On This Unworthy Scaffold Read online

  “We came here for the elixir,” I remind her.

  She raises an eyebrow. “There’s elixir at Les Chanceux.”

  I chew my lip, but in truth, I cannot muster many other objections. Our friends are in Nokhor Khat, and the fight there still draws me, but Le Trépas lurks behind it all like a shadow. If he wants me to come to the capital, even I know it is wiser to stay away and to gather what knowledge we can.

  Before we leave the temple, we grant the monk’s last request. Theodora empties the accelerant from the reservoirs of the flamethrower, and we burn the corpse as the akela looks on. Then, as the wind in the tunnels clears the smoke, we return to the avion.

  By the time we reach the bottom of the stairs, the tide has begun to rise around the warbird’s bronze feet, and she shakes the salt spray from her wings as she takes to the dawn sky. As the shore of my country fades into the distance, my heart is racing again—not with the thrill of flight, but the thrill of what’s over the horizon.

  Act 2

  Act 2,

  Scene 9

  Afternoon in the Royal Opera House. The previous king commissioned it in imitation of the one in Lephare, but the Aquitan-style decor doesn’t hold up to Chakran humidity. The brass chandeliers are tarnished, and there is a musty smell in the red velvet curtains. The stage is still set for the last show: a romance performed in celebration of the Boy King’s coronation. Now dust gathers on the wide boards, and the painted backdrop is fading; the air that once shook with laughter and applause is still and stale but for the gentle sound of LEO’s violin.

  He sits cross-legged on the stage, plucking at the strings of the instrument in his lap. Every few notes, he stops to pull the pencil from behind his ear and scribble on the sheaf of staff paper beside him. TIA and CHEEKY look on from the audience as they share a jar of pickled eggs. Both girls have clearly found the costume shop, taking the opportunity to change out of their damp trousers and into ruffled dresses, along with, in TIA’s case, a lush auburn wig.

  TIA: You know I love your music, Leo, but if you’re hungry, you better hurry. Cheeky is eating all the pickled eggs.

  LEO: I just want to finish the chorus.

  He plucks out another few notes.

  CHEEKY: Are you going to play it for Ellisia?

  LEO: No.

  LEO chuckles as he marks the notes on the page.

  It’s a love song.

  CHEEKY turns to TIA.

  CHEEKY: Maybe Tia can sing it to her, then.

  TIA: I told you, Ellisia is not the girl I meant. The innkeeper’s daughter is tall and graceful. With the darkest skin and eyes like . . . like . . .

  CHEEKY: Pickled eggs?

  TIA takes off her wig and throws it at CHEEKY, who cackles. AKRA lifts his head from the back of the velvet chair. The armée cap he found in the costume shop falls away from his face.

  AKRA: Some of us are trying to get some rest.

  TIA: I thought you didn’t need to sleep.

  AKRA: I wouldn’t if you all weren’t so exhausting.

  Lifting the cap once more, he puts it back over his eyes. Then he snatches it away and stands, his hand going to his gun at the sound of the theater door creaking.

  Who’s there?

  CAMREON (offstage): It’s only me.

  AKRA relaxes as CAM appears at the end of the aisle, one of the protest flyers in his hand.

  Has Ellisia come by?

  CHEEKY: We’re still waiting. What’s that?

  CAMREON approaches, holding out the flyer. CHEEKY takes it, puzzling out the Aquitan words.

  CAMREON: It’s posted everywhere downtown.

  CHEEKY: Do they actually think it will work?

  CAMREON: If I was Raik, I would respond.

  CHEEKY: What if you were Le Trépas?

  CAMREON makes a face.

  CAMREON: The response would be a little different. But with the palace locked up tight and guards at all the doors, it’s my best chance to see Raik in person.

  His hand drifts to his pocket, as though to confirm that the fountain pen containing Jetta’s blood is still close at hand.

  With any luck, this will be over in a few hours.

  TIA raises an eyebrow, then turns to CHEEKY.

  TIA: Give me back my wig, will you? If I’m going to die surrounded by Aquitans, at least let me do it with good hair.

  A smile ghosts across CAMREON’s face.

