by Heidi Heilig
I hadn’t seen Leo since that night at Hell’s Court—at least, not outside my dreams. But now, face-to-face with the boy who fled from me, I wish it had been Le Trépas instead. He at least could not judge my many crimes. I take a breath, steadying my voice. “What are you doing here?”
Leo peers down at me through the open hatch, his face framed by the dark halo of his hair. Is he paler than he was a month ago? Perhaps it’s just a trick of the light—or the Aquitan side of his mixed heritage. What does he see, looking at me? I already know: bedraggled hair, stained sarong, muddy feet. “I should never have left in the first place,” he says.
His words take my breath away. How many times had I told him so in the weeks since he’d left, in the silence of my own mind? But coming from him, they sound hollow. “Why did you?” I ask, hoping that his answer will surprise me.
It doesn’t. “After what happened in Hell’s Court—”
I raise my hand to cut him off—the reminder itself is too painful for both of us. Treason. Sabotage. Murder. Just because General Legarde deserved what he got didn’t mean that Leo deserved to watch me do it. “I shouldn’t blame you for being afraid of me,” I say at last, more for myself than for him. “I know what I am. What I’ve done. And so do you.”
Leo hesitates, his hand still hovering in the open hatch. “I was afraid,” he says softly. “But not of you.”
I do not take his hand. “What’s worse than me?”
“Everything that isn’t.” His answer is immediate, but unconvincing.
“You ran, Leo.”
“Au revoir means ‘Till we meet again.’ Not goodbye.” I take a step down the ladder, but his hand darts out to catch my wrist. “I needed time!” he adds quickly. The heat of his skin sears mine. “I’ve lost so many people I . . . I care for. I thought it might be easier if I left first this time. I was wrong.”
I stare up into his haunted eyes. What spirits does he see? His father, the general, dead by my hand? Or his maman with her malheur, dead by her own? Even Eve, one of the girls at his old theater, lost in the fight that erupted after we left Luda. “I would never have abandoned you, Leo.”
“Not on purpose,” he says. “But in war, anything can happen. Please come up.”
I hesitate on the ladder. “Give me one good reason.”
Leo bites his lip, considering. “How about four?”
Confused, I cock my head, but he curls his thumb against his palm, making claws of his four fingers and drawing them gently from my elbow to my wrist. My breath catches in my throat as understanding dawns. “The Tiger sent you?”
Leo pulls his hand back. “He did.”
“Then he’s just as cruel as they say,” I mutter. I know I shouldn’t blame Leo for leaving, but I do anyway.
Even so, I reach for the next rung and climb up through the hatch. The belly of the ship was made for storage; Leo’s lantern rests on the remains of a wooden crate. There are many such boxes scattered across the deck, most pried open by scavengers, others smashed to kindling. Detritus litters the floor, and glass glitters in the low light. Gingerly, I step off the ladder, careful of my bare toes, but Leo sheds his linen jacket and spreads it on the splintered deck.
Giving him a look, I tread on it with my muddy feet. “You took your time.”
“It isn’t easy figuring out how to get you where you need to go.” Leo’s voice carries a hint of reproach as he reaches for a satchel set beside the lamp. “Especially with the recherche.”
“Fair enough.” I watch as he digs through the bag, pulling out a bundle of canvas and a pair of leather gloves. “What are those for?”
“A disguise,” he says, handing over the gloves. They are soft as velvet, finely stitched. Raising an eyebrow, I slip them on. I have never owned a pair of gloves, and a set so exquisite is not meant for working hands. Nor for Chakran weather.
“What am I disguised as?” I ask, flexing my fingers, marveling at the leatherwork. “Someone with money?”
“People stare at the rich,” Leo says, holding out the bundle of canvas. “But everyone avoids looking at a madwoman.”
From anyone else, the word would sting. But in Leo’s mouth, it is not an insult. “Some disguise,” I say wryly. But when I shake out the bundle, the blood drains from my face. “What is this?”
“A carcan,” he says. There is an apology in his eyes. “A straitjacket.”
