by Heidi Heilig
“Can we go over the wall?” I ask without thinking—but of course not, not with Le Trépas in the carcan. Dare we let him loose? He’d need his hands to climb, and this is a man who rumor says can kill with a touch. What can I do instead? I cast about the garden, looking for roots or vines—something to bind the guards, like I did with Jean. Or could I distract them? A rustle in the greenery? A figure in the shadows? I reach into my pocket for the book of spirits, but Camreon is already taking aim. “Cam—”
My protest is cut short by a shot . . . and another . . . and another. Sharp, swift, and oddly soft. What magic has he worked with the barrel of his gun?
And like magic, the guards at the gate have fallen, leaving the bright columns of akela standing as though in shock. I stare at the Tiger wide-eyed as he tucks the gun back into his belt. When he catches my eye, he only gives me that winsome look. “That’s three less I’ll have to kill later.”
He starts off down the road, and I follow, but only because I cannot go back.
Act 2
Act 2,
Scene 16
In the garden by the gate. The bodies of the guards lie in silence, their souls already drifting toward the temple. Distant shouting echoes along the path as PIQUE and the soldiers approach. Closer, something rustles in the greenery.
In the moonless shadows, a figure lurks. It might be mistaken for a living man, if not for the smell. One hand is raw and black, with old blood where the bony fingers have grappled for hours with the locked grate of the old well.
As the revenant approaches the bodies, he reaches out with his good hand, scraping a symbol into the blood leaking from a bullet hole: life. But it is not JETTA’s blood, nor LE TRÉPAS’s, so the souls in the garden ignore the offering. Then the revenant reaches up to draw a new symbol on his own forehead. Death.
The rotting body falls, leaving the soul standing, blue as gaslight. The n’akela pours itself into the fresh corpse. For though the blood is not LE TRÉPAS’s, the soul might as well be: the last life it lived was as one of LE TRÉPAS’s nameless children. The one JETTA met in the well. The old soul shudders in his new body as the soldiers burst through the greenery, led by PIQUE. The men stumble to a halt, staring at the carnage.
SOLDAT: Putain.
PIQUE: Allez! We’ll make them pay for each bullet twice over.
The soldat peers more closely at the nearest body.
SOLDAT: Junot is still alive!
PIQUE: We can’t wait. We have to stay with the nécromanciens!
The soldiers start forward again, more hesitantly now, but from the dark path, the general’s voice comes.
XAVIER: Arrêt! Who’s there? Pique?
The quartier-maître bites off a curse as the general appears, breathless, down the path from the palace. XAVIER’s hair is mussed from sleep, and his uniform jacket is unbuttoned—he has come directly from his bed.
PIQUE: Sir! We’re in pursuit!
XAVIER: Of who? I heard the alarm. What’s happening?
PIQUE: Each minute we delay, your sister gets farther away.
XAVIER: They have Theodora?
The general stares at PIQUE. For a moment, XAVIER looks no older than his nineteen years.
Allez! Go!
Led by PIQUE, the soldiers race through the gate; the sound of boots fades down the road. For a moment, XAVIER watches after them, his hands in his hair, as if wondering whether to follow. Then he whirls, heading toward the temple. As he disappears down the path, there is stillness . . . silence. The revenant sits up, smoothing the wrinkles out of his armée uniform and opening his ice-blue eyes.
Chapter Seventeen
Careening through the deserted streets, we make our way back toward the slum. I am grateful now for the armée’s false claim that Le Trépas was on the loose, for there is no one out so late to give them our position. Only the dead know what’s coming. As we run, the flickering embers of vana race away along the gutters—the spirits of vermin. The arvana of cats scramble up the trunks of trees, the souls of birds cant upward till they seem to float among the scattered stars.
Reaching the river, we duck into the crook of the muddy path, skidding between the shacks. I never expected the slum to feel like home, but as we pass the burned-out hull of La Rêve, my heart clenches with the familiarity of it all. Has it only been three days since the fouilleur led me to Leo? When I see the pale boards of our shack, a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “Papa?”
But as I pull aside the tattered cloth that covers the doorway, panic flickers in my chest. There is a stranger sitting there beside Papa . . . a boy in nondescript clothing, though there is something terribly familiar about him. No—about her.
