As his soldiers take the last body from the wagon, the general beckons to the crowd.
LEGARDE: Come, then. Let us leave with dignity and arrive in Aquitan in order. Leave your weapons and any luggage here on the docks. My men will stow each item safely. Le Roi Fou has asked me personally to take note of any valuables you had to abandon in your homes. He plans to make full restitution upon your arrival.
The crowd stirs again, this time more hopefully. As the general steps down from the wagon, a line of Aquitans follows. Not all are so easily convinced, but the cordon of soldiers still block the side streets, and the line is only growing.
LEO himself has snuck in third, and he waits patiently as the two men before him detail their plantations, their wealth, their riches left behind. By the looks of their suits, the descriptions are only wishful thinking—then again, so is the promise of restitution.
As the second man finally moves up the gangplank, LEO steps forward, the pen clutched in his hand, but the general puts his own hand up.
LEGARDE: Stop.
LEO freezes, sweat rolling down his face under the brim of his hat. He glances at the water, gauging his distance to the edge of the pier. But the general only jerks his chin toward the wagon bed where the men before him have left their pistols.
LEGARDE: Surrender your gun.
LEO wets his lips, but the question comes out like a croak.
LEO: Why?
LEGARDE: Safety. Quarters will be cramped, and tensions high. We don’t want a repeat of what happened at the plaza. Don’t worry. My men and I will keep the peace.
With his free hand, LEO pulls out his gun and tosses it into the cart. The general beckons him forward, turning to the booklet in his hand.
LEGARDE: Name?
LEO braces himself.
LEO: Leo—Leonin.
There is no recognition in the general’s eyes as he writes the names, as though they’re first and last.
LEGARDE: Leo Leonin. And what have you had to leave behind?
LEO’s shoulders fall.
LEO: My brother. Xavier Legarde.
Now the general looks up, surprised, but LEO is ready. His hand darts out, making the mark of death on the back of the general’s hand. He cannot see the soul that springs out—or the way it flees, as though afraid—but his brother’s body falls in a heap on the pier.
A cry goes up from the crowd, but LEO doesn’t stop to watch the panic spread. Spinning on his heel, he bolts for the water, but before he can dive in, a strong hand pulls him back. Not the soldiers—but the Chakran driver of the cart. The man smiles at LEO from under the broad brim of his own wide hat.
LEO has found LE TRÉPAS.
LE TRÉPAS: You know there are crocodiles in the water.
LEO struggles to break free, but the soldiers have reached him by now. As they haul him to his feet, LE TRÉPAS plucks the pen out of LEO’s hand and smiles.
Bring him aboard!
To LEO’s surprise, the soldiers obey.
LEO: What are you doing? Don’t listen to him! That’s Le Trépas!
Ignoring his cries, the soldiers drag him up the gangplank. Desperate, LEO headbutts one of them hard enough that he hears the crunch of the soldier’s nose. The man only grunts as blood seeps from the break in sluggish brown clots—LEO recoils as he realizes these soldiers are already dead.
On the dock, the terrified crowd surges away from the general’s body, from Le Trépas, from the Prix de Guerre. But in the streets behind the cordon, more uniformed men appear, and these have been dead much longer.
Their skin sags in the humid heat, their eyes are sunken in their sockets. Some have bloodstains on their uniforms, or crusted around their ears. The bodies are clearly weeks old—likely from the battle at the temple—but with the general fallen, LE TRÉPAS has given up on pretense.
Guns crack and men scream as the dead soldiers push even the living armée toward the ship. Underneath the noise, the word is like a melody: nécromancy. Now the Aquitans fall back, fleeing from the dead men, and the ship is the only place to go. Scrambling up the gangplank, some Aquitans lose their footing, tumbling into the water as crocodiles approach.
On the dock, a gunshot rings out—then another. Desperate to escape, AUDRINNE has clambered up to his own carriage seat, firing not at the soldiers, but into the crowd.
AUDRINNE: Make way! Make way, damn you!
His horses stamp and snort as he tries to turn his carriage around, but one of his compatriots returns fire. AUDRINNE clutches at his chest as a red wound blooms on his uniform. In the carriage, his son begins to cry.
Taking the reins in bloody hands, AUDRINNE snaps them as hard as he can. Smelling death, the horses need no more encouragement; they careen across the dock, not toward the cordon of revenants blocking the city, but toward the blackened sea.
In the dark, they don’t even hesitate at the edge of the pier. The splash throws water onto the dock, and the horses panic as the carriage fills with water, pulling them inexorably down. As the lamp winks out, the boy inside pounds on the window, but the door is locked. AUDRINNE closes his eyes, leaning back against the driver’s seat as the water surges over his son’s head and the epaulets of his old uniform.
Chapter Sixteen
The king’s footsteps fade up the stairs, followed by the distant drum of the heavy door as he shuts me into the salon with the rest of his marvels.
I count another five heartbeats, to make sure he’s far enough away. Only then do I scream, the sound shaking
