by Kat Dunn
‘It’s the arsenal.’ Guil was examining the array of barrels, running his thumb along the seals and sniffing it.
Suddenly, the strong smell of gunpowder made sense.
There had to be more than twenty barrels stacked around the cramped room. It was divided by the remains of a wall that had once split off an inner room, a break where the door had once been. The only light came from a series of wells bored into the ceiling. The soldiers had stopped hammering on the door – someone must have gone for a key. It was only a matter of time before they returned.
They were trapped.
She’d made another mistake. First the balloon, now this. Camille trusted her and she kept letting her down.
‘Well, this plan has gone arse-backwards.’ Al pushed his ash-blond hair behind his ear. ‘I don’t know why Camille lets us out of the house.’
‘Pity, in your case,’ replied Guil. He had set down the useless musket on top of a barrel and started picking through the contents of the room. ‘If I can find some bullets, we might be able to fight our way out.’
Ada shook her head. ‘In a room full of gunpowder? We can’t risk a bullet hitting one of the barrels. It would take out a whole wall.’
Al shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Blaze of glory, and all that. Worse ways to go, these days.’
But Ada wasn’t paying attention. Something had caught hold in her mind. Take out a whole wall – yes, it could. They would have to be extremely careful. Try and isolate one area as much as they could. Find some sort of shelter.
It would have to be perfect. She couldn’t afford to make another mistake – not when her friends’ lives were at stake.
‘I might have another plan. It’s a really, really bad plan.’
‘There are no bad plans,’ said Guil. ‘Only badly implemented ones.’
Al gave them both a dark look. ‘We’re living in a city that cut off its king’s head. I think anything goes at this point.’
Ada reached into her pocket and pulled out the flint and tinderbox she’d used to light the brazier in the balloon.
‘If we can’t go out of the door, we could always make another one.’
Guil and Al looked at her for a moment, silently.
‘I thought you were the one against going out in a blaze of glory?’ said Al.
‘It does seem … risky,’ offered Guil.
‘Don’t get me wrong.’ Al tapped the barrel he was leaning against. ‘It sounds like a suitably ridiculous way to die memorably, which I’m all for. But do you really think it can work?’
‘Possibly.’ She looked to Guil. ‘No bad plans, right?’
He hesitated, then nodded.
‘We should only risk lighting one barrel. We can move the rest as far away as possible.’ He gestured to the remains of the dividing wall. ‘That might give us some shelter.’
Ada glanced at the light wells that clustered on the far side of the room and pointed. ‘Put the barrel there. That looks like an outside wall.’
The three of them worked to reposition the barrels of powder, piling them in the corner until only one barrel was left. Ada ripped off a strip from the hem of her petticoat to serve as a fuse, draped one end over the edge of the open barrel and took out her tinderbox.
Guil and Al had already taken cover behind the wall. All she had to do was set the flame to the fabric and run like hell to join them. Her fingers were shaking as she struck the flint. This was it, success and freedom, or another mistake, and blood on her hands. She knew what Camille said – everything was a choice – but what good was that, when every choice she made seemed to end in disaster?
It took a couple of goes, and then a bright nest of embers caught in the tinder. She nurtured them, blowing gently until a flame licked up to greet her. The memory of the balloon being swallowed by fire passed through her mind, but she pushed it away. Carefully, she dipped the end of the rag in the flame. It caught, and she slammed the lid of the tinderbox, and leaped over the wall to huddle with the boys.
Nothing happened.
She peeped up over the edge of the wall. The strip of fabric had burned up one side and reached the cracked lid of the barrel in nothing more than a smoulder of ashes. Maybe she should try and light the fuse again. She started to stand, but Al’s hand snatched her back down as the glowing remnants of the cloth fell into the barrel.
A wall of noise hit her at the same moment that a blinding flash of light had her burying her head in her arms. It was so loud it was barely a sound she could process, more like a physical blow punching into her chest. Debris showered onto her hunched back, burning through her dress like red-hot fingertips.
