For a Muse of Fire

by Heidi Heilig

  But despite the glamour of the city, something winds tighter in my gut as we walk. What is it? The lingering scent of decay? The threats of the dead man—or his words of welcome? Or is it the soldiers, the electric light gleaming on their black boots?

  They patrol the streets more zealously than the sweepers. Each time we pass them, I’m sure my shawl will slip from my scarred shoulder. If they look too close, will they catch the shape of the rifles in our packs? My spine prickles, as though a chitinous thing with many legs is crawling down the back of my neck. Despite the weight of the guns, I walk faster and faster; by the time we reach the inn, I am practically running.

  Le Livre is a long, low building glowing with light, shaped like a plantation house and oriented along the water so it catches the breeze through the shutters of the many windows. Leo leads me right to the ornate door, peeking out from under a fall of jasmine. The scent mingles with the smell of sweat and the reek of the middens still trapped in my hair. I feel too filthy to even touch the handle, but Leo barges right in with a smile.

  I follow a few steps, then freeze on the threshold. The main room is huge, nearly the height of the entire building, and beautifully appointed. Enormous open doorways face the back gardens; the ceiling is studded with lazy fans ushering the fragrant breeze. Woven chairs cluster in small groups around low teak tea tables, where a handful of well-dressed men read the paper. The room is brightly lit with gas lamps, illuminating the richest sight of all: a shelf in pride of place, directly across from the front door, and all lined with books.

  I’ve never seen so many all at once. I didn’t know there were so many in the world. Some of the plantation owners kept a few—or at least, they bragged that they did, though usually the books were locked away in a study. Madame Audrinne had a prized collection of seventeen, most of which she kept in the parlor and never read, though her servants dusted them daily. But here were dozens—hundreds, maybe.

  Standing in the doorway, blinking in the light, I find I can’t take another step—I am not meant to be here. I do not belong. But Leo pulls me into the room, toward the bookshelf and the wide desk before it. A man sits there, slender and dignified, with black skin and a warm smile.

  “Siris!” Leo calls, grinning. “Sava?”

  “Sava.” His voice is rich, with a soft accent—but that makes sense, and the books do too, of course. He must be from the Lion Lands, to the south and west of Chakrana. They say the countries there are rich in knowledge—that the crowns of their cities are universities. He stands to shake Leo’s hand across the desk. “And you?”

  “Sava,” Leo replies, less enthusiastically. Then he grimaces, teetering his hand in an equivocating gesture. “Though it was comme ci, comme ça for a while.”

  “I heard about that.” Siris’s face is grave, but he gives me a small smile. “You must be Jetta. Your parents are here already. My daughters are preparing your rooms. The baths should still be warm if you want to shed the dust of the road.”

  “Baths?” I’m out of breath—from the idea of such a luxury, or perhaps from the pace I’d kept through the streets. But he only waves to a girl, tall and dark as he is.

  She smiles and beckons me toward a hall. “Just this way.”

  “I’ll be happy to shed more than dust,” Leo says, relieved. He shrugs off his pack, setting it on the floor carefully—I only hear the clink of metal because I’m listening for it. I follow suit as Leo flicks his eyes down, then back up to Siris. “Is there anyone around who can take our bags?”

  “Certainly,” Siris says smoothly, motioning to a table in the corner where two well-dressed Chakran men are sipping drinks. When Siris nods, one man murmurs to the other; they both drain their cups as Siris turns his attention back to us. “Now it’s time for you to rest. I can see it’s been a long journey. I’m just glad you got out of Luda before the fighting started.”

  “You mean at La Fête?” Leo shakes his head. “We were there for that.”

  “The night after.”

  Leo stiffens. Emotions flicker across his face like shadows: shock to pain, fear to uncertainty. My own heart drops like a stone through muck. “What happened?”

  Before he answers, Siris raises a hand. Smoothly, the tall girl steps back, pretending to straighten the curtains, and the men at the table settle back into their seats. “I’ve only heard rumors, of course,” the innkeeper murmurs. “And rumors are always worse—”

  “Tell me.”

