Back upstairs, Annalise stopped Maran. “Oh, the Kurfurstin says to get ready for the internment services. Everyone is going up to the crypts today. They are waiting for you to show.”
Anger welled in Maran. “You should have told me that first. Why are you so stupid? You never keep the Kurfurstin waiting. I should just fire you.”
Maran stormed down to her room and changed into her formal overdress. For this event, she also needed jewelry. Internment rites required wearing as much valuable metal as possible, as the spirits were comforted by its presence. If they thought that their families were poor, they would become restless and come back to the living and try to help.
When Maran put on her jangly bracelets, the copper ones that the Demmarians had paid to her, they sounded awful. They were a nausea of sound. She threw the bells on the bed in disgust. She wanted nothing to do with them. She would wear no jewelry.
From the memorial altar, Maran picked up the Kurfurstin Mother’s jade urn. Ready, she left for the internment ceremony.
Outside, the sky had grown overcast. The world still seemed too bright, but at least it was tolerable. Maran tasted the powder from the brass bottle again. That helped a little.
Maran walked to the crematorium where the crowd had gathered. All the corpses were now cremated and their remains put into shining iron urns. Maran recognized the material as non-rusting steel: iron to last an eternity. Each urn had a small white cloth over the top. Maran put the Kurfurstin Mother’s jade urn among the lesser urns, placing a white silk cloth over it.
Kurfurstin Strikke stood impassively, speaking to no one.
The Ironmongers only buried their dead once a year, commemorating the great funeral after the Day of Battle. Families gathered, bringing the urns of their loved ones who had died, although the number of urns seemed awfully large. Maran asked Fleck what was going on. He wore a special nose-eye patch – gold with a hematite stone in the eye socket.
“Why are there so many urns here?”
“It’s been twenty years since there was a proper digger to conduct the internment. All these families an’ all want their dead to get good positions with the Iron Duke, so they just waited for a digger, keepin’ their urns by the door.”
Fleck shook his head at the facts. “Ironmongers, you just can’t civilize ‘em. They should just expose their dead and be done with it. Toss the corpse on the back of a horse until it falls off, then sacrifice the horse. They’ll get to the Duke just fine. Let the wild dogs and vultures eat the corpses. Proper. Dignified. Solemn. That’s the way it should be.”
The Horsebreakers arrived with a large number of wagons for the trip. At the head of the wagons was the Kurfurstin’s coach, gleaming in red lacquer and gold leaf. Despite its attempts at beauty, Maran had to admit that it was the ugliest thing on four wheels that she had ever seen. The next several wagons were the many-benched wagons. After that were a bunch of ordinary wagons.
Behind the wagons arrived two full companies of Ironmonger Gatebreakers. One company stood straight and proud in red cloisonné armor. Maran knew them. They were the Kurfurstin’s guard. The other company wore armor of non-rusting steel etched with geometric patterns. On closer inspection, the armor was actually covered in gears.
“That is Lord Svero’s personal company,” noted Fleck.
After the preparations seemed done, Kurfurstin Strikke made motions at Maran. The procession was about to begin.
Maran knew little about Ironmonger internment. Her mother was a priestess of the White Lady, so she knew about the Lady’s agricultural aspect, not her funerary aspect. Why hadn’t her mother bothered learning all this? Her mother should have known that the family would be doing this kind of thing. Stupid mother.
Taking a brass bell, Maran walked around the urns, chiming every slow step. The bell made her dizzy each time she rang it, bothering something inside her head. By the time she was done the three circles, her stomach heaved almost uncontrollably. She needed to calm it fast. Pretending to pray, Maran tasted a little more of the Red Snake. That eased her symptoms.
Ready again, she faced the families. “These spirits are awake and ready to travel. It is time to journey to the columbarium. For those who will inter the remains there, please follow me.
“Mothers, daughters, and wives, you may now come forward and claim your relatives.”
