Ashes Slowly Fall

by Katya Lebeque

  Ash was no longer listening. Who would want to get whipped? But Derrick was tugging on her arm, and she let him lead her away. She turned back to look once, and Tarah had lifted her head. For a second, her face looked like Tansy’s, throat slit just days ago at Rhodopalais. But just as quickly the illusion vanished. The servant’s bright blue eyes peered at her from behind the whipping post, behind her ropes and self-inflicted pain. Tarah stared at Ash without blinking, and Ash found she had to look away.

  ***

  They were the last ones to arrive when she and Derrick finally made it up the stairs, panting. A finely dressed servant was already awaiting them and bustled them through the door. Ash only had a momentary glimpse of an ornate room with a curious combination of a rather dandified dressing area and tens of animal heads with tusks on various walls.

  “This is the king’s solar, which is private. You are through here - the cabinet room,” said the servant, bustling them through into a slightly larger room.

  “Ah Walters! These are the new munition expert latecomers, yes?”

  “Announcing munitions experts Ashlynne and Derrick of the Rhodopalais estate here by courtesy of the Lady Jadene Cerentola.”

  The average age of the room seemed to be fifty. There was the king, at a table in an ornate red chair that seemed to be trying to be a lion, and spread out before him were five men on benches is varying states of wrinkling. Nearest them were Rize and the Duke, smiling carefully from opposite benches. Next to the others they looked to be the most handsome men in the world.

  “Welcome to the war council,” said the man called Walters. “You may address the cabinet.”

  Six sets of rheumy eyes looked at them expectantly. It seemed Derrick had been right, they should have prepared some sort of a speech. Ah well.

  “Your Grace. Highness. My lords,” Ash began, curtseying deeply, but she did not get very far.

  “A woman in the cabinet? Addressing the king and his council? Unheard of!”

  Ash straightened, blinking. The man speaking was a horse-faced redhead that looked to be near sixty, his long horsey teeth trying to escape his mouth in indignation. She remembered this particular man now – he had been the older gentleman next to her at the feats who had looked over her bosom so thoroughly. He had asked her then of her business and hadn’t seemed that offended. But now, just the morning after, he was acting as though a naked heretic riding a carrior had landed before him.

  “Hear, hear!” said a round man with a head as bald as an egg and a beard which seemed to be making up for the fact, clumping like a big black bush all the way down to his doublet. “We’ll entertain no woman here!” His spiteful little eyes gleamed at her in a way that looked familiar. This could only be Bella Nargosi’s father.

  A tavern-like cacophony started, all five of the men seated before the king gesturing at each other and shouting for no reason Ash could see, some violently defending her and Derrick and the others violently attacking. It looked more like rough common men in a barracks than a peerage of nobles discussing how to lead the country through famine and war.

  After a minute or so, Rize stood in a formal, stiff way, which seemed to be the signal for everyone to stop shouting. “Lords and dukes, the cabinet hears your concerns. I have requested these two individuals personally as they have valuable information that pertains to our imminent defeat of the carriors -”

  “From a commoner and a woman? Ridiculous!”

  Rize’s face darkened with rage. Ash turned to see the identical expression on Derrick’s face. She looked up at the groin-vaulted ceiling. It was painted a dark red that looked like a giant mouth ready to swallow her whole. She hoped it would.

  The duke stood too, and Rize made a hand gesture to offer him the speaking right, then sat down. “My lords, need I remind you that the Crown Prince His Highness represents in his conferred dukedom the duchy of Bretzenheim, and stands to inherit all of Lausanne upon marriage. He has every right to bring in experts and, indeed, the royal household has not had one royal expert attend it from outside the walls in near a year. I propose that the council continue with the matters Walters had noted down in the previous meet and, once concluded, we allow the new munitions experts the attention of the table. Are all in agreement?”

  “Yes, that sounds fine, Lorin – calm your breeches boys,” rumbled the king over from his seat before any of the dukes could respond, punctuating his words with a ridiculously boyish flick of his absurdly blonde forelock. His face softened slightly as he added: “And have a plum, to sweeten you some. These were grown by my son.”

