As the blast ripples through the air, the wagon lurches forward, throwing me into the road.
My shoulder crunches as I hit the dirt, and my breath is knocked free like a tooth. Gasping, I push myself up on one elbow, my hair tumbling loose from the comb. Dust coats my teeth, stings my eyes—our roulotte vanishes into the cloud kicked up by the wheels.
“Papa!” Can he hear me? All around, there are screams, cries, the pounding of feet. Servants and cane cutters push past their employers, all of them running in the same direction. Those who can’t run are screaming too—not in panic, but in pain. Dazed, I pull myself up to keep from being trampled. The shifting smoke near the stages hides the worst of it, but in the dark clouds I can see the bright souls of dead men.
Had we arrived a few minutes earlier, we might have been among them.
I am bleeding from half a dozen scrapes—I must be. The little vana drift closer, hopeful. I ignore them. A fire is raging along the riverbank: the stages blown apart in blazing smoke. How? Any shadow player knows the fear of flame—indeed for me, it is not a fear but a memory . . . the choking smoke, the searing heat, the acrid smell of burning hair. . . .
The scar on my shoulder is burning, but it’s only where I connected with the road. I swallow the sourness of it all. But in the theater, fire creeps in by stealth, not force: a draft taking a curtain, the gas leaking from a lamp. In the theater, there are no explosions.
This wasn’t someone’s mistake.
Rebels. It must be. We’ve all heard the stories. Sabotage. Assassination. Guerrilla attacks. As quick and deadly as their leader’s namesake: Legarde’s enemy, the Tiger.
The soldiers guessed before I did; as the audience and performers flee to the town, the armée runs toward the scene, pulling their rifles over their shoulders.
The roulotte is heading that way too. Water buffalo have terrible eyesight; Lani must have panicked at the sound of the explosion and simply started running. Hitching up my torn silk skirts, I race after her alongside the soldiers, bare feet pounding the road.
Sharp stones prick my heels; my shoulder is starting to ache, the skin scraped raw. As I run, vana gather in my wake. Arvana too—bigger souls like rats and birds, crawling up out of the earth, dipping down out of the sky. Their fiery orange glow swirls in the air around me. The soul of a dog follows at my heels. Beautiful. Distracting. Gritting my teeth, I put on more speed, but I can’t outrun the spirits. Nor can I close the distance between myself and the wagon. Lani is charging ahead through the smoke and the crowd. Can my parents stop her? Do they even know I’ve fallen? “Papa!” I call, but my cry is lost in the sudden crack of gunfire.
Flashes ahead, in the smoke. Beside me, a soldier stumbles, his pale face going paler still as he drops to his knees, clutching the spreading red stain on his uniform. Biting off a scream, I careen off the road and into the fields: I do not want to be a target, and I do not want to watch the man die—to watch his soul spring free. But another soldier races by, shouting orders. “Fan out!” he calls to the other men. “Take the full field! You and you, follow me! Use the wagon as cover!”
My ragged breath hitches as I recognize him—General Legarde.
He speeds toward the fire, toward the roulotte, and his men follow his lead. For an irrational moment, I am giddy. Legarde is a hero. He will keep us safe. And ahead, Lani has finally veered from the conflagration, scared by the sound of gunfire or the scent of the thickening smoke. But as the wagon bounces off the road and down into the dry paddies, it lands with a crunch and the rear wheels splay sideways.
The back stair of the wagon hits the dirt. A broken axle. Lani stumbles, lowing, as the roulotte plows to a stop. Papa is flung forward over the bar; Maman pulls him back onto the seat. I turn course, stumbling down the embankment into the field, dodging furniture and instruments and half-eaten picnics, abandoned by the audience as it fled. But the soldiers are heading the same way, trying to put the wagon between themselves and the rebels.
Gun smoke and dust mix with the drifting ash of the fire. The soldiers aim a volley into the haze, and the rebels shoot back. Ahead, another soldier drops to the dust, leaving his akela standing over his body in shock—a column of golden light, the soul of a man. But Legarde doesn’t spare a glance for the soldier’s body and cannot see his soul. He only leads the living toward the stricken roulotte.
As we approach, Lani tries to run too, straining against her harness, but the wagon drags in the dusty fields. My parents are trapped in the crossfire. I’m close enough to hear Maman screaming; she covers Papa with her body as he tries to cover her with his.
Gritting my teeth, I drag my hand across my bloody shoulder. She’ll forgive me, won’t she? She has to, if I save her life.
I don’t slow as I reach the roulotte, spirits still swirling behind me. With one hand, I grasp the doorframe and scramble through it—with the other, I leave a scarlet mark on the back step. At my heels, the soul of the old dog leaps. As I pull the door shut behind me, there is a flash of light in the dark of the wagon—lightning only I can see.