“A what?” My voice rises an octave as I stare at the thing: long sleeves, leather straps.
“It will hide the scar on your shoulder,” he says quickly. “Anyone who sees us will think you’re just another run-of-the-mill criminal on the way to the prison ship. Trust me, Jetta, please.” He takes my hand again, cutting short the protests building in my throat.
I meet his eyes . . . they are so earnest. Leo had abandoned me—but he had come back. Perhaps that is the part that’s most important. And I have to admit, it seems like a good plan. Slowly I slip one arm into the canvas sleeve, followed by the other, crossing my arms over my belly so he can close the dangling straps behind me. “What about Papa and Akra?” I say over my shoulder. “Do you have carcans for them too?”
Leo finishes with the buckles before he answers. Then, very gently, he wraps his fingers around my wrist and squeezes gently through the canvas. “Jetta,” he says carefully, his voice pitched to carry. “Your papa died of his wounds weeks ago.”
The words take a moment to make sense. “What?”
“And your brother fled the city,” Leo says, squeezing my wrist again. “To avoid being shot as a deserter.”
“What are you talking about?” I wrench my arm out of his grip. My shoulders flex—almost involuntarily—straining against the carcan. For the first time in weeks, I feel insane. “My family would never abandon me like you did.”
“It’s the elixir, isn’t it?” he says sadly. “You must be out by now.”
For a moment I falter, as though the deck has given way beneath me. I have hallucinated before, though never anything so elaborate. But something about Leo’s expression gives me pause—a flick of his eyes, almost imperceptible. And why had he squeezed my wrist? I frown, but before I can say more, another sound brings me up short. Quieter than Leo’s voice, but almost as familiar: the soft snick of a cocked gun. My heart sinks as I turn to face the soldier creeping up behind me.
As he steps from the shadows behind the broken crates, I recognize this man too. Leo’s half-brother—the general’s older son, Xavier, the only son Legarde acknowledged as his own. He’s thinner than he was back in Luda, like a well-loved knife, whetted daily. There is something different about his stance as well, as though his right leg is even stiffer than his spine. But his face is familiar twice over; he looks so much like his father—especially holding the gun. My fists clench inside the carcan, the leather gloves creaking. It wasn’t the Tiger who sent Leo after all. “Capitaine Legarde,” I say through my teeth.
“General, now.” On one shoulder, new epaulets gleam. “I was recently promoted.”
Unbidden, guilt wells up; I hide it with a scoff. “Did you come to thank me?”
Rage flashes quick as lightning in his ghost-blue eyes—for a moment, I see my death in them. But he only takes a deep breath, raising his fingertips to the gold medallion at his throat: the symbol of the Aquitan god. “I came to save you,” he says. “To save all of us in this godforsaken country. Turn around.”
He gestures with the gun, and I hesitate. Would I rather be shot in the back than see the bullet coming? My heart hammers against the canvas of the carcan as Leo tugs sharply at the buckles at the small of my back. “She’s secure, Xavi,” he says. “You can put your gun away.”
Xavier ignores him, but I can’t. “How could you?” I say through my teeth, but Xavier is the one who replies.
“Leonin finally decided that blood is thicker than water,” he says. “Turn around.”
I tense my back at the command, unwilling to comply, but Leo takes my shoulders gently, spinning me to look him
in the eye. Behind me, Xavier checks the straps himself. “We only want to ask you some questions,” Leo says quietly.
Panic rises in my throat like bile at the memory of Papa’s broken bones, his stumped tongue. “I’ve seen what the armée’s questioneurs can do.”
“The questioneurs have been reassigned,” he says quickly.
“Then who?”
“You’re meant to answer questions, not ask them.” Xavier tucks his gun in his belt and slides his hands along my waist. Trapped as I am by the carcan, his touch makes me want to scream, to lash out. But with Xavier distracted, Leo’s lips move again.
“Trust me.”
I narrow my eyes, but before I can respond, the general’s hand stops at the curve of the bottle. “A weapon?”
“It’s only my elixir.” Cringing, I curl away from him, trying to protect the flask. It may be empty, but I want it anyway.
