Quartz, page 16
Rafe pulled on his grayish gloves and tried to smooth his plum-colored coat over the worst of the wrinkles in his trousers.
Coop grinned at him. “Nice getup. Planning on blending in, are you?” He himself had changed into the looser and less colorful Ironheart clothing.
Rafe grimaced. “I’m here in my official capacity. His Excellency the Ambassador will expect it.”
“No doubt I’m also expected to grovel at Bryerstar’s feet for my sins,” commented Coop. “I’m in no hurry to see him. Or my father, either.”
“Where will you stay?” Rafe knew that Coop and his father did not get along.
“With my sister and grandfather. I’ve got to shower my nephew with lots of avuncular affection, you know.” Coop looked sideways at Rafe. “You’re still angry about those editorials I wrote.”
“I am, rather, but only because being deported doesn’t serve you well. Did you have to pick the monarchy to make fun of? Why couldn’t you have stuck your pen into Rocquespur instead?”
“Oh, I did. So much of Oakhaven tradition and pomp is utterly ridiculous. Roland’s being thin-skinned and tyrannical. Whatever happened to the famous Oakhaven liberty?”
“Everyone is free to make a fool of themselves and suffer the consequences.” Rafe shook his head. “I see an officious-looking clerk next to a litter. My ride, I take it. Shall I see you afterwards?”
“I’ll meet you at the Three Ships Tavern. I have an incredible thirst for honest Ironheart ale, topped with coal dust.” Cooper winked. “Just grab someone and ask for directions. Everyone knows where it is.” He hefted his bag and called over a lurking boy to carry the rest of his luggage, leaving Rafe to pick up his own smaller case and put on a smile he did not feel for the clerk’s benefit.
The litter was a heavy box with Oakhaven’s sign of tree and pen emblazoned on the side. Two brawny Ironheart men waited alongside it. It did not behoove Rafe to sit in litters while other men carried him, but the anemic embassy clerk was most insistent that he be conveyed immediately to some privy—and apparently heated—council.
Rafe had never before been to Ironheart, the newest city-state in centuries, and the cause of so much passion and ill will. A former colony of Blackstone, Ironheart had seceded within two years of settlement and allied itself with Oakhaven. Ironheart sat upon a treasure-trove of coal and oil, and other hard gifts of the earth, but its agriculture was precarious and needed much supplementation from Oakhaven.
The city itself was a work-in-progress. Ignoring the clerk’s pointed suggestions that he draw the curtains and rest his weary eyes, Rafe stared at half-formed roads, makeshift buildings, huge work lights. Here and there machines were at work, out in the open, in the daytime. Hammers rang, men called, the great chimneys of kilns and foundries belched fire and smoke, and a raw energy filled the air. Rafe, peering out, felt like an insipid invalid; he longed to jump out and swing hammers and shovel dirt with these blunt, square men.
“Look at them, scrabbling in the dirt,” said the clerk, with a sniff. “Crude, uncivilized, and vulgar. You wouldn’t believe the indignities the poor Ambassador is forced to endure! Why, they expect him to place the cornerstone of every new mill, factory or public works facility, and shake hands with every common laborer.”
“The horror,” muttered Rafe.
“Yes, isn’t it?” agreed the clerk with a kind of morbid eagerness. Rafe gave him a sour look which failed to deter the clerk from launching into further elaboration of his theme: that is, the improper and uncivil behavior of Ironheart’s citizens. Rafe was finally forced to plead a non-existent headache and close his eyes to the fascinating scenes outside the litter in order to be spared from the spiteful monologue within.
The ambassador’s mansion was easily the largest in Ironheart, topping a high steep hill. The litter angled dangerously and the loud breathing and muttered curses of the men carrying it were audible. Rafe, trying to keep his knees from knocking into the clerk’s, wished he had insisted on walking. Too late, it occurred to him that fresh air was beneficial for a headache.