  CAMREON: Akra and I will be going alone. A larger group of Chakrans would call too much attention. Besides, I need someone to stay here and wait for Ellisia.

  AKRA sighs as he stands, brushing the wrinkles out of the costume-shop uniform, and LEO looks up from his violin.

  LEO: I’m coming too. To look for my brother.

  CAMREON: Xavier isn’t your brother anymore, no more than Raik is mine. And if something goes wrong, I expect the rest of you to pull us out of the fire. You still have your supply of blood?

  LEO draws the fountain pen out of his pocket with a flourish.

  Good. If we’re not back by nightfall, I’d appreciate it if you came looking. If Ellisia does show up, ask her to wait till we return.

  TIA: She’ll charge by the hour.

  CAMREON: We’ll go as fast as we can.

  TIA: That’s what they all say.

  AKRA chuckles as they slip out of the theater, but CHEEKY watches them go, her face troubled. When she hears the door click shut, she turns to LEO, who is already packing up his violin.

  CHEEKY: We’re following them, aren’t we?

  LEO: Of course not.

  He jumps off the edge of the stage onto the dusty carpet.

  They’ll see us if we try, and we already know where they’re going. We’ll take the long way to the plaza.

  Chapter Ten

  It is past sunset by the time we see Lephare glimmering on the horizon. Like Nokhor Khat, the capital of Aquitan sits at the mouth of a river that flows into the Hundred Days Sea, but as we approach, the differences become much clearer.

  Instead of the organic sweep of the streets in Chakrana, this city grows outward from the docks in a strange geometry—almost crystalline, with straight roads that break suddenly around gemlike buildings. At home, the nights are lit by a patchwork of torches and lanterns, cookfires and electric bulbs, but here, lamps line the thoroughfares at regular intervals—fire and glass, like the souls of diamonds. In Chakrana, roofs are made of thatch or colorful tile that turns up at the eaves, but the buildings in Lephare are topped with steely slate, like stone scales, and it seems that every window is covered not with carved screens or shutters, but glass.

  Is it to keep out the chill? The night air here is so different from the warm humidity I am used to. Now the long sleeves of my borrowed Aquitan dress make more sense. I wrap my arms around myself as we circle the city. “Are you looking for a place to land?” I say at last, shivering, but Theodora shakes her head.

  “I’m counting the ships in the harbor.” She points at a veritable forest of masts and smokestacks. “There are more than enough to safely transport the refugees from Chakrana.”

  “Xavier must have told your uncle that the Prix de Guerre was sufficient,” I say, but she shakes her head.

  “He may have,” she says. “But my uncle should know better than that.”

  “Le Roi Fou—the Mad King?” I say, raising an eyebrow, but Theodora gives me a look.

  “You should know that the malheur you share doesn’t make you forget facts.”

  “Not exactly,” I agree. “But it can make you ignore them. Maybe it’s wishful thinking.”

  “We’ll know soon enough, I suppose.” Theodora’s frown is skeptical, but as she turns the avion away from the docks, my heart quickens. I must admit, I am eager to meet the Mad King of Aquitan. All I know about him are the stories I’ve been told—his love of shadow plays, his use of Les Chanceux. What is he like in person, this man who openly shares my malheur, who has found a way to manage it, along with an entire kingdom? When Theodora points at
a cluster of grand buildings along the curve of the river, I lean out of the avion to get a better look. “There it is,” she says. “The palais du roi.”

  I cock my head, trying to make sense of the profusion of slate roofs and tall chimneys ahead. How can Theodora pick it out? “I thought you hadn’t been here in years.”

  “I’m a general’s daughter,” she says. “I’ve studied the maps.”

  “I’ve only seen the paintings,” I say, but as we approach the city center, another building catches my eye, wreathed in smokeless flame.

  It is the cathedral of Lephare, illuminated by the fire of a thousand souls. Light flickers around the famed spire and gleams through a stained-glass window bigger than a rice barn. As we swoop closer, I can see that every glass pane is intact, as are all the carvings—monstrous faces and men in robes with flowers at their feet. I stare, half in awe, half in jealousy. I have never seen a temple so unspoiled.

