over to her chair. “Rumor has it that Lord Jasper has come back to the guild. They say he’s trying to take over.”

  Yes, that would be her own damned fault.

  Maran sighed. “I’m glad that I got out of there. He doesn’t like me.”

  “He doesn’t like anybody. Don’t pay no heed to ‘em. Reckoners only care about themselves. They talk a good talk, making it sound like they are good Unionists, but they’re thugs, plain and simple. They're back there, givin’ themselves power, and we’re out here, doin’ the real work and gettin’ naught for it. I’d get put in Loam country if they had their ways.”

  “We have some Reckoners out in Loam territory. We thought all their big talk was silly. If Steingraf Jasper does take over, they might actually do something..”

  “I’d like to see it happen. The Lieutenant ain’t going down without a fight. Go make lunch for the Lieutenant. Make a big ‘un. Lotsa meat.”

  Maran made something for Svero. She hardly paid attention to the curry. She knew that it was good food, but her mind was not on her work, drifting back to the Iron Duke. What could she trade to him?

  Maran took lunch to Svero, her feet clanging
on the metal stairs. As the protectors opened the door, Svero looked up, surprised to see Maran there. “Lunch already? I should get more comfortable. Follow me.”

  Svero led Maran behind the office where his private quarters lay. Unlike everywhere else, this room had painted iron walls and an iron floor and was filled with weapons, statues, armor, furniture, books, and innumerable other knickknacks, many of them elven. Svero made room on the big table, moving scrolls and books out of the way.

  “I haven’t smelled anything that good that in a decade or two. Damn, I should have hired one of you folks a long time ago. This fills the soul.”

  Maran curtsied, but Svero waved his hand. “Stay. Sit down. It’s not lunch without Cookie in the kitchen. Grab one of those chairs. Just move the stuff off. Look at my treasures. We found most of this stuff while digging.”

  “Grave robbing,” Maran said, refusing to sit.

  “I disagree, Fraulein.”

  “Frau, sir. I am a widow.”

  “Really? So young. How did your husband die?”

  “He died fighting wasps, sir.”

  “I thought that you were pacifists.”

  “We strive for that, sir. We are not forced to take the Vow, but in the end, we all do.”

  “We Ironmongers take vows, too. Did you know that? I have vowed to find a replacement for our cannons. We are dependent on the black powder that the Charyastan make. When the Malachites took over the Dragon Empire, they stopped shipments to us. We can still smuggle some in, of course, but if war cranks up again, our enemy has black powder and we don’t. And I’ll bet my last piece of gold that they're working on ways to make their own cannons.

  “Do you see that copper tube over there? That’s what the philosopher Omled used to demonstrate a steam driven gun. You heat up the tube, drop in some water, and the resulting steam throws out a bullet. It’s not deployable, or even useful, but it does work. I’ve spent my exile searching for ways to implement that.