Ears ringing, she fumbled for the wall, raising herself up to look at the damage.
And saw a flood of dark water rushing towards them.
6
The Prison Forge
Camille levelled the pistol at the blacksmith.
‘Can you get it off or not?’
The blacksmith regarded her, unimpressed, before turning his attention to the welded clasp.
‘Yes. I’ll have to go in at the hinges. It might hurt.’
Olympe turned her featureless face between Camille and the blacksmith.
‘Will you let him try?’ Camille asked. ‘We won’t make it out of here with you in the mask.’
Camille could only imagine what the girl’s expression might be under it. How hot and grimy her skin must feel. How she couldn’t scratch an itch or wipe away her tears.
Olympe nodded, heavy and slow.
The blacksmith motioned for her to place her head on his anvil. She kneeled, her head lying on the block like a convict waiting for the guillotine blade to drop. He set to work.
They’d slid furtively through the prison until they’d stumbled across the forge. Camille knew they’d have a better chance of escaping if Olympe wasn’t wearing the mask, so she had stepped inside the forge, pistol raised and heart in her mouth. But the blacksmith had agreed easily enough. He worked gently, heating a section at a time and chipping away carefully at the hinges. Olympe whimpered, fingers tightly gripping the sides of the anvil.
A nauseating mix of anxiety and humiliation was making Camille restless. She paced in front of the forge doors as the smith worked. This was another unforeseen risk, dragging out how long she had to be in the prison, increasing the number of people who knew she’d been there. The duc had been stupid. How was she supposed to do a good job without all the information? Anger brought heat to her cheeks. The duc had thought she would be a good hireling and follow orders without questioning them. That was the problem with men like him. They had no idea that anyone not of their rank and class was a human being at all.
She paused to peek into the courtyard. A troop of soldiers was passing through. More feet on the ground than she’d expected – a consequence of the balloon crash. The crash, Ada, Al. All the problems she’d not let herself think about. She hoped Guil had found them. That she hadn’t made a mistake letting him go. That Ada would forgive her for the choices she had made.
The mask dropped to the floor with a leaden clunk, landing in the sawdust. Olympe made a hoarse keening sound, her body shuddering. Then she rose stiffly, dark braid tangled where it had been confined, and her shoulders dropped, muscles uncoiling in release from the weight of the mask. She scraped the hair from her face, torn nails catching in the matted strands.
The blacksmith had gone pale, taking one stumbling step back, then another. Olympe was facing him, so all Camille saw was the knotted nest of her hair. He was muttering under his breath. The Lord’s Prayer, Camille realised. He crossed himself – then fled from the forge.
‘Olympe.’ Camille’s voice sounded strange to herself. Unsure, forced. ‘Are you okay?’
At her words, Olympe turned. Camille’s grip on the gun wavered. The breath had been snatched from her lungs, and she fought the impulse to flee.
The skin of Olympe’s face was a riot of swirling grey. Her black hair stuck to her dirt-crusted cheeks
and forehead. Eddies like storm clouds washed across her skin, dark grey like the cobblestones, cobalt blue, eggshell and dove and flint and smoke all in constant motion. It was like watching the roiling waters that rushed through the storm drains outside the Au Petit Suisse. Her eyes, which had been invisible under the mask, were two dark pools, free from iris or pupil. Black from lid to lid but filled with crackling blue sparks like the ones that leaped off her skin. Like stars in the night sky.
A few stray sparks caught between her fingers. Camille followed their dancing path, feeling the low hum in the air between her teeth and in the curling ends of her hair. A spike of fear held her frozen. Some primordial hindbrain told her to run and run far.
The impossibility of it was almost too much to bear. There were so many questions skittering around her mind she couldn’t catch hold of them to pull together the strands of a coherent plan.
Olympe took a step forwards and Camille instinctively stepped back. The girl’s face fell. Despite her appearance, Camille realised she could still read her expressions. The downturn of her mouth and the wideness of her eyes was so painfully human that her own heart ached in response.