  But as we pass over the cathedral, light gives way to shadow in a pit like a scar on the earth. Along a low wall that edges the street, mounds of dank soil are piled high and scattered with shovels and barrows and broken boards. “What’s that?” I say, pointing—the muddy hole seems so out of place in the city center.

  “It looks like one of my uncle’s public health initiatives,” Theodora says as we circle lower. “He’s excavating the boneyards across the city center.”

  “Boneyards?” I shudder at the thought of planting the dead in the earth, like rotting fruit. “You mean graves?”

  “Thousands of them,” Theodora confirms. “Lephare is an old city, with far more dead than living. Whenever it rains, bodies practically climb from the cemeteries. My uncle often complained about the smell in his letters,” she adds, and my stomach turns at the memory of the dead man in the rice paddy. “I actually suggested once that he burn them, but apparently the priests found the idea blasphemous. So I told him to move them instead.”

  I look at her askance. “He has time to move the dead but not the living?”

  “The dead raised a bigger stink,” she says with a wry smile. “At least, until now.”

  Past the cathedral, I can finally get a clear look at the palais: an enormous limestone building erected around a central courtyard, facing the cathedral. The shape of it is unfamiliar, but the layout reminds me of Hell’s Court, with the Ruby Palace nearby. All the seats of power, close together—where the gods can watch the kings, and vice versa.

  As the bird drops lower, I see we already have an audience. Even at this late hour, there are people watching us, their pale faces shining like small moons in the light of the gas lamps. The courtyard spreads below us like a stage, but my stomach drops as Theodora pulls up again to circle. Why wait to land? Ah—as I watch, the crowd swells, with courtiers and servants alike rushing out from inside the palais. La Fleur takes us around once more in a slow descent, giving the gathering time to grow. I am cold and tired, but I admire her commitment to showmanship.

  The avion touches down at last, bronze claws scraping the granite cobbles. Metal grinds on metal as the warbird folds her wings. When Theodora steps to the plaza, her golden curls gleaming in the light, the Aquitans greet her with applause. But to me, their cheers sound like distant screams.

  Would anyone in Chakrana run toward a war machine? Perhaps the Aquitans don’t realize how much they have to fear—at least, not yet. A dark impulse rises in me: the same feeling I had when Fontaine’s men arrived at the coronation with a bloody prisoner in tow. I want to teach them what fear is. But this time Leo isn’t watching me. I have to watch myself.

  Taking a deep breath, I follow Theodora out of the avion. After so many hours in the air, there is an ache in my legs that echoes the dull pain in my ribs. But I stand up straighter as the impromptu audience parts around a tall man. The crown gives him away—no simple carved circlet, but a lacy dome of gold topped with a sapphire the size of a human heart. He wears layers of silk and velvet; his broad shoulders are covered with a robe trimmed in spotted fur. But beneath the outlandish clothing, his features are oddly familiar. The silver hair, the hawkish nose . . . if he’d been wearing an armée uniform, I could have mistaken him for his half-brother, the first General Legarde.

  His appearance throws me; it’s like looking into the face of a dead man—one who I killed. But Theodora calls to him warmly. “Uncle!”

  “My dear niece,” Le Roi says, reaching out to the girl, and I know enough Aquitan to understand him. He clasps her hands, kissing her on both cheeks, then drawing back to study her face. “Your portrait hardly does you justice. I’m so relieved you took my advice and left Chakrana.”

  “I’ll be going back as soon as your three fastest ships are ready to come with me,” Theodora says, pitching her voice to carry. The crowd around us murmurs at her boldness. But now I know why she wanted an audience—it makes her so much harder to ignore. “I would never abandon Chakrana, but many Aquitans must, and they must do so safely.”

  “There is already a ship in Nokhor Khat waiting to bring our people home,” the king replies, still smiling, though his expression has hardened like amber.

  “The Prix de Guerre?” The surprise on Theodora’s face is pretense. “A cargo ship can’t safely transport so many passengers.”

  “Your own brother feels differently,” the king says, loud enough for the assembled court to hear. “The general d’armée sends me regular updates on his preparations. As does the Boy King, who has promised to outfit the ship for the journey.”

