That was good for Flint.
Maran itched her arms. She saw a little vine there, pricking at her. She did her best to ignore it, but it kept bothering her. Every few seconds, it seemed like she needed to itch it some more. Looking down, Maran realized that she had scratched her arm raw. To keep Altyn from noticing, she pulled down her sleeve.
Needing more Red Snake, Maran reached into her apron but did not find it, so she walked back down to her new room. It was not there. Look as she might, she could not find the brass bottle. It was not in the bed, nor under it. She was absolutely sure that she had left it in her apron, but the apron was empty.
Where was her Red Snake? Altyn must have taken it last night. She must have taken it for herself. Maran seethed, consciously looking about for a knife. Only when her hand moved did Maran realize her intent. Embarrassment set in. She looking about, but Altyn had not noticed.
The morning passed slow and hard. Maran found herself snapping at Annalise almost constantly. No, not snapping. She snapped at first, then she prodded. Then she harrassed. Then she bullied. Annalise cried from her words, but she would not leave her post.
The itchy vines, driven deep into her skull, drained Maran. Everything seemed empty of everything. She just moved without volition, without meaning. She felt like there was a pin shoved through her head jerking her around. It was like little pins all over her, tied to strings, jerking her limbs. All the time, they pulled her out the door.
Eventually, with all the food tasting lousy and dull, Maran stormed out of her own kitchen. She walked out to the yard hoping to find peace there. Her arms itched. The vines pushed their roots into her temples, giving her a dull, throbbing headache. The vines trembled, twitching her hands and making her sway.
The yard had no peace. The Ironmongers moved equipment about, preparing to move their regiment. Already columns of wagons stood ready, packed to the gills with supplies. Ranks of cannon stood ready as well. Horsebreakers assembled their own traveling wagons and mobile wagon repair shops. Even Arany was going, her hay-sided wagon sitting among the others.
Out of the furnace came well armed Ironmongers. Whole companies appeared. How could so many Ironmongers show up out of the furnace? At that point, Maran kicked herself. There was that Uma gate hidden inside the furnace. These soldiers were Svero’s men coming back from exile. Svero was using the regiment’s activity to hide the return of his field army. He wasn’t moving out one regiment, he was moving out two. Five thousand dwarves and their support train prepared to move.
A happy buzz came from the forge workers. There was work to be done. There was a war to be fought. They were happy. They were excited. After a decade of boredom, they had work again. Something in them woke up. Once again, their work had meaning. Once again, they were Iron Dragons, scouring the land searching for gold. They would burn the world as they consumed it.
Maran noticed that the furnace’s smokestacks ran black. The steelmakers were busy, too. What did that look like? How exactly did that process work? Maran wondered. All secrets were open to her, so she could just go look. She could see steel being made. She could see how they heated the Converter.
Gamstadt caught up with Maran as she walked.
“Good morning, ma’am.”
“Uncle, look at you. You shouldn’t be up like this.”
“Of course I should. It’s good for me. Arany told me to. There’s nothing like vigorous exercise to heal you faster. Come, walk with me. Keep me company.”
“I really don’t have time.”
“Nonsense. I need your talents. Miss Altyn says that you can see little red vines. We need to review the guard first, then the regiment. We don’t want any addicts marching out with the regiment. This will take a while, I’m afraid.”
Maran bit her tongue. Better to not show her anger. Never let people know what you feel. Always keep them guessing. Always make them fight the wrong fight.
Gamstadt walked from post to post reviewing the guard. He seemed to engage in every possible conversation along the way. What seemed like a quick annoyance to Maran dragged into tedious agony. They could not be done with this job soon enough. Aggravatingly, each time that Maran made some excuse to leave, Gamstadt found some way to include her back into the conversation.
Gamstadt was frustrating her on purpose, and Maran seethed in that knowledge. She would get him back. Maybe she could serve him something cold that was supposed to be hot or maybe something hot that was supposed to be cold. Or maybe she could over-salt his eggs. Better yet, she could serve him something that would require two hands to eat. Yes, that seemed quite cruel.