Near the top, the ground flattened. Prettily laid-out rock and water gardens fanned out from both sides of the walkway. The clerk pointed out shrubbery clustered around many-branched iron lamp-poles. The ambassador, aside from growing herbs, berries, and vegetables in his own greenhouses tucked on the other side of the slope, also grew cold-tolerant ornamental plants carefully chosen to complement the rest of his garden. His conservatory of fruit-bearing dwarf trees and flowering plants, boasted the clerk, was the only one of its kind in Ironheart.
Rafe stayed silent as they came up to the house, built of a faintly shining grey rock, lamps artfully placed to emphasize the large arched windows, the slender pillars and carved pediment of the porch, and the iron fretwork in the upper windows. There were no other houses around. Everything else was behind them, huddling at the base of the hill like a housewife’s sweepings. He did not comment on the work it must’ve taken to run water and gas lines up to the mansion.
The litter stopped by the steps of the front porch. Rafe dismounted with little ceremony, swung his bag into the hand of a footman, and was whisked away by yet another liveried servant into a gentleman’s nook to refresh. After a drink of cold sweetened lemon water, he was escorted into the meeting the ambassador was holding with the councilmen of Ironheart.
It was not until the Ironheart councilmen rose at his entrance that Rafe recognized the incongruence of the entire government of a sovereign state waiting upon a foreign ambassador on their own soil. The arrangement of the room brought painfully home to Rafe just how hollow the Oakhaven claim of Ironheart sovereignty was—the ambassador was seated in a great chair at the head of the table, with the rest in a semi-circle several feet away from him.
The ambassador, Bryerstar by name, was carved out of the same vein as Rocquespur, at least in the sartorial sense. He wore a magnificent wig bleached a dead white, complete with a stuffed bird nestled within its curls; cloth-of-gold coat and trousers, with a shirt only a slightly less dazzling shade of yellow; several layers of fine lace like waterfalls over his hands; many winking rings on his fingers and pearls looped about his neck and elbows. His one concession to not being at a royal ball was that he had only one patch on his cheek—a black cat that reared up to bat playfully in the direction of his nose.
Bryerstar greeted Rafe with a lackluster drawl that certain members of his class affected, though itt never failed to set Rafe’s teeth on edge. “Glad to see you, old chap,” the ambassador said, though he had never before met Rafe. “Telling these fellows here that our pockets aren’t as full as they seem. Troubles back home, treasury overextended, and all that. Need to see something big from Ironheart, something that will make people back home say, “Now, these are true friends of Oakhaven and by the Old Gal, we must support them! Got to keep the goodwill flowing both ways, eh, if my good councilmen want the King’s machinery and the Assembly’s money to build these new mines they keep yammering on about.”
There’d be plenty of money and ample goodwill if you didn’t squander it on such sumptuous surroundings. What a petty tyrant you are.
Rafe forced himself to smile as Bryerstar, without moving from his chair, pointed languidly at each councilman in turn and spoke their names—or misspoke, in some cases. Rafe went around the room, shaking hands, noting that all of the Ironheart councilmen were older and more assured version of the workers he had seen in the city. With one or two exceptions, they wore clothes that were clean, but plain and workmanlike—loose pants, shirts with no frills, maybe a colorful vest or a more elaborate necktie, and short plain jackets. Most were still brawny and tough, with hands callused from hard work. Even the ones running to fat had the unmistakable look of competent, hardworking, and thrifty men. Their names were as plain and solid as themselves: Whittle, Brewer, Smith. A stony-faced man with a rigid posture was introduced as Cooper; this must be his friend’s father. Beside them, Bryerstar looked about as appropriate as a lady’s music box in a foundry.
Introductions complete, Rafe took a seat in a plain chair at Bryerstar’s right, and ambassador and councilmen took up the thread of their discussion as if there had been no interruption. While proclaiming friendship towards Oakhaven, the councilmen made it clear that they were a sovereign nation and would not brook Oakhaven sweeping away any of their treasures.
“If this magic Key of yours is in Ironheart,” said the solid Cooper, “it belongs in private hands and not to the Council. We in Ironheart aren’t in the habit of seizing goods belonging to our citizens.”