  “Reports vary, but . . . there was some sort of rebellion among the soldiers. A quarter of the battalion was slaughtered,” he says, almost apologetically. As though it were his fault.

  As his words sink in, Leo leans heavily against the desk. My own gut clenches at the news. “How?”

  Siris shrugs, uncomfortable. “Some people are sure it was the rebels. But some say it was Legarde’s own men turning against him. The questioneur, they say.”

  “Eduard?” Leo looks at me and my heart sinks.

  I open my mouth—but what to say? A quarter of the battalion. The monk at the temple—what had she said? The dead are coming—you’ve sent us so many.

  “Unfortunately, Capitaine Legarde was gravely injured,” Siris adds delicately; he must know Leo and the capitaine’s history. “But he’ll likely make a full recovery.”

  “So who’s in charge?” Leo says. Then his mouth twists. “Not Pique.” Siris only makes a face, and Leo swears under his breath. “That explains Dar Som.”

  “Rumor is that Capitaine Legarde left his sickbed to rein him in, but not soon enough. Word is, morale was quite low. There were more than a few officers ready to take their frustrations out on somebody. Anybody.”

  “I need a pen and paper,” Leo says. “Can you have someone run to the telegraph office for me? If not, I’ll go myself.”

  “The telegraph at Luda was damaged in the fire, I’m afraid.”

  “The fire?”

  “A riot at the docks. People were already jumpy after the explosions. When they heard the gunfire . . .”

  With sudden rage, Leo kicks the bundle of guns at our feet. “The telegraph office is nearly in the center of town! How far did the fire spread?”

  Siris takes a careful breath. “Like I said, it’s only rumor—”

  “How far?”

  “Almost certainly the theater was affected.”

  The theater. The girls. And all because of Eduard. Because of me. My hands start to shake, but Leo takes a deep breath. His face is pale, and the pain in his eyes is deeper than a wound. I reach out to him, but he shrugs me off. “Leo—”

  “Go rest, Jetta. Your part of the deal is done. I won’t forget mine.” Leo pulls a fistful of coins from his pocket and turns to Siris. “I’ll need you to get a letter to the palace. And I need a fast horse too. I have to get back to Luda.”

  My eyes go wide, but Siris waves the money away. “Just tell me when you’re leaving. I’ll have everything prepared.”

  “As soon as possible,” Leo says. “Tonight.” Then he turns to me, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of the softness about him that I had first seen while he had slept on the back stair of our roulotte. He reaches out to tug on the shawl I’m wearing, drawing it tighter over the scar on my shoulder. Then his mouth twists into that old smile, but the charm has been hollowed out of his eyes. “Good-bye, Jetta.”

  Before I can protest, Siris gestures again. The men at the tables approach, and each of them shoulders a bag—mine and Leo’s. They follow Leo and Siris around the desk into a little office and shut the door firmly behind them. The tall girl leaves the curtains and takes my arm. “Come, cher,” she says. “I’ll have your things brought to your room. Let me show you to the baths.”

  I follow her down the hall in a daze, and in my mind, memories play like shadows on a scrim. The cold fire of the n’akela, the sting of the knife, the moment I marked Eduard’s hand. And the sound of his screaming. But then—even worse—the smell of the theater, stale sweat and old perfume. Cheeky’s wi
cked grin, her soft hands. The sweet, aching song of the violin.

  If La Perl is lost, it’s because I couldn’t control myself. Eduard was after me because of what Capitaine Legarde had seen me do—because of my performance on the road. The weight of guilt presses down like a yoke on my shoulders, like sins on my back. I try to tell myself that I couldn’t have known; I call up Leo’s words about the gamble of survival. But the lines are hollow in my head—I cannot fool myself.

  The baths are as luxurious and inviting as the rest of the inn, with deep tubs carved of basalt and hammered copper showerheads that sluice warm water from catchments on the roof. There is even soap in powdery flakes, sprinkled with dried lavender blossoms, and soft robes thicker than quilts hanging on the walls. The hour is so late that I have the space all to myself.

  So no one can hear me crying.

