Flinging open the door, I look both ways, but the narrow hall is empty. Where would the rebels be?
Upstairs, most likely, on the top deck. That’s where the king is. I can hear the party now—music, murmuring, mingling. They should be easy to find, shouldn’t they? All the other servants will have trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. The rebels will be the ones with the rifles.
How are they hiding them? Surely they won’t just carry them over their shoulders. Far easier if they’d had Leo steal some pistols—the one I’d taken from him is tucked into my pocket, where it bangs against my thigh. Maybe they’ve stashed them around the ship, to pick up at some secret signal. Or maybe they’re carrying them covered in flowers, or shoved down the backs of their jackets as they walk stiffly across the deck.
No matter—I’ll find them. And when I do? Shooting an assassin would hardly be the worst thing I’d done. And this is one sure way to catch the king’s eye.
My palms are sweating; I wipe them on the livery trousers I stole from Leo. Then I hike the belt back up. I’m shaking, but not afraid—it is a different feeling. The pressure before a show with too few rehearsals. A tension like I’m made of facets and edges and string strung too tight.
The belt keeps slipping lower as I jog down the hall. I haven’t gone far when I meet a man going the opposite way. A servant—a Chakran. But no rifle. Still, he’s carrying a load of bedding—is he heading to our room? Will he find Leo there, sound an alarm? Will something so small be what stops the ship—or what gets me thrown back to the dock?
Then I realize it is not the same man who’d helped us earlier. What if he isn’t a servant at all? I glance at the soft quilts in his arms—a pile large enough to hide rifles inside.
The man peers at me too, stopping in the hall. “What’s that on your face?” he says, and my hand goes to my cheek before I realize he’s talking about my makeup. “Are you trying to be noticed?”
The question is an odd one. “Noticed by who?”
“By anyone looking,” he says, but as my suspicion builds, so does his. His eyes go to my jacket . . . too big. My trousers . . . too loose. “You’re not one of us.”
“No, I’m not.” I pull the gun from my pocket, and the man’s eyes go wide as he backs against the wall. “What’s in the quilt?” I ask, but he only gapes at me—at the gun. So I reach out and snatch the blankets out of his hand. They fall to the floor—pillows, sheets, quilts. Nothing more.
And as my heart sinks, a soldier rounds the corner, his own rifle gleaming on his back. He stops dead in the hall when he sees us, and in an instant, I see what Leo meant. This is madness.
But rather than arrest me, the soldier turns and runs.
I stare after him, dumbfounded, but as he glances back over his shoulder, I recognize his face. The man the majordome had called cha. The man dressed as a servant only an hour ago.
The man now running toward the party with a rifle strapped to his back.
Swearing, I start after him, tripping in the tangle of blankets, but the servant grabs me by the wrist. Without thinking, I lash out with the butt of the gun and strike him across the face. He reels, bright blood bursting from his nose. The sight of it shakes me almost as much as the fear in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” I say, backing away. “I’m sorry.”
Before he can try again to stop me, I race down the hallway, past the noisy kitchens, where the real servants pass in and out with trays for the guests. They draw back as I careen up the stairs. But on deck, I falter; the sight takes my breath away.
The scene: a party in full swing under a sky painted gold and pink. The lavish light of sunset glitters on gowns and glasses, on jewels and medals—so many people, and all in their very best attire. Aquitan soldiers in pressed uniforms stand at attention along the rails. Functionaries and courtiers, sugar barons and officers, women in lovely gowns and men in fine tuxedos with tall hats. All of them pale, all of them Aquitan.
No sign of the rebels.
Hurriedly, I shove the gun back in my pocket, but all eyes are turned toward the prow, where a man makes a speech no one can hear. The acoustics on the ship are terrible, but I know who he is without hearing what he’s saying. His is the one dark face in a pale sea, and the ivory crown is already resting on his head.
Beside him is his fiancée, Theodora Legarde, the Flower of Aquitan, and the legends of her beauty have not been exaggerated. Her dress is pale rose and picks up the blush of her cheeks, the high waist gathers under ample breasts, the diaphanous skirt skims her rounded waist. She wears a flower behind one ear in Chakran style, but her blond hair is done in pin curls, like Tia’s wig, though she doesn’t have Tia’s hauteur. Instead she seems nervous, ill at ease—glancing around the ship.
Does she know something? Does she suspect? But there is a ring of soldiers to protect the royal couple—all officers with gleaming epaulets, all Aquitan. General Legarde too—I drop my eyes when I see him, and duck behind a woman in a deep green gown. There’s no way a rebel could get close to the king—not with Legarde by his side. He must know the faces of his officers. Then again, with a rifle, an assassin needn’t come anywhere near him.
Desperately, I scan the crowd—the businessmen clustered around the champagne, the ladies posed prettily near the flowers at the rail—but though I see Chakran soldiers here and there, how can I tell which are rebels at a glance? If I were to pull out the gun and start asking, I wouldn’t get far.
And what if they are hiding somewhere? Beneath the skirted tables . . . behind the dais for the band? The prospects are overwhelming; they might be anywhere. A popping sound makes me jump, but it is only a string of red fireworks dangling from the mast. It dances and writhes as it burns, and a cheer goes up from the revelers on the ship as the lines are cast off.
The moment of sunset and moonrise: the ship is leaving the dock. And with a broad smile, the king raises his arms to call to the river.
From the sea, where the last flare of sunset strikes gold on the water, the waves start to rise, lapping against the banks, curling around the piles of the dock and rustling in the reeds. The Aquitans have always scoffed at the magic of the moment—they say it’s the tides changing with the full moon. But as the king stands tall and the boat slips free, the water lifts us like the hands of a benevolent god.