“Oh, the personage who possesses it will be fairly compensated. We are not thugs!” Bryerstar leaned forward, his sparkling eyes wide. He uses belladonna, thought Rafe, glad Rocquespur had overlooked this cosmetic. He shuddered at the thought of the Marquis with dewy, girlish eyes. “All we ask is some support from the Council, an appeal to your people to come forward and selflessly offer the Key for the greater good. Surely the safety of an entire state—one that moreover protects Ironheart, so the safety of two states—is more important than some family’s sentimental attachment to a keepsake?”
“And you’d have us do what?” asked the elder Cooper. “Put up reward bulletins? And if that fails, send in the militia into the suspects’ houses? How can you even be sure this Key is even in Ironheart?”
“Surely you can find out, keeping, as it were, an ear to the ground,” said Bryerstar. “Indeed, you’d be well-advised to do just that. For the sake of good will between us.” His smile was wide and fake.
That threat, again. Rafe sat very still and expressionless, hating the bullying.
Argument after that was desultory, with the councilmen unconvinced but unable to counter-argue. One—the unofficial leader, Rafe decided, a tall slightly-stooped man of fifty or so called Printer—spoke for them all when he said, “We will request the owner of this Key to come forward, but we will not force anyone’s hand. Nor will we just turn over the Key if we feel it would be put to better use in Ironheart.”
“Of course!” said Bryerstar heartily. “You must ascertain for yourself the importance of Oakhaven getting this Key, and using it with her existing mage-era technology to defend both states.” A pointed reminder that Ironheart had no structural mage legacy to fall back on. “I have every confidence in the good sense of your people and the wisdom of you gentlemen.” He rose, signaling an end to the meeting, and everyone else climbed to their feet. Farewells were loud and enthused from Bryerstar, restrained on the part of the councilmen, and over quickly. Seventeen men quit the chamber so fast, they might’ve been released from captivity.
Before Rafe could say anything to the ambassador—bring greetings from Oakhaven, or hand over sealed messages—Bryerstar turned to him. All friendliness and eager-to-please charm had left his face, leaving his eyes empty and distant, looking beyond Rafe. “Those money-pinching, dirt-grubbing mechanicals will never give the Key to us. You have to find it first.”
Rafe recovered quickly. “I will make inquiries on the morrow.”
Bryerstar shook his head. “Even now, we are losing time. You must act quickly. There are pawnshops and secondhand stores aplenty. Use your friendship with his son to influence Cooper’s family.” He paused, looking expectant, until Rafe realized he was supposed to leave now, without food, without sleep.
“You have no men to aid with the search?” It came out sharply, but Rafe was angry. The whole point of seeking out the ambassador had been to get help, not be ordered around like an errand-boy.
“None that wouldn’t tattle, save for my manservant and clerk and I need them for my own affairs. Ah, are those letters for me? Just leave them on the table here.” Bryerstar’s gems flashed as he waved a languid hand.
At the front door of the mansion, with his luggage once again in his hand, Rafe refused the litter and started down the hill on his own two feet.
Fresh air was also good for clearing his head of a burning desire to punch a certain ambassador in the nose.
Light was not in short supply in Ironheart. Lamps illuminated the bustle and industry of the city with white light. The hiss of gas was a constant refrain. Now and again Rafe saw a passerby or laborer casually relight a lamp that had gone out with one of the firesticks that stood in holders on every street. Accustomed to Oakhaven’s stricter fire laws and a contingent of uniformed state-employed lamplighters, Rafe found this entire attitude reckless, albeit in a scandalously freeing way.
His dusty clothes and average physique helped him blend into the crowds, in spite of the Oakhaven garb Coop had needled him about. The only boldly inquisitive glances he got were from children playing skip-the-stone and jump-rope amidst mountains of rubble and in fresh-dug ditches.
The man he hailed gave him directions to the Three Ships Tavern, but followed them up with, “Though, it is Sixth Day and everything shuts down when the Prayer Bells ring.”
“Ah, yes.” Rafe had forgotten that Ironheart, freed from the state-imposed atheism of Blackstone, had embraced religion with a zeal that amused the less devout Oakhavenites. “Forgive me, I am a stranger to your customs.”
