Never Ignore The Crows – A Middle Chapter

July 17, 2014

The Bargemaster’s room wasn’t as uncomfortable as Laceron had made it seem. There were real mattresses of down and straw sewn up in flax and cotton bondings. Cassie had fallen asleep the second she laid down on one, still in her boots and riding dress. Maria, though, spent the night awake. At first she watched Cassie’s breathing slow and become regular. The travel had sapped the poor girl’s strength and left her ragged and listless. Once the city had moved from the daylight habits of drunken foolery and insistent commercial enterprise to drunken foolery and insistent debauchery, Maria left the small room and went out to the dock on the edge of Moonfall Lake. She watched the lake’s surface, the gentle undulations of the upward flow of Nassal’s Spring pushing toward the gentle flow of the river Moontear.
The ritual was the same every time. First she took off her boots and placed them together at her right. Then came her belt, laid next to her boots with her guns pointing toward her. Then her vest, folded at her left with her whitemetal dagger exposed. Then, finally, her gunroll opened in front of her with each of her tools carefully placed and composed just as they were the very first time she used them. Three iron-tine brushes, three screwdrivers, three wool brushes, three long screw-blades, a small brass hammer, a measuring funnel, and a small unfolded forgepress. The very same kit she used to painstakingly build her Iron years ago.
The ritual was a practiced art in her hands at this point. First the iron came out of its holster, the rounds removed all at once with the oiled iron lever. With a practiced flick of her wrist she removed the heavy iron cylinder. She looked through the eye of each of the seven chambers then set it on the soft cloth of the roll before turning to the rest of the weapon. A screwdriver to remove front grip, carefully removed so as not to dislodge the mechanics within. Careful precision with practiced fingers plucked the snake gear and the small gearbox from the grip so that their teeth did not bend. Then the trigger levers, carefully set apart for cleaning, along with the oil actuator beneath the hammer assembly. Finally, the trigger assembly slid out with its complicated stack of leavers and the wire pulley that pulls the actuator lock open. With that, the cleaning could begin.
The brushes took patience so that she didn’t ruin the boring by cleaning out the soot pressed into the barrel by the rounds she fired. Flecks of the Scourge burned onto the metal, along with the stripes of lead from the bullets sent through the gun. The Iron was hardened using alchemist’s treatments but it was still soft enough to deform under the terrible pressure of the Scourgefire. First the hard brush with the short tines took the largest and boldest darkness from inside the gun, brushing off the burned in flakes the size of her smallest finger nails. Then the round brush to scour the bulk out, to find the gun beneath the wear. Then, finally, the smallest brush. Softened tines polished the inside and refined the grooves carefully cut in the barrel to be more accurate. Once that was done, she snatched a small bottle from her belt and oiled the wool brushes as she used them, each in turn, to clear the barest of left over residue, reapply the alchemical oils that kept the Iron strong and accurate, as well as lubricated and clean.
She examined her Iron again as she reassembled in. Slower than she had pulled it apart, reliving the moments she had originally forged the gun. When she slid the Iron back in its larger holster on her left, she plucked the smaller Westington from the right holster and cleaned it as well, without the ceremony or nostalgia of the first. It was only coming on midnight when she had finished and cleaned her hands, both guns oiled and replaced in her belt. As she replaced her riding gloves, the moon moved perfectly over the lake that shared its shape, illuminating the water as if the two were a matched pair just finding each other.
Maria smiled at the night breeze and unfolded her forgepress and start humming the soft tune that stoked the fires. She counted her rounds out, then removed the brass from the small bag on her belt and counted them as well. She set out half of them on the roll in front of her and polished them as well with the oiled wool brushes. From the same bag the brass was in, she pulled out a block of lead, careful to keep it on her gloves, and set it on a melting pan above the forgepress’s flame and slid in a mold for her Iron. She still had plenty of rounds for the Westington left. As the metal heated, she took an alchemical flask from her pack and carefully filled the loading pan in the forgepress with enough firedust to load the rounds she needed.
The next several hours were spent with her humming and careful pressing of new rounds. As the molten lead dripped into the bullet mold, the alchemically sealed press poured a careful measure of firedust into the brass cartridges and sealed the container without the air needed to set them alight on their own. Each round took ten minutes on its own as care was needed not to destroy Maria and everything she owned by setting the powder alight all at once. The last round packed just as the sky began to open and the sun’s light threaded through the night’s darkness to bring the blue sky. Far before dawn, a morning that only the hunters and the hunted saw.
The hunters, the hunted, and apparently those who mastered the ferries and barges of the Moonfall and Moontear. Salusin the Boatmaster called out to her as she folded her forgepress again and rolled her gunroll together. She belted her pack together and put her belt back on as the boat tied off. “Aye, morning there Marshal. ‘Tis a fine day for our travel down the river.”
Maria smiled to the man. “It is. The morning smells sweet already and the sun has yet to show itself.”
“I hope you don’t mind my business, Marshal, but we’re to be takin’ another with us today. He’s a good man, a skindancer that is known to be a speaker of Those that Fly.”