Camille forced herself to tuck her pistol back into her belt, fighting a scrabbly, panicked feeling, and crossed to Olympe to inspect the bruises and scabs around her throat and shoulders where her mask had rested.
Olympe rubbed tears from her eyes.
‘Thank you. I think I’m okay.’
Something in the gesture sent a spark of empathy through Camille. Whatever else was going on, it didn’t seem as though Olympe was part of it. She was being used, just like Camille.
‘Here.’ Camille plucked a cloak from the wall and wrapped it around Olympe, pulling the hood to hide her face.
‘Are you taking me to the duc?’ asked Olympe.
Camille hesitated. What was she going to do? The duc had lied to her. If she handed him Olympe, then he would have got away with it. And Olympe… What would happen to her? Who was she, and what did the duc even want with her?
Opening the forge door a crack, she checked the comings and goings in the courtyard. Then she turned back, the kernel of a plan forming.
‘Maybe. Maybe not. What do you want to do, Olympe?’
Olympe swallowed, tucking a curl of hair behind her ear. She did it deliberately, as if savouring the freedom to touch her own face, attend to her discomfort.
‘I don’t know who this duc is or why he wants me. So, no, I don’t want to go to him. I’m sick of people treating me as though I’m their possession. I want to choose my own fate. I want to find my mother. And I want to be free.’
Camille smiled.
‘Okay, then.’
She wasn’t going to let herself be used. She would rescue Olympe, not because the duc had hired her, but because Olympe needed help and that’s what the battalion did. If the duc wanted Olympe, then she was going to make it damn hard for him.
‘Come on.’ She took Olympe’s hand. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
The explosion shattered through the prison when they were only halfway to the exit. The stone wall burst open like a tear in rotten fabric, and chaos erupted. Smoke swirled from the cellars, and above, a wooden gantry sagged and snapped, sending soldiers and prisoners crashing to the ground.
Olympe’s hand squeezed Camille’s so tightly that she gasped in pain. The explosion must have spooked her – but Olympe was focused on the other side of the courtyard.
‘He’s here,’ hissed Olympe. ‘Docteur Comtois.’ She pointed to a thin white man wearing a drab black suit and a tricolore cockade marching swiftly along the remaining length of the gantry. If Olympe hadn’t panicked at the sight of him, Camille would have thought him completely unremarkable. ‘We have to go, he can’t see us.’
But it was too late. The docteur had stopped, frowning. Silently, he held out his arm and pointed at Olympe. A unit of soldiers poured towards them. Olympe shivered, and for a second Camille worried she was about to crackle with that electric charge. But she held herself in check.
Camille hauled Olympe through the chaos, changing direction. The only way left unblocked by rubble or soldiers was a staircase leading to the roof. From there they had a chance of escape across the rooftop of the neighbouring Tribunal building. Lungs burning, they tumbled onto the expanse of sloping tiles. Rain had started to spit from pale clouds, making the tiles slippery. Camille’s chest was tight, spasming with the need to cough. She forced herself on. She wouldn’t let her own weakness get in the way. Not when victory was this close.
They were almost across when a soldier poked his head through a skylight ahead. Camille swore. The soldier clambered out, followed by another, and another. She turned to go back the way they’d come, but more soldiers had followed them.
‘What’s your plan? What do we do?’
Olympe had backed up so close to her she could feel the girl trembling. As the rain washed the dirt from her face and slicked back her hair, she looked less and less like a caged animal, and more like a frightened teenager. She had that same expectant look the battalion had when they waited for Camille to unveil her next great plan to save the day.
Camille peered over the parapet at the Seine rushing far below. What was her plan?
‘I’m not going to let the docteur take you. I promise.’ Camille held out her hand. ‘Do you trust me?’
‘Trust you? I don’t even know you.’
‘You know I’m helping you get out of here, and they’re trying to lock you back up. Take your pick.’