The band starts a lively march, and excited chatter drifts up like incense from an offering. But as the ship chugs into the river, shouting erupts on the shore. On the wharf, a refugee grapples with a soldier, breaking free of the cordon. He races toward the gangplank as though he could leap to the deck—as though, if he could only find himself aboard, he would be safe and sound. But before he reaches the ship, a soldier behind him raises his gun. The shot splits the air, and the man drops like a pile of rags. Blood flows in a scarlet puddle around his head. My cry is lost in the screams of the crowd, and suddenly the rabble on the dock becomes a riot.
Those in the front fall back, trying to retreat as those behind them surge forward, and all along the wharf, people are pushed into the water by the violence of the mob. Others crumple underfoot; the crowd crashes over them like a wave. Soldiers in the cordon draw their weapons, but I can’t take my eyes off the one who shot the refugee.
“Akra.” The word is barely a whisper, but all the wind has been knocked out of me. I take a deep breath and scream. “Akra!” His head jerks up just as the rioters sweep past him, hiding him from view—but it wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. My brother is dead. And if he were alive, he would never shoot a frightened man in the back.
Beneath my feet, the ship’s engines growl as the captain pushes her faster; the band falters, and the majordome screams to play on. But before we’re out of range, a flaming bottle arcs out of the crowd on the dock and bursts against the rail. Fire splashes across the boards, licking up the fresh varnish, and cries go up from the revelers. Soldiers race to the flames, beating them with their jackets.
Instinctively, I seek out the king—the fire is the sort of show that I would stage to mask an assassination. He is still at the prow, though his face has gone grim, and he is watching neither the riot on the docks nor the crowd on the ship. Instead, his eyes are tilted toward the sky. Suddenly he points. “Up there!” he shouts. “On the funnel!”
I follow his finger to the steam stack. A lone Chakran soldier sits on the edge—a rebel, he must be. He’s aiming a rifle at the king, who’s still standing frozen at the rail.
“Get down!” I shout, but if he hears me over the screams of the crowd, he does not move. Yanking my own gun from my pocket, I try to take aim at the assassin, but my hands are shaking—I pull the trigger, but nothing happens. The latch . . . the safety. I thumb it back, but as I aim again, the rebel fires. The crowd screams again, as one creature, and the king falls over the rail.
My heart follows—down down down—along with our plans. Forget Aquitan, forget the cure, forget escape from Chakrana. We’ll be lucky to escape the ship. What about Leo? Is he safe in the room? And where are my parents?
“Maman! Papa!” My voice is lost in the sharp sound of a second shot. This one comes from the deck. Legarde is there, pistol up, the crowd parting around him. The assassin topples backward into the funnel. Black smoke swirls and billows. Then the sound of gunfire echoes up from the stack as his rifle cartridges explode in the heat.
But it isn’t only in the stack. The rest of the rebels are firing on the crowd. Skinny Chakrans with new haircuts and stolen uniforms—they aim at the officers d’armée with the guns I helped put in their hands.
All around me, well-dressed men and women shove past, trying to clear the deck as the real soldiers fire back. The majordome is hit, red blood staining his white shirtfront. Revelers leap from the rails, splashing into the river; others flee down the stairs into the belly of the ship. Souls flare as soldiers and rebels fall; the crowd explodes outward around each body like ripples in a pond.
“Maman!” I shove through the crowds, searching for familiar faces, desperately avoiding anyone dressed in the uniform d’armée. Soon enough, my silk shoes are stained with champagne and blood. “Papa!”
At my voice, I see him, peeking up from behind an overturned table. Then his eyes go wide. “Jetta!”
I see the look in his eyes, the panic, and I turn as he vaults over the table. Behind me, an Aquitan soldier taking aim.
The pistol—it’s still in my hands. I throw it aside, but too late. The soldier fires just as my father slams into me, knocking me aside with a grunt.
“Papa!” He tumbles to the ground as another shot comes, this one from a rebel gun. The soldier reels, his rifle clattering to the deck.
My hands shaking, I reach for Papa—the bullet went clean through the meat of his arm. He cries out when I touch it. But all around us, the gunshots are dying down. Akela dot the deck, illuminating the bodies. The rebels are done—but so is the damage.
Maman is scrambling over the table now, her face streaked with tears. She rushes to Papa’s side, and for a moment, her hands flutter like leaves in a breeze. Then she tears the sash from her sarong to wind it around his arm.
Air hisses through his teeth as she handles the wound. I reach out to brush the sweat from his brow, but his blood is all over my hands. Instead, I daub his forehead with my sleeve. “You’re going to be all right, Papa.”
“The armée,” Maman says softly, her expression one of disbelief. “They just started shooting.”
“It was the rebels,” I say. “A plot against the king.”
“How do you know that?” Maman looks up at me then, her brow furrowed. “And what are you wearing?”
I open my mouth—but where to begin? With Leo’s warning? With the guns we smuggled into the city? With the fact that if I’d listened to him, we could have left before the shooting started? And where is he now? Still trapped below? There is a feeling in the pit of my stomach, familiar but askew, like sefondre, but instead of coming together, everything has fallen apart.
But before I can say anything, footsteps approach—heavy boots on the deck. Glancing up, I see we are surrounded by soldiers. One of them reaches for me; I take his hand automatically. Then I cry out as he twists my arm up behind me. Pain shoots through my shoulders as he grabs the other wrist.
“What are you doing?” I say, struggling.
“You’re being detained,” the guard replies, tying my hands behind me.
“Why?”
Another guard steps in front of me; in his hands, the pistol I had only just discarded. “Treason.”