The man laughed. “Aye. You have that Oakhaven way of talking. Younger son, are ye, lookin’ to make yer fortune, eh?”
“You could say that.”
A solemn bell tolled. Once, twice, thrice, each note considered and weighty. This was followed by the wistful chiming of lighter bells, the sound that lace might have, shaken out and draped over a bride’s head on Girdlesday.
Men put down tools and left their work, hurriedly splashing hands and faces in stone troughs. Children left their games and women appeared from inside houses. Since Coop was likely to be at the Prayer as well, Rafe let himself be jostled towards the nearest prayer house.
It was a small square building, very plain with whitewashed sides and a gray slate roof. Rafe entered the close dark space, where whispers and clothing rubbed against each other. He stood with his back cool against the brick wall, leaving what little space was available on the benches for the devout. More and more people streamed in, men and women and even children, till it seemed the little building would burst. There was no separation of the sexes like in Oakhaven. Rafe was squished between a stout woman with a basket over her arm and a solid laborer. The basket handle dug into his side. The only illumination came from lanterns on the raised platform up front and those merely turned blackness into grey.
They suddenly winked out.
The rustle and movement all around halted, as if cut off with a knife. The entire room held its breath.
A voice came whisper-soft through the black. “Welcome, brethren, friends, comrades, to the House of the Hidden One, the one who has turned His face away from us, because we turned our backs on Him. Listen, ye who would return, and hear the words the Hidden One spoke to our ancestors.”
A sigh ran around the room. The sheer ferocious concentration of everyone on that voice was a palpable force. In spite of his role as curious observer, Rafe felt all of his attention drawn to the front, and he waited with expectation to hear whatever mysteries, whatever oracles of an ancient god were about to be revealed.
“Lo! I am fire, all-consuming, all-brightening. I am water, ever-cooling, ever-refreshing.
“The chief of my commandments are love, charity, justice.
“Watch and wait, for I shall be among you.
“Call upon me and I will heed. Call upon my name and I will answer. Call for me by name and I will bend my eye to you and lay my hand upon your head. I am your god and my name is….”
A pause. A silence.
The voice again, no longer powerful and rich, but human, broken and rasped with some deep grief. “The name we have lost, brothers, sisters, friends. The name that once we knew is now hidden in darkness.”
Soft sobbing filled the room. Rafe felt awkward and uncomfortable, a stranger to the emotion all around him. The exit, though barely three arm’s lengths away, might’ve been in Oakhaven for all he was able to move. He made himself small and tried not to breathe too loudly.
Moments stretched away into darkness. Rafe counted his heartbeats. Then, “There is hope, brothers! Remember that He is fire and water, bounty-giving as well as all-consuming. Remember that charity and love are His commandments, and as He commands, so shall He do. Remember, brothers.” Lights flared around the room and Rafe recognized the speaker as Printer, one of the councilmen Rafe had met. “One day He will reveal Himself in the light.” He lifted his hands in benediction. “Go, and keep always before you the commandments of love, charity, and justice.”
It was over. The people surged to their feet, and a wave of humanity carried Rafe outside. He was disgorged like some kind of flotsam left on a beach as everyone scattered to their tasks.
It was the strangest service he had ever seen, and the briefest. Rafe tried to imagine the cynical irreverent Coop attending one of these and failed. Shaking his head, he went off in search of his friend.
“We don’t have fancy art and antique shops here like Oakhaven does. There are rubbish men and jumble sellers, all over, though, if you’re looking for serviceable iron skillets and used knickers.”
“It’ll take too long to dig through those,” said Rafe.
Cooper gave him a serious look. “What will you do once you find this mage artifact of yours?”
“Make a fair offer for it,” said Rafe tersely.
“Why does Oakhaven want this?”
“I’ve told you. We have some ancient kayan devices that could be weapons or wards. Leo and others think the Key can help activate them.” That was the official story. Leo had warned him not to breathe a word about the Tors Lumena. Ironheart, lacking the large agri-caves of other states, would certainly not balk at the chance to acquire one of their own.