Everyone waited for Strikke to act first. She walked forward with great purpose, picked up her mother’s jade urn quite formally, then stepped back. Fleck leaned over to her and whispered in her ear. Strikke nodded, then began chanting something. It was the lay for the dead, the final farewell.
The next woman walked up, picking up her husband. She joined Strikke, chanting the final farewell. Next came a daughter who picked up her father and brother.
With each voice, the chant grew stronger until all the women bore their dead.
There was one urn left. Inside it was Stechen. He was Strikke’s estranged son. Last week, he had attempted to kill Maran, but Kepi had killed him first. No one stepped forward for him, not even his own mother. Out in the spirit world, he had rejected Maran. His spirit was still out there, still restless.
With no one else stepping forward, Maran did, picking up the ashes of her would-be killer.
The next movement of the funeral had come. They were to journey up into Jura City proper and enter the catacombs there.
As Strikke held the highest ranking jar, Strikke mounted her coach first, helped by Protector Fleck. Lord Svero mounted the right runner. Protector Fleck mounted the left. After everyone else had mounted, it was Maran’s turn.
Osei, not Fleck, should have been on the coach’s runner, but Osei was a human and he was not allowed inside Jura City, not even in service to the Kurfurstin. Some humans were allowed into the city, but they were certainly not welcome to visit the catacombs. Humans were greedy people who would only tell each other where the grave treasures were and steal them. The last thing that they needed was all their ancestors coming back all angry because humans had stolen their treasure.
Gamstadt walked up. Maran smiled despite her bitter mood. Gamstadt patted Svero on the leg. “Get in, sir. That’s my place.”
Svero considered for a moment, then entered the wagon and sat. Gamstadt put an urn on the floor, then climbed up, holding onto the handle with one hand and bracing the other urn with his foot.
“Who do you have there?” asked Strikke.
“Cookie.”
Strikke beamed. “Really? Cookie! I always wondered what happened to her.”
“I found her in the piles, ma’am, before we buried them. I’m taking her up to the Loam halls. They have some crypts up there. She should be with her people. She showed me where her family was. I’ll put her there.”
Maran gave Gamstadt a hopeful look and made encouraging motions.
“I married her,” said Gamstadt. “But I never did tell anyone. You know the rest. I should have taken better care of her.”
Kurfurstin Strikke slid over a little, patted the seat beside herself. “I figured that out a long time ago. I would be proud and honored to have Cookie ride in my coach. As far as I am concerned, she was my real mother. I learned everything important from her. Come in and sit. I want her near me. That’s an order. This is for her, Gammy.”
Gamstadt entered and sat, putting the simple clay urn on his lap.
Svero smiled, climbing back down to the runner. “I don’t know what you were thinking by marrying her, Gammy, but I don’t care. I won’t hold it against you. Your secret is safe with us.”
“I don’t want it to be a secret any more. You can tell everyone.”
“Do you want the Kommissars to hear?”
“I’m no Lord Protector any more. And even if I was, I’ve said it. I don’t want to hide it any more. I want to live an honest life again. I married a Loam and I would do it again. All the laws that say otherwise are stupid.”
“Spoken like a revolutionary, comrade. Best be careful, or they’
ll ship you out to the farms.”
Gamstadt laughed at that.
The parade martial saluted the coach. “Permission to march?”
Strikke signed a pause, turning toward Svero. “Well, I really did expect Jasper to come to mom’s funeral, impious bastard. We’ve waited a good while. He’s not sent word. I have to conclude that he’s not coming.” Strikke turned to Maran. “Still, the spirits might not like it. You’re our Eighth Rod. You give the order.”
Maybe being an Eighth Rod wasn’t a good job. Now Maran had to annoy the spirits. “Martial, you may proceed.”
The martial blew his whistle, ordering his men forward. They beat their shields and yelled, “Make way for the dead.” They walked forward and the guards opened the wrought-iron gates.
The soldiers marched out into the crowded streets of Irontown. They forced the crowd aside for three miles, ensuring easy travel for the procession. They brought the mourners safely to Lord Cason’s Gate, and all entered Jura City proper.
