For a Muse of Fire Page 5

  No, the spirit sight is not the same as my malheur. The ups and downs, the sudden passions or the deep melancholy—those are things that grew as I did, like my limbs, my hips, my hair. But the spirits only appeared after my brush with death. It’s like the old comedies about the Fool Who Could Not Die, though I only faced fire, and not the other two calamities that befell the hapless monk in the stories. And the spirits don’t share gossip or try to trick me like they do him—they don’t say anything at all. They only follow, eager for another chance at life, as though they know I have come close enough to death that I could lead the way there and back. And I’m happy enough to give them what they want.

  Maman, less so.

  I didn’t tell my parents about the souls until after I was almost certain they weren’t symptoms. But Maman’s reaction made me wish they were. Never show, never tell. The fear in her face was shocking. Of course I’d known the old ways were forbidden, but the capital and its laws are very far away from where we lived in Lak Na. Even though the old temple at the back of our valley was reduced to rubble and jungle like all the rest, everyone I knew left a bit of rice in their bowls for the ancestors, or burned incense for the King and the Maiden and the Keeper of Knowledge.

  But Maman’s fear left no room for argument—at least, not from me. Papa has always been the only person who could ever change her mind. It was his idea to try to harness the souls—to use them to bring the fantouches to life—but it was hers to parlay our growing fame into a ticket out of Chakrana.

  How did she learn what she taught me? Whenever I ask, her lips thin and her eyes go flat. Still, she was the first one to prick my finger, to guide my hand to draw the symbol. Even though Maman hates to talk about the old ways now, she lived half her life before La Victoire—before the new laws. And she has never failed to leave a bit of rice out for the spirits.

  But hadn’t I meant to stop thinking about the dead?

  Carefully I ease open the door, stepping lightly; my feet are swathed in linen, but the floor still creaks. The air in the hall is cool, raising chicken skin along my arms. The little bedrooms line the hall from the entry; the distance seems shorter now. Before long, the crooked red door looms in front of me, and suddenly my heart is pounding again. I wait for the sound of gunshots, but they do not come, so I gather my courage to peer outside.

  The pale moon silvers the stones and blackens the pool of blood. The soldiers and the rebels are gone, but our roulotte is still there. Dust and night dull the bright paint, making the white scar of a bullet hole that much brighter, but at least in the shadows, the broken axle is invisible. And Lani looks unhurt, even though she’s been in the harness all night and hasn’t eaten. Guilt pushes me through the door, but I hesitate just past the threshold. There is someone sitting on the back step of the wagon, long legs crossed on the stair.

  A soldier? No—it’s Leo, tucked into the cove of the rear step. His collar is loose and his eyes are closed; the moonlight pales his skin but darkens his hair as it curls loosely over his brow. Asleep, he looks much younger—perhaps my age. How does he run a theater by himself? Is that why he’s so tense, so defensive? Or is it only that he’s had to be, to survive?

  I’ve never met a . . . a person with his heritage before—though I’ve seen them on the fringes with the beggars, the thieves, the fallen monks. Marriage between Aquitans and Chakrans isn’t quite forbidden, but it isn’t quite proper, either—just one more reason the king’s engagement made waves. Then again, considering the sort of entertainment La Perl offers, perhaps Leo’s parents were never married. Who were they? Where are his ancestors? Can they see him from across the sea?

  And will mine be able to see me once we’re gone?

  “What are you doing here?” Leo says then, and I jump. His eyes are barely open—has he seen me staring?

  “This is my roulotte,” I say quickly. “What’s your excuse?”

  He sits up straighter, uncrossing his arms, and just like that, the softness about him is gone. His mouth slides into a grin, and I can’t help but notice he’s holding a dark glass bottle by the neck. “I’m keeping watch, as promised. Wouldn’t want anyone making off with all this good meat.” Leo gestures at Lani with the bottle; then he notices me staring. “Want a drink?”

