A Kingdom for a Stage

by Heidi Heilig

  “That won’t work,” one of the men calls up from the plaza, wiping sweat from his brow. “Not unless you want to take these things apart.”

  Theodora frowns. “What do you mean?”

  “See for yourself,” the man says as he climbs atop one of the wheels to push the heavy wooden lid aside. Theodora walks down the steps just far enough to see into the crate. Then her mouth falls open. There is a long silence, then she swears.

  Curious, I stand, hoping to catch a glimpse, but Theodora turns, coming back up the stairs. I try to look small—disinterested and uninteresting—but she nods toward the hall as she takes up her pen. “I’m sorry, Jetta,” she says grimly, searching for a fresh sheet of paper. “You should go back to your room after all. I may be a little while.”

  I hesitate—will she notice the keys are missing? She doesn’t seem to, and I make my way back down the hall as her pen scratches furiously across the page.

  * * *

  Dear Uncle Antoine,

  Your delivery arrived today, and I am, for want of a better word, overwhelmed.

  What you may have intended as a show of strong faith has arrived a display of fervent hope. To put it mildly, your engineers took great liberties with my design. I know my schemata were unfinished when my father sent them to you. That should have been a sign to proceed with caution, not to send half a hundred models based on an unproven prototype. Moreover, the ship was so stuffed with these strange avions that there was no room for the medical supplies or raw materials I requested.

  Please read this gently, Uncle, as I know you are still grieving. But you and I have ever been blunt—it was your honest reports that allowed me to discover the lytheum cure in the spring at Les Chanceux. So let me be honest now: I fear it is the destabilizing effects of grief that may be clouding your mind to the realities of the situation. Are you listening to your seneschal and maintaining the treatment?

  I know you want a decisive blow in Chakrana, but if physics has taught me anything, it’s that any force will result in an equal and opposing reaction. As such, I will be disassembling the avions for their parts, and will follow this letter with an updated list of the need that remains. Please address it in your next shipment.

  Yours,

  Theodora

  * * *

  Act 1,

  Scene 10

  Late afternoon. The general’s office at the barracks in the stone fort at the mouth of the bay. XAVIER is at his desk, poring over a map of Chakrana with the aid of LIEUTENANT FONTAINE. A knock at the door.

  XAVIER: Entre! Ah. Quartier-Maître. Come in.

  Grizzled and war-weary, LIEUTENANT ARMAND PIQUE is conspicuously older than the man he must call his superior. One might be able to discount the lethargy of his salute as old age, but for the fire in his eyes as he looks at the general.

  PIQUE: If you are otherwise occupied, I can return in an hour.

  There is a pause so slight that to point it out would be its own humiliation.

  Sir.

  GENERAL LEGARDE clenches his jaw.

  XAVIER: No need for that. Lieutenant Fontaine was just leaving to prepare for his journey. He’s assuming your old post.

  FONTAINE: I’ve heard of your exploits in Le Verdu, Lieutenant. Do you have any advice for me?

  PIQUE looks his replacement up and down, from his pale face, untouched by the jungle heat, to his shiny boots, still polished from life in the capital. Then he turns toward LEGARDE as he answers.

  PIQUE: The enemy can be hiding anywhere in Chakrana. Watch your back.

  FONTAINE’s eyes flick from one man to the other.

  FONTAINE: As you say. Sir!

  He nods at both men, then exits. The silence is thick and unpleasant as the humidity.

  XAVIER: Reportez, Quartier-Maître.

  Gritting his teeth at the title, PIQUE hands over the papers he holds.

  PIQUE: The paperwork from your sister’s workshop, and the bill of lading for the latest transport from Aquitan. I can’t help but notice there are no reinforcements aboard.

  XAVIER: My uncle’s last letter mentioned we were expecting supplies instead.

  He glances at the bill of lading, then frowns.

  This can’t be right.

  PIQUE: I counted them myself.

  XAVIER: Fifty of the things?

  PIQUE: Steel and brass, shaped like eagles. Fearsome, if you could ever get them off the ground.

