by C. L. Clark
The princess bowed her head solemnly. “Arrangements have already been made. The pyre will be ready by sundown. Rest. I’ll send someone to collect you when it’s time.”
For a second, she looked like she wanted to say something else. Touraine was glad when she didn’t. She dragged herself down the stairs and into her new room. A small bed rested against each of the three walls, each with crisp, clean bedclothes and pillows.
It was wonderfully, terribly empty.
Touraine stayed quiet in the carriage on the way to Émeline and Thierry’s funeral. Luca let the heavy silence hang, and Touraine was grateful. Touraine had avoided thinking about her friends’ deaths, letting the grief crouch at the edge of her mind, waiting until the shock of the last week wore off. It was unavoidable now. She hadn’t even begun to contemplate what it would mean to leave her squad.
Their pyre was built out in the desert just beyond the compound. The night was deep, and Touraine would have been able to see the stars if not for the lanterns and torches.
The princess and her retinue hung back. Gracious or indifferent?
There was barely enough wood for the pyre to be ceremonial. However, by chance or by choice, the scent of burning pine sap eased the smell of the fire’s main fuel—thick patties of camel shit.
And the bodies.
When the fire was set, Touraine went to her soldiers.
Aimée didn’t hesitate. She scooped Touraine into a great hug that made Touraine cry out. Aimée never was cautious about affection. She eased out of the embrace but supported Touraine with an arm at her back.
“Fuck me, sorry, Lieutenant. We just thought you’d be—” The sudden flash of joy was gone.
“Good to see you, too, Aimée.”
And it was. Touraine let herself be passed around her squad, to arm clasps and shoulder squeezes and tender head ruffles. She wanted to enjoy the love—and a part of her did—but she knew it wouldn’t last. After the funeral, she would be alone again, with the princess and her “small” house and her guards and servants.
This was the fairness she’d wanted. The future queen standing vigil over Sands’ funerals. And Touraine’s promotion wasn’t a soldier’s rise, but she’d never dreamed of wearing a silk shirt as a soldier. When the princess stood over her in the jail, that lantern hanging from her fist as she sized Touraine up, Touraine had calculated.
She was always good at the hard math.
Death and nothing out of it, or life and the chance to better the Sands’ lots.
That wasn’t even a question.
At the end of the line, her sergeants waited, and everyone else fell back. Tibeau stared into Émeline’s fire with his arms crossed, and Pruett stood close beside him, arms at her sides. Tears glistened amid Tibeau’s stubble. Touraine wanted to wrap him in her arms and hug him to her chest. She settled for a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, Beau,” she whispered.
“We heard the princess got a new concubine.” Tibeau turned his head to look her up and down. He didn’t even try to hide his distaste.
“Concubine? No.” Touraine spoke to Pruett instead, searching the carefully blank look on the other woman’s face. “I’m just an assistant. Cantic stripped my rank. I can’t wear a uniform anymore.” It sounded unbelievable, even though she’d spent half the day saying it to herself and trying to figure out where she belonged. I’m not a soldier anymore.
“She really did court-martial you, then,” Pruett said in soft surprise.
“For treason. And murder.”
Tibeau squinted. “And you’re still alive? That’s gonna cost.”
Touraine glanced over her shoulder. Princess Luca and her guards waited patiently, for now.
“The cripple queen.” Tibeau sucked his teeth.
“Princess Luca promised to help me change things for us—for the Sands.” Balladaire owes the conscripts a great deal of thanks, the princess had said.
“Tour, you’re missing the point.” His wide hand slashed the air. “You’ve always missed the point. I want to be free of them. All of them. This includes their ‘help’ and anything else that comes with a collar.”
“Like their food? Their money?”
“Starve me, then. Been close enough to it on campaign. Give me hunger on my own terms.”
“You want to go die by yourself? End up some general’s boy when they catch you? Or would you let Pru hang you for a traitor? You go, and you bring every other one of us down with you.”
Tibeau’s face purpled and he opened his mouth, but Pruett stepped in with a hand on each of their chests.
