A Kingdom for a Stage Read online

  Dedication

  To the rebels

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Cast of Characters

  Act 1

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Act 1, Scene 5

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Act 1, Scene 8

  Chapter Nine

  Act 1, Scene 10

  Chapter Eleven

  Act 1, Scene 12

  Chapter Thirteen

  Act 1, Scene 14

  Chapter Fifteen

  Act 2

  Act 2, Scene 16

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Act 2, Scene 20

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Act 2, Scene 24

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Act 3

  Act 3, Scene 26

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Act 3, Scene 28

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Act 3, Scene 31

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Act 3, Scene 34

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Act 3, Scene 36

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Act 3, Scene 38

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Heidi Heilig

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Cast of Characters

  The Chantray Family

  Jetta Chantray. A shadow player and nécromancien.

  Akra Chantray. Her brother, once a capitaine, now a deserter from the armée.

  Samrin Chantray. Her adoptive father, whose stage career ended when the Aquitan questioneurs cut off his tongue.

  Meliss Chantray. Her mother, a flautist and drummer.

  The Chakrans

  The Tiger. The ruthless and mysterious leader of the rebellion.

  The Boy King. Raik Alendra, the only known survivor of La Victoire, and heir to the throne of Chakrana.

  Leo Rath. A mixed-race violinist, half brother to Xavier and Theodora Legarde.

  Cheeky Toi. A showgirl who took refuge with the rebels after the fight at Luda.

  Tia LaLarge. A singer and impersonator who fled Luda with Cheeky.

  Mei Rath. Leo’s mother, a chanteuse and Julian Legarde’s mistress before she died.

  Le Trépas. The nécromancien who fought the Aquitans, using the souls of his own people.

  The Aquitans

  General Xavier Legarde. The new young leader of the Aquitan armée in Chakrana.

  Theodora Legarde. Feted as the most beautiful woman in Chakrana, she is also the armée’s scientist, and was engaged to the Boy King.

  Lieutenant Armand Pique. Given a desk job after leading retaliatory attacks against Chakran villagers, he is the most experienced officer left in Chakrana.

  Antoine “Le Fou.” The mad emperor of Aquitan.

  Act 1

  To Jetta of the Ros Nai

  We accept your offer. Your skills will be of great value to the rebellion.

  Wait where you are.

  Chapter One

  I used to dream of seeing my name on posters all over Nokhor Khat. But those dreams included words like CELEBRATED SHADOW PLAYER and SOLD-OUT PERFORMANCE, rather than WANTED ALIVE.

  The flyers are papered all over the city—including the gates, where the armée guards search everyone going in or out for a scar like mine. Papa used to say there was no such thing as bad publicity, but I haven’t told him our family name is on a recherche. Though there is a bitter sort of pride in being more infamous than the leader of the rebellion himself. The armée offers just ten thousand sols for the Tiger.

  Of course, the rebel leader is only wanted for treason, sabotage, and murder. Freeing Le Trépas was easily worse than all three combined. It’s the one crime I’m accused of that I hadn’t meant to commit. Despite my malheur, not even I am so insane.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  I startle at my brother’s harsh whisper, looking down at the message I’ve scribbled on the blank back of the recherche. I have asked much the same question in my note to the Tiger. It’s been more than three weeks since I received his letter, and I’ve grown tired of waiting. Carefully I fold the recherche into the shape of a bird, ready to fly at my bidding. But when Akra holds out his hand, I shake my head. “I still have to put a soul inside.”

  I speak softly, not wanting to disturb Papa as he sleeps in the dank corner of our little lean-to; he is still healing from General Legarde’s torture. But Akra has no trouble hearing me. His lip twists—a smile or a grimace? It’s hard to tell with the scar that stitches up his chin. One of many, though none so ugly as the angry knot at the base of his throat. Such a small thing—no bigger than a bullet. But the sight of it is a constant reminder of the way he died—and the way I brought him back. “There must be something dead nearby,” he says.

  My brother makes a vague gesture around the small room, though he cannot see the little vana buzzing in circles in the air—the souls of mosquitoes—or the arvana of the mice that crawl through our meager provisions. At least I don’t think he can. My own brush with death had been the catalyst for my abilities to see spirits, but Akra is reticent to talk about what happened to him at Hell’s Court. To be honest, so am I.

  The memories haunt me: treason, sabotage, murder. But the recherche doesn’t list my worst crime: stopping my brother’s spirit on its way to the next life and tucking it back into his broken body. Sometimes I count us lucky that his wounds healed . . . that his heart still beats . . . that he lives again. But then I see the haunted look in his hollow eyes.

  “No birds, though,” I say aloud. It isn’t even a lie. “But it won’t take me long to find one. Don’t worry, Akra. I’ll come right back.”

  “I’ll come with you,” he says, standing at the same time I do.

  We hesitate before the doorway, half bent under the low roof of the shack. I narrow my eyes, but he doesn’t back down. “Why?” I ask.