“Tia!” She clambers out of the lean-to, grinning. Her lips are bare now, as is the rest of her face. Without the makeup, without the wig and the padding, any Aquitan would think she was a young man. She’d even let the stubble grow on her jaw, deepening her disguise. Is it because she feared being recognized as one of Leo’s showgirls? Or because the risk was even greater if the Aquitans in the capital recognized her as someone breaking one of their many laws? Either way, I am more than glad to see her. “May I?” I say, opening my arms, and she wraps her own arms around me.
“Of course.” She pulls me close. “Are you all right?”
I nod. “All things considered. You?”
She steps back, making a face and gesturing down at her disguise. “All things considered.”
“How are the others? Cheeky and . . .” My voice breaks; I clear my throat. “And Maman?”
“They’re alive and well. But you’ll see them soon enough,” she adds, her gentle smile turning wry. “As long as the rest of the plan goes better than the first part.”
“None of the plan involves talking,” Camreon interjects, looking up from reloading his weapon. “We’ll head east toward the warehouses and cut toward the docks. The streets back there are a warren. They can’t follow all of us if we scatter. Our meeting place is Le Livre, the inn. Tia, you have the box in there? Hurry. The soldiers will be on our heels.”
My head is swimming with Cam’s instructions, but Tia ducks back inside and hauls out a crate—the same one I’d seen Camreon claim he was bringing to Pique. The Tiger kneels in the mud, tossing the lid aside. I peer over his shoulder, unsure what to expect. Guns? Munitions? But he only pulls out a thick glass jar filled with some kind of oily liquid. “What’s that?”
“Your lytheum,” he says as he tucks the jar inside his satchel. My eyes go wide as understanding dawns.
“You mean the elixir?” Before I can thank him, the Tiger swears.
“Let’s move. Tia, you too.” Leaving the empty box behind, he starts down the street, pushing Theodora before him. Akra follows, still carrying Le Trépas, but Leo hesitates, glancing back at Tia and me. We haven’t budged from the doorway of the lean-to. “Hurry,” Cam calls, a warning in his voice. “The general’s coming.”
Whirling, I peer down the street, half expecting a cadre of soldiers, boots churning the mud, bayonets gleaming in the low light. But the street is still empty. “I don’t see him.”
“Up there.” Camreon points. Not at the street, but toward the stars. I follow his gesture to see the flying machine circling above the temple, gaining height. For a moment, I watch in awe. Is this one of the new avions? No—as the bird turns, I see the pale color of the canvas wings. This is the contraption I was meant to steal, the one Theodora had built. It is far more graceful than her prototype was. This one toys with the air like a real bird. My own fantouches were never so nimble—or so fast. “We have to move,” Cam says again.
“I’m not leaving Papa behind,” I spit back. “He’s already lived through questioning once.”
“I can shoot him instead.” Camreon gestures so casually with his gun. My hand darts out to wrap around his wrist.
“If you do, he’ll be wearing your skin before dawn,” I snarl.
“Bien,” Cam says, more quietly now, turning back t
o the sky. “But if we let the armée catch up, a quick death might be the best we can hope for.”
Letting go of his wrist, I dive through the doorway of our lean-to. Papa is sitting up, and the sight startles me. Was he so thin when I left? So sallow? Or is the picture in my mind’s eye only an image of the man he used to be? But I haven’t seen him this alert in weeks. He must have heard what Cam said—had he heard my threat as well? But he only smiles when he sees me. Then he lifts his hand to hide his mouth. “Go,” he says, but I shake my head.
“I won’t leave you a second time.” Kneeling in the mud, I snake one of my arms under his. The other, I slide beneath his knees, but despite his frailty, he is heavy—or perhaps I am only weak. Tia goes to Papa’s other side, and together we help him to his feet.
He grimaces as he supports his weight on the crooked bone of his left leg. When we reach the chair I’ve stolen, he sinks into it with a sigh. Then he opens his eyes, and the relief on his face turns to fear.
The flying machine has reached the east side of the slum. How close are the soldiers? Hope wars with dread in my stomach—can we slip from hut to hut, hiding from Xavier as we make our way to the dock? But as the avion skims the tops of the buildings, flame bursts from the barrels at the front.