“Fucking shut it, you two,” she whispered harshly. “We’re not in the barracks. Don’t wave your shit stains in front of the whole sky-falling army.” Her breath came heavily. “We’re safer together, and right now”—she moved her hand to Tibeau’s face to stop his interruption—“we’re safer with the Balladairans. And not because they’re looking out for us. No one is looking out for us. Not them, not the Qazāli. No matter what either of you do, we only have each other.”
When Pruett locked Touraine in her sights, though, her voice was bitter. “What’s she offering, hein? This pretty funeral?”
Layers in the question, in the voice—measured mediation over cold iron over a tremble.
“She’ll intervene for us.” Touraine gestured to the fire. “She already has.” She met Pruett’s eyes, pleading. “I can change things. I know what to say to them. I can do what they want me to do.”
Tibeau sneered. “You really are their pet monkey.”
The insult cracked like the whips of their youth. Like the whips, the epithet was a memory Touraine tried to keep buried. Tibeau had been the first to call her that, and it had clung to her with every test she’d passed with high marks. The Balladairans’ pet monkey, ready to dance for them. Even after the three of them became friends, he and Pruett teased her with it occasionally, but it hadn’t bit like this for years.
“Beau!” Pruett rounded on him and pointed to the other Sands. “Fucking leave.”
For a moment, Touraine thought he’d apologize. Instead, his face walled up and he left, shaking his head.
Touraine blinked hard and turned toward the fire. “If I don’t do this, I’m dead, Pru.”
“He hurts, Tour. And if you’d died, I… I’d be a pain in the ass, too.” They stood so close that Touraine felt the shake of Pruett’s pained chuckle. After a moment, she added, “He’s right. It’ll cost you.”
Pruett’s body heat, the heat of the fires: a fortification against the cold night. The invisible belt around Touraine’s chest tightened again.
“You and her really aren’t fucking?” Pruett asked.
“No. If she wanted to fuck me, she could have pulled me out for a night and sent me back.” Maybe that was naive. Maybe Touraine had misinterpreted the princess’s looks, her hospitality.
“What could I do if she did want me?” New fear made Touraine’s voice bitter. She tasted bile, remembering that night in Balladaire, surrounded by Rogan and his men.
“Not want her back. Don’t give her the satisfaction.”
“I don’t want her at all.”
“You want what she can give you, and that’s real fucking close, Tour.”
“To help you? To get you paid and treated fairly? Yeah. I want that.”
Pruett pinched the bridge of her nose, a muscle flexing in her jaw. “That’s not all. It never has been. You want to be one of them. You’re not. You never will be.” Pruett slipped her warm, calloused palm into Touraine’s and squeezed. “Anylight. She’s waiting.”
PART 2
TURNCOATS
CHAPTER 11
THE MODISTE
The morning after the funeral, Touraine presented herself promptly after breakfast, back rigid, arms stiff at her sides. Luca had thought to give her some time to adjust, but the soldier insisted, so Luca rescheduled their appointment with the modiste for that afternoon so that Touraine could get clothing befitt
ing her new station.
In the carriage, her new assistant sat stiffly beside Guérin, her fists balled tight on her knees across from Luca. The carriage cabin felt smaller than usual. Luca shifted her small satchel on her lap; it held the mysterious book about Shālan history that had come out of nowhere.
Touraine’s face was neutral, but Luca caught the lines of tension around her mouth, in the careful, awkward way she avoided looking at Luca or brushing against Guérin at all. Luca had the impression that being so still took an effort.
“Not one for carriages?” Luca asked, trying to ease her with a smile. She’d seen Gil do it with young soldiers who fumbled around him, nervous and awestruck by the dead king’s champion.
“I’m fine, Your Highness.” The soldier bowed from her seat.
And resumed staring at the cushion opposite her.
The cart jostled in the silence that followed, the rattle of wheels transitioning from dirt to fitted pavers. Luca steadied herself on the side door.
“You can look out, if you’d like.”