  XAVIER blinks at the page, reading it again. His other hand creeps up toward his medallion.

  XAVIER: Theodora’s working on it. Though the bottleneck is still the nécromancien. If we want to use nécromancy, that is.

  PIQUE: There’s nothing you can do with machinery that you can’t do with enough men in the field. Though I can see why recruitment has flagged. They’re going to be slaughtered led by children like Fontaine. Especially without intelligence from the questioneurs.

  XAVIER looks up from the page, taking a deep breath.

  XAVIER: Fontaine is two years my senior, Pique.

  PIQUE: As you say.

  XAVIER: Nevertheless, Quartier-Maître.

  He tosses the paper on his desk and drops his hand.

  Slaughter in the field is no longer your concern.

  PIQUE: The field is where the fight is.

  XAVIER: I’m not so sure, Pique. The fight seems to follow you.

  PIQUE: It must look that way to one so comfortable behind a desk.

  Slowly, XAVIER stands, stepping into the open with the barest limp in his wounded leg.

  XAVIER: I didn’t stop the abomination in Luda with paperwork. Nor was it comfort that made me cut short my convalescence to haul you and your battalion out of Le Verdu. I don’t bother chasing glory either, Quartier-Maître. I go where God sends me. And right now, he needs me to oversee progress in the workshop.

  PIQUE smiles thinly.

  PIQUE: Yes, someday you’ll be quite well known for your oversights. The discrepancies continue in your sister’s little domain.

  The general stiffens.

  XAVIER: Theodora’s talents do not lie in recordkeeping.

  PIQUE: Her cha keeps those records, General. Your sister is too busy scribbling love notes in her diary to do figures.

  XAVIER: She’s designed half the weaponry we’re using these days.

  PIQUE: She’s also done half a dozen sketches of her secretary’s profile.

  The lieutenant reaches into his jacket pocket, taking out THEODORA’s notebook and tossing it on the general’s desk. XAVIER looks down at the book in shock.

  XAVIER: You stole this from my sister? Put it back on her desk now, or your next post will be digging latrines.

  PIQUE: I still won’t be half as deep in it as you, if you let cha turn your sister to their side.

  He flips open the notebook to the most recent page—there, indeed, is a likeness of CAMREON beside a labeled sketch of the crank of a rotary cannon. XAVIER clenches his jaw, his mouth tight as he considers the sketch. Then he flips the book shut.

  XAVIER: These are clearly drawings of her fiancé, Pique. The Boy King. Who she must miss very much. I’ve heard you say yourself that Chakrans all look the same.

  He holds up a hand to forestall the lieutenant’s arguments.

  Nevertheless. When I go to return her property, I’ll speak to my sister about focusing on her work.

  PIQUE: You’ll speak? (He laughs.) In your father’s day, generals led. Of course, back then, rank was earned.

  XAVIER: You’re dismissed, Quartier-Maître.

  The general goes to the door, opening it to show the old lieutenant out. Then he returns to his desk, considering the notebook. After a long moment, Xavier picks it up, sitting down to read.

  Chapter Eleven

  It is late evening when Theodora comes to the door of my cell, and I am sure from her face that she has discovered the keys missing. La Fleur is paler than usual, and her chin is dimpled from clenching her jaw. But she does not mention my theft as she beckons me out
past the guards. “I’m glad you’re still up,” she says, running a hand through her mussed curls. “The day got away from me, but I have some more questions.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” I give her a casual laugh as I follow her toward the sanctuary, trying to keep the keys from jingling in my pocket. “What about?”

  “Your brother,” she says, and my steps falter. “He wasn’t the first man you resurrected, was he?”

  The accusation surprises me, though perhaps it shouldn’t. “He was.”

  Theodora glances sidelong at me. “Then what happened to the questioneur in Luda?”

  “Oh.” I blink at her—at those ghost-blue eyes. In my memory, I see another pair. Eduard, the soldier who had tried to bring me in after my first brush with the rebellion. I had been so desperate to escape. Anger rises in me, flooding past the guilt; after all, the man was a questioneur. “He wasn’t dead. At least, not when I marked him. I put another soul in his skin. A n’akela. The spirit of one of the boys he tortured.”

