by Heidi Heilig
His mother, I do not say. The woman you left alone with your gun. Was Theodora right? Was Legarde as bereft as Leo at her death?
But if he thinks about her, he does not show it. “A shadow player from Luda,” he murmurs. My heart drops—the recherche. “A girl and her mother, if I recall correctly. We’ve met before.”
“Yes, sir.” Inside I am cursing, but I paint gratitude on my face thick as stage makeup. “You remember my little performance. Strings the thinness of a spider’s web. You gave me five étoile. Thank you, sir. Thank you.”
I bow low, but his expression does not change. “That same night, did you happen to meet Capitaine Legarde?”
“Not that I recall,” I lie, and a smile touches his lips, then fades.
“I will telegram him to ask,” he says then—a warning. But hadn’t Siris said the telegraph building was damaged in the fire? How long would it take to repair? I widen my eyes, just a little, as though I’m confused.
“Yes, sir?”
Legarde watches me for a long time. But I do not break—never show, never tell. Finally, he nods a little, and relief nearly makes my knees buckle. But then he motions to the guards. “Show her back to the cell.”
“To the cell?” Panic rises in my chest, sharp and strangling. “But I’m not a rebel!”
“I know,” Legarde says. He sips from the glass of water as the soldiers clamp their hands like vises on my arms. Gone is my stiff back, my brave face. I make them drag me down the hall, fighting the whole way. My own screams are answered in a chorus from the cells as we pass.
I should have given Leo to the general, told Legarde everything I knew. But would it have mattered? He believed me, he said so—I saw it on his face. But he hadn’t brought me out to hear that I was innocent . . . only to learn who else was guilty.
Who was the person of interest who left with Leo? Another rebel? If I’d made a different choice aboard Le Rêve, it could have been us.
Maman and Papa are both waiting, breathless and afraid, as the guards throw me back through the door. We cling to one another, and I don’t know which of us is comforting the other.
“What did he say?” Papa murmurs into my hair, his voice like a rasp over bark. “What’s going to happen?”
“They’re letting us out in the morning,” I lie, and if they don’t believe me, no one says it. “Only one more night.”
At the door, the jailer clears his throat, but I’m grateful he doesn’t disagree aloud. He lingers in the doorway though the soldiers have gone. “I like the singing,” he says at last, pulling a metal flask from his jacket and setting it on the floor.
I snatch it up as he shuts the door. It’s cool and slick in my shaking hands and nearly half full. At first I wonder if it’s liquor, but when I unscrew the cap, I can smell the sweet, pure scent of water. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done to pass the flask to my father. But Papa only gives it to Maman with a gentle smile. She hands it back to me, and I shake my head. “You first. The general gave me some,” I lie.
She takes a drink so deep I can almost hear it—the sound of water rushing by, like the rising tide as the king called the sea, or the floodwater through the lava tunnel as I stood at the broken stone lip. But then Maman hands the bottle to Papa. He only takes a sip. We pass the flask between us, alone again with the dark. At least for tonight, we have one another.
* * *
Sent at 0207h
General Legarde at Nokhor Khat
To: Capitaine Legarde at Luda
REGARDING THE RECHERCHE FOR JETTA OF
THE ROS NAI STOP ELABORATE ON HER CRIMES
STOP WHAT HAS SHE DONE
Sent at 0312h
General Legarde at Nokhor Khat
To: Capitaine Legarde at Luda
REGARDING THE RECHERCHE FOR JETTA OF
THE ROS NAI STOP ELABORATE ON HER CRIMES
STOP WHAT HAS SHE DONE STOP CONFIRM
RECEIPT
* * *
* * *
To the very excellent and puissant king Antoine,
by the grace of God Le Roi d’Aquitan;
Cher Antoine,
We are at a crucial juncture with the rebellion. The King of Chakrana has been kidnapped under a false flag. As a result, the locals believe the armée attempted his assassination. To make matters worse, there was an unfortunate clash between the 314th Battalion and the local population just a few days north of the capital. There is growing unrest in the city, and I have reports of the rebel ranks swelling.