  “No, thank you,” I lie. I know it’s not wise to drink with a strange man in a dark alley—or even to drink much at all. But want wrestles with wisdom in my heart—the danger is what makes it so tempting. “Wait . . . yes.”

  Leo offers me the bottle. It’s heavier than I expected, nearly full; I realize why when I take a sip and splutter. It’s the same thing I had earlier. Tears spring to my eyes. I take another pull.

  “Easy,” he says. “Didn’t you already have a glass?”

  “Hours ago.” I lift my chin—a challenge. “And you have a whole bottle.”

  “Fair enough,” he says with a small smile. “I hoped it would help me sleep.”

  “Me too,” I say, taking one more pull. His smile fades. He takes the bottle back then, and pushes the cork into the top.

  My cheeks grow hot—is that the alcohol already, or is it shame at his look? But why do I care about this boy’s opinion? I pretend to study the damage to the roulotte. “That’s only Cheeky’s costume box,” Leo says quickly.

  “What is?” I follow his gesture to the rear wheel. A battered wooden traveler’s trunk is tucked right beside it, propping up the corner of the roulotte. I hadn’t even noticed it in the dark. “Oh.”

  “The wheel was at an angle and Eduard was worried the wagon would topple over with him inside,” he says. “She lent it to him on the promise he wouldn’t paw through her underthings.”

  I bite my lip; inside, my heart races. Did Leo notice anything odd about the roulotte when he tucked the trunk underneath? Did Eduard wonder how the wagon had run so smoothly with a broken wheel? But the shadows are deep, and the questioneur was drunk—or so I tell myself. “Wait . . . he searched the wagon?”

  “He took a quick look.” He cocks his head. “Why do you ask? Were you carrying contraband?”

  Fear opens a pit in my stomach. “Move,” I tell him, and his expression turns serious as he slides off the steps. I open the door and scramble inside. But the fantouches are still bound in their burlap sacks—everything looks untouched. Still, I don’t breathe until I slide my hand beneath Maman’s pillow and feel the hard edge of the red money box.

  It’s not that I don’t trust the armée, but this is our entire savings—over two hundred sols. Thankfully, it’s still safely hidden. Relief floods me as I sit back on my heels.

  Outside, Lani lows plaintively, as if to remind me of my guilt. In the far corner of the wagon there are some old rice bags stuffed with grass that I gathered this morning—or is it yesterday by now? She must be starving. I toss a bag through the open door. It bounces on the cobbles by Leo’s feet, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s holding a piece of paper—one of our flyers. Realization sweeps like light across his face. “The Ros Nai?”

  Pleasure creeps in at the awe in his voice, the shine our growing fame brings, even here—even now. “You’ve heard of us.”

  “Hasn’t everyone?” he murmurs, but my laugh is short and bitter.

  “They were supposed to,” I say, stooping to grab the bag. “Tonight.”

  “At La Fête?” Leo puts the flyer down on the pile and follows me to the front of the wagon, where Lani is stamping her feet. “I’m sorry.”

  I rub Lani’s neck and dump the contents of the bag out under her nose. She dips her head to eat. “It’s not your fault,” I say to Leo, but he flashes a grin.

  “I mean I’m sorry I didn’t get to see the show. When’s the next one?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say. “How long does it take to get to Aquitan?”

  “Aquitan?” Leo frowns. “Are you traveling by hope or by dream?”

  “By boat. I had hoped the general would sponsor us, but if that doesn’t work, Eve says they sell passage at th
e docks.”

  Now it’s Leo’s turn to laugh. “Not unless you’re a crate of sugar loaves! The river gods sell passage down the Riv Syr to the capital. From there, you’ll have to find a bigger ship.”

  “So will you, then,” I say. “If you want to see us perform.”

  The humor fades. “You shouldn’t take a boat downriver.”

  “Why not?”

  “You have a wagon.” He pats Lani’s neck. “Take the roads.”

  “With the Tiger prowling around? The roads will be dangerous.”

  “You haven’t seen the boats, I’m guessing?” My silence is his answer. Leo shakes his head.