“I’m fine, Your Highness.” Wooden. Obedient. Nothing like the woman who shot down Beau-Sang over dinner or had the audacity to call in the future queen’s debt. Unfortunately, Luca needed that fierce, independent soldier. How would her father bring out the lieutenant’s fiery assertiveness? How would Gil? How would her uncle?
She didn’t have her father’s example. She had barely witnessed Gil’s, and she didn’t trust her uncle’s. She had only her books and the years of study she’d spent hunting for the best way to wear her parents’ crown.
She read Yverte most often, wearing the spine of The Rule of Rule ragged. For a leader to be respected, they must show power. Never show doubt, for a ruler does not doubt. A ruler decides. A ruler acts.
She scooted over on her bench until she was directly in front of Touraine. She snapped her fingers.
“Lieutenant. I didn’t save you from the gallows just so you could stare. If I were Cantic, how would you behave right now?”
She’d seen the way the woman looked at Cantic—like she wanted to fuck the general, or be her. Or both. Cantic was respected. Cantic was decisive. Luca wanted to inspire that kind of devotion. She wished she could ask Cantic how she’d drawn Touraine in.
The soldier blinked at her slowly, as if trying to bring Luca into focus. “Thank you,” she said. She looked down at her fists and flattened them to cup her knees. “Thank you for Émeline and Thierry’s pyre, too.”
Heaviness settled around Luca’s shoulders and seeped through her chest. She couldn’t bring herself to say any of the standard patriotic platitudes her uncle might have, all of that “meaningful service to Balladaire” drivel. Especially because she wasn’t sure she’d have done it if she hadn’t already been thinking about what the soldier—the ex-soldier—Touraine—could help her accomplish. About what the woman knew, or could learn, about the magic. And how glad Luca had been to upend that self-important young captain at the court-martial.
“I owed you a life,” Luca said simply.
It was as good a moment as any for her to introduce Touraine to her new job.
“I saved you so that I could send you back to the rebels.”
As usual, Guérin was perfectly unflappable, keeping an eye on Touraine and an ear to the streets, even though Lanquette was outside with the driver.
Touraine looked up, eyes wide, jaw tight. Clever enough to be patient, but it appeared the ex-soldier couldn’t control her expressions, and that wouldn’t do in front of the rebels or the Balladairans. Another strike against her diplomatic skills.
“You’re an assistant to the governor-general of the Shālan colonies. That’s me now. You’ll be my envoy and represent the empire’s interests while I work toward peace.”
“An ambassador?” Touraine’s shoulders relaxed, but her face remained tense. “And my mission? Your Highness.”
“More like a negotiator. The rebels aren’t a sovereign nation unto themselves. They won’t get an ambassador. But the mission is peace. For the most part. To be my spy, for the other part. If the first part fails.”
Touraine’s brow furrowed. “They know me, though. I’ll be a shit—sorry, a terrible spy, Your Highness.” Then her face closed off as she realized she’d spoken out of turn, and expected chastisement.
“It’s all right.” Luca smiled to ease Touraine’s fears. “I’ve heard worse. And yes, I know. We’ll use that to our advantage. You’re going to play both sides.”
Understanding dawned on Touraine’s face, followed closely by horror. Another tick against her diplomacy skills.
“You’ll go to them as my negotiator. See what it would take for them to ally with me. If that doesn’t work, you can pretend to betray us by giving them choice information. Locations of food deposits, things like that. First, though, we’ll start with peace. Either way, you know them. They know you. Any knowledge is better than none at all.”
A leader should never give more information than necessary. Better not to mention tugging out the secrets of Shālan magic just yet.
Touraine’s eyebrows shot up. “As you command, Your Highness.”
“Do you know how to find the rebels who held you?”
After a moment’s thought, the woman shook her head.
That was disappointing. It would have sped things up tremendously. “You’ll have to speak to the locals, then. Sniff around for them. We could do you up a disguise.” Luca waved her hand mysteriously.
“I’ll do my best, Your Highness. I don’t speak Shālan, though.”