  “I wouldn’t trust either of them,” I interject, enunciating carefully, aware of how my accent inflects the Aquitan words. To my surprise, Theodora’s hand shoots out, as though to stop me from saying more. But I have already caught the king’s attention.

  He takes me in with a glance that sweeps from my windblown hair to my stolen shoes. “And who are you?”

  The crowd turns, curious, and for a moment, I see myself through their eyes. Madame’s dress, so fine in Chakrana, is clearly years out of date here in Lephare, not to mention ill-fitting and stained with blood. And of all the people assembled in the square, I am the only one without Aquitan features. If I were in the audience, I might assume Theodora had brought a poorly dressed servant along with her. I draw myself up—if the king had reports from the armée, surely he would know my name. “I’m Jetta Chantray.”

  “Ah,” the king says, and now he looks impressed. “The shadow player.”

  The crowd murmurs again, but I cock my head. Despite his well-known love of shadow plays, that is not what I’d expected Le Roi to focus on. Still, I can still see Theodora’s warning hand out of the corner of my eye, so all I do is bow. “Your Majesty.”

  “With the unrest in Chakrana, I fear you may be the last shadow player I ever meet,” the king says, with a wistful look on his face. “Welcome, Jetta. But you must be tired from your journey,” he adds then, turning back to Theodora. “We’ll have refreshments in the hall of mirrors. Come!”

  At his invitation, a handful of servants rush back toward the palais to make ready. The king too starts across the square, though he moves with much less haste. When he offers Theodora his right arm, she takes it. Then, to my surprise, he offers me the other.

  In Chakrana, most strangers hesitate to touch a nécromancien. Is it possible the king doesn’t know what I am? Or is he only trying to keep the crowd from being frightened? The Aquitans whisper as I slip my hand through the crook of his elbow. The velvet trim of his shirt is as soft as petals.

  Crossing the wide plaza, the courtiers step out of our way, and the great arched doors of the palais open before us. Or rather, before Le Roi. From the ground, the building is even more impressive than it was from above. It looms over us in pale limestone and glittering glass, the stately colonnades stretching several stories high. Stepping inside, my feet sink ankle-deep into a rich carpet as purple as a field of indigo in bloom. It must have taken at least as many blossoms to dye so much thread. Vaulted ceilings soar overhead, stamp
ed with intricate plasterwork, and art lines the walls. Madame Audrinne’s home seems like a hovel by comparison.

  The king catches me staring, and his eyes gleam, the same color as the stone in his crown. “Do tell me you’ll stay long enough to give a performance,” he says hopefully. “I was devastated to hear of the rebel attack on the Fêtes des Ombres.”

  I blink as the memories resurface. The festival was held every year: a celebration of shadow plays, where Le Roi’s brother had chosen the best troupe to sponsor for a trip to Aquitan. “I was there when the stage exploded,” I say softly. Then I frown, hearing voices behind us like an echo. Half turning, I see the courtiers following us down the hall. I glance at Theodora, raising my eyebrows, but she shakes her head almost imperceptibly, and the king himself ignores the crowd at our heels.

  “That must have been terrifying,” he replies. “Had you come to perform at the festival?”

  “We had,” I say, trying to remember what show we’d meant to do. The Shepherd and the Tiger, wasn’t it? A show meant to flatter the late general in hopes he would take notice despite the modest size of our troupe. All we would have needed was a moment of his attention, but we had never even gotten to the stage. “My troupe was . . . is . . . one of a kind. We put on shadow plays without sticks or strings.”

  “Now that I’d like to see,” the king says, but on his other side, Theodora places a gentle hand on his arm.

  “There are more important concerns than shadow plays, uncle.”

  “Blasphemy,” the king says with a grin, leading us through a tall arched doorway. A servant stands on either side. Their pale faces are unsettling: I am unused to seeing Aquitans in servants’ livery. At the king’s gesture, they close the heavy double door behind us, leaving the gaggle of disappointed courtiers on the other side of it.

  In an instant, the king’s easy smile twists, and he shrugs us off to stalk toward the seating area. “Nevertheless, my dear niece,” he calls back to Theodora, the words much more pointed now. “Come and tell me why you’ve tried to embarrass me in public.”