A Kingdom for a Stage

by Heidi Heilig

  I had expected a hiss—a sibilant whisper, the hush of the dead, but his voice is low, almost rich. “Is that a threat, old man?” Akra glares at Le Trépas, but the monk only looks back at the shore. At a loss, I follow his gaze to the n’akela, still standing where they died, and I am not naive enough to disagree with his claim.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It is too uncomfortable to stay in the bilge, so we make our way upstairs to what used to be the dining room. The fine crystal, the velvet chairs, the polished wood tables—the gilding that had decorated La Rêve has been stripped and scavenged. What is left is a cavernous room with water-stained carpets, moldering drapes, and barely enough broken furniture for kindling.

  The berths are just as empty, though Tia finds one that still has a mattress in it. We shake out the family of mice living inside and drag it into the dining hall for Papa. He is already exhausted by the move from the shore to the ship, and as soon as we lay him out on the mattress, he closes his eyes. I squeeze his hand before I go to help the others get situated, but when I try to let go, he won’t release me. “Papa?”

  He opens his eyes again, and I step back; there is a look in them like I’ve never seen. He clenches his jaw and takes a breath, but when he speaks, the words come all at once and in a rush. It is the most he’s said in weeks, though I can’t understand him through the shush and slur of his mangled tongue. But as I follow his gaze, the words become clear: “Stay away from the other side of the ship.”

  There, on the far end of the dining hall, Akra is guarding Le Trépas. They have staked out a spot well away from the rest of us. Is it for everyone’s safety, or Papa’s comfort? Either way, I’m grateful. But hearing the venom in Papa’s voice, questions bubble up, unbidden. The whole country feared Le Trépas, but this is anger. It must have to do with me . . . and Maman . . . and what happened sixteen years ago, when we fled Hell’s Court.

  I know the rough outlines of the story—that rather than bury me with the other temple children Le Trépas killed for their souls, Maman had spirited me out of the city. In the confusion of La Victoire, she had fallen in with Papa and Akra, never to return.

  But now is not the time to ask for more detail. “Yes, Papa,” is all I say, and only then does he release my hand.

  Still, I wait until he’s asleep before I join the others in searching the rest of the ship. We haven’t got more than what we fled with—little ammunition, fewer weapons, no clothing or bedding. Most of what remains aboard is broken glass and debris too damaged to steal. Cam does find a rusted machete, and we scrape together enough ruined carpet and curtain to make up some crude beds. The one thing we do not lack is food: the pantry holds cans and cans of tinned victuals that the scavengers from the slum had no idea how to open. As Leo reads off the labels, my stomach growls, but I have no idea how to open the tins either. Theodora is the one who finds the can opener. She even knows how to use it.

  Leo builds a little cookfire atop a platform of ballast stones, and La Fleur open stacks of the tins without making a dent in the supply: fish and fruit and the pureed livers of duck. Enough to last weeks. The bounty had been meant to supply a royal journey from Chakrana to Aquitan—the voyage La Rêve was built for. What does Theodora think, hauled aboard the ruined ship that was built for her wedding, a prisoner rather than a princess? But she is quiet as she helps supply our makeshift dinner, and her face gives nothing away. Unsurprising—she was born to politics. And either way, there are more pressing issues than a cancelled wedding. “Where am I taking us?” I ask instead.

  “Up the coast to the Coffret.” Camreon frowns into a can of pineapple as he fishes for a slice. “Raik has set up headquarters above the abandoned sapphire mines.”

  I cock my head. “So far away?”

  “Remember, we thought you’d be going by air,” he says with a wry look.

  “Me, Akra, and Le Trépas.” It’s difficult for me to imagine being crammed in a flying machine, trying to flee the city with the old monk breathing down my neck. I glance once more toward the other side of the dining hall. Leo is distributing tins across the ship, but of course Le Trépas’s hands are bound. As I watch, Leo hands the food to my brother, who lifts a tin to the old monk’s lips.

  “Getting him out of armée control was vital,” Camreon says, and I frown.

  “Leo mentioned they might find a use for his blood.”

