Standing Between Earth and Heaven

by Douglas Milewski

  “Ro filled the coffers. Ro got a promotion out of that. Dad used all that money to buy a better appointment. Ro eventually used our fortune to buy the Chairmanship. The family did pretty well while we had the gold. In the end, they benefitted, not me, but that was my choice, not theirs. I could not bear what we did, acting against all Strictures.

  “I could have been promoted to anywhere I wanted. Instead, I wanted to get out of here. I tried to get a smelter up in the Flintlands, but my father wouldn’t hear of it. In the end, I picked down here, as this was as far away from up there as I could get.”

  Maran knew that Quema spoke truthfully.

  “Ma’am, this will sound particular, almost impossible as its been so many years, but I need to know if you remember something specific. A woman carried some sort of statue out of there. Do you remember seeing a small statue or an idol?”

  Quema stared at Maran in utter and stark shock. “Who have you been talking to? Nobody could know that. You are getting scary, Maran.”

  Maran tried to speak at that point, but had to stop. She had to explain the situation. “When your stepmother took me to the Iron Duke, I learned many strange things. Sometimes when I dream, I see the Steel City and I can walk around.”

  Quema shook her head in disapproval. “That’s Flintlander magic. Stay away from that, Maran. My stepmother was born to it, not you. She was a Flintlander on her mother’s side. My father covered that up. They bribed the record keepers to change it.”

  Quema fell silent for a pause, collecting her thoughts.

  Maran sighed. “I tried to avoid this thing, whatever it is that your stepmother did to me. I really did, but I can’t walk away. Sometimes I just see things that I don’t want to see. Trust me, I would rather be just me again. I only want to work in the kitchens. After that, I’m going home and I’ll be the kiln meister. I’m scared that this will follow me. I’m scared because that this has changed my future.”

  Quema held her own head as she thought, then she looked back to Maran.

  “I’ve never told this story before. This is my secret. Keep my secret.

  “I remember that little idol. I shouldn’t. It was just a little idol, but it looked at me. Maran, that little idol looked at me. That little idol had more power in it than I had ever seen before. I couldn’t stand that. I took it from her, Maran. I hid it away.”

  First Act of Justice

  In the long, sweltering evening, Altyn and Maran walked to the Ammelites. Maran carried a bag with the idol in it. Fleck came as a protector even though Altyn insisted that they were safe; he would not hear otherwise. “It’s a matter of pride, ma’am. I’ll mosey with ya and see you git where you’re goin’”

  Altyn may not have needed Flint, but Maran felt far better with him there. All those angry people intimidated Maran. None attacked, but all yelled. If they did not yell, they avoided your eyes. Every step to Shuffle Dog was a step into misery. Maran did not breathe a sigh of relief until Altyn knocked on the door and the ostiary let them in.

  Cantor Bertra greeted Altyn with fondness while ignoring Maran and Fleck. Her voice rasped, “It is good to see you back. I am glad that you got here safely. The throngs are overwhelming.”

  “I was in no danger, Cantor. The rioters are no concern of mine.”

  “Of course not, Miss Altyn. What can I do for you?”

  “I need a word in private.”

  Bertra sighed, knowing what this meant. “Help me to my chambers. The dwarf woman may come in. Your goon stays outside.”

  Altyn nodded, acknowledging the conditions. She took Bertra’s arm and walked her back to her room. Fleck positioned himself outside of Bertra’s chamber.

  Bertra offered them seats as if this were a social visit. She offered hospitality out of ritual, rather than fondness. They sat out of ritual as well, gaining no comfort for it.

  Altyn considered her words. “Cantor, we are truly shamed by today’s shooting. We wish the Ironmongers had restrained their predilection for violence. The shooters were under the influence of Red Snake. I find that fact disturbing. This latest outbreak of the substance has already reached far wider than any before. Never before have Ironmongers used it. The doses must be far stronger than usual.”

  Bertra nodded. “I understand. Go on.”

  “As you know, Cantor, Maran can talk to gods. I sent her to speak with Justice to apologize for the Ironmongers and to seek a peace.”

  Bertra’s face blanked. That idea clearly shocked her. She spent several second fumbling for words. “That is blasphemy. You don’t just go talk to her. What were you thinking?”

  “Maran did visit her and Justice smiled upon her. She brought back a message. Justice wants a court in this town. She wants her idol set up in the court. The only idol that we know of was saved from Fera Nea. Do you know of such a thing?”

  Bertra looked at them solemnly, cautiously. If she felt anything, she hid it well. In the end, she surrendered to the truth.

  “You must have spoken to Justice, truly, for there is no other way that you could come to me. I do know of this idol. With that idol in hand, there is nothing that Justice cannot accomplish. That idol was seized by the Ironmongers. They murdered for it.”

  Altyn gestured to Maran. “We have returned it.”

  Shocked, Bertra moved to stand but could not rise. Altyn helped her up. Maran held up the bag, offering it up as an apology.

  Betra touched the bag with reverence. She opened it hastily, peering inside.

  “This is it. This is the olive wood statue that Justice made for her father, Nomos the Unvanquished, before he died and she ascended to lead the Alliance. This idol is her will. All kneel.”