  Now he looks away, glancing out through the crack between the curtain and the doorframe. My palms start to sweat in the silence. Does he know what I’m planning? Akra is leery of the rebels, and they don’t like him much either. My brother had been a capitaine in the Aquitan armée until quite recently; his desertion only painted him a traitor to both sides. Even though joining the rebellion is our best chance to escape the city and reunite with Maman, I doubt he’ll approve of my plan to get the Tiger’s attention. Which is why I need to go alone.

  “There’s something in the air tonight,” he says at last, and I hold my breath on my sigh of relief. “I have a bad feeling, Jetta.”

  “Come on, Akra.” I scoff to mask my own nerves. “You know I’m the most dangerous thing in the slums.”

  “Not if Le Trépas is out there too.”

  The name chills me; I do my best to suppress a shiver. In the corner, Papa stirs in his sleep. “If he is, there’s nothing either of us can do about it. And what if Papa wakes up and needs help with something?”

  “I thought you said we were coming right back.”

  I fold my arms, but my brother folds his. The words dance on the tip of my tongue: Stay here. An order. I bite them back. I may have given him life, but my brother is not just another fantouche for me to control.

  “Please,” I say instead. “I just need to get some fresh air. Some space. I’m going
crazy in here.”

  The word hangs between us. Crazy. Will it work? Akra narrows his eyes, weighing the threat of Le Trépas against the lurking presence of my malheur. At last he steps back with a half bow, gesturing toward the curtain. As I reach for the tattered cloth that hangs over the doorway, Papa stirs again.

  “Jetta?”

  I turn back, my heart squeezing at the sound of Papa’s voice. He doesn’t speak these days—at least, not while he’s wide-awake. He’s too ashamed of the way the words slur and melt in his mouth, of the cloth he has to hold near his chin to catch the saliva. I hadn’t heard him say my name in weeks. Not since Legarde’s questioneurs cut out his tongue.

  Treason. Sabotage. Murder. When the litany makes an endless refrain in my head, I tell myself that General Legarde deserved what he got.

  Kneeling beside Papa, I touch his shoulder, trying to ignore the sunken skin under his collarbones. He used to be a barrel-chested man. “Yes?”

  Reaching up to grasp my hand, his three fingers slip into mine. His eyes flutter open and he smiles, and that, at least, has not changed. But he doesn’t say anything else. I stroke his forehead—blessedly cool—and he closes his eyes again. Still, I can’t help but smile back. He said my name. That’s progress, right?

  I can feel minutes passing, like ants crawling down my arm. Escape is important—the rebellion is important. But not as important as the people I love. So I wait till Papa’s breathing grows deep and even before I release his hand. Then I duck under the curtain, avoiding Akra’s stare, hoping I haven’t delayed too long.

  * * *

  To the leader of the rebellion,

  It has been three weeks.

  You may be content to wait, but I am not.

  Keep an eye on the next supply ship from Aquitan. I will expect your prompt thanks in person.

  Jetta Chantray

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  Picking my way toward the meeting place, I run the creases of the letter through my fingers. Bold words for something still undone, but confidence has always been one of the hallmarks of my malheur. My hand falls to the fold of my belt, where the glass bottle makes a rounded shape under the tattered silk. The feel of it comforts me, though there’s nothing left inside. Last week I’d gone to half doses, trying to stretch the remaining drops, but they ran out two days ago, with no way to get more. It’s too bad. After a month of the treatment, I had only just begun to discover who I might be beneath the pall of my madness.

  I wish I’d had a chance to show Leo.

  Quickly I push the stray thought out of my head. Leo had fled when he’d seen the worst of me—or of my malheur. No sense in wishing him back for the best. Especially since that had been a limited engagement.

  Better to focus on the plan. It’s simple enough—isn’t it? The supply ships from Aquitan come every few weeks, carrying victuals or uniforms, guns or reinforcements. The last one came just after Hell’s Court fell, so another must be on its way. It’s easy enough to ensoul a few stones with the souls of turtles and send them to smash the ship’s wooden hull. All I need to know is when it will arrive. Souls tire eventually, and they can’t wait in the bay forever.

  I stick to the shadows, ducking my head against the drizzle. I used to love the rain: the smell of it, the rhythm, the rush and percussion of a song that played the whole rainy season. But that was back in Lak Na, under the snug grass thatch of the cottage I grew up in. Here, in the slapdash colony of sheds and shelters propped precariously along the muddy riverbank, the weather is much harder to enjoy. The dampness is pervasive—the streets run with mud and muck even when the sky is clear, and the breeze from the nearby bay cannot overcome the smell of the waste and sweat of hundreds of refugees.

  But despite the thickness of the air, the filthy street glitters gold with the light of the souls. Vana, and arvana too, like drops of flame: the souls of rats, still scurrying in corners as they did in life. Even a few birds perched on the edges of the huts—the ghosts of gulls, looking for trash. They gleam like paper lanterns, like fallen stars. I slip the pin from the hem of my belt, pricking my finger and calling to the nearest gull. As she spreads her wide wings, I marvel . . . not at the eager way she dives into the new flesh of the folded page. But at how bold I’ve grown, to use forbidden magic on the open stage of the street. Of course, between the armée’s curfew and the fear of Le Trépas, I have no audience so late at night.