  * * *

  Dear Theodora,

  I am sorry I did not write back sooner. It’s hard to believe it’s already been more than a year. I hope you didn’t spend these months thinking my silence was born of anger or blame. To tell the truth, until today, I had no answer to your question.

  In your letter, you asked me if there was anything you could do. There was not, at the time. Some acts are final. But I hope it is not an imposition to answer you now.

  I’ve met a girl, and I owe her a favor. She needs to get to Aquitan to take the cure Mei deserved.

  I know what you’re thinking. I know what he would say. But this is not some secret mistress or a hurried elopement. She is a shadow player traveling with her family, and we’ve never so much as kissed. But there is something about her, something I want to save. Or to stop. And I can—but only with your help.

  So if your offer is still open, here is something you can do. The troupe is staying at Le Livre. They need a place on your boat.

  Ever hopeful,

  Leonin

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty

  It takes me some time to fall asleep. First there is the reunion with my parents, and I realize that somewhere in the back of my mind, I wasn’t sure if I would look at Maman differently after I had walked in her footsteps through the tunnels. But when she holds out her arms, I rush into her warm embrace. I do see her differently, but not how I worried I might.

  “I’m so glad you’re safe,” she murmurs, but I only nod and paint on a smile. She doesn’t need to know what I saw in the tunnels. Or maybe she already does.

  Even though we are all together again, and the bed is warm and soft, I lie restless and awake. It isn’t as bad as the night at La Perl . . . but I can’t get the theater out of my head. For a while, I smell smoke, and I wonder if it’s my imagination, or something burning at the inn. When I finally slip from my bed and throw open the shutters, the night is quiet—there is nothing ablaze. I take a deep breath of the cool night air, sweetened with the scent of flowers blooming. Overhead, the sky is turning pink.

  Does dawn break the same in Aquitan? Are there rumdal trees across the sea? Turning from the garden window, I see a white envelope on the floor. Someone must have slipped it under the door in the night.

  Lifting it from the floor with shaking hands, I slide my finger beneath the flap. Carefully, I pull out the thick card, staring at the invitation with disbelieving eyes. The letters—black on white, like shadows on a scrim. I don’t have to read the words to know the story they are telling.

  I must have made a sound, because Maman stirs and sits up in her bed, and though I never want to let go of the paper, hasn’t she earned this, just as much as I? So I pass it to her, and she wakes Papa, and both of them exclaim at the soft, heavy paper, tracing the gold scrollwork, breathing in the fresh ink, like perfume. Such a small thing, but we have traded so much for it.

  Then I frown. Inside the envelope that held the invitation is something else: a thin sheet of paper, folded shut, the outside marked with only an L. Even through the page, I recognize the precise, delicate hand of La Fleur. This note is meant for Leo.

  As Maman and Papa marvel over the invitation, I consider the letter. The temptation is there—there is no seal. But instead I tuck the paper, still folded, back into the now-empty envelope.

  Murmuring an excuse to Maman about finding breakfast, I slip from the room and make my way into the front of the inn. It is too early to be crowded, but Siris is there, reading one of the many books from his shelf. For a moment, I am just another girl from Le Verdu, with muddy feet and a sun-faded wrap—well aware that we haven’t paid for his hospitality, and probably can’t afford it. But he looks up as I approach, tucking a faded ribbon between the pages and closing the book, as though to assure me I have his full attention. I lift my chin a little. “I’d like to send a letter to Luda.”

  “Luda! There aren’t many people traveling that way—at least, not since Leo left.” He looks down at the envelope in my hand. “Isn’t that the letter you just received?”

  “No . . . well. Yes. But there was a note inside for Leo as well.” I take a breath, trying to quash the sudden swell of strange emotion.

  Siris only holds out his hand. “Would you like me to hold it? I can ask around. Find a rider. Though it may take a while.”

  I open my mouth—I almost agree, but something stops me. I do not want this letter lost, for Leo to never know his sister sent it, for her not to know whether it reached him or if he’s just ignoring her again. Or maybe I just don’t want to let go of this last connection between Leo and me. We traveled so long together—and our good-bye was too rushed. And at the very least, I will see Theodora on the ship; I could return the letter to her instead. That’s what I tell myself as I stand in front of Siris, clutching the envelope. “No, merci,” I manage at last. Then I hesitate again; I can smell, very distantly, the scent of coffee—that rich dark brew the Audrinnes adored. “What’s the cost of breakfast here?”

