On This Unworthy Scaffold Read online

  “‘Know your enemy,’” I translate, with a sense of satisfaction—I don’t know much old Chakran, but I’ve been studying. “It’s part of the proverb. ‘Know your enemy and know yourself, and you’ll have nothing to fear.’”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Cam snaps. “Come away!”

  Annoyed, I take a breath to retort, just as the corpse wraps blue fingers around my wrist. Blinking, I pull back, but his grip is like a shackle. The dead man grins. Metal shines dully behind his yellow teeth. Someone has stuffed a grenade where his tongue used to be.

  As the corpse pulls the pin with his free hand, the armée men scramble. A shot rings out; the body jerks, but bullets can’t kill the dead.

  Everyone is shouting, swearing. Leo calls my name as he races toward us. Frantically, I haul back, feet slipping in the mud; my heart pounds as I fumble for my knife. How much time do I have? Not long enough to cut myself free, but I don’t need to. Sliding the blade across the tip of my finger, I mark a bloody new symbol on the corpse’s own wrist: death. A flash of light—the soul flees—the bruised fingers go slack.

  Suddenly off-balance, I topple into the paddy. Muddy water closes over my head. Gasping and coughing, I scramble to my feet. I can’t see, but the smell of curdled blood fills my nose. Akra’s voice echoes in my ears. “Run, Jetta!”

  But which direction?

  Wiping my face with my wet sleeve, I open my eyes just in time to see Fontaine throw himself over the corpse, pressing the body into the muck. The explosion throws gore and mud over me in a wave of wet heat. I stumble away with a splash, my ears ringing in the blast. As I sit, stunned, rain falls gently around me . . . not water, but blood.

  * * *

  FOR IMMEDIATE DISPERSAL

  1er Octobre

  By order of King Antoine of Aquitan, all officers are commanded to bring their remaining men to Nokhor Khat to assist in the deportation directives given by King Raik Alendra of Chakrana.

  The Prix de Guerre shall be immediately supplied and outfitted to bring our people home at all speed. Gather your men at once and report to the docks in Nokhor Khat.

  Capitaine Xavier Legarde

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  “Jetta!” Leo’s frantic voice is far off. Muffled. Dazed, I take a breath to shout back. Then I feel a hand on my shoulder. He’s already at my side. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m . . . fine,” I murmur, though I can hardly believe it myself. Aside from the ringing in my ears and the nick on my finger, I am unhurt. If Le Trépas meant to kill me, he’d failed miserably. A wild laugh bubbles up my throat. One of the soldiers whips his head around at the sound, his face speckled with blood. The lieutenant’s blood.

  Fontaine is certainly dead, and the last soldier is wounded. As Leo helps me out of the mud, my heart races, my thoughts returning again and again to Fontaine’s grim face as he shielded me from the blast. Why?

  “What?” Leo eases me down on the dry berm, taking out a handkerchief to dab the mud from my eyes. I blink at him through the drifting souls as they cluster. They are drawn to my blood, so hungry for life. The lieutenant’s soul is among them, a silent pillar of fire. Does he regret his sacrifice? “Why what?” Leo says again; only then do I realize I’ve spoken aloud.

  “Why would he save me?” I say softly, passing a shaking hand through the golden light that is all that’s left of Fontaine.

  “Because he thought you could save us,” one of the soldiers says through his teeth. With a grunt, he lays his companion down on the dry soil beside me. The man moans weakly, his left leg covered in blood.

  “Any Aquitan who joins us has clemency,” Camreon begins, but the first soldier whirls, his teeth bared.

  “And what of the rest?” He wipes the blood from his face, his eyes wild, and suddenly I wonder what else the soldiers had seen at the plantation. “The ones who don’t trust you, or don’t know who the hell you are?”

  “They’re probably better off going back to Aquitan,” Camreon says mildly, but the soldier laughs bitterly, looking back over the bloody water.

  “Perhaps that’s true,” he says darkly. “But they’ll be lucky if even half of them survive the journey.”

  Leo looks up from his fussing. “Why is that?”

  “The Prix de Guerre is a cargo ship,” the soldier replies. “She may be able to fit a thousand refugees, but not to feed them. I don’t know what General Legarde is thinking.”

