For a Muse of Fire

by Heidi Heilig

  It’s the largest I’ve ever seen—far bigger than the little riverboats with their small gods, far bigger even than the sugar ships that carry cargo to the capital—and she is not built for transport, but pleasure. Le Rêve is painted gold and lucky red; her sails are silk and embroidered with scales, and in the center of the ship, steam curls from a stack shaped like the fearsome head of a dragon. Just like my own dragon puppet, strapped in my pack. The rail is decorated with pennants and strings of flowers—chrysanthemum and jasmine, orchid and rumdal. And there are porters trotting up and down the gangplank, loading crates of champagne—nothing is rationed for the king.

  We approach the wharf, slipping in behind a group of men dressed in servants’ livery, carrying one of the crates. They push through the crowd until we reach a cordon of soldiers protecting the pier—a line of pressed green uniforms against the motley local dress of revelers and refugees. An officer waves the servants past, but when we try to follow, he shoves us back with a look. Is it recognition? No . . . it is a glare he gives to all the riffraff who come too near to the king’s ship. But once he sees our invitation, his fierce expression softens. An invitation from La Fleur sets us apart from the rest.

  Just past the cordon, the dock is clear, and I can breathe again. I do, deeply, until my lungs ache with the sweet scent of the vast sapphire ocean. The river mouth opens up right into it—the Hundred Days Sea, a boundless blue. The same color as the waters of Les Chanceux. But here the rolling waves stretch to the horizon and beyond.

  If someone had told me it went on forever, I would not have doubted them. How far is the distant shore? I know it’s not a hundred days’ journey—not truly. Troupes saving up for tours say it takes a week, maybe two. But the miles and miles between my future and my past have never looked so long.

  My hands are shaking; suddenly, I cannot move my feet. But behind us, a man shouts at the officer who just let us through. “Why them?” he says, pointing. “Why them and not me?”

  At his question, rage flares. Does he know what we’ve lost? Does he know what I’ve done? I turn to ask, the question like a shard of glass on my tongue, but when I see his face, I recognize him—not the man, but the look. Haggard and hollow. I swallow my question; of course he knows. The lines may be different, but our stories are the same. The officer only curses the man, dropping his hand to the butt of his gun. “Move back,” he roars. “Or I’ll send you floating downriver, but not in a boat!”

  Shames twists in my heart like a worm into fruit as I duck my head and force my feet to move. I can’t stop now. It’s the culmination of all our travel—the end of the road. The journey has been so hard. Why are these last few steps harder still? I try to gather my courage around me, the way an Aquitan woman might gather her wide ruffled skirts. We wait at the gangway until the servants and their crate are clear. Then we hand the gold-edged letter to a crewman. “Bien,” he says, gesturing toward the ship. “Welcome aboard.”

  Papa nods, and Maman sighs. I take the handrail and climb the wooden stairs with my eyes shut tight. And instead of thinking of what lies across the sea, I am remembering the long roads we traveled in the roulotte. The whisper of wind through the scrollwork. The smell of smoke and rouge. Even Lani, as eager to work as she was to eat. And my brother, his brow furrowed as he polished the sandalwood face of the spirit maiden we’d left in the theater in Luda. My heart clenches tight around the memories, like a fist around any precious thing.

  But I step from the dock to the deck, and just like that, I’ve walked off the edge of my world. Nothing is the same. Nothing will ever be the same again.

  * * *

  To the shadow players at Le Livre

  Join us

  aboard Le Rêve

  For the moonrise coronation

  of

  King Raik Alendra

  And his wedding to

  Theodora Legarde, La Fleur

  Theodora

  * * *

  Act 3

  * * *

  To celebrate the eighteenth birthday of our beloved King Raik Alendra at the eighth Turn of the Tide in the 745th year (30 Août in the calendrier), we have marked this historic occasion by providing for our subjects a day of entertainment throughout the city. A parade of lions, music, and dancing in the streets shall be followed by shadow plays on the plaza once night falls. In between, at the exact moment of sunset and moonrise, at 7:14 heures, the fireworks will announce the coronation of our king, long may he reign.

