by Heidi Heilig
LEO is there, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He looks unhurt, and he isn’t even bound. But the boy is deep in thought, using the nib of a fountain pen to scratch furiously at the polished wooden floor.
The fountain pen. When AKRA sees it, he scrambles over the sill, hissing at the pain in his rib as he slithers through the window.
AKRA: A little help?
LEO looks up, startled, as AKRA drops to the floor.
LEO: Akra. Mon dieu. I’ve never been so glad to see you in my life.
AKRA: I can say the same, though the bar is low enough to trip on. Give me that pen! We can use it to send the ship back to harbor.
AKRA snatches the pen, but LEO shakes his head.
LEO: It’s empty.
AKRA: Oh.
AKRA frowns at the pen, then down at the marks LEO has carved into the wooden floor. Words and notes, like music.
What the hell? Never mind. Come on, the dragon’s waiting. At the very least we can get you out of here.
LEO: I . . . can’t.
AKRA: Are you hurt?
LEO: Not exactly.
LEO extends his hand, palm up. AKRA reaches for him, intending to pull him to his feet, then stops when he sees the mark on LEO’s wrist. The blood is flaking as it dries, but even so, AKRA can make out two symbols: death, and life.
At least, not anymore.
Act 3,
Scene 23
Inside the Ruby Palace. In a courtyard antechamber, a decorative bridge arches over a reflecting pond. But the servants fled when LE TRÉPAS came, and there is no one left to tend the garden. The once-clear water has gone green with algae, and mosquitoes whine in the air as overhanging orchids drop spent blooms onto the path. Even worse are the flies. LE TRÉPAS had hidden his armée of the dead inside the palace walls, and though they have gone to the docks, the stench of rot still lingers.
Still, the rebels do not shy away. CAMREON leads the girls deeper into the palace, surprisingly sure-footed in his dress and silk slippers—a good disguise can be a more powerful weapon than a gun. CHEEKY and TIA follow him across the bridge, down a path, and through a set of wide double doors.
Beyond, the rebels find a sitting room where pillows and carpets are scattered messily across the wide floor. Past that, another antechamber holds an octagonal table big enough to seat two dozen people for meals or meetings. Now it holds only a single place setting and the remains of a half-eaten dinner. CHEEKY frowns at the line of ants marching away from the plate.
CHEEKY: I guess dead men don’t do dishes.
TIA: So same as live men, then.
CAMREON: Shh.
Lightly, CAMREON approaches the next door: an imposing entry, enameled black and decorated with a bronze dragon ascending.
This is the bedchamber. Last chance to back out.
TIA chews her lip, looking at CHEEKY, but the showgirl puts on a brave face.
CHEEKY: I’m looking forward to sending our bill to the treasury when this is all over.
TIA: Just tell me you’re not going to itemize it.
CHEEKY snorts a laugh, but CAMREON doesn’t smile as he reaches for the handle. A moment passes, then another. CHEEKY narrows her eyes, but her look is not unkind.
CHEEKY: Last chance to back out.
Now a smile touches CAMREON’s lips. He takes a deep breath, then opens the door.
Moonlight spills across the darkened room, illuminating the gilded furnishings: a chaise lounge, an imported dresser, a velvet-draped bed. Aquitan furnishings, strangely out of place in the Ruby Palace. But the drapes are drawn back, and the bed is empty.
TIA: Where is he?
CHEEKY: Shh.
She holds up a finger, cocking her head. In the soft dark silence, a distant sound comes: music. The notes are gentle . . . halting. A section of a song that fades, then starts over.
I used to dance to this song.
TIA: I remember.
CHEEKY: Of course you do. I’m unforgettable.
CHEEKY grins, but something about the music has thrown her off. She starts across the room, toward the sound of the piano, but she hesitates at the far door, the way an actor would when about to step onto the stage. As CAMREON and TIA watch, she straightens her shoulders and dons a little smile—hopeful, appealing. Then she opens the door, and the music flows through.