  “Why?” I ask. “What’s wrong with them?”

  “Nothing, if you’re rich.” Leo curls his lip, and my own heart sinks—rich means different things in the city than it does in the village. “This wasn’t the only attack, you know. The rebels struck at sunset last night, all along Le Verdu.”

  I frown. “Who told you that?”

  “Tia. The girl at the telegraph office has a crush on her. Came by to check and see if she was safe.” He only shrugs, but my mouth is suddenly dry, and the tips of my fingers are tingling.

  For years, there have been rumors that the Tiger would come south to drive the Aquitans from the country, from the capital, from the Boy King’s circle of advisers. Some even said he would free Le Trépas to steal the foreigners’ souls. I don’t believe that—not truly. But where the Tiger goes, blood runs. And if the Aquitans decide to flee, how much room would be left on the boats?

  “The point is,” Leo adds, “every new attack means a higher price. And even if you are rich, you’ll need every étoile once you get to Nokhor Khat. Passage across the sea doesn’t come cheap. Besides, if you are carrying contraband, the river gods turn into river rats at the checkpoints, unless you give them a generous cut. What’s wrong with your wagon?”

  “You said it yourself,” I tell him. “The wheel is loose. We cracked the axle running from the explosions. I was going to ask the general for help with a new one.”

  “The general?” He makes a face. “Why do you think he’d help you?”

  Because we’re the Ros Nai, I want to say, but I swallow the retort. What had Papa said? “Because the Boy King is still getting married, and Le Roi Fou still needs his shadow plays.”

  But Leo raises a mocking eyebrow. “Can’t you fix a wagon, cher?”

  “Iron is rationed, cher,” I tell him tartly.

  “So is rhum,” he says with a wink, sloshing the liquid in the bottle. “But that’s never stopped me.”

  “I’m not so well connected.”

  “You could be.” Leo gives me a cocky smile. “Perhaps we can make a deal.”

  “A deal?” His look is offensively certain. The flush in my cheeks spreads and prickles the skin of my throat. Not just the alcohol now. But what did I expect from a man like him? “How dare you?” Spinning on my heel, I storm away, but he catches up with me beneath the painted sign: GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS.

  “How dare I what?” he says, his eyes as hard as onyx. “Open my doors to your family when there is blood in the street? Or consider fixing your wagon in exchange for a ride to Nokhor Khat? How dare you, mamselle?” he adds. Then he presses his lips together in a grimace, as though trying to stop himself from saying more.

  “That’s what you want? A ride to the capital?” I stare at him, flustered, shame creeping in, but I’m not going to admit to it. “We’ll be traveling with the general,” I say at last, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “But thank you anyway.”

  “As you say.” Leo waves a hand, dismissive, and starts back toward the theater. “But you better hurry if you want to catch up with him.”

  “Catch up?” I frown. “He’s gone?”

  “If not yet, soon.” He tosses the answer over his shoulder. “He’d rather go to his daughter’s wedding than grapple with the Tiger.”

  His words carry to me, but distantly; I’m already racing down the alleyway into the broad street. Sure enough, past the dock, where the road meets the fields, the armée is already on the move by torchlight, striking tents, saddling horses. Legarde is leaving . . . but he can’t. Not without seeing us first.

  What could make him stop and pay attention?

  Whirling, I return to the roulotte, yanking open the back door and then grabbing the first fantouche I lay my hands on. Quickly I unwind the rope from the burlap, unwrapping a hulking heap of knotted black leather. The King of Death—a good omen. His stories have always been my favorites.

  Leo has turned, watching me with a quizzical expression. “What are you doing?”

  “Do you want to see a show?” I heave the puppet over my shoulder and march up to him, grabbing the bottle for one last pull—for luck. Then I hand it back and turn to run down the road. “Follow me!”

  THE KING OF DEATH AND THE THREE BROTHERS

  (Or, The First Shadow Puppet)

  Part 1

  In the days when our ancestors were young, there lived three brothers, though not for very long. A plague came to their village, and the King of Death came with it, carrying his lamp.

