The Unbroken

by C. L. Clark

  Luca waited until the next song began so that her words were covered by the music and the clack of dress heels on the floor. The line to greet her only grew longer. She should hurry him on and be done with this, order him to call on her another day. But she had to know.

  “Have you had any luck finding bn Zahel’s book?”

  Paul-Sebastien shook his head hard enough that a lock of hair flopped into his eyes. “The Last Emperor? I wish, Your Highness.”

  “Not even in the First Library?”

  He made a wistful sound in his throat. “No one can get there, Your Highness. Which is to say, one hears things, but one shouldn’t trust them.”

  She laughed, and his shoulders relaxed at the ring of it. “What kinds of things?”

  “Preposterous things. More than one man has approached me as I left a bookstore, offering a ride to the Second City, as if I’m a fool.” He smiled. Under the fringe of hair, behind his spectacles, his blue eyes were rueful. There was nothing of Beau-Sang in him but the curling blond hair. “I’d give anything to see it, though.”

  “Perhaps one day. I’d like to speak more about your work another time. Expect an invitation soon.”

  “I would be honored.” Paul-Sebastien finally tucked his hair back behind his ear, but as he bowed, the curl fell forward again. He left her with a spring in his heels. For a moment, she felt lighter, too. Then she felt Touraine’s presence just behind her, and her mouth tightened. Touraine had behaved abominably. Luca only had time to chastise her with a look before the next guest stepped forward.

  Mademoiselle Malika Abdelnour mounted the dais with grace that set both Luca’s heart beating faster and her teeth on edge. When Malika curtsied, her gown flared. Waves of dark hair crashed over her shoulder.

  “Your Highness. It is an honor to receive your invitation. My mother sends her sincerest regrets. She’s unwell.” Though Qazāli, she spoke in perfectly unaccented Balladairan.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I trust you’re enjoying yourself?”

  “Of course. Marvelous food, wonderful conversation.” A crooked smile accentuated the scar on her chin, but it wasn’t directed at her.

  Luca refused to follow the gaze to Touraine.

  “I am especially pleased to hear about your generous donation to the children.”

  The woman had a disarming stare, with narrow eyes lined in kohl that Luca quite thought she could lose herself in. The long scar on her chin was a sculptor’s slip, but it added an edge of mystery, of danger.

  Luca sipped her wine. “Are you familiar with the school?”

  “Of course, Your Highness. I attended myself. It was a… peerless education.” She smiled, but the words gave the expression an ironic twist. Or perhaps it was the scar.

  Luca didn’t know the protectorate well enough to place the woman’s import among the Qazāli citizens. “And how did you find it?”

  “Well… I learned much about Balladaire.”

  Luca’s lips quirked. “I admit, that is the one fault of a Balladairan education. We can only teach so much about Qazāl. I could use a few lessons myself.”

  Malika raised an eyebrow and looked over at Touraine again, then back to Luca. “I only hope it fares better than past initiatives to educate Shālan children.”

  Luca’s hand went tight on the stem of her glass.

  Then quickly, smiling as if she hadn’t just insulted the Tailleurists, the Droitists, and the Sands all at once, Malika turned the subject. “One hears you can read Shālan? Our host gift is a book of poetry by one of our dearest poets. My mother also sends a scarf she hopes will suit your tastes.”

  Her eyes trailed once more to Touraine before she bowed and returned to the crowd.

  CHAPTER 13

  A DANCE

  Touraine had felt strong at Luca’s back until Beau-Sang approached them. She’d felt elegant in her new clothing, felt pride even, at the approving nod General Cantic had given her as she passed by.

  During the two days between the modiste and the ball, Touraine had scrambled to find her place in this new world. Exercising gently in the morning with Lanquette and Guérin was the easiest bit to adjust to, because it was the moment that felt most like home. The two guards weren’t Tibeau or Pruett or Aimée, but they respected her skill even if they never laughed or wrestled just for fun. (Touraine secretly thought that Guérin had never had fun in her life.)

  When Touraine hadn’t been training or stacking papers, Luca had drilled her in courtly etiquette.