  6:00

  Cocktail reception aboard Le Rêve

  7:00

  Coronation ceremony begins

  7:14

  Fireworks. After which, dancing

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Looking back at the dock is a strange feeling. From here, the movement of the crowd looks like a scandalous dance; the press of bodies, writhing back to belly, faces contorted, slick with sweat. Individuals elbow through, their violence rippling outward in jabs and shoves, before they are turned away by the cordon and pulled back into the crush. Near the ship, a thin woman clings to a piling to keep from being swept back into the crowd. She meets my eyes as she reaches out, as though I can save her, but I turn my head hurriedly, cheeks flaming. I have barely saved myself.

  Eyes down, I walk from the gangplank toward the front of the ship, running my hand along the rail. The contrast between the ship and the shore is overwhelming. In the afternoon sunlight, bright pennants snap in the breeze from the ocean. The rails are wrapped in silk ribbon and studded with bouquets of flowers—white rumdal and orchids, and twining falls of jasmine, their scent rich and heady. Even the decking beneath my feet is changed. No longer the rough gray wood of the pier, but polished mahogany that seems to glow with a golden shine. It spotlights the dust and the scuffed silk on my shoes, the mud and dangling thread on the hem of my sarong. My finest clothes are reduced to rags by this strange new set. It is too beautiful for the likes of me.

  From the ship’s rail, I can see up the river, past the dock and the slapdash bamboo houses that sit on stilts above the dirty reeds, all the way to the high moon bridge: a rounded stone arch that links the fort on the far bank to the palace grounds. It is an ancient structure, built long before the Aquitans came to Chakrana—too low for their tall sails and their sugar ships. Now I see why the riverboats cannot make it to the open waters.

  Every month, at full moon, the Boy King stands upon its rounded crest to call the river up from the sea. Or rather, every month but this one. Today he will call the waters from the prow of his dragon boat. The crown will be placed on his head as the tide surges upriver; after the coronation party and the wedding, the functionaries will depart in little shallow-bottomed river craft. Then those of us staying aboard will be on the way to Aquitan. Will the waters still rise a month from now, when they boy king is drinking fine champagne and watching operas in Lephare?

  Two strangers approach—one pale, one dark, but both in servants’ livery—and their presence shakes me out of my thoughts. I step back against the rail to let them pass, but the Aquitan man stops before us.

  “The last-minute guests? Friends of La Fleur,” he adds, not bothering to hide the puzzlement in his voice. He looks us up and down, his eyes lingering on my stained silk shoes, but I meet his gaze head-on, and he is the first to look away. “I am the majordome. If there are any problems on our journey, you will bring them to me. May I show you to your rooms? Cha, take the bags.”

  My face twists at the slur, but the majordome has already spun on his well-heeled dress boots. He steps crisply across the mahogany deck as the Chakran man bends to carry our packs. I keep hold of mine. I am tired, but I am strong, and something feels odd about slapping my last few fantouches into the hands of a stranger. Especially one who looks like he’s only barely made it aboard the ship himself. While his uniform is crisp and new, it hangs off his skinny body, and his eyes are hard and haunted.

  The majordome shows us to our little room—a berth below t
he top deck, with a tiny round window overlooking the water. The Chakran servant puts our bags down in the middle of the floor. They look like a pile of rags abandoned by a transient. “There’s only one bed,” the majordome says matter-of-factly. “The arrangements were very last minute.”

  “This will be fine,” Maman says. Is she smiling? I can feel it too—the sense of relief, bordering on wonder.

  I nod. “I can sleep on the floor.”

  “Bien.” The man’s face is carefully smooth. “I’ll have cha find you some extra bedding. The reception will start within the hour. As soon as you’ve freshened up, you’re invited back abovedecks.” He glances significantly at the washbasin in the corner, but I keep my face smooth too.

  Maman watches the door a long while after the men let it close behind them. “I never really thought it would happen,” she says softly. “There are so many people out there on the dock.”