“Ah yes.” The general’s voice is carefully quiet. “The drink you killed my father for.”
“That’s not what happened—”
He cuts me off by yanking the straps of the jacket. “I hear it’s supposed to keep you sane,” he says, his hand worming up under the hem and dipping into the fold of my belt. “Easier to keep you in the carcan, though.”
Rage flares in my chest as Xavier’s fingers close over the neck of the bottle. I slam my head backward, connecting with his face. Pain bursts on the back of my skull. The general swears, reeling, pulling the bottle out of my belt. The recherche comes with it—my plans for sabotage, ensouled with forbidden magic. I bite off a curse. “Fly!”
At my command, the letter lifts into the air, but Xavier is quick enough to snatch it in his fist. “What’s this?”
“It’s nothing!”
The young general spits blood onto the deck as he watches the message flutter frantically in his grasp. “Is it so little to you?” he says, half in awe, half appalled. “This crime against God and nature?”
I shift on my feet, glancing at the medallion he wears. “I don’t know your Aquitan god.”
“Maybe you will someday.” Xavier smiles; there is blood on his teeth. “He rose from the dead too, did you know that? But his flesh was uncorrupted. Whatever you do in Chakrana, it has more to do with hell than heaven.” The general spits again, stuffing the fantouche into his pocket. The bottle he tosses over his shoulder, as though it means nothing. It shatters in the corner, just another handful of broken glass. Then he jerks his chin toward the hatch. “Allez.”
I glare at the general through the dark curtain of my hair. My heart flutters like the soul of a bird; sweat makes the leather of the gloves tighten around my fingers. But I can still feel the soft pressure of Leo’s hand on my wrist . . . hear the echo of his unspoken words. Trust me.
Despite everything, I still do.
So I clench my jaw and take a deep breath through my nose. Then I toss my hair out of my face as best I can. “Are you carrying me down the ladder, General? Or are you going to lie down in the bilge and pad my landing?”
“I’ll carry you,” Leo says before the general can respond. “Xavi, can you put out the lantern? The slums are a tinderbox.” He scoops me up, slinging me over his shoulder; I fold there like a costume, the carcan drawing tight. “Your elbows,” he complains as he starts down.
“Your plan,” I reply through my teeth.
Leo only grunts as he hauls me outside, where the surface of the water shines pink and silver as the sun reaches toward the dawn. The souls of minnows scatter before us as he wades toward the shore. Leo sets me down on the muddy bank so we can both catch our breath. I glance at him, hoping for an explanation, but he only turns toward the ship as his brother climbs through the hole in the hull. The general’s gun is back in his hand.
As Xavier splashes his way toward us, movement catches my eye down the bank: a dark shape, crouching in the reeds. Sudden relief floods in when I recognize my brother—he hasn’t fled the city after all. But my heart skips a beat when I see the silvery light reflecting from the machete in his hands.
“Don’t!” The word slips out before I can bite it back. The general whirls at my shout, searching the shadows, but Akra stays hidden, unmoving—no. Unable to move. My stomach churns. I had promised him I wouldn’t treat him like a puppet. That I wouldn’t give him orders. But better a broken promise than another bullet. After all, Akra is a deserter. His recherche says to shoot on sight.
“What did you see?” Xavier’s gun is still high as he scans the dark water.
“Just a shadow,” I lie. Deliberately, I turn away from where Akra lurks and trudge up the bank, the Legarde brothers trailing behind me. Best to let Akra know where I’m going, though. “Where are you taking me?” I say, louder than I have to.
Will it be the barracks at the fort? The prison ship in the harbor? But Xavier’s answer brings bile to my throat. “Hell’s Court.”
* * *
My dear nephew Xavier Legarde,
Words cannot convey to you the depths of my condolences. Your father’s death was a heavy blow to all of us. Alas, it was also a blow to the war effort.
Sentiment at home has turned against the occupation of Chakrana. The fight has dragged on for decades. With the rebellion only growing, the Aquitan people fear there is no end in sight. Just last week, a riot broke out and a conscription officer was shot. The papers have gone so far as to print an anonymous essay claiming that the rumors of nécromancy are true—and that if reinforcements are needed, they should be recruited from the dead!