  “They were already considering it,” Cam says grimly. “An armée of the dead.”

  “Xavier would never.” Theodora’s interjection is unexpected; she doesn’t even look up from her work.

  “You might have,” the Tiger replies. “Especially knowing Jetta brings them back to life.”

  “You’ve done worse to try to end the fighting.” With a pop, she presses the metal opener through the lid. “I would have done the rebels more good as a queen than as a hostage.”

  “Who’s to say there won’t be a wedding?” The Tiger raises an eyebrow. “Raik is waiting in the Coffret. But any marriage treaty will be on our terms, not Aquitan’s. Especially now that we have the nécromanciens.”

  I can’t help but stare at Camreon. He is so casual as he brokers the marriage of the girl I’d been so sure he loved. But La Fleur turns away, as though she can’t bear to look at him. “And you,” she growls at Leo as he approaches. “After tonight, even our father couldn’t deny that you’re his son.”

  Leo slows, clenching his jaw. The struggling flame throws eerie shadows on the water-stained walls. In the dim light, his eyes look hollow. “Xavier might be the one to disagree this time.”

  “How could you lie to him?” she says. “How could you lie to me?”

  Leo looks at her, incredulous. “You’re angry at me for lying when our brother just set fire to a camp full of refugees?”

  “Our brother isn’t here,” she says. “Besides, what did you expect him to do? You kidnapped me!”

  “An eye for an eye will make the world blind,” Leo says darkly. “Didn’t he used to believe that?”

  “That was before she killed our father.” Theodora glares darkly at me. The accusation sparks anger in my chest—I want to fling my hand out toward Papa, toward Akra, to remind her what the old general did. But isn’t that the same argument Theodora is making?

  Instead, I take a breath, trying to control my anger. “I’m going upstairs to take a look at the coastline,” I say at last. “Make sure La Rêve is headed in the right direction.”

  “Good thinking,” Cam says mildly. The Tiger drains the last of the juice from the can and tosses it into the corner. “Akra, sava bien with Le Trépas? Good. I’ll watch Theodora. The rest of you, get some sleep.”

  La Fleur isn’t ready to let go. “All of this for your precious Boy King,” she mutters bitterly. “When he was willing to sign the country over to Aquitan for a lifetime supply of champagne.”

  Cam’s voice lowers dangerously. “But he didn’t.”

  Theodora scoffs. “Only because he learned that my father was going to kill him before he had to order a new crate of the stuff.”

  “Yet here you are,” Camreon says, incredulous. “Surrounded by the enemy, and still arguing for your side!”

  La Fleur opens her mouth, taken aback. “I never thought of you as the enemy, Camreon.”

  “No,” he says pointedly. “It was just all those other Chakrans.”

  He might as well have slapped her, the hurt is so plain in her eyes. In the silence that follows, Leo sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Why don’t you let me watch her instead?” he suggests. “After all, we have things to discuss.”

  “Better you than me,” Cam replies.

  Leaving the others to make some beds, I pick my way up the wide stairwell. The steps are soft with water, and portions have burned to char in the fire that took part of the ship. I hold tight to the curve of the carved banister as the night breeze catches my hair—refreshing, after the muggy warmth and tension below.

  Taking another deep breath, I survey the prou
d ruin of La Rêve: the tattered remains of the red silken sails, the dragon head at the prow. The shape reminds me of my dragon fantouche—the great leather creature, gold and scarlet, ensouled with the spirit of a kitten. I had fashioned it in the hopes it would make the Boy King take notice, and he had, if not exactly how I expected.

  Though the fantouche was with him now, I had never spoken to Raik myself. What is he like, the Boy King? Or the Playboy King, as the joke went. I had assumed his libertine ways were encouraged by the Aquitans to keep him from meddling with their policies, but after his escape, I had wondered if they were only a cover to hide his involvement with the rebellion. Was Theodora right? Had Raik only sided with the Tiger as a last resort?

  As the deck moves beneath my feet, I can’t help but feel as though I’ve stepped into uncertain territory. Perhaps the murky waters of politics runs deeper than I’d thought. Still, I can’t exactly go back. Across the water, the fire still glows as red as coals along the ruins of the slum. Forcing myself to turn away, I face the far horizon instead.