  The first night, he knocked upon the eldest brother’s door. It was a fine door, in a fine home, filled with fine things, for the eldest brother was rich, and he offered his wealth to the King of Death if only he could live.

  But the King of Death was patient: “Everything comes to me in the end.”

  And he drew the flame of the eldest brother’s soul into his lamp, and the eldest brother fell down dead.

  The next night, the King of Death came to the house of the second brother. The second brother was humble, and begged Death to spare him. “Who will care for my parents if I am gone?” he asked.

  But the King of Death was merciless: “I will take care of them.”

  And he took the fire of the second brother’s soul into his lamp and went away.

  But the third brother was cunning. So he fashioned a man out of leather, with clever joints and glassy eyes and a body that moved like his own. And the next night, when the King of Death came calling, the man lit a lamp behind the puppet and called out. “Here I am,” he said. “I will give you no trouble.”

  And the King of Death was fooled. He pulled the light of the lantern flame into his own lamp, and the youngest brother let the puppet fall, and the King of Death went away.

  Chapter Five

  I run down the road in the creeping light of dawn. Is Leo following? I don’t know, I don’t care. The fantouche bounces on my shoulder, the wind takes my hair, and in my chest, hope blooms. Sefondre. When everything comes together.

  La Fête was cut short; Legarde is leaving too soon. If he cannot stay for the show, I will bring the show to him. And I have a chance now that I did not have on the main stage: to perform without competition.

  But it is strange to have the fantouche out in the open—without the scrim, without any cover but the predawn darkness. In my arms, he moves, restless as I am, eager to be seen. Under my breath, I whisper commands I do not follow myself: “Be calm, stay still.” And unbidden, unwanted, Maman’s voice creeps in over the sound of my pounding heart, my racing feet: never show, never tell.

  I have to be cautious—I know that. I do. Nothing too showy, nothing too impossible. Just a taste of our skill, nothing more, nothing less. Doesn’t theater always look like magic? Desperate times call for desperate measures—besides, don’t I want to catch Legarde’s eye? And there is something thrilling in it, isn’t there? In the idea of such a dangerous show.

  Along the road, little souls glimmer under scrub and on the breeze. Some of the living drift toward the horsemen, too: farmers pushing wheelbarrows or pulling carts, carrying children or driving animals. People following the armée toward the capital. People afraid of the Tiger.

  People who can’t get the general to stop and take notice.

  I dodge around them, breathing hard. I see him now—Legarde, astride his golden horse, as the cavalry for
ms in rows at his side. He is only one soldier among many, and all wearing the same colors, the dark knee boots and drab green uniform of the armée, but even the firelight seems pulled to him, glittering on the bright buttons of his uniform, the medals on his chest, the silver in his hair. “General!” I shout, but he doesn’t even turn to look. “General Legarde!”

  Others stare as I pass. A foot soldier puts a hand on his gun and my heart stutters, but he doesn’t take aim. What do they think of me, with my bandaged feet and my torn silk dress and the black bulk of the puppet in my arms? They must know I’m a performer, at least. But this show is not for them.

  Speeding past startled livestock and surprised civilians, I skid to a halt at the side of the road and spin the King of Death to the side, like a partner in a foreign Aquitan dance. “Follow my lead,” I whisper, and the arvana in the fantouche obeys as I stretch out one arm.

  The King ripples through the air, unfolding, and hovers a few inches above the dusty road. A strange beast—I crafted him of stranded leather after a dream I had, where death crawled toward me on a hundred scuttling legs, and gave him the soul of a vulture. I keep hold of one bent wing, the other spread wide, and he slouches at my side—all without stick or string.

  Now people are watching. There are gasps and murmurs. This is my first time facing an audience—behind the scrim, they are only a murmur of voices, a round of applause. I can’t hide my grin. I bow with a flourish, and the King of Death does the same. But when we straighten up, instead of the wonder I expected to see, there is only fear in their eyes.