Instead of sending men, we shall focus our efforts on your sister’s work. Your father’s last letter to me included a schematic for the machine she invented—the one he claimed took flight. Rumor has run wild with that too, and the populace is agog with the possibilities. And though my own scientists tell me her calculations are impossible, I have every faith in her. And in you, of course. I am certain that together you will be able to strike a blow decisive enough to change public opinion. Indeed, you must, for in the wake of the general’s death, you are now in charge.
I know you are young, but your father always hoped you would take his place when he retired. You have prepared for this all your life, and you have my full confidence.
Your uncle,
Antoine Le Fou
Roi des Aquitains
* * *
Chapter Four
“Hell’s Court?” Treason . . . sabotage . . . murder. The carcan seems to tighten as my breath comes fast and shallow. The scent of blood fills my nose—a hallucination, or a memory? “I’m not going back there.”
“It’s not the same as when you left,” Leo says. Is he trying to reassure me? “My sister has taken the space for her work.”
“Your sister?”
The general misreads my question. “The armée scientist.”
“I know.” I take another deep breath, and another, until all I can smell is rain and mud. The identity of the armée scientist had become something of an open secret since her marriage to the Boy King had been indefinitely delayed. The papers praise every new invention, but these, at least, are not mere propaganda. In the last month, I’ve seen the repeating rifles she designed slung over every soldier’s shoulder as they patrol the streets of Nokhor Khat. The slums shake and rattle with the boom of shells launched into the bay as the armée tests the new artillerie at the fort. And of course, there was the half-built flying machine I’d stolen from her workshop—thankfully I’d sent the rest of them up in flames before she could give the armée a prototype that worked without a soul inside.
But Theodora’s genius is not limited to the making of war. The elixir I’d been taking to treat my malheur was her invention too.
Might there be more where that came from?
I glance at Leo, but with Xavier standing between us, his face is carefully neutral. Is controlling my malheur more important to him than helping the rebellion?
Xavier pushes me forward again. “You must also know that Theodora’s former
workshop was destroyed.”
“I do.” Another crime for my recherche. “But what does she want with me?”
“I’ve told you,” Xavier replies. “Questions.”
His answer is less than helpful, but as I walk, I make my own guesses. It will be the same question all audiences have after seeing one of my shadow plays, where my fantouches seem to dance without stick or string: how do you do it? Unfortunately, the usual lies will not work. Theodora had already seen behind the curtain. Will she ask me to ensoul a new flying machine? I’m almost sure of it. Though she might change her mind when she realizes my fantouches follow my orders alone.
The thought brings a bitter sort of satisfaction. The feeling fades quickly as we approach the temple and the street turns familiar in the way of a childhood nightmare. How I wish that night was only a dream! Xavier claims my powers are a crime against god and nature, but Hell’s Court was the first time I had felt that way. Dread coils in my stomach like a snake. I doubt the King of Death will look kindly on my return to a temple I so nearly destroyed. Then again, the god himself might have fled long ago, when Le Trépas desecrated the holy place.
I wish I could flee too. But I have little chance as Xavier and Leo march me down the street. The black arch of the entry is guarded by four soldiers, all of them Aquitan. Is it because the armée does not trust Chakran soldiers after my brother’s defection? Or because a local soldat would rather defect than linger so close to this cursed place? The white men salute their general, dragging aside the hastily erected bamboo arm that sags across the wide road. It takes all my will to walk past them, but the dark temple that looms in my nightmares is not the one at the end of the path.
When I fled Hell’s Court, the granite walls of the prison had been tumbling down around me: pillars cracking like rotten teeth, and the old stone god crumbling under the strength of the soul trapped inside it. In the weeks since, the rubble has been cleared and a new roof erected: a scaffold of bamboo, covered in canvas dyed armée green. And instead of the dim flickering light of torches, the clear gleam of electricity makes the massive tent glow in the gray murk of the rainy dawn.