Quite a few officers fell during the kidnapping, and my men are spread thin. Our priority is to find the king. If the rebels spirit him into the countryside, it will be a heavy blow to our authority here.
I will prove your faith in me is not misplaced, but I would appreciate monetary demonstration of your confidence.
À Votre Service,
General Julian Legarde
* * *
Act 3,
Scene 31
Inside the prison. Darkness looms above the jailer’s station, just out of reach of the meager light of the lantern. Drifting through the gloom, we hear Samrin’s song, sung low. The jailer is asleep in his chair, feet up on the altar that makes up his desk.
Three Aquitan soldiers approach: a capitaine, a soldat, and an adjutant, all in uniform. The two junior men are not yet accustomed to the walk of the soldiers—they are so new, their boots still squeak—but the capitaine strides forward, his lips twisted in a permanent frown from the scar that puckers one cheek. Reaching the desk, he claps his hands loudly, an inch from the sleeping jailer’s nose. The man startles awake, tipping backward in his chair with a cry. Then he scrambles to his feet with an awkward salute, which the capitaine barely acknowledges.
JAILER: Bonsoir, capitaine.
CAPITAINE: Good morning, you mean. I’m here for the puppeteers.
JAILER: So early?
CAPITAINE: The questioneur is ready. Why delay? The information they give us may lead us to the king.
JAILER: Of course, capitaine.
He picks up the keys, but the capitaine snatches them out of his hand.
CAPITAINE: Just tell me the cell number. I wouldn’t want your chair to get cold.
JAILER (shamefaced): Twenty-seven, capitaine.
In response, the capitaine takes the man’s lantern and turns on one heel, leaving the jailer in the dark. He leads his soldiers past the carved stone pillars and into the long hall. In the cells, the prisoners murmur and moan at the sound of their footsteps. The capitaine responds by riling them up, slamming his fist on each door as he passes.
CAPITAINE: Teh-toa! Shut up in there!
The prisoners call back with curses and screams; soon there is a cacophony in the prison. Reaching cell twenty-seven, the capitaine swings the door open. Inside, Meliss and Samrin huddle in the corner, but Jetta scrambles to her feet.
JETTA: What do you want now?
She sways as she stands, but her face is defiant, her fists balled in fury. Her anger fills the cell. The capitaine hesitates a moment. Then he nods to his companions.
CAPITAINE: Allez. Tie her.
Nervously, the soldiers approach. They take Jetta’s arms, but she jerks free to lunge at the capitaine. The adjutant cuffs her on the jaw; she reels and the capitaine swears. But Jetta looks up at him, her hand on her cheek.
JETTA: Are you here to shoot us, or to save us, brother?
Puzzled, the adjutant turns, right into the capitaine’s fist.
Chapter Twenty-Four
In my heart, rage and relief mix—a sickening concoction, though I have no time to be ill. As the adjutant stumbles back against the wall, the soldat reaches for his gun—but Akra is quicker. He elbows the man in the face, and I wrest his weapon from his belt. The adjutant lurches back into the fray, but stops when I aim the gun between his eyes. The lantern swings wildly from his fist, throwing shadows across the stone. His eyes are wide and white in the dark. I do not shoot, and he does not move, until Akra strike
s him across the back of his head with the butt of his own weapon.
The adjutant slumps to the floor beside the soldat, lantern oil leaking out across the stone. Around us, the prisoners continue their wild cacophony. The fight can’t have lasted more than thirty seconds, but my heart is louder than any drum and the taste of blood still fills my mouth. I wait for the sound of footsteps—the jailer, more soldiers—but nothing comes. Then I turn to Akra, and my heart falters.
In the dim light from the hall, the harsh set of his jaw is smoothed into shadow. He looks more like he did when he left two years ago—nothing like the man with the gun on the dock. Still, I cannot bring myself to reach for him.
Maman does, though, springing at him with a cry, pressing her face into his chest, clinging to the strap of his bandolier. “I thought we’d lost you,” she murmurs. “I thought you were gone.”