  Touraine had thought she knew how to deal with dignitaries and nobles. Say “yes, sir” or “madame” or “Your Highness.” Bow enough, salute as necessary, and let them overlook you.

  “That’s all wonderful for a soldier, I’m sure,” Luca had told her in the beginning, “but you’re not a soldier anymore. You represent me personally, not the empire. People will ask you things to get to me. Stop making that face.”

  Dread had tugged Touraine’s face down. She fixed it back into the polite, formal, but pleasant expression Luca had been coaching her in.

  “You can hate this as much as you’d like, but I shouldn’t know it.” Luca pushed Touraine’s hand away from her belt—where the baton used to rest. Luca’s hand was cool and dry. “And sky above, stop trying to reach for a weapon.”

  The rest of the house hadn’t been spared preparations for the ball. The town house felt like an army camp getting ready to march. Furniture was packed away like tents. Luca barked orders like Cantic, swinging a pen instead of a sword, spattering ink instead of blood. Clerks scribbled majestic invitations to colonial nobility on paper that cost more than a month of a Sand’s allowance, and messengers ran them from house to house throughout the city like couriers between companies.

  Touraine felt the same deep-belly dread as she did before marching, too.

  Guard Captain Gillett took the two other guards aside several times to talk about the house’s defenses. He only grudgingly brought Touraine into the discussions when he realized Luca was going to keep her close.

  Three days before the ball, Touraine hadn’t thought she’d be alive in three days. Now she stood at the princess’s side, with the high-society types she used to make fun of with her friends.

  And then, in a single sky-falling second, the bastard comte had stripped all of that comfort and her growing confidence away, and Touraine had become just a Sand again.

  Just a Sand. She had never been ashamed of that before.

  And she had stumbled. She’d done worse than show her hand. She couldn’t help it. She wouldn’t forget his comments at Cheminade’s dinner anytime soon. Seeing him only made the anger from that first night bubble back up all over again. At least Touraine had kept her mouth shut. Add to it the princess—Luca was even more furious with Touraine than she had been this morning. She could see it in the sharp set of the princess’s shoulders and the way she refused to look Touraine’s way.

  And if Luca hated her, she was royally fucked.

  Touraine recognized the young modiste when she approached the dais, but this time, she kept her head forward. In her peripheral vision, though, she saw the woman watching her.

  When the modiste insulted the Sands’ education, she was ready. She ignored it.

  Still, the all-too-familiar bitterness in it caught her attention, and when the woman retreated, Touraine stepped up beside Luca. “May I be excused a moment, Your Highness?”

  “Go.” Luca didn’t even bother to face Touraine as she waved the next supplicant forward.

  Touraine used her own anger to add authority to the strike of her boot heels upon the floor. A small thing, but it made her feel better. She’d seen Malika Abdelnour gliding toward the food that was spread almost obscenely along buffet tables. She wondered what the Qazāli woman thought about all that wealth disguised as lamb and lemons, mint and olives, poultry dripping with honeyed sauces. What of the heaping bowls of Balladairan and Qazāli grains alike, nestled beside baguettes and tart cheese?

  Th
is would have been a legendary feast for the Sands. And she suspected something similar was going through Malika’s head.

  Malika wasn’t a Sand, but maybe she’d gone through some of the same things—and yet she’d risen enough to be at the princess’s ball freely. Touraine saw in Malika someone with the same ambitions and frustrations. Ambition and frustration made for a suspicious combination, one worth exploring.

  The music swelled around her like a wave. She turned, hunting, but the crowd pressed in around her.

  Instead of Malika Abdelnour, she made eye contact with General Cantic. The general raised her wineglass and approached.

  “Lieutenant Touraine. It looks like you’re doing better for yourself already.” She appraised Touraine’s new outfit, making Touraine self-conscious all over again.

  “General. Sir. Thank you.” Touraine didn’t know what to say to Cantic or how to act. She held her hands clenched awkwardly at her sides and wished desperately for a drink to hold.

