“Yes, I have new work to do,” said Maran. “But now I’m in a muddle. How can I resign? It’s a point of professionalism that I leave my employer with proper notice. She should have time to replace me. I’ll have to be a cook a little while longer. I’ll need to write home and someone will need to travel down. That will take a while.”
“I have already done so,” said Altyn. “I sent a travel pass to your cousin Arma. I expect her to arrive any time now.”
“Ma’am, how could you?”
“I am a professional,” said Altyn. “And war goes to the side that prepares the best.”
Altyn had been the first to bring this topic up. She had seen it the whole time. “It was that obvious?”
“Yes, quite. ”
Maran looked to Osei, and he nodded as well. Zebra, she knew, had seen it as well. Looking about, Maran did not see Zebra.
“Where’s Zebra?”
“He jumped ship,” said Osei. “He wanted to watch the city burn close up. By close up, I expect that he meant playing inside the fires.”
Osei brought the boat gently into the docks. The boat lightly touched the beams, then stopped and stayed like a well trained horse. Shore hands hustled over to the boat and tied it up.
Altyn motioned for Tavan and Berk to move forward. “We’re going to the Ammelite Court, assuming that it’s still there. You will stand before Justice and she will make her judgements.”
“I am ready,” said Tavan, quite dully, like she could not see all the new colors of the world. She had spent far longer in the thrall of the Red Lady than any of them. She would not get better as fast as they.
Was she still dying?
“Altyn, will she live?”
“I don’t know. If she survives withdrawal, she has a good chance. Even if she does live, she might decide to visit the White Lady anyway. Red Snake is not easy to run from. Even now, so many years later, I would run back to it if I could. If not for Justice, I would.”
Those words echoed in Maran’s mind. Ebon had said the same thing. Maran now understood. She had kept wanting opium. She now wanted Red Snake. The wants were all still there. Maybe she could leave them behind, but she doubted it. Both those things would stay with her. They were both so easy to run to. Only her morals were an anchor against that ceaseless temptation, and even those were no panacea.
Once they were ashore, Osei waved. The dockworkers untied the lines and Osei pushed off, poling back up the river which he so loved. Maran looked back at him as she walked up that hill. Osei never looked back.
Only when they reached the top of the hill did Maran register the noises carrying over the city. Loud drums. Steel drums. The Ironmongers were up to something.
A large crowd had assembled before the biggest gate, blocking their way. Beyond that group, they could hear many marching feet. Altyn looked about, finding an execution platform erected in front of the wall. Ironmonger guards kept the crowd off of it, but they parted for Altyn. The group ascended the platform, looking down at the marching feet.
The Ironmonger regiments marched out of the forge in a continuous stream. Company after company moved past, their feet accompanying the steady rhythm laid down by the steel drums. Their iron heels rang out from the flagstones in firm time. They marched exactly and precisely, well practiced and well disciplined. Hundreds passed out of that gate, and behind them, hundreds more followed.
“Two thousand, two hundred per regiment,” said Altyn. “Not counting the volunteer companies I authorized yesterday. I figure, six hundred Horsebreaker cavalry as well, a few companies of Tinbats, some Leadbellies, and even some Stonehandlers.”
The soldiers were followed by cannon and wagons of all type. The wagons were packed with ammunition and powder. Behind the wagons came more horses, all of them extra teams ready to switch in as needed.
“This will will be good for Strikke,” continued Altyn. “Svero is taking the bulk of the Reckoners with him. That will relieve some restlessness in the guild. It will give the Reckoners someone to fight. If Svero is successful, he’ll swing their allegiance, and so he will solidify Strikke’s rule. If he brings in enough gold, Strikke can buy a no confidence vote, then maybe even buy the Chairmanship. If anyone can pull that off, it’s Svero. He’s a cunning dwarf, Maran. Never trust him.”
Behind the artillery rolled the supply wagons. The Ironmongers had hoarded enough food to feed an army because Svero needed to feed an army. By the looks of it, he intended to feed that army for a long time.