My breath catches in my throat; beside me, Leo swears. The fire pours like syrup into the street. Quickly, it licks up the sides of the shacks—delicate at first, rising quickly to a wall of crackling heat. Screams rise along with it. The whoosh of flame fills my ears. Then the smell hits me. Burning hair and acrid smoke. Or is that only the memory of the fire I’d battled in the theater? My hand goes to the scar on my shoulder. Will the general set the whole slum alight?
No—when he reaches the waterline, he pulls up to circle back around. “What is he doing?” Leo shouts, anguish in his voice.
Camreon’s reply is grim. “Cutting off our exits.”
“Can you shoot him?” I say, my voice hoarse, but Leo turns, wild-eyed.
“No!”
I stare at him, but why am I surprised? Leo hadn’t been able to shoot his father, even when the general’s gun was turned on him. But Cam shakes his head. “A few bullets can’t bring down an avion. Better to save them for the soldiers on the main street. It looks like we’ll be fighting our way to the inn,” he adds, louder now. “Don’t let them have the nécromanciens. And Jetta—if we fall, don’t stop to bring us back.”
My eyes widen as his words sink in, but before I can respond, Leo jerks a thumb toward the sky. “Xavier’s coming back.”
Hands shaking, I push Papa’s chair, but mud sucks at the wheels. “Tia—”
“I’ve got it,” she says, taking one of the handles. Papa grasps the wheels with his gnarled fingers, and the three of us struggle through the alley, the heat of the fire at our backs. All around us, people stumble through the choking haze. Others drop to the mud to smother the clinging flame as Xavier circles above us, searching. At least the smoke gives us some cover. He is faster on the wing than we are on the ground, and already I can hear the distant soldiers closing in.
How many are there? And how many bullets do Cam and Leo have? The odds aren’t good. Tia could likely escape, maybe even Papa. Neither of them has a recherche. But the rest of us are wanted—not all of us alive.
Our only other path is the river, but we can’t swim it. Then, in a burst of inspiration, I realize we don’t have to. “Follow me!” I shout over my shoulder as I wrestle Papa’s chair through the mud. “We’re going back to La Rêve.”
“Where is that?” Cam says, but my answer is cut short by the crack of gunshots. Not Camreon’s muffled weapon—Leo has taken aim as the avion passes by. Sparks fly from the hammered metal protecting the hull. The bullets barely make a mark. “Save your ammunition!” Cam says again.
With a curse, Leo jams his gun back into his belt. His eyes are rimmed in red. Smoke, or tears? “Come on, Leo,” I say, beckoning him over. “You and Tia help Papa. I’ll go get the ship ready.”
At his nod, I start down the muddy path, dodging residents of the slum as I veer toward the cove. But in the smoke and the confusion, the path seems to twist in my memory. Am I lost? Surely the ship wasn’t so far the last time. As I push through the haze, the screams crescendo behind me. Turning, I see Xavier’s avion circling back through the smoke. Will the flame come again? No—something is dripping thickly from the scarred belly of the machine: the accelerant.
My relief is short-lived as the shouts of the approaching soldiers drift through the cacophony. They’ve cut off the exit to the street.
Stumbling through the shifting shadows and the billowing smoke, I reach the cove at last. Most of the residents of the slum have continued toward the main road, unaware or uncaring about the waiting soldiers, but there are a few who have stopped at the water. Their bodies are scattered along the bank, or drifting in the current. Smoke still rises from charred hair, singed clothes, burned flesh: a sour haze. A few of the prone forms are groaning, but most lie far too still, and the eerie blue light of their vengeful souls gleams on the lacquered scales of La Rêve.
They turn as I pass—do they hope I can help them? What would happen if I brought them back into their bodies? If I sent them to stop Xavier as we fled? I push the thought out of my mind. That is something Le Trépas might do. Not me.
Instead, I splash down the bank, but bile rises in my throat as hair brushes my leg. A memory bursts behind my eyes—the muddy pit outside Dar Som, where the villagers lay piled like cut cane. Shaking the scene out of my head, I pull myself through one of the holes in the hull.