  “I’m glad Her Highness was able to find a use for you.” Cantic tilted her glass toward the princess on her dais. “I would also like to offer my thanks. Because of you, we’ve been on the hunt for Brigāni in the city. It’s a good start to settling the rebel situation. Surprisingly few here, but those nightmarish gold eyes are a dead tell. I’m dying for a smoke. Did you never pick up the habit? I started back when I came in as a lieutenant.” She took a deep drink of her wine.

  Touraine hadn’t picked up smoking. Pruett had, though. She’d been particular about keeping her tobacco and papers dry in the little tin she carried around. Something was slightly off about Cantic this evening. Her eyes were too bright and her words too fast, too casual. Touraine started to excuse herself, and Cantic grabbed her by the arm and stepped closer.

  “I let her save you for a reason. You’re in a position to do great things for Balladaire.” Cantic lowered her mouth to Touraine’s ear to be better heard over the music. “Don’t let me down. You know where to find me.” And then Cantic pulled back, smiling the smile of proud confidence that she had turned on Touraine at the hanging, before everything had gone to shit. Touraine couldn’t help it: it triggered in her the same desire to please that it always had.

  At least, it did until Captain Rogan sidled up beside them with two glasses of wine in hand. He wasn’t in uniform. He’d taken the opportunity to show off his noble blood and nobler purse.

  Sky a-fucking-bove. Touraine should have realized that he would be counted among the socially required invitees.

  “General Cantic, sir.” Rogan saluted the general with one glass and then bowed over the second glass as he handed it to Touraine. “Lieu—ah, excuse me. Touraine.”

  Despite the oozing charm, Rogan’s voice snapped into Touraine like a whip. She flinched and hated herself for it.

  “Forgive me for interrupting, sir,” Rogan said to Cantic. “I wanted to take the opportunity to apologize for any misunderstandings between me and the former lieutenant.” A grin split his long face, showing bright white teeth. “Then, perhaps, she would help me show a united front by honoring me with a dance.”

  “That sounds like a good idea, Captain.” Cantic nodded over her own glass. “I’m sure there’s already gossip spreading about the trial.”

  He grabbed Touraine’s empty hand with his before she could snatch it away. His grip stuck like a bayonet wedged in bone.

  Touraine weighed her options. Fight him off her and break half of Luca’s fine ornaments in the process. Embarrass Luca and Cantic in the same blow. Or do nothing and accept the humiliating touch. Touraine met Cantic’s eyes again and saw in them the same words: Don’t let me down. This time, they were a warning, not encouragement.

  Grinding her teeth, Touraine let him lead her to the floor. They gave their wineglasses to a milling servant. Her skin crawled where he touched her wrist and under her jacket where his hand rested on her waist.

  “I don’t even know how to dance,” she hissed. “Aren’t you worried I’ll make you look like even more of an idiot?”

  She expected any expression but the smile he gave her. If it had met his eyes, it would have been tender. “Some sacrifices must be made.”

  He spun her around the floor with effortless grace. She had no choice but to follow his lead. She cast glances around the room even as Rogan dragged and pushed her footsteps. Malika was dancing now, and Luca—she was across the room, and Touraine desperately attempted to make eye contact, but the steps carried her away again.

  Touraine didn’t know how long the song would last. Her hand was a sweaty claw in Rogan’s, and his cologne burned her nose. Fury clawed up her throat. It tasted like bile. She couldn’t do this anymore. In the middle of a complicated turn, she yanked her hand away. Rogan grabbed it back. She pushed him off, but he held her fast. Others stopped to watch them and whisper, and the whole dancing formation ground to a halt.

  “Everyone here knows what kind of meat your new master prefers, now that she’s parading you so openly. I’m not the one who looks the fool tonight,” he said.

  “Are you entirely certain?” Luca said. She had come up behind them when their scuffle broke the flow of the dance. And her voice was even colder than usual as she almost whispered to Rogan.

  Touraine’s world shrank to that voice and the desire to break out of Rogan’s grip.

  “You will release her, Captain.”