On the other side of the door, she finds a study. Dusty bookshelves line the wall, and a desk has been pushed aside to make room for new instruments: a harp shining soft gold in the corner, a fine violin on a silver stand, and a grand piano, all polished ebony and gold fittings. Imported Aquitan instruments. They have fallen out of tune in the local humidity, and there are no servants left to fix the pitch.
RAIK is sitting at the piano, a half-empty bottle of champagne on the lid. His fingers skip over the keys, and he seems not to hear the sour notes. But when CHEEKY steps into the room, his hands go still.
RAIK: You came back.
CHEEKY: How could I stay away?
RAIK’s face hardens.
RAIK: Is your soldier done with you?
CHEEKY: He was a mistake. We all make them.
She approaches, leaning in over the keys, and plays the next few notes.
RAIK: You think I don’t know that?
CHEEKY: Au contraire. I think you can relate.
She sits down beside him to play the next line. RAIK leans into her warmth, taking a deep breath of her perfume.
When we were in the jungle, all you talked about was coming back to Nokhor Khat. You painted it like a picture in my head. The city full of life and beauty. Servants at your beck and call in the palace. You could go out to a show, or play cards at the gambling house—
Her finger lands on a sour key, and she winces.
But that’s not what I saw when I came here.
RAIK: That’s not my fault.
CHEEKY: I know. It’s your brother’s. But you’re the one stuck here in an empty palace that still smells of corpses, with the country crumbling and the champagne harder and harder to get—
Slamming his hands down on the keys in a discordant clang, RAIK turns to her.
RAIK: And what do you expect me to do about any of that?
CHEEKY: Nothing.
Gently she takes his hands.
Let him clean up the mess.
RAIK: Who?
CHEEKY: Your brother. And why shouldn’t he? It’s his fault.
RAIK frowns as the wheels turn in his head.
RAIK: How do you know he would?
CHEEKY: It’s what you talked about, isn’t it? Before he persuaded you to leave the palace and join the rebellion. The only difference now is that you wouldn’t even have to be a figurehead. All of the fun, none of the work. He wants the throne, doesn’t he? Let him have it.
RAIK stares at her, still suspicious, but she returns his gaze with deep admiration in her own eyes.
RAIK: And what do you want?
CHEEKY: To stay by your side, as long as you’ll have me.
RAIK: Is that so?
RAIK searches her face, looking for the lie. Then, slowly, he nods. But as she leans closer for a kiss, his hand goes to his pocket.
Then you should have no trouble letting me mark you.
CHEEKY: Mark . . . me?
RAIK: So I know you can’t run off again.
He pulls out a slender length of brass—the fountain pen, full of Jetta’s blood—that he ripped from CAMREON’s hand on the steps of the palace. CHEEKY’s eyes widen, but she struggles for composure, hiding her alarm.
CHEEKY: You want to make me a fantouche?
RAIK: So you’ll stay with me. Don’t you want to stay with me, Cheeky?
CHEEKY: Of course I do! But . . . isn’t it better that I want to, than that you make me?
RAIK: It’s better to know you won’t betray me again.
He takes her hand, but she draws back, trying to laugh.
CHEEKY: It only works on the dead, Raik.
He grips her wrist harder,
showing his teeth.
RAIK: You’re dead either way.
He raises the pen in his fist, as though to stab her with it, but she scrambles over the back of the bench, tripping over the train of her dress. He grabs her ankle and she lashes out with her foot, kicking free. Tearing the violin from the stand, she swings it at him—a lover and a fighter. RAIK wrenches the instrument out of her hand, bringing it down like a club. CHEEKY has just enough time to get her hands over her head before the violin splinters over her shoulders. The girl collapses, dazed, as RAIK raises the pen again. But hearing the commotion, TIA and CAMREON burst through the door.
TIA: Cheeky!
TIA rushes to her friend’s side, standing between RAIK and the girl.
RAIK: Tia? Get out, or you’re next. And who the hell are you—
When RAIK meets his brother’s eyes, his fury deepens.
You.
He turns to CAMREON, holding the pen like a dagger.
Of course you’re behind this.
CAMREON puts his hands out, palms open, trying to calm his brother.