  The letter flutters in my hand as the gull gets used to her new body. Should I send the message now, while the dark can hide her journey out of the city? No, best to wait till the show is over to take a bow. I tuck the letter in my belt, beside the elixir, as I reach the crossroads where I’d arranged to meet the fouilleur. Nothing special—only the intersection of two crooked alleys in the slum. Just like any other, aside from the four parallel ruts dug into the mud of the street.

  The sign of the Tiger. I’ve seen it more and more these days—slashed into hems or scratched onto walls. I doubt that even half of the people who draw it are committed to the rebellion, but it belies a growing sentiment—if not for the Tiger, then at least against the Aquitans.

  But where is the fouilleur? I grimace at the sky; it is already starting to blush. Has he come and gone, leaving the symbol behind to let me know he’d been there?

  No—as I wait, he slips soundlessly from the shadows, and I am surprised all over again by how small he is. No older than ten, and short for his age, he reminds me of a rose finch: tiny and sharp-eyed and ready to fly away on a breath. “Good morning,” he says, with a wry glance at the lightening sky.

  “Is it so late?” I duck my head in a little bow, an apology, and gesture down at myself: bedraggled hair, stained sarong, muddy feet. “I was getting my beauty rest.”

  He snorts—the closest I’ve ever seen to a laugh from the boy. Then he holds out his hand. “As long as I get my breakfast.”

  I drop a few étoiles into his palm, taken from our own small stash. Not that I begrudge the boy his coins. The fouilleurs spend their time finding things to sell and people who can buy, and neither is easy in the slums—especially when what is being brokered is armée information.

  But when the coins disappear into his dirty belt, he turns down the path. “Come with me.”

  I balk at the command. “For what?”

  “For the shipping schedule,” he says, as though the answer was obvious.

  “You can’t just tell me?”

  “I don’t know it,” he says. “But I know someone who does.”

  Wetting my lips, I hesitate—this wasn’t the deal. But he already has my coins, and unless I want to hunker down with a spyglass for a long wait, I need to know when the ship is coming. “Who is it?” I say at last, but the boy’s eyes glitter.

  “No names,” he says. His eyes flick to the shawl that covers the scar on my shoulder. “Unless you want to tell me yours first.”

  I resist the urge to check that my shawl hasn’t slipped. Has he guessed who I am? Akra and I had come to the slums for the anonymity—everyone here must be cautious. Though most of the residents claim to be fleeing the crossfire between the armée and the rebellion in the jungle, I’m certain some of the prisoners who escaped Hell’s Court have found their way here. Not to mention the Chakran men growing out their short hair and hiding their pale bare feet with mud—men like my brother, who deserted the armée. But no matter where the residents have come from, we have one thing in common: a hatred of the Aquitans.

  Even if the boy knew who I was, he wouldn’t tell them. Not least because they’d never give a Chakran that kind of reward money.

  “No need,” I say at last. “Show me the way.”

  The fouilleur turns, leading me down the twisting streets, mud and worse squelching beneath our feet. The shantytown runs almost to the dock, where boats full of sugar or sapphires used to trade berths almost daily with armée ships full of supplies and soldiers. But the traffic has slowed to a trickle ever since the fire that ended
my own bid to escape to Aquitan.

  And here, listing on the riverbank amid the ramshackle hovels, is the charred hulk of the boat that would have carried me across the sea. It is battered and burned and stripped of all its finery, but lacquer still gleams on the proud red scales of the dragon head at the prow of Le Rêve. The sight of it shames me. I had pushed past a hundred other refugees to climb aboard, none of them less desperate or worthy—only less lucky.

  Or so it had seemed at the time.

  Now the sad remains of the wreck are caught up in a stand of mangroves, gently rising and falling with the tide. The people in the slums claim it is haunted, but the only soul I see nearby is the fat, lazy spirit of a crocodile on the bank. Still, the rumor leaves the cove deserted: the foullieur and I are alone.

  “Where?” I say, scanning the streets for someone waiting in the shadows.

  But the boy jerks his chin at the ship. “In there.”

  Squinting at the broken boat, it takes me another moment to realize that the dim light gleaming from a hole in the hull is not the flickering flame of a spirit, but the clear steady glow of a lamp. I give the boy one last look, but he’s already starting back into the slums. The tide is out, so I step from the muddy bank into the fetid bilge. Here, rounded ballast stones rise like skulls out of the murky water. The lamplight shines from a trapdoor above. As I climb the ladder, I feel it—the premonition Akra mentioned. A sense of impending doom. Suddenly I don’t feel dangerous at all.

  Then a hand reaches down through the hatch, ready to take my own, and by the gesture alone, I know who is waiting above. The curve of his fingers seems meant for the slender neck of a violin.

  A wild thought—I can still turn and run. Back to the lean-to, to Akra and Papa, to the safe anonymity of the slum. But then his face appears in the frame of the hatch, and his lips move, and though I can read my name on them, all I hear Leo saying is “Au revoir.”

  Chapter Three