  He didn’t. He held on tighter, forcing a grunt out of Touraine as he pressed her against him. Warm. Hard muscle and breastbone, soft cotton. “Your Highness, surely there’s nothing wrong—”

  “Release her, Captain, or Guard Lanquette will release your testicles from your body.”

  Lanquette and Guérin flanked Rogan, and Gil stood just beyond.

  Rogan’s grip slackened slowly. He puffed his chest forward, bowed sharply to Luca, and brushed through the guards.

  Touraine stood rigid, her whole body hot with humiliation and fury.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured to Luca, her voice tight. Her fists shook at her sides. She resisted the urge to wipe her hands on her trousers.

  The princess put a hand briefly on Touraine’s shoulder. “No, I apologize. I should have rescinded his invitation after the trial.” The ice had melted—a bit.

  “Take your place at the dais.” Luca’s voice remained just audible. “I don’t advise a retreat on your part. It wouldn’t look good for either of us.”

  Touraine was torn. She would be damned if Rogan ever made her retreat. And yet—“And if I hound your heels? If he’s right and everyone does think you… a fool?” She uttered the last words barely audibly, afraid even to say them aloud.

  “I would never send one of my guards to her room like a child.” Cold again, and her eyes left no room for argument.

  It was the middle of the night when the last guests left. Luca still sat in her fine chair on the dais. Touraine’s legs were as stiff as if she’d been standing on the parade grounds a full day. The house felt too empty now, even with the extra servants on hand for cleaning up. Lanquette and Guérin were securing the house. Silence pressed on Touraine’s ears. It was wonderful.

  The reprieve was brief.

  “Lieutenant,” the princess said sharply.

  Touraine snapped to attention out of habit before rounding Luca’s chair to stand in front of her.

  “What did I say about embarrassing me?” Luca let her head loll forward, then side to side before her eyes pierced Touraine’s. She inhaled sharply through her nose, as if she were dragging her temper back from the edge of a cliff.

  The retorts ran through Touraine’s head.

  Rogan grabbed my arm. He made me dance with him. He insulted you.

  I didn’t ask to be here, paraded at your right hand, dressed like a prize.

  I don’t want to be your pet.

  She bit her tongue on every sky-falling one. She hadn’t forgotten the warning in the cramped dark of that sky-falling jail. And she had asked for Luca to save her from that darknes
s. It was this or the sharp nothingness of half a dozen rifles.

  She wasn’t sure if living was worth it. She rubbed her wrist. Her legs and feet ached from standing all night. She’d told Pruett she would help the Sands. That she would rise, and here she was already. Dressed like a noble, with a princess whose eyes searched her openly.

  Luca was as much a jailer as she was a safe bunker.

  Touraine bowed low. “Have I done something wrong, Your Highness? Forgive me.”

  The other woman’s narrow jaw was clenched, and Touraine understood why. After just a couple of days in Luca’s household, Touraine already recognized the way the princess needed everything to be propped just so, and everyone under her orders. Luca thought she knew people, and expected them to do as she thought. Or she would make them do as she thought.

  Luca hadn’t expected Rogan, and what an oversight that was. Now she would have to reconsider her plans for everyone who had seen Touraine dragged across the dance floor until Luca came to her rescue. Touraine didn’t know the intricate webs of Balladairan noble ties, but she knew gossip. Luca’s reputation might not be ruined, but tonight was a blow.

  No wonder Luca’s knuckles were clenched white on the arms of her chair.

  To Touraine’s own surprise, the fingers eased up, one by one.

  Finally, the princess exhaled sharply through her nose. “An insult to my staff is an insult to me. As such, I will seek redress. Your job is to act with the dignity and self-control as befits someone of my staff. Do you understand me perfectly?”

  Touraine stiffened at the rebuke. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “Good. You’re dismissed for the night.”

  Luca closed her eyes and leaned back again with a sigh.

  Touraine hesitated, caught between the two prongs of Balladairan obedience: avoiding wrongdoing and doing good work. It was the delicate dance she’d been doing her whole life.

  “Was there something else?” Luca asked.