  Each duke dutifully took a plum from the centre bowl and they all sat in silence a while, sucking the purple sweetness and looking with hooded eyes at one another. The king beamed at Rize. Ash wanted to laugh, it was all so ridiculous.

  After an heroic effort, a blond man in his forties finished his plum first and stood to speak. A portion of his face was disfigured by what could well have been a carrior claw, but beyond that he looked vaguely familiar. Ash seemed to remember him chasing ladies, and occasionally boys, around the Rhodopalais mazes. He could only be the Duke of Bougogne, then, although she had known him when she had been a child and he a drunken caperer in the bushes.

  “Your Grace, Prince and my lords: the first item I believe was the tax -”

  “First let Walters read out the numbers, Edmonde.”

  Walters dutifully pulled an orange-bordered parchment out of nowhere and began reading: “Number of carrior deaths within the castle in last recorded month at 17, fairly in line with the previous. State of food stores: adequate food stores, including a separate store for His Grace and Highness, for 93 days –”

  “What? It was 97 just days ago!” the redheaded noble huffed.

  “There are two new mouths to feed, hence the recalculation. A conservative one.”

  Ash looked down and felt rather than saw all their eyes on her. “Continue Walters,” said Rize.

  “Servant deaths not above normal and it has been 63 days since the last insurrection. No whippings except for two – interestingly, of the same person. I will have it looked into. But sentiments among the staff seem benign, I have found, in my own reconnaissance. Only three truly rebellious thoughts, unlike the eleven last week.”

  How on earth did this Walters know what the servants were thinking? Ash sincerely doubted that he asked in the hallways, or that they would tell him when they were feeling ‘rebellious’. But he was still speaking, and she pushed such questions away.

  “Coin and treasury numbers are running low but adequate for now,” At this, Walters looked up at Rize. “With the Crown Prince’s 19th birthday approaching shortly, this will of course need to be discussed as to what celebrations can be afforded. However, this age traditionally provides the crown with the additional coin of a foreign dowry upon marriage.”

  Ash felt Rize bristle like a hedgehog. “Yes, well, dowries were an option when our country wasn’t effectively quarantined due to flying, people-eating monsters. No one wants to marry me.”

  Silence reigned a full two minutes. When Rize spoke again, it was more quietly, and to the cold, unfeeling wood of the table: “These monsters are my burden to bear. Do you know what I want for my birthday? I want to be reminded that, outside these walls, it’s all ashes, and it’s my duty to make that right. I want no birthday celebrations. Let that save the crown some money at least.”

  Walters shot the prince a sympathetic look, then carried on with his list. “Well, then, let’s move on to… yes, coin running low but adequate for now -” he stopped when the blonde, scarred duke got up again.

  “We need that tax! The crown must send out envoys! I have not had tax come in from my duchy in three months!”

  It took everything in Ash not to laugh in the man’s face. Tax? Had he been to Bougogne lately? There was no one to pay tax left outside these cloistered castle walls.

  “Duke, with respect, tax is impossible. The sheriffs are all dead, by the Pathfinders’ las
t estimation. Whom are they going to pay tax to?”

  It took everything in Ash not to laugh out loud. Tax? Had he been to Bougogne lately? There was no one left to pay tax outside these cloistered castle walls.

  “Duke, with respect, tax is impossible. The sheriffs are all dead, by the Pathfinders’ last estimation.

  Whom are they going to pay tax to?”

  But the disfigured duke would not be stopped. “They are living on my land, they must pay!”

  Enough. Ash stood up. “No, they are dying on your land, Sir, not living. And before they were barely surviving as it was. I am of Bougogne. Yet if we use Expansion iron for trade with neighbouring countries it will –”

  “Silence!” barked the king so suddenly that Ash was caught standing with her mouth open, blinking at him. “Your Grace?”