The vines pressed harder against her temples. The world swayed a little more. Their roots seemed to suck the soul out of her. She wanted Red Snake and only Red Snake. She checked her pockets again. Still, she found nothing there.
Above, Altyn looked down from the balcony. “Maran! There you are. We’re coming down. Stay there.”
Maran fumed. Where else would she be going? Gamstadt took forever.
Altyn exited the guildhall with Osei, carrying a basket under one arm and Maran’s formal overdress in the other. Osei wore a new suit of clothes that showed him quite handsomely. Strikke had finally paid him.
“Maran, come with us,” said Altyn. “We’re racing the storm. Come to Osei’s boat.”
Maran breathed a sigh of utter relief. She could not be done with Gamstadt quick enough, so she turned toward the forge and began walking. It was dim in the forge and she could get out of the sunlight. What storm was Altyn talking about? The sky was clear.
A few steps later, Gamstadt caught Maran’s arm. “Wait. Don’t do this.” Gamstadt gripped Maran’s arm as she wiggled away. “Just a little more, ma’am. Hold on, ma’am.”
Continuing her wiggle, Maran tried to push Gamstadt away, but he responded with a gentle move that twisted her arm about and immobilized her. A gentle kick with his foot dropped her to her knees.
Gamstadt spoke softly. “Excuse me, ma’am. This is for your own good.”
Altyn knelt down and peered into Maran’s eyes. “Withdrawal is a bitch. Hold on. You can do this. Don’t go into that forge, Maran. Don’t go in.”
Osei shook his head as well.
Altyn spoke firmly. “Come with us, Maran. We need your help. We almost have this sorted out. This is the hard part, I know, I honestly and truly do know, but if you just stick with us, it gets better. It gets better. Come with us and it gets better.”
That should have been an easy decision, but Maran found it impossible. Why should she get better? What did Altyn really know? What were they setting her up for? Or maybe she should go with them and look for an opportunity to seize the advantage. She could and would get her way. Better to fool them at the moment. Maran nodded and relaxed as much as she could.
Gamstadt let Maran loose, letting her rise back to her feet. He patted her on the back.
“She is yours,” Gamstadt said, looking at Altyn. “I will remain here at the forge. Do what you need to do and no one will be the wiser.”
Altyn led the group out through the dwarf-only gate, if only to make the point that she could. The guards let them through, saluting. The trio walked through the bustle that was Forge Street. The riots had subsided. The holiday was over. Forge Street, once again, was a crowded mess of vendors, wagons, loiterers, and political malcontents. The sun was just as hot. Tempers ran just as short. The line for the Food Bank still stretched down the block. Women still walked inland with large jars of dirty water on their heads.
The road gently descended toward the river. The forge’s wall rose higher and higher. Only now did Maran realize that the forge, along with Irontown, was built on a flattened hill, well above the spring floods.
At the water, Maran stopped. Her old fears returned stronger than her new terrors. She should be used to water by now, but something in her head always hated it.
Osei tapped her on her back. “Move,” he said firmly, so Maran moved, and in that one step, carr
ied herself onto the docks and over the water. That moment stayed with her. When they arrived at Osei’s boat, Maran jumped aboard, never looking at the awful water below her.
Maran sat down, wary of the water. She tried her best to stand still, but the hungry vines kept pressing into her head and swaying along her back. Did she rock or did the boat rock?
Osei untied his boat, then hopped on board. The barge drifted easily into the water, yet seemed to also move of its own accord. For the first time, it occurred to Maran that a boat was a made thing, and maybe a living thing, even if it wasn’t a living thing that she understood. Mabye that’s why Osei could move his boat so well?
Mosquitos ate at Maran. These were the worst part of Irontown. She pulled down her veil just to keep them away from her face.
Altyn opened her basket, pulling out a light dinner. “Annalise whipped this up for us. You were very smart to hire her, Maran. She has great sense. I’d hire her as my personal maid if I ever have money again. Although I do have a secret sense that she would tear apart my house, and I would never find anything again.”