It is high tide, and brackish bilge makes a puddle that reaches my knees. My hands are trembling as I flip though the book of souls. Have I got one that swims? I’m almost sure I have a turtle somewhere, but I’m going through the book a second time when I see the long, glowing spirit moving through the reeds.
Had it leaped from the bank when Le Trépas passed by? Now the crocodile’s soul is drifting closer, drawn by the scent of blood—I’ve acquired half a dozen scratches as I fled Hell’s Court. It is the matter of a moment to draw the symbol on the hull of the ship. A flash of light illuminates the smoky haze as the soul slips inside.
“Won’t this tub sink in deeper water?” Tia calls from the bank, but Leo only splashes into the shallows to help Theodora aboard. The Tiger comes after, lifting the satchel high above the surface of the river.
“Don’t let it get wet,” he says as he hands it over. I nod, looping the strap over a splintered piece of wood high above the waterline.
Over the crackle of flame and the cries of the injured, the shouted orders of the armée ring out through the slums. Will they search street by street? Tia scrambles in next, swearing, but Papa is still on the bank, along with Akra and Le Trépas. My stomach clenches; the n’akela have turned to the old monk. Frantically, I wave my companions closer, grateful for the carcan and the blindfold the man is wearing.
Camreon has the good sense to help Leo lift Papa up into my waiting arms. Tia takes over then, ushering Papa away from the bilge as Akra wades into the water. Le Trépas is still slung over his shoulders, and my brother tries to hand the man up to me. But even though the old monk is bound, I cannot bring myself to touch him. Gritting his teeth, Akra heaves Le Trépas up through the hole in the hull. The man grunts as he falls through in a jumble, facedown in the black water.
When I see him struggling, I panic. Pulling him back by the shoulders, I prop him up against one of the ship’s curved ribs. But the wet linen of his mask clings to his face, and he sputters, still struggling to breathe. My skin crawling, I reach out with two fingers and pull it from his head. Then I scoot backward, putting some distance between us as he takes deep breaths through his nose.
I cannot look into his eyes, so I focus on the white strip of cloth tied between his teeth. I’m grateful for the gag. I do not want to hear his voice. His threats. His thanks. Standing, I wipe my hands on my coveralls as Akra and Leo lift the wheeled
chair through the hole. “Hurry,” I urge as the n’akela drift closer. I reach out to Leo, who helps Akra up after him. Then I whisper to the crocodile’s soul. “To the open water,” I say, and she’s only too glad to obey.
As we scull into the dark mirror of the bay, I can see the small body turning in our wake. A stray fear: is it the fouilleur? Why hadn’t I tried harder to learn his name? But is his death worse than any other child’s?
A voice echoes across the water: “Arrêt! Stop!” Are the soldiers talking to us? No—as we move out toward the bay, the wind shifts, pulling back the smoke like a curtain. They have set up a cordon at the mouth of the slum to detain people as they flee. They are relying on the blaze to keep the crowd from escaping. And of course no one dares to swim the river—not in the dark. So the soldiers are not looking at the water, and they do not notice the listing wreck in the moonless night as we float into the bay.
As we pick up speed, water flows like a stream through the hull of the ship, passing in one hole, rippling over the ballast and out through another. It washes over my feet as I watch the scene at the slum. Silhouetted by the blaze, it reminds me of a shadow play. Shouted orders are a staccato song echoing across the water. This far from the crush of the crowd, the movement could almost be a dance.
But this is no passing fancy—no one here is acting. There are more souls now, a few akela like columns of fire. The lucky ones. The rest blaze cold and blue: the ones who died in pain. Turning from the shore, I catch the old monk staring at me. Is that a smirk behind the gag?
Stepping over his prone form, I nod over my shoulder toward the far-off n’akela. “Some of yours back there.”
His response is muffled by the cloth. Do I want to know what he said? The monk’s dark eyes gleam in the reflected glow of the fire, waiting, but I do not want to touch him. After a moment, my brother reaches over, pulling the strip of silk out of the old monk’s mouth. Le Trépas gives him a little nod, a strange gesture from him: gratitude. Then he looks back to me—is that sorrow in his eyes? “I said, not as many as there will be, before this war is over.”