Kingdom of Ash and Soot

by C. S. Johnson

  My fist balled, and I struck him in the stomach before he could move.

  “Ack.” He gasped before doubling over in pain.

  “Serves you right,” I said, kneeing him in the face. I could feel the stark bluntness of the impact, and I was not surprised a moment later to see droplets of red slam against the stony walkway.

  “You’ll pay for that,” he vowed, as his nose began to bleed.

  “Oh, what are you ever going to do? Tell your mommy on me? She’ll hardly think you’re man enough to marry that countess then.”

  “I’ll find a way to make you pay,” Alex grunted, “if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “I would gladly let you try, if it was indeed the last thing you would ever do,” I yelled back, already moving past him and out the door of the next room.

  It was no secret my stepbrother was a monster; Ben and I had caught him trying to coerce Betsy and some of the other younger maids into dark corners of the house a few years ago, and ever since then we’ve made sure he was well watched by the guards.

  All of Táta’s playing around when we were younger looked more and more like a wise investment, I thought, as I arrived at my destination. Ben and I had learned to hit and fight as well as any siblings who shared the ups and downs of our lives, mostly thanks to each other, but plenty of others as well.

  The halls around me were quiet and still. I burst through the double doors of the library and threw up my arms in triumph.

  “Take that, Ben!” I twirled around and flopped into a chair. I decided it was the perfect place to greet him as he entered and found himself in second place.

  There was just one problem with that.

  “Take what?” Ben asked, all too innocently, from behind me.

  I jumped up and swiveled around, the mud on my shoes making my feet more slick. “Oh, no.”

  “Yep, that’s right. I’m the winner.” The innocence was gone, and the arrogance had come.

  My shoulders slumped over. “I guess this means I have to go into town by myself.”

  “You know it.” Ben grinned. A moment later, he softened. “It might be for the best,” he said. “If you go by yourself, you’ll take longer. That’ll give me some time to get the work done around here.”

  I sighed. “Anything to get away from Alex. I ran into him out on the battlements. That’s why I lost.”

  “Then it is better you go,” Ben said. “So when I beat him, you won’t be around to take the blame.”

  “I already took care of it,” I said, before diving into the details, telling Ben the story of how I had fought off our wicked stepbrother.

  “In all seriousness, we need to practice your fighting some more,” Ben said when I was done, and he was done laughing. “He’ll be the master here soon, Nora.”

  “Not for some time, surely. Even if he gets this manor when he’s married, they’re only announcing the engagement tonight. It’ll be at least another year before they get married and move in. That’s plenty of time for us to get the funds we need for Liberté and then get out of here.”

  “I hope so. But that also gives him plenty of time to terrorize us.” He came up and patted me on the shoulder. “I don’t want anything happening to you, ségra.”

  Since I coveted his approval and affection, I quickly hugged him, before brushing off his concern. “We’ll be fine, brácha,” I assured him, using my own endearment for him in return. “Now, let me go. If I’m supposed to be back from town before tonight, I’d better get going. Alex might be a terror, but he’s still nothing compared to his mother.”

  *2*

  ◊

  If I had any other reason to be there, going into the city would have been my favorite chore. Over the last few years, I had grown accustomed to the sadness I felt when I sold my father’s possessions, but I never tired of the wonder I felt when I wandered into the city.

  As I packed up the small carriage and flicked the horse’s reins, I breathed in deeply, tasting freedom’s forbidden elixir. I had nothing of my own, except the time that was given to me, and I was reminded of this nearly every day since my father’s passing. Going into the city was a respite from my reality, and like anyone who hungered after something so secretly and desperately, the tendency to hoard it and hide it came naturally.

  It doesn’t come senselessly, though.

  That was why I pulled on Dox’s reigns, stopping at a small cottage not far from my home.

  I hopped down from the carriage perch and knocked on the door. After waiting patiently for a long moment, I cupped my hands against my cheeks and hollered, “Tulia! It’s me!”