Luca sat upright, feeling the sudden panic of plans disintegrating from the inside out. “You don’t?” She shook her head before Touraine could even open her mouth again. “No, of course you can’t—even the Tailleurists wouldn’t allow that. That’s shortsighted of them.” Shortsighted of her, not to have thought of that.
“You said you can read Balladairan, though?”
Touraine’s cheeks flared, and she looked down at her lap, hands gripping tighter on her knees. “Of course, Your Highness.”
“Can you lie?”
Touraine looked startled and then flushed. “I suppose?” she stammered, showing that her lies probably wouldn’t go unnoticed by any but the most oblivious party.
Sky above. “What else can you do?”
The woman sat back and crossed her arms peevishly. “I can kill people. Scout. Plan military maneuvers. Organize a hundred soldiers, wounded and well, their food, their pay, their leave. Simple soldier things.”
Ah. There was the bite Luca was looking for. Whatever else Touraine lacked, Luca could work with a backbone. And above all, she was loyal. Even Cantic had vouched for her loyalty. And so here they were.
At Madame Abdelnour’s shop, ready to outfit Touraine as the loyal servant of Balladaire that she was.
“Your Highness, your presence is an honor.” A short woman with long curling dark hair bowed and led them in, to a small table. Luca saw the high chairs and sighed internally with relief. Two cups of steaming tea waited for them. Luca sat. Touraine didn’t sit until Luca gestured to the second chair. Even so, the ex-soldier eyed Guérin and Lanquette, who stood beside Luca and by the door, respectively. It would take the woman some time before she stopped thinking of herself as a soldier.
“How may we serve you, Your Highness?”
Madame Abdelnour’s back was hunched from years over a seamstress’s table, and she wore spectacles, likely as a result of the same. She was elegant in a simple red robe over an orange underdress. A gold belt wrapped around her plump waist before hanging down in the middle. The colors complemented the deep brown of her skin. Luca would have looked like scraped parchment.
“I need to outfit my new assistant as befits someone of her station.” Luca gestured at Touraine’s current outfit. More of Guérin’s off-duty clothes, well made but ill fitting. “She has a military background, and I don’t mind if the clothing reflects that. I’d also like it to reflect a unity between Shāla
n and Balladairan sensibilities. And of course, comfort in this heat. Can you make something like that?”
Madame Abdelnour’s eyebrows hung somewhere near her hairline. “Military background, you say? Unity, you say? Of course, Your Highness. It will take some time to design and test pieces, but we can make some simple ones immediately.” The modiste studied Touraine as if she could size the woman right there, in her seat. She probably could. Still, she gave Touraine a small bow and beckoned with one crook of her finger. She strode to the center of the room without waiting for Touraine to follow.
At the modiste’s shrill whistle, a few young women appeared from a back room. One of them had the same thick dark hair and bold nose as the modiste, plus a vivid scar on her chin. A measuring tape hung across her shoulders.
“And, madame—she’ll need something formal. Appropriate for a ball.”
Touraine stumbled as she walked to a stool. “A ball.”
Luca drank her tea. It was light and sweet. Saturated with mint. “In two days. I know it’s soon, and I’d rather we didn’t have it at all, but…” She was the first of the royals to visit the colony in too long. It would have to be celebrated with the proper pomp and preening and ingratiating, and as a member of Luca’s staff and household, Touraine would have to be there.
“Your Highness, I’ve never—”
Madame Abdelnour snatched Touraine’s left arm up to run the measuring tape down from Touraine’s armpit.
“I don’t know—” Panic was writ clear on the other woman’s face. It was the closest she’d come to outright dissent. Like each time before, she stopped herself. The fear vanished, replaced with that impassive wall again. “Of course, Your Highness.”
Luca turned the cup in her hands. Her grief rings clinked against the fine clay. The gold band inset with onyx for her father, the thinner gold band with a black diamond for her mother. Make those you would lead depend on you. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re ready. Can you dance?”
“No, Your Highness. It wasn’t—” Touraine yelped as the modiste’s daughter pushed her legs wider to measure the inseam of her trousers. She blushed and cleared her throat. “It wasn’t considered a training priority for us, even by Tailleurist standards.”