  At the name, Leo goes absolutely still, and my own heart stutters. The other soldier groans. “Teh-twa, Matthieu.”

  Matthieu ignores him. “No victuals, no medical. And low on coal, so the journey will take twice as long as it should!”

  “General Legarde?” With needless care, Leo folds his filthy handkerchief. His voice is so quiet I can barely hear it—or is that only the ringing in my ears? “Are you certain?”

  The soldier scoffs. “Who else would be giving orders that will get us all killed?”

  The answer comes to me immediately: Le Trépas. But Leo is more circumspect. “I killed my brother in the battle of the valley,” he says grimly. “Whoever is leading the armée now is not the same man.”

  Matthieu spits into the water. “Legarde might be a terrible general, but I think even the officers would notice if he’d started rotting at his desk.”

  Leo stands abruptly, tucking his handkerchief into his pocket and starting off toward the thatched huts that rise on bamboo stilts above the flood plain. “I’ll go get the docteur.”

  “I’ll come,” I say, starting after him, but Cam puts a heavy hand on my shoulder.

  “Sit down till the docteur checks you for a concussion,” he mutters. Then he raises his voice, calling after Leo. “Bring a cart and some shovels, as well! We’ll bury what’s left of Fontaine as honorably as we can. As for your surrender,” he adds, turning to the soldier, “I accept. We need all the help we can get.”

  Gritting my teeth, I watch Leo trudge through the paddy alone. My heart tugs in my chest like it’s trying to follow, but the guilt is a weight in my gut. I may not have resurrected Xavier Legarde myself, but it’s my fault just the same. I failed to stop Le Trépas when I had the chance. Even worse, the nécromancien escaped with a vial of my own blood. We had hoped he’d only had enough to raise the Boy King, but it seems he raised the general as well.

  Le Trépas told me once that the fighting wouldn’t end until the Aquitans were all dead, but I was never foolish enough to believe him. Once they are gone, the old nécromancien will turn on the rest of us. “Know your enemy,” he had written, and I do. Le Trépas is everyone’s enemy.

  I rub my wrist; I can still feel the corpse’s cold fingers there. Had the monk killed the Audrinnes as well? The guilt grows, pressing me into the mud, but it’s hard to imagine my old patrons dead or fleeing. Even during the famine of the Hungry Year, as the rebellion intensified, Madame’s riches had helped shield her from the effects of the very war such wealth had caused.

  My memories of performing shadow plays in her sitting room seem like a dream, vivid and nonsensical. Had I ever been a performer? An artist . . . a shadow player? The war has stripped away all the proof I’d had—our traveling roulotte, painted and carved, burned to ash. Our fantouches, some passed down from Papa’s ancestors, all but one lost as well. Maman’s instruments—the thom and the bird flute—left behind at Leo’s theater in Luda as we fled. The theater itself too, the last place we’d performed . . . destroyed by the armée.

  Suddenly I want, more than anything, to go back to Madame’s sitting room. To find the makeshift stage she ordered built and rebuilt every year; to peek around the side of the white silk scrim to see the gilded chairs lined up along the polished wooden floor. To hear the polite murmur of the audience turn into an expectant hush as they wait for the show to begin. To light the lamps, to raise my hands, to make my shadows dance across the screen.

  But if Le Trépas was there, the Audrinnes must be dead too. Or corpses, raised like the
prisoner was.

  Now the weight in my stomach turns to heat. I start to rise again, but Cam pushes me back down. “The docteur,” he reminds me, but I’m tired of waiting.

  “I’m fine!”

  “You may be unhurt,” the Tiger says quietly. “But you’re far from fine. Leo’s been watching you like a hawk, and you still almost managed to get yourself killed.”

  I blink at him. “He’s what?”

  “He’s trying to keep you safe,” Camreon says. “But he could use your help.”

  Taken aback, I stare after Leo, but he has vanished into the village. Was that why he hadn’t left my side the last few weeks? All of his tender attention—his constant care . . . was it love or duty?

  “I know I’ve been without my elixir,” I say with careful calm. “And I know you’re all worried about my malheur, but I also know my own mind, and I’m fine.”