Looking over the food, Maran realized that the greens and the strawberries were fresh. Where had Annalise gotten them? She must have harvested them from the overgrown garden. Where had she gotten time for that? That was the sort of thing that she herself should have been doing. Now Annalise picked the vegetables and made Maran look bad.
Taking a bite of scone, Maran grimaced. It tasted of ashes and salt. Maran looked to Altyn, but the Astrean appeared to enjoy her repast. Osei grabbed a pie of some sort, and he too seemed to enjoy what he tasted. Maran tried the pie, but it tasted of ashes as well.
Knowing that she ought to be hungry, Maran forced herself to eat through everything, smiling the whole time. She drank water to push the taste out of her mouth, but even the water could not clear the ashes and smoke.
Damn, she missed that brass bottle.
Far away, Maran heard a rumble. Clouds were moving in, slowly extinguishing the evening’s red and orange sky. The gloom moved across the mountains, bringing rain to hungry crops. Somewhere at home, Maran’s mother would be banging on a pan with a wooden spoon, calling in the family. The kids would be running from window to window closing the shutters. The orchards would be swaying in the winds, leaves turned upward. At the kiln, if it was lit, the kiln meister would wrap an oilskin about himself and hunker down, trying to stay dry while adjusting the kiln, all the while praying that he did not lose the whole firing.
After the storm, everyone would be grabbing baskets and running into the fields, harvesting the fallen fruit. Grandfather would be talking with Father about fixing broken limbs. All the fields would need checking and adjusting. All damaged crops would need to get pulled and reseeded. A long night of work would lie ahead of everyone.
Maran almost smiled at that memory. She missed that kind of work. Here in the city, she did not work nearly hard enough.
Osei sprang up, like a fish might leap from the water. “Storm’s rolling in. Darkness comes. It’s time to go.” He grabbed up his pole, and it had hardly touched the water before the boat responded, surging up the river. The pole entered the water with a gloop, and exited with a swish. Between those points, Osei’s bare feet padded up and down his boat, walking the boat along.
Altyn sat primly, quite patient. She observed the sky as an oracle beholds entrails. Strong peals of thunder now echoed down the valley. Altyn took out her long glass stick, rubbing it with silk and making it glow with blue light.
Osei sang a boater tune, livening the evening as the storm clouds deepened. At times, Maran could barely see him against the sky. If not for Altyn, Maran felt sure that he would have disappeared as surely as the sun.
Up ahead, Maran saw the lights of Slaughtertown. Osei nudged his boat, aiming for those lights. The Red Sybil would be there waiting for them. Her and Berk. When they stood there, who would betray whom? That’s how it always ended in stories of the Red Lady. It had to end that way. That final spate of violence was called the Red Lady’s Due. She considered those final acts of hate to be sacrifices in her honor.
Altyn looked at Maran for a while. “You have pried into my affairs, so you should know what I am thinking. You should not be surprised. I have concluded that the Red Sybil is my old classmate, Tavan.”
The idea surprised Maran. “It can’t be. I thought that Tavan was dead.”
“I thought her dead. That is why I did not think of it sooner. This Sybil does not act like Imeni. She wants to be Imeni, I am sure, but she does not have the mind for it. Imeni made immaculate plans, like pretty little jewels, then adored them as they glittered on her fingers. She had plans within plans and plans behind plans. She would never have allowed her only Red Snake supply to get stolen.
“Tavan, she made plans, but they were shallow and she improvised a great deal. She always got shoved into terrible situations and made do, so it should not have surprised me that faced with life or death, she would make something up and survive.”
“But how did she live?”
“I don’t know how. We’ll have to ask her.”
“If that’s her, then where’s Imeni?”
“I have no idea. After so many years, I still have no idea.”
The pole dragging the water warned Maran that they approached their dock. Osei leapt off the boat, securing the rope. He then helped the women to disembark.
“Stay with the boat,” said Altyn.
Maran and Altyn walked forward along the dock, towards the slaughteryards.
Lighting flashed across the sky now, touching down here and there. To Maran, it seems as if a serpent roiled there, in and out of the thunderhead. Several bolts of lightning touched the Ironmonger smokestacks, blinding Maran briefly. As her sight returned, Maran saw sparks fly up from the smokestacks, like a stream of bullets. She heard the Iron Duke’s horn ringing across the valley.
