Come here, you . . . dragon.
Ignoring the bodies drifting around the pilings, he pats the surface of the water awkwardly, as though calling a dog.
Here, girl.
CAMREON had told him the dragon would obey him, but while he is used to giving orders to soldiers, he has never spoken to a fantouche before. Still, he waits, and soon enough, he sees a sinuous ripple in the water, followed by the horns of the skeletal head. As the creature rises out of the water, AKRA scrambles to his feet. Then, cautiously, he steps off the dock, swinging a leg over the bones of her neck.
The dragon turns her head to look back at him, as though she is judging him with her hollow eyes. Settling down between the ridged vertebrae, AKRA jerks his chin toward the ship in the harbor.
Take me to the Prix de Guerre.
The dock creaks as the dragon climbs out of the water, bunching her haunches to leap skyward, but AKRA puts a frantic hand on her neck.
Down! In the water. So they don’t see us coming.
Uncoiling, the dragon slips back into the bay, and AKRA hunches down over her neck, holding his pistol over his head.
The night is quiet and the moon is slim. Goose bumps skitter across AKRA’s skin as the warm water of the harbor gives way to the cooler currents sweeping in from the Hundred Days Sea.
The dragon swims quickly, her long tail undulating through the water as she closes the distance to the Prix de Guerre. Soon enough, they are in the shadow of the ship. Circling in the water, AKRA looks for the best way to sneak aboard. The side is slick with algae and studded with barnacles, and the deck seems a mile away, but the dragon could easily bring him up.
Then, above the slow chug of the boilers, the monk’s voice floats across the water as he calls to his soldiers.
LE TRÉPAS: We need to go faster! We’ll be at sea for weeks at this pace.
He receives no answer—the dead aren’t much for conversation. But AKRA can hear the sounds of the soldiers responding to his orders. Boots crossing the boards, the heave and saw of rope as they adjust the sails or turn the rudder or whatever it is they are doing on the deck above.
AKRA crouches lower in the water, hoping none of them happen to look over the side. He presses his hand to his wound. It is still tender. Bullets would not kill him, but given enough of them, he might wish they could.
Best to slip aboard unnoticed, but how? Then he sees the open windows of the captain’s staterooms. From there he can get a look at what he’s facing.
Holding tightly to the bones in the dragon’s neck, AKRA urges her upward. The beast leaps lightly from the water to scramble up the side of the ship. Reaching the rear window, AKRA peers over the sill into the cabin. Then his eyes widen.
LEO is there, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He looks unhurt, and he isn’t even bound. But the boy is deep in thought, using the nib of a fountain pen to scratch furiously at the polished wooden floor.
The fountain pen. When AKRA sees it, he scrambles over the sill, hissing at the pain in his rib as he slithers through the window.
AKRA: A little help?
LEO looks up, startled, as AKRA drops to the floor.
LEO: Akra. Mon dieu. I’ve never been so glad to see you in my life.
AKRA: I can say the same, though the bar is low enough to trip on. Give me that pen! We can use it to send the ship back to harbor.
AKRA snatches the pen, but LEO shakes his head.
LEO: It’s empty.
AKRA: Oh.
AKRA frowns at the pen, then down at the marks LEO has carved into the wooden floor. Words and notes, like music.
What the hell? Never mind. Come on, the dragon’s waiting. At the very least we can get you out of here.
LEO: I . . . can’t.
AKRA: Are you hurt?
LEO: Not exactly.
LEO extends his hand, palm up. AKRA reaches for him, intending to pull him to his feet, then stops when he sees the mark on LEO’s wrist. The blood is flaking as it dries, but even so, AKRA can make out two symbols: death, and life.
At least, not anymore.
Act 3,Scene 23
Inside the Ruby Palace. In a courtyard antechamber, a decorative bridge arches over a reflecting pond. But the servants fled when LE TRÉPAS came, and there is no one left to tend the garden. The once-clear water has gone green with algae, and mosquitoes whine in the air as overhanging orchids drop spent blooms onto the path. Even worse are the flies. LE TRÉPAS had hidden his armée of the dead inside the palace walls, and though they have gone to the docks, the stench of rot still lingers.
Still, the rebels do not shy away. CAMREON leads the girls deeper into the palace, surprisingly sure-footed in his dress and silk slippers—a good disguise can be a more powerful weapon than a gun. CHEEKY and TIA follow him across the bridge, down a path, and through a set of wide double doors.
Beyond, the rebels find a sitting room where pillows and carpets are scattered messily across the wide floor. Past that, another antechamber holds an octagonal table big enough to seat two dozen people for meals or meetings. Now it holds only a single place setting and the remains of a half-eaten dinner. CHEEKY frowns at the line of ants marching away from the plate.
CHEEKY: I guess dead men don’t do dishes.
TIA: So same as live men, then.
CAMREON: Shh.
Lightly, CAMREON approaches the next door: an imposing entry, enameled black and decorated with a bronze dragon ascending.
This is