At the great square, beneath the relief of Emperor Thule, Gamstadt saluted. “This is where I get off. I’m going up. I’ll get back on my own.” Gamstadt jumped down from the wagon.
Maran stood to follow him, but Strikke touched her arm. “Let him go.”
“But ma’am, he just lost an arm.”
“I know. Just let him go. He has his own dragons to fight. Let him fight them.”
Maran was sure that Gamstadt did that just to make her look bad.
The procession traveled onward, through the busy streets to the entrance of the crypts. The marshall blew his whistle. The soldiers stood at ease. Footmen dismounted.
As the deceased Kurfurstin Mother had the highest rank, Quema exited first. In that brief second when no one was looking, Maran took the opportunity to taste a little more Red Snake. She immediately felt better.
Svero tapped Maran on the foot. “You don’t know all our funeral ways. We brought some charcoal with us. It’s in the back wagon along with our cast iron boxes. We’ll place the urns in the boxes, then you’ll seal them with lead. No need for special words.”
Maran began by sealing the lowest of the dead, who was Stechen. It was the job of the lower ranked dead to make ready for the upper class dead. That way, the path was opened for those most deserving of a high station with the Iron Duke.
Sealed, Maran set the urn aside.
Strikke held out an enameled bracelet to Maran. “This is for your services. The Machinist Guild gave this to me last night. It’s all I have to pay you.” Maran curtsied to the Kurfurstin, then placed the bracelet in a pocket.
The Kurfurstin stood back, then waited for others to go.
Other families came forward. After she sealed each steel urn in each iron box, the mourning family gave her things. At first, it was just a few coins, but soon they gave her bracelets, earrings, chains, coins, rings, buttons, axe heads, and pins. Each family gave better and more sumptuously than the last. Maran’s pockets were quickly too full to hold more. She had to use a spare iron box to hold all the gifts.
At last, when all the others were done, Maran administered to the Kurfurstin Mother. She sealed her jade jar into an iron box, then handed it to Strikke. “Your mother,” she said.
Strikke grunted, taking the heavy box. “You’re stronger than you look,” she said. “You make this look easy.”
“Strik,” said Svero, “What should we give her for Mother?”
“I have no idea.”
“Can’t you make her a dress or something?”
“I already did. She’s wearing a fortune. What else could I make her?”
“We have to give her something. It’s bad luck if we don’t. It’s bad luck if we give her something of lesser value than the family before.”
“You were supposed to think of this!”
“Gammy always did that. He always had something squirreled away.”
With Lord Gamstadt absent, everyone looked over to Protector Fleck.
Protector Fleck smiled. “Ma’am, you can give her your mother’s bed.”
Strikke lit up. “Brilliant, Protector. Done. I’m promoting you. Maran, the bed is now yours. I’ll have it delivered to your new room.”
The gift flabbergasted Maran. “That?”
“I hate it anyway,” said Strikke, “How much do you figure it’s worth? I’d say it’s over ten talents of silver.”
“I can’t use that.”
“You’re stuck with it. It’s bad luck to sell it. Anyway, nobody in their right mind would buy it. Maybe in a hundred years, when nobody’s scared of her any more.”
A hundred years. Maran was stuck with the ugliest bed in the world for a hundred years.
Negotiating in the Ashes
Maran lay in her smoky room under the kitchen, far away from others, letting the Red Snake fill her. She wanted nothing else. She knew that she should do other things, but she did not care. Her eyes saw things, dimly at first, but then vividly. Boiling poppy. Quicklime. Acid. Alcohol. The ingredients went together and divided apart. She could do this. She could cook this concoction.
What would it be?
Kirim stood there. Her husband stood there, just as he had in life. He pulled Maran down, hot and dirty, just like so many afternoons. Maran pulled off her clothes and felt her husband against her and played with delight.
The visions ended like a thunderclap. Maran eyes opened with a start. The room smelled clean and clear. The doors were open. Nothing seemed there.