  Nokhor Khat is cupped by the remains of an ancient crater that rises sharply past the fort. I point the soul in our ship toward the dark silhouette that the jagged hilltop cuts from the starry sky. The wreck moves as quietly through the water as any crocodile would. For a while, in the blissful silence, I simply breathe. Then, soft as a kiss, the first few notes of a song drift up from below: Leo and his violin.

  My muscles tense—sound carries across water. Will the soldiers hear it at the fort? But Leo plays quietly, and we are far away. I do not recognize the song; it sounds foreign. Aquitan. With the stately, measured pacing of one of their hymns. Still, there is a longing to it. Incongruous after the fire, the escape, the fighting. As I listen, a smile touches my lips. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed music. Had Theodora requested a song, or did Leo know what we needed to soothe the strain of the day?

  He goes through the verses, spiraling out through variations—low to high, thirds, fifths, a falling waterfall of notes that sounds much more effortless than it is. Was it only a few months ago I first saw him play at Le Perl? His silhouette swaying, a shadow on the scrim . . . when the song ends, I feel adrift in more ways than one.

  Will he continue? Hopeful, I lean on the rail, and though I am listening, I do not hear Camreon approach until he speaks. “You should eat.”

  I turn, startled. The boy is standing so close he could touch me; in his hand is an open tin. Trying to hide my discomfort, I force a laugh. “I had assumed it was your ruthlessness that earned your nickname, but perhaps it’s your quiet feet.”

  “Alas, it’s neither,” he says easily, though I note he does not tell me what it really is. He holds out the tin again. “You need to keep your strength.”

  “Fair enough,” I say, not wanting to argue. I take the tin from his hands, hoping he’ll go back below. Instead, he leans on the rail beside me, watching the dark water pass beneath us.

  “Is this as fast as the ship will go?”

  “This is cruising speed for crocodiles,” I tell him primly. “I can push the soul faster, but not for long.”

  “Do the dead get tired?”

  “They think they do,” I say. “I’ve seen plenty of cat souls playing at sleep.”

  “Let’s save our speed, then,” he says, watching the distant shore. “We may need it later.”

  Awkwardly, I hold the tin, waiting for him to go so I can pitch it over the side; after a day like today, the smell of it ties my stomach in knots. But the Tiger lingers. The only sound between us is the gentle lap of water. His silent presence is maddening.

  “How did you get your nickname?” I say at last. “Or did you choose it yourself?”

  “Camreon is my only chosen name.” He cocks his head, curious. “Why does it matter so much to you?”

  “Just trying to make conversation,” I say. “But you’re good at sabotaging that, too.”

  “Touché.” He gives me a wry smile. “I suppose I’ve gotten too used to keeping secrets.”

  “I can only imagine,” I say. “Theodora said she’d known you for years. How did you hide what you’ve been doing?”

  “She was just as busy as I was,” he says. “Dances. Functions. Her father. Her work. And I invented family too, for an excuse to leave the palace grounds. They always needed help in the paddies during the growing season.”

  “And thus the automated planter,” I say, and there is the winsome smile I’d seen before. Even though I know it’s an act, it’s hard not to let it draw me in. “If you hadn’t chosen a life of actual crime, you could have made a killing on the stage,” I say, and he laughs. “How did you keep all the stories straight?”

  “It’s easiest when the people who can prove the lie are dead or imaginary,” he says with a shrug. “I should have known she’d go to Pique. She’s too clever for me.”

  I give him a sidelong look. Is that admiration in his voice, or am I only imagining things? “If I hadn’t found Le Trépas while Xavier was at Hell’s Court, things might have gone differently,” I say at last. “I wish I’d known you had the elixir sorted out.”

  The Tiger smiles thinly. “I almost didn’t. Faced with the avions, I considered using it to blow them apart. It reacts with water to produce a flammable gas,” he adds at my quizzical expression. “But your medication was part of the deal.”