  The door creaked open, and one-half of a half-wrinkled face appeared before me. Despite her annoyed look, I grinned at the surly figure. “Dobré ráno, Tulia. I need a companion today.”

  Tulia rolled her pretty topaz eyes, gesturing toward the sun and curling her fingers, making a motion like she was checking the time.

  “I know it’s early,” I said. “Cecilia’s party is tonight, remember? She is on a tirade, preparing for His Grace’s arrival.”

  Tulia had worked for my mother as a nursemaid and companion for several years. After Máma died, she took up residence at her cottage, keeping watch over Ben and me as best as she could. I was sure it was hard for her, especially because Tulia was never permitted inside our manor after Cecilia moved in. Cecilia hated “crippled folk,” as she called them, and she seemed to have a particular animosity toward Tulia, who was a mute.

  But Tulia was like a second mother to me—or maybe because of her age, more like a grandmother—and I sought her company as much as I could, even if it meant trouble.

  From her doorway, Tulia shot me another bitter look, and I gave her my best smile.

  “I’ll bring you more tea next time,” I promised, as she came over to the carriage, finally ready to head toward the heart of Prague.

  Tulia climbed up beside me on the wagon’s perch, bumped against me companionably, and waved her arms toward Dox. It was her way of signaling to me she was all ready to go, and there was no need to keep her waiting now that I no longer had to wait for her.

  At her spirited movements, I laughed; Tulia was perpetually silent, but she had a way of speaking that left me in little doubt of her exact thoughts.

  I jostled Dox’s reins, and together we set off for the city.

  Prague was the crown jewel of the whole kingdom of Bohemia, and I did not need to travel great distances to see that reality. The city skyline misted over with clouds, keeping itself steady on the edge of my dreams while it remained grounded in the roots of my blood.

  The November fog cleared as the sun rose, leaving the city sharp at its edges and shimmering at its core. I breathed in the fresh air deeply as I surveyed my surroundings. The mishmash of newer housing clashed with the cramped townhouses in color as much as in design, further juxtaposed against the darkness of the old city walls. It was a strangely beautiful thing, ugly but still mesmerizing, to see the city growing even as it remained the same.

  I knew convenience and change came with a cost, just like the new sewage system that was installed a few years after the Revolution. But I did not know if it was always a fair exchange, and I did not know if the Lords and lawmakers always acted in the best interest of anyone but themselves. The political wars between the Bohemian Diet and the German Diet were legendary, and I considered myself too young and too poor to care as much as I might have.

  When I had been younger, my father mentioned once that there used to be much more violence in Prague, but more effort was culled into political maneuvering than anything else. When I told Táta that sounded like a good thing, he said the expended effort was better going into the arts.

  “Always remember, art is upstream from politics,” he’d once told me at bedtime, before pulling out a new book for us to read.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Art is supposed to inspire the highest level humankind has to offer. Politics is only agreeing on rule
s that one might use to engage with others, and slowly changing them with the hopes no one else will notice.”

  “Is that really how politics work?”

  He cupped my cheek and smoothed back my hair lovingly, in that way he’d always had with me. “Always so curious,” he said. “Just like your mother.”

  And then he would kiss me goodnight, before reading to me until I feel asleep.

  Tulia suddenly clapped her hands, and I blinked. “What is it?” I asked.

  She nodded toward the city, urging me to go faster.

  “Dox can only go so fast,” I said, briefly reaching forward to pat my faithful steed. “Besides, you’re the one who took her time this morning. Are you getting older and slower naturally, or were you just moving slowly on purpose?”

  Tulia flicked her nose at me.

  “Careful. God still knows you’re cursing at me.”

  In reply, Tulia made even more obscene gestures at me, and I laughed. I was pleased to have had inherited her friendship.

  Tulia waved her hand again, and I looked to see she was greeting a man with his own leiterwagen full of grain. She gestured to me, cupping her hands and rounding them out in a small oval.