  Papa puts his arms around her and kisses the top of her head. “It’s been a long road,” he says. Is that regret in his voice? It strikes a chord in me, and all of a sudden, I am back at the start of it all, in our grass shack at the base of the mountain, looking out the door at the mango tree.

  Deliberately, I drop my own bag to the floor and sit beside it, running my hand over the bundled fantouches. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to freshen up. This is my best dress now.”

  “Do what you can,” Papa says. “It’s our chance to catch the eye of La Fleur.”

  “Is there a stage on the ship?” Maman says. “A place for performances? The trip is a week or more. Surely the Playboy King will need entertainment.”

  “We can ask the majordome,” Papa says with a wry smile. “Any questions, he said.”

  “Any problems,” I correct. But Maman only laughs.

  “Once he sees what we can do, he’ll show more respect. Jetta.” She turns to me, her eyes shining. When had I last seen her so happy? “Do you want to come find the man?”

  I hesitate, thinking of the look on the majordome’s face. “Let me wash up a bit. Maybe clean my shoes.”

  “All right.” She takes Papa’s hand, almost floating as she leaves. Alone in the little room, I try to breath, to relax, but the air is too warm, tainted with the bitterness of fresh varnish. Somehow, without my parents there, the space seems smaller. It’s just as big as our roulotte, but there are no signs of life here—no fantouches hanging from the ceiling, no scraps of fabric scattered on the floor, no scratches in the paint on the clean white wall. The starkness is a fresh reminder of what we’ve left behind.

  I try to open the window, but the glass is fastened shut, so instead I turn to the basin. A porcelain bowl, painted with pink roses and set into a low wooden dresser. A metal ewer of water stands beside it. I pour some over my hands and scrub my face, my arms, even my neck, where sweat has beaded under my thick hair, but the water is lukewarm and only adds to the sticky feeling on my skin. Sweeping my hair up into a knot, I pull a few tendrils down to frame my face. Then I brush the dust from my shoes and smooth the wrinkles from my third-best skirt, but it is red raw silk. There is no way to hide the wear and the stains.

  I go to my pack for my makeup, something to make me feel less dirty. Less mundane. But opening the bag, I am met with a sea of vibrant scarlet: the scales of my dragon fantouche.

  “Shh,” I tell her as she wriggles. I try to dig around her, but she is too bulky, so I pull her out, emptying the whole bag onto the bed. The fantouches tumble out in a pile of silk and leather, paint and rivets; the dragon’s body unscrolls, a river of red and gold. But there too is my makeup—along with my combs, some ribbons, a necklace, my book of souls . . . and the envelope. I turn the letter over in my hand, wondering what Theodora has written. Will Leo ever read it?

  The sound of a violin drifts down like a memory, and I look up in wonder. But then another instrument joins in, deeper. A cello, perhaps, then a viola. The dragon flicks her tail. It is only a quartet, playing songs from Aquitan. The reception must be starting.

  With a sigh, I toss the letter back on the bed and turn to the vanity. I sharpen my cheekbones with the rouge, then paint on a winged line to deepen my eyes. I want to look dramatic—dangerous. But underneath the paint, my skin is bloodless and sallow. What I wouldn’t give for Tia’s skill with makeup. The thought floats through my head, as careless as an ember, and my hand falters. Where are the girls now? Did they make it through the fire?

  I turn from the mirror, no longer able to look myself in the eye. But as I pick up my bag to repack, there is a knock at the door. For a moment, I hesitate—but it must be the man with the bedding. “Come in,” I say, but the door is already opening.

  The man who slips into the room is wearing servants’ livery, though he is not a servant. My breath hitches in my chest. “Leo?”

  “Jetta.” He shuts the door behind his back, his eyes casting about the little room. When he turns to me, he pauses for just a moment. “You’re all dressed up.”

  “So are you.” Hope rises in me—unexpected, but warm. “Are you . . . are you working on the ship?”

  He grimaces, looking down at his livery. “I’m here for a job, but not this one. Where’s your family?”