A cough. Maran looked over. A burning woman sat beside her bed, so bright that Maran could not focus on her red-yellow blaze. She felt unusually present, as if all the rest of the world were but ice and snow. That which was certainty melted before her, becoming as steam off a pot.
“What do you want?” asked Maran, barely able to see her through her own blaze.
The burning woman pulled her knees onto the bed, letting her body drape seductively. “Wanting is for mortals. I have transcended wanting.”
The nonsense annoyed Maran. This elfin woman annoyed her as much as Zebra did. The woman roused something combative in Maran. “Don’t you have anything real to say?”
The goddess let her hair drape across her shoulders, like a waterfall of fire. “Mortals talk about what’s real. I talk about what is surreal.”
Maran did not know the word. “What is surreal?”
“This is.” The woman gestured gracefully.
Anger ran rampant across Maran’s soul. “That’s no answer.”
“Answers are an illusion created by the ruling elite to placate the proletariat. What you want is questions.”
“You are so frustrating. Did Zebra send you?”
The woman smiled brilliantly from burning red lips, both lusty and luscious. “Frustrations are the ranting of a chained mind. Monkey chatter, monkey chatter, monkey chatter. Your thoughts must move beyond the monkey chatter to true silence.”
Maran closed her eyes against her brilliant red light and lay back down, seething in the anger, throwing her arm over her eyes. “Who are you?”
“I have no idea, unless babies, thieves, and lions gives you a hint.
Babies, thieves and lions
All take what they want
All awake at midnight
Waking mother up.
Will she see the morning?
Will she pace the floor?
Will she hold her baby up
And smash him to the floor?
Maran’s opinion passed her lips without thinking. “That’s a terrible poem.”
The woman walked her fingers idly up Maran’s thighs, just like Kirim used to do. “All poems are terrible. They are false, which is terrible, factual, which is even more terrible, or vapid, which is most terrible of all.”
“What kind of poems are yours?”
“True.”
“I should have known better.” Maran brushed the curious fingers away.
The woman stretched along Maran, putting her mouth next to Maran’
s ear. “There are only two mistakes one can make along the road to truth: not going all the way, and not starting.”
Maran turned over in disgust, but could not stop herself from looking.
The woman sat there, thoughtful for a few moments. She held up a little bit of smoke above Maran like a dangling string. “We live in illusion and the appearance of things. There is a reality. We are that reality. When you understand this, you see that you are nothing, and being nothing, you are everything.”
With a flick, the smoky remnant dissipated.
“Go away,” demanded Maran.
The woman continued her chatter. She moved her hands along Maran’s body as she spoke. “Breathe in through your nose, let the breath circulate through your abdomen, then breathe out your mouth. By that, your internal fires grow. This is my secret that I give to you.”
“I said go away.”
“I am here for you. My lover speaks of you. He asks me to help you. False passion possesses you. False pleasure enraptures you. Know that I accept no equal. Did you not enjoy my dream? Did you not enjoy your husband? I heard you scream. I know that my gifts were satisfying to you.”
The woman disappeared from Maran’s sight. The room cooled. She did not hear the woman open or close the door. She was simply gone. After a while of profound silence, Maran accepted that she was not returning.
Maran slept again.
When Maran awoke, she remembered a little of the dream, but did not really remember it. Still, she had to examine the room. Her doors were still closed. The room still smelt of Red Snake. Nothing marked the bed. The woman had never been there. It was all of no concern.
Maran rose and dressed absently.
In the kitchen, Altyn was already awake and eating her toast. She waved her toast as she spoke. “I talked to Zebra last night. He found the Sybil. Things are better than I hoped. She is in withdrawal. He negotiated a meeting up in Slaughtertown when it gets dark. Osei will take us up in his boat.
“Also, Osei quit last night. Do you remember his vow of nonviolence? We informed him that the Lord Protector is also the Lord Executioner. When he learned that, he resigned, and good for him. Flint is Lord Protector now.”
Standing Between Earth and Heaven Page 18