  “Deal?” I ask, but of course. “With Leo.”

  “And I don’t dare go back on it.” Camreon makes a face, but my own heart is sinking.

  “Because it’s a prerequisite?”

  The Tiger shakes his head. “Because he’s already angry enough about his sister.”

  “Well.” I fold my arms. “Can you blame him? Your threats broke her heart. I was so sure you were in love.”

  His look is whimsical. “You’re not the only actor in the world.”

  I don’t know why his nonchalance offends me, but it does. “Out of everything I’ve seen you do, leading her on might be the cruelest.”

  “We’ve only just properly met. Give me time.” Camreon’s smile shows too many teeth, but it dies quickly. He looks back across the water. “But I never said that being in love was the part I am pretending.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Good.” The ghost of the smile returns. “Matters of country outweigh matters of the heart. Theodora knows it too. After all, she was willing to marry my brother without being in love with him.”

  The claim takes a moment to digest. Above, the wind whispers in the shredded sails. “Your . . . your brother?” I turn to him, blinking. “Raik is your brother?”

  “My younger brother, in fact,” Camreon says. “Though only by a few minutes.”

  “Twins?” I stare at Camreon, uncomprehending, but when I’m looking for it, the similarities are so clear. The same eyes, the same nose. Once he’d cast off the persona he’d worn in the workshop—the humble servant, the chaste boy in love—he had given orders like someone born to lead.

  And he had been.

  “Younger brother,” I repeat softly. “The throne is yours?”

  “Ah.” The Tiger raises an eyebrow. “That’s where it gets complicated. For sixteen years, Raik has been the Boy King. As for me? Very few people know I survived La Victoire.”

  The story floods back—everyone knows it. Assassins with knives, sent by Le Trépas. The Ruby Palace was red with blood that day. The horror of it all was the final straw—the Chakrans petitioned the armée to end Le Trépas’s reign. The Aquitans replaced it with their own. After all, the Boy King was only three at the time; he needed advisers, and everyone else with royal blood was dead. Or so the story went. “But how?” I whisper at last. “How did you escape?”

  “I begged,” Cam says simply. “What can I say? I was a child. I begged, and he let me live.”

  My eyes widen—I cannot imagine Le Trépas showing mercy. But half the stories I’d heard about him must have come from the armée. Were they only more propa
ganda? “Did he tell you why?”

  Camreon stares at the fort, his voice soft. “I always imagined it was because I was about the same age as Miss Theodora. Besides, Legarde saw me as a girl. And the Aquitans don’t think a woman can rule a country. I wasn’t a threat like the rest of my brothers.”

  “Wait—the Aquitans?” I frown. “Why would Le Trépas listen to the armée?”

  “Le Trépas? Oh, no.” Camreon laughs, the sound dry and hollow. “You don’t believe that old story, do you? Le Trépas had nothing to do with the assassins. Why on earth would the nécromancien bother with knives?”

  “It was Legarde at the palace?” I blink at him, reeling. But it is so obvious—why had I never questioned the story myself? And it would hardly have been the only lie the Aquitans had told. How convenient, this one, to rid the country of all its rulers in one night.

  “Do you really want to know how I got my nickname?” Camreon doesn’t wait for an answer. He tugs at the buttons on the front of his coveralls, peeling the sleeves away from his shoulders and turning to show me his back. Peeking out from beneath the pale silk of his binder, long scars shine silver in the starlight. “It’s the stripes.”

  My jaw drops—I try to imagine him then. Barely three years old, bleeding from a dozen wounds. I see now why he had shot the guards at the gates without hesitating—how he so quickly did the calculus of casualties of war. I can almost forgive him for telling me to leave Papa. Almost.

  As he pulls his shirt back on, I find my voice. “Do the others know who you are?”

  “Everyone but Miss Theodora,” he says. “Though Leo said he’d tell her.”

  “And the Boy King?”

  Cam’s expression does not change, but his tone does. There is tension in it. “He knows.”

  I chew my lip; in my mind’s eye, I can see him. Young, proud, handsome—the picture of a ruler. “And . . . how does he feel about it?”