  “I should have enough to get some bread from the baker’s.” I glanced back at the goods in the carriage. “There’s enough here that Cecilia won’t miss a koruna or two.”

  Tulia gave a silent cheer, and my stomach concurred with her, giving a hungry rumble of its own.

  I knew I should have eaten more, especially after fighting with Alex and racing with Ben.

  “Alex is just terrible,” I told Tulia, recounting my earlier tale of bravery and triumph. Even though I’d lost the race to Ben, I held my head up high. I’d stood up to my terrible stepbrother, and that was no easy task. Alex, over the past ten years, had grown much taller than me, and with his schooling at Oxford complete, he had become even more insufferable.

  And Alex was barely human before he went to London. Ben was right to worry about him.

  “I can’t wait until the day Alex goes too far,” I told Tulia. “I’d really love to see him squirm.”

  Tulia grinned, and I could see her full smile, complete with its gaps of missing teeth.

  My hands tightened carefully on the reins while Dox’s feet hit the bridge stones hard and steady as we headed over the river.

  “I wonder if this is how Aeneas felt,” I mused aloud, “crossing into the Underworld.”

  Tulia pretended to yawn; she knew of my love for books, but she always insisted I read too much.

  As soon as we entered into the heart of the city, heavy traffic and crowded streets forced us to a momentary stop. Carefully, I stood up on the coach box, only to see there was a funeral procession heading down Kaprova street.

  Tulia tugged on my skirt. “There’s a funeral,” I explained, surprised when she stood up herself. As she looked down the street, her expression changed from one of interest to something much darker.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  She held up a hand to me, telling me to wait. It was strange of her be so blunt with me.

  I heard angry yelling, the words mixed with German and Prussian words. From the little German I knew, the man was yelling about the funeral.

  “Sounds like a politician died,” I said as we passed by, heading deeper toward the heart of Prague, where the markets were located.

  Beside me, Tulia nodded. She was a mute, but I had a feeling she knew six or seven languages herself. When I was younger, she had caught me trying to learn how to swear in Italian, and when I switched over to Slovak and then Spanish, she had still known what I was saying.

  Then, like any good mother figure, she had me learn to curse in French properly, telling me in her own way that if I was going to curse, I was going to curse like a lady.

  “Who was it?” I asked her, and she used her secret language to spell out the man’s name.

  “Sigmund Artha?”

  Tulia nodded again, and I was shocked I recognized his name. “He was Táta’s doctor. He was close with the king, too. He came to my father’s funeral. How sad that he died.”

  Tulia frowned angrily. I saw her fists clench and her eyes narrow with dangerous tears. When I asked her what was wrong, she responded with a vitriolic message.

  He did not deserve to die.

  “What happened?” I asked. Something was unusual about her demeanor, and I was suddenly worried. “Tulia?”

  Tulia did not respond, as she was still looking over her shoulder, distraught at the sad scene. As we passed by the Betlěmskěnàm church, I saw Leopold Artha, Dr. Artha’s brother, the former Minister-President of Austria. He wore his finest clothes and a stoic expression, but, even from where we were, I could see his eyes were blurry with tears and tiredness.

  “He was a good man,” I said. From what I remembered, Dr. Artha had been a polite man, even with all his strange idiosyncrasies. I could not imagine him as a politician, but his brother had likely compelled him to accept such a position.

  Tulia was obviously upset about it.

  “I will pray for his soul’s peace.” I made the sign of the cross over my heart, silently sending love to my mother and father as well.

  Tulia joined me in the motions, but much more slowly. She kept her eye on the funeral as we turned down the street and headed for Old Town Square.

  As we approached the market, I forgot the funeral and Tulia’s frustration.