After the last wagon exited, people on the side streets began moving. Human wagons and walkers streamed out. Sutlers, wood workers, washing women, porters, rope makers, and a myriad of other professions walked after the military machine in the hope of work.
With a great clank, the Ironmonger guards closed the regimental gate. Those guards now wore new uniforms which to Maran’s eye looked both sharp and tough. Instead of armor, they wore long red coats buttoned in front with black buttons. On their heads, they wore tall black leather hats. From the looks on their faces, Maran knew that each of those guards felt utterly foolish for wearing such an outlandish outfit. They would get used to it. Maran had felt outlandish in her dress when she first wore it, but now could not imaging wearing anything else. Strikke deserved her reputation as the best seamstress in the outer city.
With the way now clear, Altyn motioned to the group, so Maran followed. As they approached Groppekunta Street, Maran’s heart tightened. What she saw exceeded her worst fears. The cobblestones were there, but otherwise, Groppekunta Street was gone. A vast avenue of anniahlation now existed between the forge wall in Irontown and the Ammelite Court in Shuffle Dog.
Pointing, Altyn indicated her own house. The floor remained, askew on its foundation. Everything above knee height was missing.
Across the street, people scurried over the debris like cockroaches, poking here and there, moving what they could.
“I found one!” yelled a voice. People converged and began digging the debris with their hands. Soon a girl emerged, half-broken and bloody. Maran recognized her ravaged face. It was the girl who had played the Red Lady in the festival so many days ago. Many hands lifted her onto a silk sheet, then carried her away to wherever they carried the wounded.
“I should have been here from the beginning,” said Altyn. “This is my fault. These are my people. As soon as we finish with the court, I am resigning. I can’t work for Strikke when this is before me. You weren’t the only person in the wrong place.”
Maran wanted to go searching through the wreckage as well, but like Altyn, she had to finish this task. When she was done, she would go to that overgrown graveyard and intern the dead. All hands would be needed at such a burial.
Their group walked up the middle of the newly created avenue. Here, there was no debris. The ad hoc building here had disintegrated under the winds. All that remained were hearthstones set in the ground. What had become of the inhabitants? Had they fled in time? Had they been thrown into the sky? Did the tornado take them far away? Maran had no idea.
As they approached Shuffle Dog, they could easily see the graveyard. The grave diggers were already expanding the graveyard, digging long pits for the newly dead. Even so, those dead came quickly. More bodies lay ready than they could bury. The bodies were piled up like cordwood, forming a low wall.
The Ammelite Court stood untouched. Not even one piece of debris had landed on the roof. No shingles were missing. Even the roses still bloomed near the front door, having lost no petals. Justice had defended her court firmly and absolutely.
The great doors to the court stood open, wide enough to admit a team of horses. All were allowed to enter and leave as they might. Inside the court, the dying lay in neat rows, filling the stage and the ground. For some, their loved ones gathered around them, keeping them company as they slipped further toward death. Others lay lonely, with only a strange Ammelite stopping by sometimes. All had soul hounds at their heads, quietly waiting for them to expire.
Maran saw one soul hound stand up, then plunge its head into a child. He rattled his last as the hound shook the life out of him. The hound trotted off with his prize, taking the soul elsewhere. The child’s mother howled in grief, throwing herself upon her child.
Next to them, children gathered around their mother. She had no soul hound at her head. What did that mean? That must mean that the woman was not dying. Maran stopped and spoke to them. “You mother will get better. Death does not wait for her.”
The husband looked at her in bewilderment. “Don’t be cruel,” he said.
“I speak what I see,” said Maran. “And I do not see death.”
Now Maran understood the obvious. She knew how those ancient diggers could see who was living and who was dying. They saw the soul hounds waiting for death. If there was no hound, there was no death.
The ostiary noticed that they had arrived. “Miss Altyn, we’ve been looking for you. Please, follow me. So many desperate things these days. So much bad news. The cantor expired last night during the storm. She is in her room.”