  “While the questioneur was still living?” Now it is Theodora’s turn to look surprised. She takes a breath, about to say more, but instead she stops in her tracks and swears. Then she turns and leads me back toward my room. “Wrong way.”

  “Why?” I peer over my shoulder toward the sanctuary at the end of the hall—there is activity there, despite the lateness of the hour. The hum and murmur of many people. “Pique?”

  “Almost as bad,” she says, making a face. “It’s the delivery from my uncle. It’s completely thrown off my routines.”

  A pang of real sympathy hits me: routine used to be my only barrier against my malheur. “How so?”

  In response, she flings out an arm as we enter the workshop—I am surprised to see it empty. Anticipation twists a knot in my gut. I let my eyes pass casually by the locked room in the corner as Theodora nods at a table piled high with her papers. “To start with, my filing system has been thrown into disarray. Secondly, my notebook is missing, though perhaps that’s only part and parcel of my first problem. But lastly, my entire staff is arguing the merits of building a ramp over the front steps of the temple versus widening the path through the gardens. Most of my staff,” she adds, more quietly now.

  I follow her gaze and see Camreon. He sits on the floor beside the table, holding the aides à la mobilité, tinkering with a wheel on the chair. “What are you doing here, Cam?”

  Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he blinks up at La Fleur; there is a spot of grease on his cheek. “Sorry, Miss Theodora. The sanctuary was rather crowded. I know the saying is that too many cooks spoil the soup, but I’m fairly sure that too many engineers can spoil something too.”

  “Possibly the appetite,” she says, peering at a tray shoved into a bare spot on the far end of the table. On it, a heap of wide noodles tossed with fresh vegetables and roasted pork, a plate of crab and herbs rolled up in rice paper, and a black rice pudding sticky with coconut milk.

  “To be fair, that might have been Pique.” Camreon gives her a winsome smile. “I couldn’t help but notice in all the back-and-forth earlier, you forgot to have lunch.”

  She smiles faintly. “Is that why I’m so irritable?”

  “If I had to guess?” Camreon lowers his voice like a conspirator. “I’d say that’s probably Pique’s fault as well. Then again, it could be that you never sleep. Your schedule will be the death of you.”

  Now she laughs, though her look is rueful. “You worry too much.”

  “I like my job,” he says. Then he leans into my line of sight—that’s when I realize I’ve been staring at the pudding. My mouth is watering. It looks so much better than the dry Aquitan bread. “I made more than enough to share, lailee.”

  Though the boy is not my brother, the honorific is touching. Still. “I thought you were an engineer, not a cook,” I say. “Do the Aquitan workers do double duty?”

  “Of course not,” Camreon says with a straight face. “Haven’t you heard what everyone says about Aquitan laziness?”

  My eyebrows shoot up, but to my surprise, La Fleur’s lips twitch. “To say nothing of our avarice,” she says, echoing Xavier’s insult to me earlier. She takes a plate from the tray, handing me one, and Camreon another. “You best take some before I seize all of it.”

  Their rapport is so comfortable that it leaves me feeling at loose ends. To cover, I pick up a crab roll. “You’re very young to be so accomplished,” I say pointedly, but Camreon only tilts his chin, running a finger along his jaw.

  “I’m older than I look,” he says with another gentle smile. “No beard.”

  My hand goes still, hovering over the food. But hadn’t Theodora said he was brave? He must be, to call her attention to what the Aquitans would call his crime, with their obsession about bodies over souls. But La Fleur only returns his smile. “Not to mention the extra time he has, since he hasn’t got to shave.”

  They lapse into companionable silence as they eat. How mundane it is for the two of them, that he trusts her with his life! Is he only naive, or has she earned it? There is more to Theodora Legarde than I had expected. As I take little bites of the delicious black rice, I am absurdly grateful that I didn’t kill her last night.