“Up,” I whisper, and the floor seesaws; souls are so strong, and dogs are always eager to please. “Not so much!” Then outside, another round of rifle fire. Lani leaps forward again and the wagon follows, buoyed by the spirit inside.
We roll through the rutted field, but the wagon no longer bounces and swings; the ride is smooth. Are the wheels even touching the ground? The dust and smoke give us cover, at least, and in the confusion, who would notice a wagon’s wheels? I peer through the scrollwork to see if we’re being watched. Then I scream as a figure bursts out of the haze and leaps onto the wagon.
I scramble away from the wall, pressing myself into the silk scrim as the roulotte sways with new weight—not once, not twice, but three times. Dirty fingers worm through the scrollwork as the men find handholds. Frightened eyes peer in.
“Help me,” one says—his voice is high with youth and panic. I can hear his ragged panting, smell the sour sweat of fear on his sooty country clothes.
Behind us, the call comes—Legarde barking orders. “They’re on the wagon!”
My eyes go wide in the dark; my heart is pounding like Maman’s drum. Are these the Tiger’s men clinging to the side of the roulotte? They sound like boys. Then again, my brother was my age last I saw him, when he left to fight rebels like these. And their age didn’t stop them from bombing the stages. Should I pry their fingers loose? Before I can decide, a bullet crunches through the wagon, whistling past my ear. I flatten myself on the floor as one of the rebels falls screaming into the field.
Then the wagon tilts upward as Lani heaves herself up an embankment. I slide back against the door, and it swings open wide on the hinges. There are the soldiers, surrounding the fallen rebel, rifles at the ready. But Legarde is still chasing us—this is not how I wanted to be seen. “Arret!” he shouts.
I raise one bloody hand. “Don’t shoot!”
“Stop the wagon, now!”
“We’re trying!” But as the roulotte rights itself, another shot sounds, much closer; one of the rebels returning fire. I slam the door shut and latch it as Legarde takes aim.
We’re back on the road. The sound of hoofbeats on stone means we’ve reached the docks. Two rebels still ride on the wagon, one keening in fear, the other clambering up toward the roof—to hide or to shoot? I scramble to the front panel, sliding it open. Fresh air swirls through the smoky haze in the roulotte as we careen past the seedy bars and dance halls on the edge of town. “Papa! We need to stop!”
“She won’t!” he calls back, but Maman is staring at me.
“We were stopped, Jetta!” Her eyes are fiery as damnation. She grasps my bloody hand. “What did you do?”
My mouth falls open, but no answer comes. Then, straight ahead, a man bursts out of an alley and stops in the middle of the street. His nose is bloodied, and a group of soldiers is right behind him. At first I think they’re chasing him—is he another rebel? No, he’s dressed too finely, in Aquitan style, though he doesn’t look foreign—not quite. “They fled to the fields!” he shouts to the soldiers, pointing directly toward us. Then his eyes widen when he sees Lani barreling down on him.
“Out of the way!” I scream. Papa hauls on the reins, but Lani has the bit in her teeth. One of the soldiers pulls a pistol out of the strange man’s belt, aiming at her—or at us? “No!”
The strange man swears, grabbing for the gun, forcing it upward and firing at the sky. Lani snorts, startled, and skids to a stop just inches from his outstretched hand.
The rebels leap from the wagon, but where can they go? This new group of soldiers is standing before them in the street, and Legarde is charging over the embankment behind us. “Stop them!” he calls, and the soldiers obey, surrounding the two rebels before they can reload their weapons.
The stranger ignores them, reaching up to Maman, blood still running down his face. “Come with me.”
I half expect her to protest, but Maman scrambles down—though she doesn’t take the hand he offers. Papa follows as I crawl through the opening on the front panel and onto the seat, scraping my raw shoulder on the frame. The stranger holds out his hand again, impatient; now that I’m closer, I realize what is so strange about him. The word surfaces in my mind before I can banish it: moitié, the Aquitans say, mixed, and always with a sneer. I can’t meet his eyes lest he see the thought on my face, but he’s watching Legarde approaching, not me. I put my hand in his—my legs are shaking, unsteady—and he pulls me away from the scrum.
“Wait, Leo!” One of the nearby soldiers steps in front of us—the one who’d aimed the gun. He’s still holding on to it, the barrel pointed somewhere between the ground and Papa. As he stumbles closer, I can smell the alcohol on his breath. “The general might have questions.”
“I’m sure he will, Eduard, but does he want my answers?” The stranger—Leo—leans in toward the soldier like a conspirator. “Maybe you stopped the wagon. Maybe you caught the rebels. Who knows? Maybe that will cancel out the part where they stole your new rifles.”
Without waiting for an answer, Leo steps around the soldier and hustles us down the side alley, past the sign: GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS. For a moment, I hesitate, but then I see Legarde, striding up to the wagon, dragging the stricken rebel by the collar.
“Don’t look back,” Leo says, pulling me along behind him. “This isn’t going to be pretty.”