  “I look forward to the docteur saying the same,” Camreon says, and though it takes all the composure I can muster, I sit back down to wait.

  When the docteur arrives at last, she treats the wounded soldier first, while Matthieu stares warily at the tattoos on her back. All of her sins, written on her skin in Old Chakran. She was a monk once. When the Aquitans were in power, she would have hidden the markings with long sleeves; the skin of her arms is still paler than the deep tan on her hands. Now she wears a Chakran sarong, and the light of the setting sun is like a blessing on her shoulders.

  Once the soldier has been loaded into the waiting cart, she turns to me, peering into my eyes and running her hands across my scalp. “Any ringing in your ears?”

  “No,” I say—it’s not exactly a lie. The ringing has faded into a thin whine. I could almost mistake it for a persistent mosquito. The docteur narrows her eyes.

  “Watch for nausea and dizziness,” she says. “But the real danger is a second blow to the head while you’re recovering. You should rest for a few days, just in case.”

  I can feel Camreon’s eyes on me, but I only grit my teeth. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say. “Can I go?”

  “Take the cart,” Camreon interjects, and it isn’t worth it to argue. The wounded soldier and I trundle back to the village at the pace of the placid water buffalo, while Cam and Matthieu stay behind to bury Fontaine.

  By the time we reach the village, the blood has dried on my skin, and flies are buzzing around me thicker than the souls. Leo is waiting for me in the village square, where preparations for a coronation feast are underway. “Are you all right?” he says, helping me down from the cart, and there’s nothing I want more than to fall into his arms.

  Instead, I hesitate. “Have you really been keeping an eye on me?”

  “Of course I have,” he replies easily. “It’s impossible to look away.”

  The flattery makes me laugh, especially as I stand stinking in my filthy sarong, and just like that, I am all right. After all, Leo has known about my malheur from the start—perhaps love and duty are not always in opposition.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?” He takes my hand, leading me toward the huts. The locals in Malao have welcomed us into their homes, giving Camreon the largest one, with three rooms separated by woven screens and curtained doors made of silk. The main area has been converted into a makeshift war room, with a map of Chakrana pinned to the wall and a scattering of soft pillows in the corners.

  Miu lounges among them—the fantastical dragon fantouche I had ensouled with the spirit of a kitten, the only fantouche I have left. When I step up through the hatch, she bounds toward me to bat at the flies that have followed me inside.

  Theodora’s greeting is much less effusive. “I’ll take it from here, Leonin.”

  She used to call him Leo, like I do; it was only their brother who called him by his full name. Leo doesn’t bother correcting her. He only steps back, letting Le Fleur herd me toward the sleeping quarters, where Cheeky is waiting with a stack of towels, a pot of water, and a furious expression.

  “Strip,” she says flatly.

  Peeling off my ruined outfit sarong, I give the showgirl a smile. “Shouldn’t there be music?”

  “Depends on what sound your head makes when I smack it,” Cheeky growls. “What on earth were you thinking? We run away from grenades, not toward!”

  “I didn’t know there was a grenade at the time,” I start, but she holds up a furious finger.

  “You didn’t know there wasn’t! Throw that out the window,” she adds as I try to find a place for the sarong. “It’s unsalvageable.”

  “You should see the other guy,” I say.

  “I think I do,” Cheeky says pointedly. “In your hair.”

  She wrinkles her nose as she picks something pink and gelatinous from my scalp. My stomach twists, and my smile falls away. “It’s Le Trépas’s fault,” I say as Cheeky dips a towel in the water. “He’s the one who sent the message.”

  “A little tip,” Cheeky says as she wipes blood from my brow. “From someone more experienced with creepy old men. You don’t have to accept every present they send.”

  Theodora folds her arms across her chest as Cheeky runs the cloth over my shoulders, muttering all the while. “Why did you get so close, Jetta?” Theodora asks. “Why did his message matter to you?”

  I look at her, surprised—isn’t it obvious to her? And if not, how can I possibly explain? The guilt I feel at his escape is a constant shadow—as is his lurking presence at the edge of my vision. Every time I close my eyes, I still see him falling, down, down, down. . . .