CAMREON: It’s what’s best for the country, Raik. And for the both of us. You never wanted to rule.
RAIK: And did you think that meant I wanted to watch you do it?
RAIK takes another step toward him, raising the pen.
Who am I, if I’m not the king?
CAMREON: You’re my brother.
RAIK: Not anymore. Not after you abandoned me.
CAMREON’s face twists.
CAMREON: I thought you were dead. It was so dark, there was blood everywhere—
RAIK: Not in the cave!
His shout echoes in the room, startling CAMREON into silence.
When we were children. After La Victoire. My whole life! While you were out becoming the Tiger, and the Aquitans made me into this.
He grips his white shirt—an Aquitan shirt—then flings his hand around the room, and all the imported treasures there.
Their puppet. The Boy King.
RAIK’s lip curls, and he gestures to CAMREON’s silk dress.
Do you know what it feels like for the whole country to think you’re a better man than me?
CAMREON’s eyes go wide, but before he can respond, RAIK lunges, pen in hand. CAM catches him by the wrist. The two grapple, but RAIK is taller, stronger. Driving CAMREON back against the wall, RAIK’s arm shakes as he presses the pen ever closer, till the brass nib is inches from the Tiger’s face.
But TIA scrambles to her feet, grabbing the bottle of champagne. Lifting it by the neck, she charges at RAIK with a cry, champagne spilling across the floor. At the sound of her voice, the Boy King half turns. The distraction is all CAMREON needs. The Tiger ducks, letting go of RAIK’s hand. Suddenly off-balance, the Boy King falls forward, stumbling into the plaster wall. But when he falls back, dazed, blood is pouring from his right eye. The back of the pen has been driven deep into the socket.
RAIK staggers forward, his limbs twitching like a broken puppet. CAMREON catches him, easing him to the carpet.
CAMREON: Raik . . .
The Boy King’s lips move, but no sound comes out. Blood trickles from his ruined eye like tears; his other eye glazes over, then closes. For a moment, the only sound is CAMREON’s ragged breathing. Then he kneels beside his brother, pressing his fingers to the king’s throat. Finding no pulse, he raises his hand to cup his brother’s bloody cheek. TIA comes to his side, still clutching the neck of the bottle.
TIA: Are you okay?
CAM: Yes.
The word is clipped. The Tiger swallows, but TIA doesn’t point out the lie.
Is Cheeky?
CHEEKY: I will be.
The girl pushes herself to her feet, wincing, her hand going to the back of her head.
I knew I should have gone with the sarong.
She comes to his side, looking at RAIK, then looks away quickly.
What are we going to do now?
CAMREON takes a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts, but he can’t take his eyes off his brother’s face.
CAMREON: We . . . we lock the door. Look for weapons. The guards won’t be expecting us to come out till morning.
CHEEKY: And what happens in the morning?
CAMREON: I don’t know!
CHEEKY draws back, eyes wide. This is the first time she has ever heard CAMREON raise his voice. The Tiger too seems surprised by his own outburst, but TIA puts her hand on his shoulder.
TIA: I do.
When his hand comes up to cover hers, she squeezes CAM’s fingers, then pulls him to his feet.
There should be clothes in Raik’s closet. Something kingly. Go change.
She pushes CAM toward the bedchamber, but he hesitates.
CAMREON: And then?
TIA: And then when the rest of the capital wakes up, they find you on the throne.
CAMREON: What about my brother?
TIA hesitates, looking at the Boy King’s body—at the bloody pen still protruding from his eye. But CHEEKY is the one to speak, her voice tentative as she creates the narrative.
CHEEKY: He finally succumbed to his wounds from the battle at the temple.
CAMREON: No one’s going to believe that.
TIA: It doesn’t matter what they believe. It matters what you do. What you show them. Who you are. Right?
CAMREON: Right.
CAMREON takes a deep breath, collecting himself.
Right.
TIA: Now go. Get dressed.
CAMREON nods, turning toward the bedchamber, leaving the girls with RAIK’s body. The girls share a look, then CHEEKY nods down at the bloody pen, still protruding from the corpse’s eye.