  “There is order here, girl. There is procedure!” The king’s face was beginning to take on the look of a red thundercloud. “I will not have you crying out whenever you feel like it like some wench in a brothel.”

  Ash had never been addressed so rudely in all her life. But then, she supposed she’d never been addressed by a king before. Cheeks burning, she sat down again, willing herself not to cry.

  “What is the next item, Walters?” said the blonde duke with an unmistakable sneer in his voice.

  Derrick took Ash’s hand under the table.

  “Next, if the tax has been discussed already, is number of able fighting men, which has decreased sharply despite no expedition casualties. We are down to 35 trained men, but 68 able-bodied men. I believe that concludes my report.”

  “Right. Now girl, you may speak.”

  Ash wanted to laugh. Was he serious? After chastising her so harshly, she must stand and recite prettily like a parrot less than two minutes later? She looked hard at the king without standing. In the morning light he looked different. Older. When she had seen him in the Throne Room yesterday and then at the feast, she had seen him in dazzling snatches, glimpses of this ring, that gold brocade, this crown. But today he was not dressed for occasion, and he looked just like a man, any other man, only in better clothes and an immensely ridiculous blonde wig. Still, impressive. She supposed that had been the point of the finery.

  The king was still glaring at her, and she at him. Now she regretted the dress she had so hastily pulled on, a silken flimsy blue thing. She should have worn breeches or, better, a suit of armour. Perhaps that would have helped. Next to her, Derrick cleared his throat and stood alone.

  “Your Grace, Highness, dukes and lords and… and Walters… we come bearing good news. It has come to Ashlynne and my attention that the palace has been using ordinary weaponry in its fight against the carriors. We have innovated a new way to make weaponry that pierces carriors’ hide quicker and more effectively.”

  “Humph,” said the king. “How many carriors have you personally killed with this ‘innovation’ then, boy?”

  “I am not as good with numbers as Walters… roughly more than ten myself, your Grace. And

  Ashlynne has killed more than I have.”

  It was the strength Ash needed to stand. She knew exactly how many carriors she had killed, she remembered every one. Many of them were in her dreams at night for months after.

  “I have killed eighteen carriors in thirteen months. How many have you killed, your Grace?”

  Silence dropped like a rock into the room. The red rage on the king’s face turned black and he stood without speaking. Ash sat down, quite without meaning to, at the sight of it. She looked furtively around - Rize was tossing his head like a horse and not looking at her, the duke’s mouth had pressed into a thin white line and his eyes had become grave. She looked back at the king from under her eyelashes, head down: the storm on his face was about to break.

  At that moment, the door opened and an old woman walked in.

  “Your Grace, your highness and all lords and ladies, forgive me.” She was a Pathfinder, that was obvious from the orange robes, yet Ash had never seen such an old one before. The woman’s grey hair fell spectacularly down her back like snowfall, and she held herself as straight as a sword. With steel grey eyes near the same shade she assessed Ash and Derrick. “The new munitions experts, I assume. We need you more than ever,” she nodded as if agreeing with herself, then directly swept up to sit at the head of the room next to the king.

  The change in the king was nothing short of magick – as the Pathfinder approached him, he gave a slight bow of his head and even moved his chair over to give her more room. Ash felt rather than saw a small scrap of parchment shoved into her hand under the table. She and Derrick looked down to read it together:

  The Head Pathfinder. She has a seat on the war council, an important one. And all the servants attend the morning prayers she just came from. That’s power. Say nothing for the rest of this meeting. I have news.

  The so-called powerful Head Pathfinder was hearing the numbers they had all heard earlier.

  “Thank you Walters, and apologies once again for my tardiness. Morning prayers are very important to our faithful, and the prayers of the righteous keep these castles safe as much as any watchman.” The whole table nodded as though she had said something sensible.

  “Word has got out and they are dying down, Madam Pathfinder. We have had 122 peasants arrive outside the walls petitioning this fortnight. The council has yet to come up with a firm policy.”