“How did you find us?” Papa says, breathless. He is still leaning against the wall—too weak even to stand. But the lines of pain around his eyes have eased into a wan smile. Akra leans down to touch his face, to inspect his arm.
“I saw you on the ship,” my brother murmurs. The words are quiet as a closing door.
“I saw you too.” My own hands are slick on the butt of the stolen gun. Could I have shot the soldier with it, as Akra shot the refugee? “I had hoped I was wrong.”
“Why were you aboard Le Rêve?” My brother’s face is unreadable in the dark—but is that an accusation in his tone?
Before I can answer, another sound drifts in above the strange symphony of the men in the cells: the low clanging of a gong. Akra stiffens, standing. “What’s that?” I ask.
“The city alarm,” he says, his voice brusque. “We have to hurry.”
“An alarm?” A chill goes up my spine; I glance at the soldiers, out cold on the stone floor. “For this?”
“I don’t know,” Akra says. “But we’re not staying to find out. Come.” He goes to the door, drawing his gun and peeking into the hall. “It’s clear. For now.”
“What about the jailer?” I ask. “How are we going to get past him?”
“I’d hoped to get you all outside before starting this little fight.” Akra nudges the adjutant with his boot. “But we have his lantern, and the guns. The cordon sanitaire will be more of a challenge.”
My heart beats faster. “What do you mean, a cordon?”
“Since the attack on the king, there’s been trouble in the capital. Rebels and riots. The armée is lined up to protect the palace block, and the temple along with it. We could go up and over the ridge behind the temple,” he adds. Then, with a glance at Papa, “Or, three of us could.”
It takes me a moment to understand. His words shock me—so cold, so simple. “Akra . . .”
But he turns to me quickly, his eyes gleaming. “If you have a better suggestion, out with it.”
My mouth hangs open as I try to come up with a plan—shooting our way past the guards, out across the plaza, carrying Papa between us. Then what, if we made it that far? Through the cordon? To the city streets? Past the manned gate? Or down into the tunnel, where the dead man stands guard? I shudder, but Papa wouldn’t make it down those stairs, either.
I do not answer—but Papa does. “It’s a good plan, Akra, but don’t forget the costumes.” He nods toward the fallen soldiers. “Jetta, you and Meliss take the uniforms. Quickly. And pull your hair under the caps.”
I swallow—despite the water, my mouth is dry. “What about you, Papa?”
He smiles a little. “I’d like to rest here awhile. It’s been a very long road.”
Akra takes a deep breath, though he doesn’t protest—none of us do. But my brother holds out his hand to me, his palm open. I stare at it, unsure what he wants, but he only repeats the gesture. “What?”
“Give me the gun,” he says, but I hesitate, so he takes it from me and tucks it into Papa’s hands, wrapping his fingers around the weapon. Then he stands. “Get dressed, Jetta.”
I frown. “Why the gun?”
“Get dressed.”
“Akra—”
Quick as a bullet, he grabs my arm and pulls me close to his ear. “You want me to leave him with no way out? They sent me here to bring you to the questioneur.”
I yank my arm free of his grasp—my skin is crawling at his touch. How many others has he walked to their deaths? I want to yell at him, to spit in his face. But I don’t . . . because I don’t have another solution. Still, I remember the voices—Help me—and the rebel’s bodies cut to ribbons and left on the side of the road. Then Papa’s voice chases the echoes away.
“Long the hours through till dawn,” he sings. “We cannot wait, we carry on.”
“Papa . . .”
“But if we stop, the midnight breeze will bring us rain and memories . . .”
“We’ll come back for you.” I throw my arms around his neck and make promises I don’t know how to keep. “We’ll come back.”
He pulls me close to his heart for just a moment. I can feel it beating through the thinness of his shirt—the heart we share, if not the blood. Then, so gently, he lifts me from his neck and pushes me toward the door. His smile never falters, nor does his song. It carries us up to the light as we leave him behind in the shadows.