The ostiary led them back to Bertra’s room. A woman stood vigil there, protecting the corpse. Signaling for everyone to wait, Altyn entered alone.
In that dim room, Altyn warmed up her voice, preparing for something. She sang notes up and down, from deep basses to impossibly high trebles, then paused in silence.
Altyn keened for Bertra. Her voice rose in formal brilliance, a virtual song or symphony. She wailed like four or five different voices wailing, in harmony, across as many octaves, each wailing in its own way. Then she let the wails taper off, returning to silence, and that silence too was part of the wail.
After the silence had spoken, Altyn looked up. “Ostiary, who is in charge?”
“Me, for the moment, ma’am, but everyone knows that she wanted you for cantor. Will you do it?”
“For the moment, I shall be cantor. Assemble the choir, ostiary. Let us hear what Justice commands.”
The choir wedged outside Bertra’s room, lining themselves up in the hallways. Maran, Tavan, and Berk lined up on the other wall. Altyn stood in the doorway to Bertra’s room.
“Justice,” intoned Altyn, speaking to the idol on the wall, “we ask for your wisdom. We bring before you two people, servants of the Red Lady, who must stand for their crimes. Speak to us of your will.”
The choir responded in a single clear voice. Maran recognized it as the voice of Justice herself. “Tavan of Astrea, also known as the Gray Angel, you have worked against Justice and served the Red Lady, whether voluntarily or involuntarily. You have pretended prophecy. You have wantonly killed innocents. You have colluded in murder. You have desecrated corpses. You have advanced the agenda of the Bloodletters. Hear now your punishment. No longer is your life your own. From now on, you are my slave. For the rest of your life, you shall toil for me. You shall hear the sufferings of others and learn the results of wicked action. I name you Judge.”
Tavan’s head drooped. “I am not worthy.”
The choir responded. “None are worthy of Justice. I have taken in many black hearts. You are not the first. You will not be the last.”
“I cannot see,” objected Tavan.
“Justice is not concerned with beauty or grace. Justice requires keen insight, not keen sight. Better that illusions be gone from your sight.”
“What if I go back to the Red Lady?”
“Then I shall see you executed for your crimes.”
“I deserve that. End my days.”
“Suffer and live. That is our sentence.”
The choir loosened. The moment had passed. Justice had spoken.
“How does a judge fit into this?” asked Maran.
“She is in charge now,” said Altyn, smiling a greatly relieved smile. “Your honor, if you would allow, I will conclude today’s session. Ostiary, see to her honor.”
The ostiary put her arm around Tavan. “Come, your honor, you have a new family now. Meet your sisters. We were all whores, addicts, and thieves. We each came to her, and we each made a decision to turn our lives around. You can do the same.”
“Altyn?” Tavan reached out.
Altyn touched Tavan’s shoulder. “She has spoken her will, your honor. Who am I to question her? I will advise you, should you ask. Listen to the ostiary. Promote her to cantor. Have her appoint a new ostiary.”
“What about you? Won’t you be here?”
“This is not my place,” said Altyn. “It was never my place. Bertra hoped beyond hope. Don’t you do the same thing. Just do as I say. I have other tasks to do, only harder.”
Tavan mumbled. “As you say. As she said.”
The newly promoted cantor hesitated a moment. “Your honor, what name should we call you? We abandon our old names in the order.”
Tavan sighed, standing up straighter and speaking more clearly. “Name me the Gray Angel. People know me by that. They will come to the court seeking me. Maybe that will do some good.”
To everyone’s surprise, the choir shouted, “Next defendant.”
Everyone turned. Berk had almost snuck his way to the door. He turned around, refusing to show chagrin. He took off his hat and stepped forward. “You got me. Here I am.”
The choir responded. “You colluded in assault, battery, and murder. You have executed the Red Lady’s will. You have knowingly deceived others for your own profit. You are now my slave. You shall guard this court until the end of your days. I name you bailiff. May you live a long life.”
Berk looked concerned. “Wait a minute. I’m only a hundred. My grandfather lived until four hundred and twenty six. There’s got to be a mistake. It can’t be life sentence.”