The storm tried advancing from the forge, but seemed stuck there. Only the wind snuck through, blowing Maran’s skirts about her legs and thighs. Altyn’s cloak expanded behind her like a pair of iridescent wings. Briefly, she lifted her legs and rode the wind motionlessly, like a hawk hovering in the wind. A few seconds later, she touched down.
“How does the storm look to you?” she asked.
The storm still had not advanced beyond the forge. The Iron Duke must be fighting another battle. “I think that the Iron Duke has stalled her.”
“Dear gods,” Altyn muttered, her face growing ashen pale. Her voice sounded self-recriminating. “Oh, dear gods, I forgot her vengeance. I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry. This was my mistake. I ask forgiveness but expect none.”
The swirling storm clouds above the city threatened lower and lower, then tore down into a whirling funnel. The fury of wind tore about the slums, moving here and there. The twister towered above the buildings, stretching itself almost endlessly into the sky. Its howl filled their ears. Its draw seemed to take the air from their lungs. The funnel seemed to aim for them, over and over, but never made any forward motion. It was stuck between the court and the forge; hammered between Tythia and the Iron Duke. Its foot ripped apart the city below it, again and again.
Maran saw whole sections of the slums rise up in splinters and dust. She tried to understand the devastation that she saw before herself, but lapsed for a moment, thinking how those humans deserved it.
How much of their own neighborhood had that tornado just destroyed? How many were dead? They deserved that, too, for building so shoddily.
Altyn raised her voice. “People die as we dawdle. We need to press on. We need to get this done. Our hesitation kills.”
The pair walked further down the docks, towards the cattle pens. Before them, from the shadows, a trio emerged. Maran knew each face. Berk walked in the middle, buffeted by wind, guiding Tavan with one hand and holding Zebra’s chain in the other. Zebra smiled, his hands wrapped in the chain.
The Sybil’s clothing held motionless despite the wind. Her dr
ess stayed perfectly still, like that of a queen on a summer morning. Every fold hung perfectly, as if her seamstress had intended that look, and had arranged it to perfection before sending her out. Even her veil hung straight, moved only by her breath.
The same wind caught Maran’s veil, blowing it upward.
Altyn stepped forward gently, wary of response, yet clearly desperate to run forward and embrace her childhood friend. She wrapped her arms behind herself, clutching her own wrist.
Berk let go of Tavan, pushing her gently forward. “Three steps,” he said. Tavan took those three steps with supernatural grace. She stood stiffly. She swayed, but the swaying had nothing to do with the wind.
Berk yelled above the howl, “Give her the brass bottle, and we will give you the prisoner!”
Altyn ignored Berk. “Hello, Tavan.” She did not yell. Her voice also carried clearly through the wind.
From beneath the veil, Tavan’s trembling voice spoke, as if an echo of herself. “How did you know? What did I do wrong?”
“I recognized your brass bottle.”
Tavan’s head did not move. “You are too observant. I always hated you for that. I always presumed that someone else would kill you for it.”
Altyn reached out and touched Tavan’s arm. “You are brilliant. I always admired that in you. You survived Imeni’s fury, and that is quite a feat. How many blind women would do so well as you?”
Impatiently, Tavan spat out, “The bottle. Where is the bottle?”
Altyn extended her other hand, touching Tavan on both forearms. “Abandon the Red Lady. She is abandoning you. You are dying and she wants a replacement. If you leave her now, you have a chance of living. I know that you can do this. I did it myself. It was hard. It is so very hard. Not an hour goes by when I do not miss it, but I have walked away and lived a good life. You can do the same.”
Tavan leaned forward, and the women touched heads. “I can’t, Tinnie. I can’t. It hurts. I feel so empty that it hurts. Give me my bottle back. Please. I need it. I will trade you for that bottle. I will give you secrets of the Malachites. Just take the bottle from Maran and give it to me. That’s all you need to do.”
Standing Between Earth and Heaven Page 19