Olympe twitched at her skirts, watching the soldiers clamber ever closer across the rooftops.
‘And my mother? Will you help me find her?’
The wind whipped a lock of hair across Camille’s face, concealing her eyes. She pushed it back.
‘If I can. But I do promise I’ll get you to safety.’
Olympe bit her lip, unsure.
‘Everything is a choice,’ Camille continued. ‘There is no fate. No destiny. This is your choice, Olympe.’
The soldiers were only metres away, struggling to keep hold of their muskets as well as their footing on the tiles.
Olympe reached and placed her cold, rain-wet hand in Camille’s.
‘Okay. I choose to trust you.’
Camille closed her fingers around Olympe’s, and jumped off the roof, pulling the girl with her.
7
The Arsenal
It was dark and light at once, loud and quiet, hot and cold. Ada scrambled through rubble and icy water, coughing and slipping and clutching at slippery stones as she struggled to stay upright. Water was gushing in through the hole blown in the wall. It was up to her knees already.
‘What the bloody hell is this?’ screeched Al. He’d climbed onto the top of the dividing wall, face flecked with tiny cuts from shrapnel.
Ada tried to swallow her anxiety. Where was the water coming from? It should have been an outside wall, the light wells were all on that side – had they hit the prison’s water supply? Or, oh god, the cesspit? No – there was a heady whiff of sewage, but the force of the water suggested it was coming from something a lot bigger than a cesspit.
Guil was pulling at the door.
‘Ada! Get this unlocked!’
But Ada had frozen. Dread surged through her as violent and obliterating as the water surrounding them. They’d gone south. Towards the edge of the Île de la Cité. Towards the river. She’d blown a hole in the wall holding back the river.
It was the Seine flooding in.
‘Ada!’ Guil had climbed on top of a barrel, holding the musket aloft.
She jerked into action. Her ears were ringing from the explosion, making the rushing water sound far away and inside her head at the same time. Guil’s voice was muffled, his lips moving out of sync with the words. She waded through the water, reaching for her pins, kneeling by the lock. The water thundered against her back. It was up to her chest now that she was on her knees, so cold it stole her breath, made he
r body ache and numbed her fingers. She pushed too hard against one tumbler, and the pins pinged out of her grip and into the churning water.
She’d just killed them all.
Al’s hand under her elbow brought her back to herself. He pulled her up out of the water and pushed her onto a barrel next to Guil.
‘What happened?’
‘Lost the pins,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’
Guil gave her a bony-fingered prod. ‘None of that now, Adalaide. You are the cleverest of us. You can figure this out. This is simply one of those puzzles you like: we are locked in a room that is filling with water, we cannot unlock the door and we cannot breathe underwater. What do we do?’
Ada tried to think, tried to feel the shape of the room in her head, play the options and weigh up their best chance of survival. But all she could think of was Camille’s stupid smirky smile when she had kissed her goodbye and how angry she was going to be if Ada got herself killed. And how disappointed that everything they’d worked for had been ruined.
She shook her head.
‘All right,’ Guil said quietly, and patted her hand as the water lapped at the top of the barrel. ‘If I may, I might have a bad plan to offer.’
‘Go right ahead,’ said Al. ‘I think we’re due to rename ourselves Battalion of the Bad Plans anyway.’
‘How long can you hold your breath?’ asked Guil.
Al stared at him miserably. ‘Oh, no. No, I don’t like where this is going.’
Guil edged along the tops of the barrels and then launched himself over to the dividing wall. Closer to the hole they’d blown out.
‘When I was a soldier, we knew if you were injured you had to keep moving. If you stopped moving, you’d die. If you tried to wait out the pain or the sickness, you’d die. If you tried to wait out the enemy, you’d die. No matter how painful or how frightening it was, we had to keep moving. Get out of danger, get back to your comrades, get back to help.’ He slid off the wall and waded through the water that reached his armpits. ‘Never. Stop. Moving.’