Maria paused, her knife in its scabbard and her face relaxed into confusion. “A skindancer? Here? In the city of He That Lies With His Face? I thought they weren’t welcome on account of their affection for truth beyond fact and finance.”
“Aye, ’tis true they’re not commonly welcome but no one tells Old Crow where he may and may not go. So least as long as they don’t wish to upset his consort. The Black Wing doesn’t take kindly to those who even look askance at her wanderin’ truth teller. Let alone those that harass him.”
“Old Crow? As dangerous as The Lady of Ravens is I doubt she’s needed to protect him from what stories were told around the campfire when I was…instructed.”
The old boatsman chortled in a dark way as he came up the small dock, hand reaching out to the Marshal. “Aye, he’s a fair bit of a worry himself should you press him. Luckily all he does most times is speak in confounding riddles and procure good food and drink from that cloak he calls his wings.”
He came inside with Maria. The pair quietly made breakfast for everyone with the quiet precision of those who traveled often, and who valued the kitchen that comes with a room that does not constantly move and require everything inside to be packed and stored between meals. While the bacon and eggs were frying, while the Boatmaster flipped kettle cakes, Cassie rolled quietly out of bed and arranged herself. While Maria waited for the inevitable stream of complaints from the girl, Cassie responded instead with the one sound Maria had not heard from her – a subtle, small groan interspirsed with soft moans of oncoming fulfillment. “Is that breakfast? A real breakfast?”
Clearly the young lady was both impressed with her morning already and disappointed in how she had been fed thusfar.
“Si, miss. It is. Now get your dress on and get over here.” Maria returned to tending the bacon, expertly flipping it with just her travel knife while retrieving the thin metal plates left in the cupboards for just such an occasion.
“There will be another on our trip down the river, Cassie. Do not stare at him, and respect him even if he sounds mad. He is touched by his Host, and speaks in a confusing way.” She started to serve up the food onto the three plates, leaving some in the pan for the Boatsman to package. He knew how Old Crow liked his breakfast.
The girl sat with a thud onto one of the crude stools facing the open kitchen. “Who would want to travel with you, gunslinger?” The note of contempt for her, for anyone who spent as long in the dirt as she did, wasn’t hidden even with the Boatmaster there. Before Maria could snap at her again, though, the Boatmaster turned and dropped a small stack of kettle cakes on the girl’s plate. “Old Crow. And keep that tone to yourself unless you’d like a full inventory of how you’re failing the People of the Many Kingdoms with your inability to operate as a full human being and not a meager collection of urges, impulses, greed, and avarice.”
His tone, while strong, was not as powerful as the glare he gave the girl. He rudely dropped a ceramic decanter, obviously full of cassel syrup, on the preparation table. “Old Crow speaks a truth that cuts through to skin and bone much more readily than flame-licked iron or tempered whitemetal.”
Cassie turned her head to one side as she poured the syrup over everything on the plate, the rich smell of the sugars already filling the air. Much to Maria’s personal disgust – she couldn’t stand the sickly sweet tastes that city folk seemed to revel in. “Old Crow? He doesn’t sound like anyone dangerous, probably just one of the raindancers or the wind-speakers from the Wanderers.”
Maria wheeled then, taking her own place at the table. Her knife struck the wooden table point first and she glared at the girl, “I might kill you yet, Cassandra Hal Valistar, but Old Crow? He’ll make you shrink in yourself. He’ll make you doubt yourself and everything you ever thought. He’ll tell you that the wind blows to foil you and the earth will split open to swallow you and the sky turns its eyes away from you so not to look at you. Then he will laugh, a laugh without malice or frustration. A laugh that says that he finds joy in truth and fact, a laugh that says he is honestly amused because you, you are beneath his notice or anger. A laugh of pure and unadulterated focus on what matters and shows you how, given what he just told you, does not include you. Do not disrespect Old Crow.”
The Boatmaster chortled at this and sat with less drama next to the frayed Marshal. “She speaks the water’s truth and the fire’s fact, child. Best pay heed to-”
The door to the boathouse clattered loudly as a stooped man, a hand or two shorter than Maria, came in with aplomb but no ceremony. Perched on his head was a wide, flat black hat. The kind of hat that the Wanderers and the Herdmasters favored. Drapped around his shoulders, reaching all the way to the floor, was a cloak made of black, shining feathers. They still held their luster, as if still stuck to the crows and ravens they were from, rather than the hollow blackness of discarded feathers in flight. His face was hidden behind some kind of fine set of goggles, silvery arms twining around his ears to hold aloft two glittering black lenses. His smile was crooked, his teeth clean but arranged poorly. Like standing stones upon a field long since abandoned by those who set them. He moved with a clarity of movement that would be recognized by dancers as grace, and by fighters as caution and preperation. “Sorry to take from you the moment of your speech, dear master of the waterways, but I smelled upon the wind that a meal that was made with me in mind, and I am not one to be skipping promises made to me even when I am not around to hear them. Good people, it is a fine day for our travel, and my lover does whisper to me oh beautiful words to say that you are good people indeed. Where can I find that which shall silence my fast and greet the morning?”
Both the Boatmster and Maria nodded to the man as he came in. “Welcome, Old Crow.”
He grinned again, snatching the rolled up cakes offered by the Boatmaster. “A fine, fine welcome it is.”

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