  “Because I have to stop him,” I say at last. Then I gasp as Cheeky pours water over my head—she hasn’t bothered to warm it. The filth runs down my back in rivulets, dripping through the springy bamboo slats.

  “Hard to do if you’re dead,” she says, and I snap.

  “If I had died, I might have been spared this conversation!”

  “If your own life doesn’t matter to you, what about your brother’s?” Cheeky’s question stops me short—and now I know why she’s so angry. “The minute you die, he does too. And what would your parents do then?”

  “My parents?” The girl knows how to hit where it hurts. “That was low.”

  “My apologies for reminding you that you have responsibilities beyond Le Trépas,” she says, with a smile like a knife. Her dark eyes flash as she dumps the rest of the water over the stains on the floor. “Try to remember it yourself next time.”

  Tossing the dirty towels in the basins, she carries it all out with a huff. My shoulders sag, the wind taken out of me, but Theodora isn’t finished. “We’re not strong enough yet to take the monk on face-to-face,” she says, handing me a clean towel.

  “So Camreon says.” How many times have I heard this over the last three weeks? “But the longer we wait, the stronger Le Trépas gets.”

  “I don’t think that’s true,” Theodora says mildly. “After all, the dead he raises don’t heal like yours do. Corpses rot.”

  “He’s more than happy making new ones,” I mutter, scrubbing myself dry with the rough towel. “Besides, I’ve seen him rip spirits from their new lives with a drop of his blood and a bit of old bone. Now I know why it used to be customary to burn the dead,” I add, tossing the towel into the corner and taking the fresh sarong she offers. “What could he do if he ever got hold of a lock of your hair?”

  Theodora’s hand goes to her own golden curls, and she wets her lips. But she doesn’t back down. “I’m more concerned about what he’d do if he ever got hold of you,” she says. “The rebellion relies on you, Jetta. On your fantouches—on your power. If you die, we lose our best weapon.”

  “I never wanted to be a weapon,” I mutter as I wrap the sarong around my waist.

  Theodora’s face softens. I recognize the sadness there. After all, I had seen her inventions—the avions sketched by a girl who dreamed of flight, built by an armée for a nightmare war. “That’s not all you are,” she says, lifting my hair out of the way so I can tie the knot b
ehind my neck. “You’re a daughter. A performer. A friend.” Her hands are gentle as she releases me. “Know your enemy, and know yourself, or so I’m told.”

  As she steps back, her eyes sparkle; I am the one who had told her that, months ago. And now Le Trépas is saying the same to me. “Thanks,” I say, but before I can say more, Camreon’s voice drifts through the screen.

  “Can I come in?”

  “We were just finished,” Theodora says, sweeping aside the curtain as we return to the sitting room. Camreon breezes past us, pulling off his crown and struggling out of the muddy silk robe. “Are the soldiers settled in?”

  “Just a minute.” He returns a moment later, buttoning a fresh shirt over his silk binder. “I almost tripped half a dozen times in that robe. Worst way to die, facedown in the mud.”

  His look is pointed, but I wave him off as I take a seat beside Leo. Miu flicks her long tail in irritation at the disturbance. “Don’t bother scolding me. Cheeky did a better job than you ever could.”

  “Practice makes perfect,” Camreon replies with a faint smile. “Speaking of the soldiers, I found Fontaine’s field orders. They were telling the truth. The armée is recalling all battalions to Nokhor Khat to help with the deportation. The orders were signed by General Legarde.”

  At my side, Leo tenses, and his sister’s face goes pale. But to my surprise, she nods. “It makes sense as a tactic,” she says. “The Aquitans who might be willing to fight a decree from the Chakran king will have a harder time denying orders from their own armée.”

  “And of course, the Prix de Guerre is an armée ship,” Camreon says. “The civilians won’t know it’s so ill-equipped for passengers. At least, not until they’re aboard.”

  “The rest of the armée must know,” I say. “Why would they go along with it?”

  “They’re used to following orders.” My brother’s voice precedes him up the ladder; he might be unkillable, but he isn’t invincible, and he’s still moving slowly after the battle at the valley. “No matter how terrible those orders are.”