  Then her brother’s voice rings out across the hall.

  “Theodora?” The sight of the general makes my stomach clench. Camreon scrambles to his feet. Theodora’s reaction is more subtle—a graceful movement as she shifts her weight, putting space between herself and the Chakran boy. But Xavier is only looking at me. “Why is she out of the carcan?”

  “Good to see you too,” Theodora says smoothly as she puts down her plate. “We were just having dinner.”

  “And I was just having a conversation with Lieutenant Pique.” The words come clipped through his teeth. The general looks from her, to me, to Camreon, who doesn’t meet his gaze. But to my surprise, the boy speaks up, though it looks like he’s talking to his shoes.

  “It was my fault, General, sir. The missing supplies were stacked where we usually keep the raw materials. Once I located them, I brought them to the lieutenant right away.”

  Xavier only clenches his jaw. “If I need an answer from you, I’ll ask.”

  “Camreon, perhaps you should go help with the ramp.” At Theodora’s suggestion, the boy practically flees down the hall. When he’s gone, La Fleur sighs. “What is it you need, Xavier?”

  “To talk.” He flicks his eyes at me. “In private.”

  Theodora grits her teeth, her good mood soured. But she tosses back her hair and jerks her chin toward the hall. Turning crisply on his heel, Xavier follows. She leads him to the first cell, pulling the door open; as they step inside, I can hardly believe my luck. The workshop is empty but for me.

  Is it a trick? Some ploy to catch me red-handed? But I can hear their heated voices almost immediately. The roofs of the cells are only canvas, though the stone is still thick enough to muffle their words. Tossing aside my own plate, I shove my hand into my pocket for the keys, but my fingers meet the flyer first.

  No—it’s too early to ensoul the flying machine. Akra had said to wait till midnight tomorrow. Instead, I pull out the ring of keys. There are quite a few of them, and the door of the locked room gives no indication of the right one, so I start with the heaviest. The key doesn’t fit, so I try the next, and the next, but the longer it takes, the more my hands shake. Should I use the flyer instead? Put a soul into the lock?

  I swear it is the last key on the ring that makes the heavy iron tumblers fall. Eagerly, I grasp the handle. As the door swings wide, I curse—there is another just behind it. Iron bars, closely spaced, and locked as well. But behind them . . . behind them . . .

  It is not the storage room I expected—no cramped closet reeking of oil and chemistry. Instead, an electric bulb hangs from the ceiling, illuminating a narrow teak bed, pale clean sheets . . . and a Chakran man with his head on the pillow.

  His hair is short and clean, going gray at the temples; he is thi
n but not painfully so. His face is unlined, and his skin is a bit pale—but that isn’t surprising, considering he hasn’t seen the sun in years. There is a heavy set of manacles around his ankles, and a short chain connecting them to a ring in the floor. Aside from that, he looks like just another man. Someone’s uncle, napping. Someone’s father.

  Mine.

  I don’t know if I’ve made a sound, but all of a sudden, the man opens his eyes and I startle. I had half expected the bright blue irises of vengeful ghosts, though I am not so lucky. It is something worse. His eyes are a warm brown, wide and intelligent and too familiar. I’ve seen them every time I’ve looked in a mirror.

  Le Trépas sits up and smiles at me.

  I vomit on the floor.

  Act 1,

  Scene 12

  THEODORA and XAVIER in the ruined cell. Three scarred stone walls; the fourth is reduced to rubble where the rambunctious garden is already starting to intrude. The general shuts the door behind them, then looks carefully at his sister over his steepled fingers as though wondering where to start. At last he lowers his hands.

  XAVIER: Setting aside Pique’s accusation that you’re going native, I’d like a report on the progress you’re making with the nécromancien.

  THEODORA: “Going native?”

  XAVIER: Setting it aside—

  THEODORA: You just set it directly between us!

  XAVIER: Would you prefer to address it, then?

  THEODORA: It’s as ridiculous as he is.

  XAVIER gives her a long look, but she lifts her chin, defiant, though her cheeks are pink. Is it anger or shame?