The choir did not reply.
Maran looked at Berk. “Wait until the Reckoners or the Kommissars find out about this place. What will they do? Maybe your life won’t be long after all.”
Berk gulped. It seemed the only thing worse than a long life was a short one.
The choir spoke again. “Maran, stand before me.”
For a moment, Maran felt fear. Here it came. This would be Justice’s punishment for her failings. Maran stepped forward.
The choir spoke. “Hear my commands and obey. Take what treasures the Ironmongers have given unto you and turn them over to my Court. With this, I will consider the Ironmonger reparations to us paid. That is all.”
Maran bowed. “I will do as asked.”
Using Steel
Altyn surveyed the broad avenue of wreckage, speaking to Maran. “How am I ever going to do this?” she asked.
The sheer scale of the devastation awed Maran as well.
In that moment, Maran remembered the Steel City where the Iron Duke’s people used big machines to dig out roads, fix bridges, and build new buildings. If the Iron Duke did such things, then surely the Ironmongers could do such things as well.
“I have seen the Steel City,” said Maran. “I have walked upon its streets and witnessed its sorrow. The Iron Duke and his people built that city once, and they rebuild it again. How can we expect any less from the Ironmongers? I will get you help, and that help will use steel.”
Maran hustled towards the forge. The arguments formed in her head. She practiced the words that she should say to the Kurfurstin. There was important work to be done, and the Ironmongers were not doing it. That was shirking work, and that was immoral. They should imitate the Iron Duke and rebuild the city ruined before them.
Turning the corner, Maran ran into another crowd. Getting to the forge proved more difficult than Maran had expected. This time, Lord Protector Fleck stood on the execution platform, iron maul over one shoulder, shouting to the crowd. Below him, a line of prisoners awaited their doom.
Fleck looked stunning in his new uniform, a splendid suit of traditional Kalt horse-rib armor with scarlet surcoat underneath. The Kalts knew how to do strange things with bones, and those horse ribs were as strong as iron, for horses were the living embodiment of iron.
Boun
cing his hammer on the steel plates of the execution platform, Fleck shouted. “Hear and heed! Hear and heed! By order of the Iron Duke, all who strive to steal his secrets shall die by an iron spike driven through their left eye. Their corpses shall be left on the forge wall to rot so that all can see and learn. By the authority of Kurfurstin Strikke, duly elected by the Guild Masters of the Ironmongers, I condemn these Malachites according to Ironmonger law.”
The crowd shouted in delight.
“Bring ‘em on!” shouted a voice in the crowd. “I wanna see a dwarf die!”
“I’m getting to it!” shouted back Lord Protector Fleck. “Hold your horses. We’ve got lots to kill. Everybody gets to see. It’s a short trip to the White Lady’s house. Let the kids in up front.”
A couple of guards grabbed the first unwilling prisoner, pulled him up the steps, and held him against the wall. Maran turned away, unable to watch the horror. She pushed her way along the wall, then to the gate. The guards let her into the forge while the crowd behind her cheered with each hammer swing.
Those cheers behind Maran brought her world to a slow and painful crawl. Maran simply could not walk fast enough. Every few steps, the hammer rang. Every few steps, the crowd roared in delight. Somewhere in there, the desperate screaming stopped.
The guildhall steps rose up like a refuge. Maran lifted her skirts and hustled up them, desperate for a moment of peace. After dashing inside, Maran ran down the halls to Strikke’s chamber.
Outside the door, Maran arranged herself. The guards opened the door for her, letting her into the small foyer. That woman who had fought her for the jade vase was there. She had a superior look now.
“Whom should I say is calling?” she asked.
“What’s your position?” asked Maran.
“I am the Kurfurstin’s verwalter. You will answer my question.”
“I’m her cook. I want to see the Kurfurstin.”
The verwalter held out her hand for money.
Maran had no time for this nonsense. “I am the Eighth Rod of this guild, and I shall see her. Guard, admit me.”
Standing Between Earth and Heaven Page 23