  I was not indifferent to her confusion and pain, it was just very easy to get lost in the city and its beauty. Prague Castle dominated the background as we rode through the crowed city streets. We passed by the Old Town Hall, where the Pražskỳ orloj, the Prague Astronomical Clock, continued to push the shadow of its dial around its concentric faces in an age-old dance. The Kostel Matky Boží před Tynem church, flanked with its high twin steeples, sounded with echoes of pipe organ music, mixing with the angry shouts, the hurried people, and the busy, face-freckled crowds. The city radiated a life and heart of its own.

  I looked back at the goods Cecilia had ordered me to sell, the ones that let me reach back into my past, when my father was alive. I was carrying out a hellish task in the middle of my imaginary heaven, and I suddenly felt the weariness of the world sink into me even more at the irony.

  “Well, Tulia,” I said with a heavy sigh, “I hope this doesn’t take too long.”

  I WORKED MY WAY THROUGH the various traders and sellers, negotiating deals for hours as the sun passed overhead. It took no more than a couple of hours to find buyers for the things my father had spent his life collecting.

  As I passed the last of the furniture pieces to their buyer, Tulia tossed me a warm roll.

  “You did pay for this, right?” I asked.

  She rolled her eyes again, but nodded. As she took a bite out of her own loaf, I saw the earlier sadness I had witnessed was not completely gone, just hidden.

  Is she upset at Dr. Artha’s death because he was friends with my parents?

  It was possible Tulia had known him, although I could not remember ever seeing them together.

  Still musing over her strange reaction, I took a bite of my bread. The warmth ran over my tongue and I felt a spiritual sense of strength return to me. “This is great. Who made it?”

  Tulia nodded toward a baker delivery cart, and I frowned. No wonder this is so good. French bread is expensive.

  “How much was it?” I asked, and Tulia made a few gestures.

  It took me a few moments longer to realize what she was saying, and then I blushed. “You didn’t have to trade your ... amorous favors for the bread. I could have paid for it.”

  She grinned before she puckered up her lips and blew a few kisses toward me in reply. It was her way of saying that she did not mind having to allow a merchant a stolen kiss or two, knowing it was a gift for me.

  “Still,” I mumbled, embarrassed, “Máma would be upset with you for teaching me such behavior.”

  Tulia shrugged, a
nd it was as if I could hear her tart reply. You asked, didn’t you?

  As much as I hated to give her credit, I ate the rest of the bread.

  When I was finished, I turned back to the carriage. There was a small chest left, and that was it. Despite the nourishment of the bread, I felt my spirits plummet once more. There were only a handful of things that could be in the chest.

  As I opened it, I saw my hunch had been correct. Two books, editions in prime condition, were carefully placed inside, and I despaired at the sight.

  Táta’s books were each small pinnacles of civilization, and only a bookstore could give me a good price for their treasured contents. I wept when Cecilia sold his first edition copy of Mort D’Arthur.

  I carefully pried the two books out of the soft velvet lining. One book I recognized easily; it was one of my father’s favorites, The Prelude, by William Wordsworth.

  The other made me pause. It was an intricately carved book, with a strange symbol on the front. I opened it up to see a script written in unusual, foreign scrawl.

  “Tulia, do you know what this is?”

  When she shook her head, I sighed. My father’s books were very precious, and very expensive. He would not have kept these two side by side if they were not of high value, but I hated to have to haggle with a bookseller not knowing what I was trying to sell in the first place.

  “Well, I hope Cecilia’s not hoping for a fortune,” I said, noticing the small notes along some of the margins. “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to sell this at all.”

  We approached the small bookshop, Wickward Bookseller and Publisher, with its name branded in golden gilt across the top of the building. I could only sigh at the oncoming headache.

  I jumped down to the ground, eager to get the business over and done with. In my haste, I landed hard on the stony streets, and the small chest I’d held went crashing down to the ground and fell open at the feet of a man.

  “Promiňte,” I said quickly, rushing to hide my embarrassment. “I’m so sorry ... ” I felt my voice trail off as the man turned around.