  All knelt.

  Bertra took out a cloth, wrapping her hands with it. Then, reaching into the bag, she removed the statue and placed it onto a stool. The figure was crudely carved, but clearly showed a bare-breasted woman holding a sword and carrying a severed head.

  Maran stared into its eyes. Those were the eyes of Justice. Those eyes looked through Maran. She could not bear to meet them, so she turned her head away.

  “Bloody Tythia, we ask for your justice,” prayed Bertra. “Grind the evil under your heel and behead those who would prey upon the weak. Look to the Sun.”

  After a few moments, Bertra picked up the idol again and placed it back into its bag, then teetered back to her seat. Altyn helped her to sit again.

  “That is the idol that we seek,” said Bertra. “We have found it. What now? Will the Ironmongers come into this house and seize this idol from us again? Is that the case, Miss Altyn?”

  “No, ma’am. Justice would frown upon such a course of action.”

  “Then tell me, how will you secure our cooperation?”

  “Justice wants a court; is this idol not enough?”

  “I greatly trust you, Miss Altyn, but I equally distrust them. I must suspect betrayal. I must suspect treachery. The Ironmongers put on a good face, but their hearts are wicked. How soon would they turn against us? Once we have gold, how long before they take it? How long before they commit their atrocities upon us? Tell me.”

  Both Altyn and Maran sat silently. Maran had not predicted this point, but she knew that it was true. Her people loved gold too much, and that did lead them astray. She saw what that lust did to the Ironmongers, and what the Ironmongers did to others. In Bertra’s place, she would have asked the same questions.

  “Ma’am,” said Maran, “my people have felt the heel of the Ironmongers upon them. Our injustices from them have been equally terrible. Your suspicions have merit. Even now, there are factions in their organization that would return to their brutal ways. Quite honestly, there are no guarantees that the Ironmongers won’t be terrible again. So why dare? Why even try? I’ll tell you why.

  “I try, ma’am, because I have seen Tythia’s court and I have learned her will. If Tythia wants you to establish a court, I must conclude that she believes this act is in her best interests, your best interests, or
the best interest of these slums that surround Jura City. You may choose an option other than the one that she shows you, of course, but would that be wise? Do you know better than Justice herself?”

  Bertra frowned. “You are annoyingly correct, dwarf. I must presume that she is correct. Yet, restitution is also due to us. If you went to Justice herself and she told you to establish a court, then she assumed that we would hold your Ironmongers accountable for their actions. The Ironmongers owe us.”

  Altyn paused here. “The Ironmongers have no money. They have spent their fortunes. How else could they repay you?”

  “The Ironmongers do not need to repay me, but they must repay the people. They must open up the Food Bank tomorrow and allow the people food all day. No more closing any food banks as punishment. That is intolerable. They must compensate the families of the dead. They have iron. Let them pay in iron. But if they want forgiveness, let them pay in gold.

  “When those things are done, we will know that you bargain in good faith and we can negotiate over the court.”

  Altyn looked over to Maran. “Is this agreeable to you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Altyn turned back to Bertra. “We will pay in iron, if not in gold. I will personally see to this. In the meantime, I must see to your safety. I will assign you a guard captain as soon as possible. The Ironmongers will fund the position until you can fund it yourself.”

  Bertra frowned darkly. “I do not want dwarves protecting us. This is nonsense.”

  “Cantor, once the idol becomes known, the Red Lady will surely act against it. I must assign someone.”

  “No. I want no one. That is my decision to make.”

  “Very well, I have advised. You have decided.” Altyn leaned back in her chair.

  “I expect little,” said Bertra. “Iron does not bend so easily.”

  “Bertra, I want you to keep this in mind as we negotiate and set up this court. As of this point, you no longer act merely for yourself. Justice may require things of you that you would otherwise reject.”

  Awake With the Moon

  Whatever doom the gods almost threw at them, Maran had averted. They could return to some semblance of normalcy, or at least as normal as the holiday could get.

  The Ironmongers were eager for that normalcy as well. The guild turned out in droves for the Ceremony of the Orders. It was a short ritual commemorating the night when Nomos ordered his army ready for battle. That battle at Knessex had been so large that the armies took a day just to sort themselves out.

  What was it like back then, when the gods really walked this world and truly battled so that people that they did not know and did not need could live good lives? What would that be like now? What kind of heartache would follow? No matter how Maran looked at those questions, she did not want to know the answers.

  The band stopped its tune, then struck up a few notes, just enough to grab everyone’s attention.

  Strikke climbed up onto a wagon, banging its boards with her cane. “Attention. Attention. By order of Nomos, High God of the Alliance and Captain General of the assembled armies, the Ironmongers are ordered to guard the baggage train, taking position between the diggers and the sutlers. We move to the rear. That is all.”

  As part of the ceremony, the assembled Ironmongers wailed at the terrible news. They threw themselves into each other’s arms. They pretended to rend their clothing. Many threw themselves on the ground in shame. A few dug their iron swords into the cobblestones and broke their weapons for real. Some took off helms and smashed them with hammers. Their woe knew no limit. A few even took out shears and cut off their hair and beards as a gesture of shame.