My vision is blurring, but I keep my face impassive, staring over Akra’s shoulder as we stride down the hall. To my right, Maman does the same thing, her eyes as hollow as dead shells. We walk like soldiers to the altar, though my feet slide in my stolen boots. None of us acknowledges the jailer as we approach. The man salutes nervously as Akra sets the dark lantern down with the keys on his desk. “You’re out of oil,” my brother says coldly, as though it is the man’s fault. He is still a good actor.
“Sorry, capitaine,” the jailer responds, shifting on his feet, but Akra has already turned to leave. Maman and I scramble to follow. “Sir!” the jailer calls as we depart, but Akra doesn’t even slow down. “What about the prisoners?”
“Still in the cell, blaireau!” Akra throws the words over his shoulder like étoiles to a ragman. “You think I have time for them now? Don’t you hear the alarm?”
If the jailer is suspicious, he doesn’t dare show it; we walk out of the prison unmolested. The guards at the main door even salute as we pass. Beside me, Maman shudders as we leave the temple behind—is she relieved or hurting? She does not say. She does not say anything—but my own heart is breaking. I was so foolish to think we had nothing else to leave behind.
Akra does not falter. The gong is still sounding, and people are running to and fro in the dark streets. Uniformed soldiers and half-dressed citizens, some heading toward the fort, others toward the palace, others every which way. But as a young soldier crosses our path, Akra seizes him by the arm. “What’s going on?”
“The rebels, capitaine!” The man gives him a nervous salute. “They’ve set off bombs all over the city!”
Akra swears. “How many?”
“Half a dozen reported. The soldiers are sweeping the streets, but the locals are angry. We might have another riot on our hands.”
With another muffled curse, Akra releases the soldier, who stumbles off toward his post. “The rebels have bought us some time,” he mutters as he leads toward the street. I have to jog to keep up. “But the fort will be overrun. I’d hoped to steal some horses there.”
“For what?”
Akra looks at me askance. “We have to get out of the city.”
“And go where?” Maman says. The words are distant, numb. “Where is there to go?”
“Into the jungle,” Akra says. “Away from the armée. We can make our way north,” he adds then, his voice wistful—and there he is again, the boy who was my brother. “Back home.”
I cannot bring myself to tell him the truth—that the home he remembers is not ours anymore. But Maman speaks instead. “We should try the docks. We could sneak onto a boat.”
“The docks are past the cordon,” Akra says grimly. “And afte
r the riots, all the ships pulled anchor and retreated to the bay.”
He turns on his heel, heading away from the heart of the city, toward the ridge of the caldera that rises behind Hell’s Court. As we scramble to follow, Maman’s face twists—her footsteps falter. And I know, suddenly. Leaving Chakrana was never about the cure. At least not entirely. Even all these years later, Maman was still trying to escape Le Trépas.
We pass the dark heap of the temple and make our way through the ruined garden. As we get farther from the plaza, from the court and the confusion, the sounds of the city fade, muffled by the foliage, though the distant ringing of the gong continues like the beat of a metal heart. Stone statues peek out of dense camellias and sprays of ginger; there are souls here too—flitting through the still air. Sweat beads on my brow as I watch for a hint of blue fire, for anything following us, but mercifully nothing comes.
Near the ridge, the ground slopes gently up, until the overgrown garden turns into a tangle of jungle. But rather than plunge inside, Akra leads us along the tree line. Though the shadows are deep and the armée is busy, I still feel exposed. “Where are we going, Akra?”
“There’s a path,” he says. “Halfway up the side of the ridge.”
“A path? For who?”
“The armée,” he says. “There’s a workshop up there. We can find supplies. Maybe guns. The jungle will be dangerous, Jetta.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Do you think I don’t know that?”
But he doesn’t respond. He only keeps walking, leaving me glaring at his back. Soon enough, the track appears: an opening in the jungle that leads to a rocky switchback road climbing up the side of the ridge. We make our way upward, keeping close to the side, under the shadows of the trees, and soon I am panting, light-headed. A week ago, the climb would have been easy, but lack of food, of sleep and water—all of it is a weight on my back.