CHEEKY: You know we need to get that back. Just in case we need it.
TIA: We? I saved your life.
CHEEKY: I loaned you my ostrich feathers.
TIA gives her a look.
TIA: That was two years ago!
CHEEKY: I still never got them back.
TIA stares at her for a moment, then starts laughing. CHEEKY joins her, and soon the two girls are lost in wave after wave of hysterical laughter that turns too suddenly into tears.
This is horrible. This is so horrible.
TIA: I know.
They cling to each other for a long time, and it is hard to tell which is preventing the other from falling. At last, their sobs subside into sniffles, and CHEEKY pulls back, taking a deep shuddering breath.
CHEEKY: Is there any champagne left?
TIA picks up the bottle she had hit RAIK with, tipping it upside down. A tiny drop falls out onto the carpet.
CHEEKY: Figures. All right. On three.
Taking another breath, she kneels beside the body, reaching with trembling hands for the pen.
One . . . two . . . two and a half . . .
Her fingers hover near the pen, so TIA reaches out, grabbing the pen herself and jerking it free.
TIA: Three.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Any shadow player knows that a show starts long before the curtain rises.
An audience arrives at the theater with expectations: what play they’ll see, or what troupe is behind the scrim. More sophisticated playgoers will know a particular troupe’s usual style, and an experienced troupe always knows how to use those expectations—and when to break them. Know your enemy, the saying goes, but in the theater, it’s “Know your audience.”
Of course, one reason my arrival has caused such a stir is that no one in Aquitan yet knows me, which is why the billing is so important. I have to tell them what to expect.
As they fill the seats, I can hear the word sparkling in the air like the light of the chandeliers: nécromancien. Just as it says in the poster in the lobby. But the idea seems to thrill the Aquitans. Of course, there is a difference between knowledge and experience.
I myself am surprisingly calm. Usually I have to struggle for composure before a show, but as I wait backstage, my palms are dry and my thoughts are measured. When I risk a peek a
round the scrim, even the sight of the seats—so many, and so full, all the way up to the balcony—does not ruffle my calm.
Then I catch sight of Le Roi. He sits in the front row, where few can see his face, though I have a clear view. But he is a performer in his own right, and I cannot read his expression. What does he think of my billing? I suppose we’ll know soon enough.
Ducking back behind the scrim, I nod to the musicians in the wings. They lift their instruments and begin tuning. The first notes make my heart beat faster, as does the expectant hush that follows. They are familiar sounds—the fading whispers of conversations. The gentle percussion of feet and chairs. The soft rhythm of breath and blood, usually imperceptible, that builds to a thrum when crowds gather.
These are the sounds that have always centered me, but now, at the eleventh hour, doubt creeps in. What if the show goes awry, if the audience deems me a charlatan, or Le Roi brands me a traitor? What would happen to me—to the rebellion, to Leo on the Prix de Guerre and Theodora in the sanatorium? What would happen to my country—and my countrymen? Peering into the shadows of the wings, I meet the singer’s eyes. Davri is his name, and he had told me it had been years since he’d sung on stage. Will he ever do it again after tonight?
For him . . . for me . . . for all of us, the show must go well. But no matter what, the show must go on.
So when the musicians fall silent, I step from the wings to the center of the stage, careful not to trip over my fantouches. I have laid them out between the scrim and the fire bowl—or rather, the gas lamp. It’s half my height, with a mirrored backing, and all I have to do is turn a knob to raise the flames. Still, as I kneel in front of it, I close my eyes, imaging the smell of woodsmoke like we used back home. The flames rise before me, and the heat makes the burn scar on my shoulder tingle. Shadow play has always been a dangerous profession. Only tonight, it’s not because of the flame.
Still on my knees, I turn back downstage, keeping my own shadow off the scrim. The musicians know the signal, and after a moment, the first strains of music rise with the light.
The audience should know the song well, though as with all old stories, the joy is not in how the story ends, but in how it’s told. Indeed, most of the time, shadow plays are performed in Chakran; the Aquitan audience doesn’t even understand the language. They have only memorized what should happen without understanding why.