  After several minutes of display, Strikke banged her cane against the wagon again, calling all to her attention. “We Ironmongers were deployed to the rear of the army with the grave diggers in total humiliation. On the eve of the greatest battle in history, we were given a position of shame, just as if we were mercenaries. Nomos looked down upon us and judged us unworthy of the front ranks where we belonged. We had offended him, but we did not know how. So now each man must think of his trespasses against the gods so that we can put ourselves right.

  “To our undeserved honor, Nomos was wiser than we knew. He correctly concluded that Anobaith the dragon would go after the pay wagons. He knew that we could defeat her and so he set his trap. Our position of humiliation led to our day of glory, and that is why we remember these days.”

  As the crowd broke up, Maran walked back to her kitchen. With Strikke having that large party in a few days, Maran had no time to dawdle. She had to get her new kitchen in working order as soon as possible. On entering the guildhall, she found it hotter than outside. Tonight would be a long night for her.

  Normally, Maran would clean on the fifth day of the festival, as that readied the kitchen for the new year, but the unused kitchen was in such a state that Maran needed to right start now so that she could cook on the fifth day. Even though the equipment was neatly put away, twenty years of grime and tarnish had to be scrubbed off everything. She could have turned this job over to Annalise, but that felt wrong. This was Cookie’s kitchen. If she wanted to make this her own, she had to earn it herself. Maran stripped down to her underdress and tied up her skirts.

  According to Gamstadt, there was a larger cistern built into the roof. It was filled up during the day by means of a steam-powered pump, then flowed down when you turned the tap. Maran thought the whole idea exceedingly clever. Maran tried turning the tap, but found it stuck. Undeterred, she struggled with the corroded bronze tap until it broke free. Warm water flowed.

  As Maran filled her buckets, a gentle knock caught her attention. She turned to see Osei standing at the door.

  “My friend, I thought that I heard something,” said Osei.

  “You have good ears. Come in. How is guarding going?”

  Osei did not laugh. He only shook his head.

  “Is Strikke drinking again?” Maran showed her worry.

  “It is more than that. It is what my eyes see. The old world had it right, Maran. The modern world has it wrong. Everyone has forgotten the Strictures in the name of being right. It would be better if I were blind. That I should not see people herded up and treated like cattle. That I should not see women and children bleeding in the streets. That I should not see people starve because they fear for their lives. I would give everything for such ignorance.

  “Once I had the river to help me forget these things. Now, I see them all over again, and I dwell on them, and I see that I have not forgiven myself of my own misdeeds, which were no better than these deeds that I see now, so who am I to sit in judgement over others? Who can do that?”

  The Knackery popped into Maran’s mind. Tythia could do that. She wished that she could forget what she saw as well. Perhaps blindness and ignorance were better.

  “Could you answer a question, Osei? I am confused. I am to understand that all souls go to Endhaven, but they also seem to go to the Iron Duke, and some seem to go to Tythia. I also know that some can get lost. Osei, where do you believe that they really go?”

  Osei looked thoughtful for a moment, pondering the question. “Do I understand the gods? Does anyone? Miss Altyn might give you a dry answer, full of details that do not matter. A smile would be more welcome. Zebra probably would ramble on about something. Me, I believe nothing and everything. The gods show us many things that are not quite what they are.

  “If you slip your hand into a bucket of water, does your hand bend in odd ways, or is that just a trick on your eyes? And if water does trick your eyes, how much more are your eyes tricked seeing this world, and how much more are they tricked going into the realm of the gods?

  “Truth is not literal. The gods do not show us literal things. They show us fancies that we can understand. These fancies are no more true than a hand bending in water. It is our own perceptions that are the problem, not the realm of the gods.

  “Where do the dead go? That is one of ou
r illusions. Who sees the truth?”

  Those sentences meant nothing to Maran. “I still don’t understand.”

  “Who of us does?”

  “Now you sound like Zebra.”

  “That’s because I speak of truth, which is the realm of poets. They spend their entire lives sculpting language into unusual shapes, all in the ambition to utter one sentence that is true. Otherwise, I speak of things which are true enough, which is far simpler.”

  Her bucket full, Maran turned off the tap. She picked her scrub brush up then wetted down the table, the layers of dust absorbing all the water dripped into them. Washing this table reminded her of Altyn’s dirty table, and that reminded her of Imeni. With all the other things going on, Maran had forgotten about that little mystery.

  “Osei, what do you know about Imeni?”

  A frown crossed Osei’s face, as if a ghost had walked across his path. “That name, my friend, I had hoped it forgotten. I knew her. I met her and Altyn after the war. At the time, I was the bouncer across the street. They got to know me and they hired me for their door.

  “In those days, they spent most of their time high on Red Snake. That is a bad drug. They lounged away their days in their parlor uttering meaningless gibberish. I preferred them that way. When they weren’t babbling, they were fighting, and Astreans scream louder you ever want to hear. I took to stuffing my ears with beeswax, and even then it was intolerable. I did not want to hear those things. I will not mention them.”