  Siris waves a hand. “Gratis, gratis. I’ll have it brought to your rooms.”

  “Thank you,” I say, but he shakes his head.

  “Thank Leo,” he says. “If you see him again.”

  The words twist inside me like a knife, but I only nod and try to smile. Returning to my room, I tuck the letter into my bags next to my little booklet—the one full of souls. And when breakfast arrives, it looks so tempting that it almost brings my appetite back.

  Cut ripe fruit like a pile of gems. An omelet so thin it’s nearly translucent, folded around thinly sliced pork and ribbons of green onion. Little fingers of fried dough dusted with real white sugar like tiny stars. And a whole pot of coffee, boiled with cardamom and lightened with cream, so sweet it makes my stomach ache.

  Maman is eating heartily, but Papa too is only picking at the food. He holds a porcelain coffee cup, still full, as though it might explode. “I’ve been wondering what to do about Lani,” he says at last. “We’ll have to leave her behind.”

  Tears spring to my eyes—but hadn’t I known that all along? And I know my father; I know what he’s thinking. “You want to give her to Siris.”

  “If you both agree,” Papa says, looking at me and Maman. “His youngest daughter cares for the stable. She put her in a stall. Alongside all the fine horses. Lani might like it here.”

  I nod, trying to smile, trying to ignore the fact that no one here has any reason to keep a water buffalo—that she’ll likely be sold, and we can only hope it will be for muscle and not for meat. “Wouldn’t anyone?” I say, picking up a piece of fried dough. Papa smiles, relieved; at last he starts to eat. But despite the sugar, there is a sour taste in my mouth.

  After breakfast, we bathe again, dressing in the best of what remains. Then I spend some time repacking our bags; now that the rifles are gone, I can carry my fantouches again. I gather them up, running my hands over them as they shift and rustle: my old friends. They are all I have left. I want to be the one to carry them from here to there—the one to bear the weight of them on my back as we leave home behind for good.

  Outside the haven of Le Livre, th
e whole city is out in force—the celebration has been going since noon at least. The streets are full, boisterous. Tumblers and ribbon dancers perform in pockets carved out from the surging masses. Vendors careen through the crowds, selling delicacies out of wheelbarrows: candied fruit and coconut, sizzling scallion pancakes, pillowy pork buns. Firecrackers pop in the muggy air, scaring away the drifting vana.

  But there are more soldiers in the streets, their hands on their rifles, and no one is allowed to stand in one place too long, not that we want to. I keep my head down, my hair falling over my face. Despite the heat, I keep the silk scrap tight around my shoulders. I am just one Chakran girl among hundreds, thousands, but I don’t want to give the soldiers an excuse to look too long at my face.

  Thankfully, it’s just a short walk from the inn to the docks, but the closer we get, the more the celebration edges toward a riot. There is a frantic energy in the air, a frisson of hysteria, something more like fear than festivity.

  The north side of the dock is bordered with a wishing wall. It might have once enclosed a livestock pen, but the yard beyond it is empty now. Instead, the bamboo fence holds messages for those left behind—the missing, the dead. Amulets and ribbons, scraps of paper and cloth, some with writing, some with pictures, and some too faded to tell. Miss you, love you, waiting down the road . . . And lining the base of the wall are oranges and other offerings. Tiny spirits cluster around the tributes. The decorations almost cover the peeling posters beneath: VICTOIRE over a dashing profile of General Legarde.

  I’ve seen walls like this, in other towns we’ve passed, but never one so large. There’s even a bit of industry grown up around it: women with lap desks and ink-stained fingers selling transcriptions for those who cannot write, five étoiles for mulberry paper, ten for a strip of silk. I wish I could leave one for Akra, but the crowd sweeps us past too quickly, and over their heads, I finally catch a glimpse of the ship.