  “Looking for the majordome. I never thought I’d see you again.” The words are bold, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  “No such luck.” His tone brings me up short, and though it’s only been a day, he looks different. Something about him, gone cold, or scared; there is no hint of the easy smile I’ve grown used to. He takes my hands and looks into my eyes. “You have to get off the ship.”

  “What?” My voice has gone up an octave. Leo puts his finger to my lips; I breathe the next word into his palm. “Explain.”

  Leo clenches his jaw. “The king won’t be going to Aquitan. The rifles we brought through the tunnels—they were bound for Le Rêve.”

  My eyes go wide. “How do you know?”

  “Because,” he says carefully. “I just helped bring them aboard in a case marked champagne.”

  It takes a moment to make sense of the words. When I do, my mouth falls open. Had I seen him on the dock? Among the group of servants carrying the last crate, loaded just before we came aboard? He’d walked right past me—past all of us who were dreaming of escape—and he’d sunk those dreams as if he’d blown a hole in the ship itself. Anger blazes red and hot. “How could you?”

  I shove him back, as hard as I can, and he reels, catching himself against the wall. The dragon lifts her head, her interest piqued, and I growl. “Go.” She needs no more urging; in an instant, she has bowled him to the floor.

  “Connard!” Leo struggles, but she is strong and fast—tail lashing, claws against his shoulders. She pins him to the decking. “What the hell is this, Jetta?”

  I kneel beside him, to look him in the eye. “Did you know about this when you made our deal?”

  “No, I swear! What is this thing?” He struggles with the dragon, and she clamps her jaws around his arm. He cries out, and I put my hand on her ridged back.

  “Gentle,” I say, and she loosens her grip—but only a little. “Why did you help them? You knew we were aboard this ship!”

  “It was the only way I could get word to you! I only just learned myself! Jetta, please!”

  “Tell me how to stop them!”

  “If I knew how, I would have tried!” Leo’s eyes are wide; he glances between me and the dragon. “My god, Jetta, what are you?”

  The question shakes me—the same question the monk had made me ask Maman. I sit back on my heels, breathing hard. As if she can sense my hesitation, the dragon eases back as well, though her tail is twitching across the floor. I open my mouth—but do I owe him an explanation? Then Leo answers his own question.

  “You’re one of them, aren’t you? A nécromancien. Like Le Trépas.”

  The name is a punch to the gut; suddenly, I can’t catch my breath. “I’m a shadow player,” I say softly—as much to him as to myself, but if it’
s not a lie, then it’s not the whole truth either. I clear my throat. “I’m just trying to get out of this place.”

  It’s so quiet in the room that I can hear him swallow. Distantly, the revelers clap for the quartet; a new melody floats down like a mist. Leo wets his lips. “Let me help you find a different way.”

  A laugh slips out—bitter and too loud. “Because our last deal went so well?” Then I take a breath, trying to slow my heart, to gather my thoughts. Leo is hard to pin down when it comes to his deals . . . but he’s good with his gun. “Help me stop the plot instead.”

  It seems so obvious, but he gives me that look—the one Maman gives me, the one I despise. “Jetta. That’s madness.”

  “No!” I say again, clenching my fists, struggling for control. “No. What’s madness is you thinking I would come so far and give so much just to turn away now.”

  I run my hand down his sides, around the back of his belt. There—the pistol. I pull it free. Leo laughs, half startled, half afraid. “You think you can take down a dozen men carrying the latest rifles?”

  “You could double my chances if you helped me.”

  “I am not going to watch you get shot.”

  “Stay here then.” I pause, considering. “But give me your uniform.”

  “Jetta—”

  I hold up the gun, and he falls silent. But when he raises a hand toward the buttons, the dragon tightens her grip, her carved claws pricking the fabric. “Let him,” I tell her, and she relaxes.

  “Trade secrets,” Leo mutters, shrugging off the red jacket. “I should have asked what trade. I should have known from the night we left La Perl. From Eduard. From the show!”