  All the breath left Ash in a rush. More than a hundred people, out there with the birds and mobs, pleading against the castle’s shut doors. Everyone else seemed to be thinking of it too. Even louder fighting erupted than when a woman had come in the room. Well, when Ash had. They seemed to have no problem at all with this old Pathfinder.

  “We cannot afford the food stores…”

  “There are too many…”

  “Who will help if not us?”

  “But an uprising could occur and we don’t have the manpower, they are too many -”

  The Pathfinder delicately cleared her throat, and all hushed at once. She tipped her head meekly in acknowledgement and spoke, still seated, unlike all the other council members.

  “It is difficult, to be sure,” she began, and the king harrumphed next to her. She cocked her head to the side once, glancing at him piercingly, then lowered her head. Ash saw how clever she was, not standing because, so close to the king, it would seem imposing, she spoke in a soft, womanly voice as she talked of manly things.

  “Your Grace, I do not envy you this burden. It is a situation, indeed. Any other king would simply leave the commoners to die, yet an unwise king would fling the gates wide… It is a difficult road you walk, Majesty, may the Path guide you.”

  “Yes, I will need to think… Thank you, esteemed Pathfinder.”

  This woman was to be watched, indeed. Distantly, a bell began to ring.

  “Breakfast,” Derrick whispered excitedly as the various dukes stood to leave. Before Ash could answer, the duke was upon them, gripping her arm tightly and pulling her from the room.

  “Goodness, Duke!”

  “Have you lost your mind? You could have been killed! Carriors take you, woman! Rize and I have vouched for you and you come in like this… could you have been less intelligent about it?” Ash had been expecting a rebuke, but not so much acid in his voice. She nearly fell over as he descended crossly down the stairs, still gripping her arm. Derrick followed like a lamb behind them.

  “I only wanted to say my peace. They brought me here for my knowledge and now they spit in my face for happening to be female –”

  The duke stopped short on the landing and Ash crashed right into him.

  “No, you only wanted to win. Good lord woman, Rize told me you were intelligent. Think! You saw how the king is – what better way to secure your position than to echo his sentiments and give him an easy target to damn?”

  “That’s so unfair! They are on his war council – is that not secure enough for them?”

  They had arrived at
the Great Hall by now, already full of people. The duke gestured for them to sit together before he continued.

  “Let us spell one thing out – at court, in a time like this, no one’s position is secure. No one’s safety is secure. No one’s – especially not yours. Perhaps – yes, that’s a good idea – perhaps go to the ladies’ apartments tonight with the other noble maidens. Stay closer to them when not in war council meetings.”

  “As penance? Spend time with the birds who have clipped wings, to tame me vicariously?”

  “Good lord Ash! The king could have had you killed today, and where would that have left you?”

  “Less frustrated.”

  The duke sighed and put his head in his hands. For a moment, Ash felt a pang of sympathy for him. She knew she was not being reasonable. Ordinarily she was not this bad, it must be all the tight gowns and stiff brocades, and all the speaking only when spoken to after the blessed freedom of years in a smock and no one to answer to but Old Merta.

  When the duke looked up again, his voice was hard and cold. “And if you were to be killed, where would that leave Derrick here? More importantly, where would that leave Vanita?”

  Ash had been looking around at the other tables, and the duke’s words came just as a man looked up from his plate, half his face disfigured with the unmistakable mark of carrior claws. Her sister’s face came to Ash at once and pierced her heart like a crossbow bolt.

  “Remember why you are here, Ash. The king could have had you killed instantly for what you said today, and I’ve a mind to think he very nearly did. With you gone, how much favour do you think Derrick will have with Rize? How much sway to have one of the precious few carriages take one person to rescue your sister when the month is up?”

  Bowls had been placed before them. Ash was shocked to see watery gruel in all three of them, even the duke’s. So, this was what the castle really ate when not trying to impress its guests of honour with spectacle and show. Next to her, the duke began eating heartily as though he did this each day, not even stopping when he began speaking again.