The Unbroken

by C. L. Clark

  The Apostate looked between Saïd and the Jackal. “We can find a place.”

  “Then a hundred is more than enough. What about Luca’s part? She wants people who can teach Balladairans magic and anything you know about Balladaire’s old magic.” Touraine still couldn’t wrap her head around the latter.

  As one, the rebels looked to the Apostate. The Brigāni woman smiled with an ironic tilt of her head.

  “I’ll come to her when we have the guns and I’m certain she hasn’t trapped us with them.” Steady golden eyes limned with kohl studied her. “We still want to meet her. Personally. Before I tell her anything. We can outline the finer details then.”

  Touraine snorted. “Good luck.”

  “You said she wanted to know us. I want to see what kind of person she is. If she won’t meet us face-to-face, there’s no accord.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “I can’t help but wonder if this is all a scheme of hers. Theirs.” Malika’s words were philosophical, but her voice echoed retreat. She nodded toward Touraine. “The rebellion itself. If we rebel, they bring more troops. To aim for our throats instead of our heels. Maybe we shouldn’t do this.” Defeated.

  Touraine was suddenly very aware of her breath. It sounded too loud, too quick.

  “I see it as more of an assurance. Better to have them and not need them,” Saïd said, his voice a reassuring rumble.

  “Malika has a point.” The Jackal finally deigned to sit up, resting wrist and stump on knees. “Why trust the word of the conqueror’s favorite whore?”

  Maybe the argument with Luca had frayed Touraine’s nerves too much. Left her a bit raw. And maybe it was that the sentiment was too close to what Pruett had said. Too close to the drawing on the broadside. Too close to guilty feelings that snaked across her chest when Luca made her laugh over the governor’s records.

  “No.” Touraine pointed a trembling finger at the woman. “You do not get to put me down for working with her. Can none of you bastards think how sky-falling lonely it must be for me, for us? It’s a wonder I haven’t fucked my way through her household, just to have someone to talk to.” She kicked the cushion she hadn’t sat on at the Jackal. She scowled at the Apostate. “And you would abandon us to it, just as smug and self-righteous. Fuck your… goddamned rebellion. Fuck your guns. If you want them, send someone else, and more pleasure to you. Take a look around. I don’t see that you’ve got too many options, or we wouldn’t be having these little talks.”

  Touraine would not be blamed for feeling lonely.

  She stomped out of a room for the second time that night and, for the second time, was called back.

  “Mulāzim.” The Jackal’s voice caught her, scraped her like a bayonet caught in the ribs. It was bitter, but soft enough that Touraine shook her head without turning. The Jackal’s boots scraped the floor as she stood.

  In Touraine’s bones, in her blood, she knew what was coming. She started to laugh. “No. No, no, no, no, no. Not you.”

  “Look at me.”

  The Jackal held her scarf in her hand, her head and face bare in the candlelight. Her hair fell in finger-width dreadlocks. Her full lips were twisted with hate.

  “Jackal, sit down. You don’t have to—”

  “Enough, Djasha. Enough with the games. I want my daughter to see me, to know me, so that when she runs back to that woman’s bed, she knows exactly what she leaves behind.”

  The Jackal—Jaghotai—stepped close. They could have hugged in desperate thanks, reached out hands to learn each other’s faces. Kissed cheeks, foreheads, all the little bits of love you take for granted when they’re common.

  “You killed my brother, Touraine. You’ve made it clear that you want nothing of your own people, so I have nothing to give you. Get us the guns. Bring your princess. Let’s see how far this goes.”

  Touraine didn’t remember leaving the hideout. Just that by the time she reached the streets, she was stumbling as if drunk, a wordless pain in her chest that blocked out everything else, making her feel numb.

  On the way to the Quartier, her feet took her past the gallows. The ropes were empty tonight and hung limp in the still air. The memory of the hanging cropped up often. Too often. She’d killed plenty of Balladaire’s enemies before and never with as much guilt.

  Who were her enemies, though? It hadn’t mattered to her before. And it wasn’t the idea of enemies that troubled her now. It was allies.

  Her mother. Who hated her.

  Back in the Quartier, the town house was still the deserted battlefield. Only missing the crows. Lanquette stood outside Luca’s personal chambers, and Gil sat in the sitting room. The men looked up at her, then went back to their own thoughts. Dark thoughts, by their expressions.

  She had the guards’ room to herself. In the darkness, she scrubbed her face with her hand. She stopped with her fingers on her eyebrows and chuckled. When was the last time she’d looked at her reflection? Oh—Luca’s party. She’d been in that costume, but she’d felt handsome. Proud. Until Rogan.

  As quietly as she could, she cracked open the door between her room and Luca’s, and listened to the other woman’s breathing. Slow, barely audible huffs met her ears. With her memory and her fingers, she found the small hand mirror that Luca kept on the dressing table and carried it back to her room. She lit a lantern and let it burn bright enough to show her image on the glass.

  It was hard to tell anything without the Jackal next to her to compare. Memory coupled with desire could play cruel tricks on the eye.

  Desire. Was this what she wanted?

  Thick eyebrows, like the Jackal’s. A scar across Touraine’s temple, shallow. Handsome smile, she’d say, with better teeth. They shared brown eyes, but that wasn’t saying much in Qazāl.

  She rolled her eyes. Stupid. These were the kinds of things Tibeau and Pruett had done when they were kids, not her. She scowled. The reflection contorted, bitter, angry, even ugly in its confusion.

  Touraine’s breath skipped in her chest. She tried the scowl again, conjuring up all her resentment.

  There. That was a familiar face.

  The Jackal’s daughter.

  The creak of Luca’s door behind her made Touraine jump.

  Luca stood there, pale and sick-looking against the darkness of her room.

  “You took my mirror?”

  Touraine turned it over on her bed, smothering herself.

  When Touraine didn’t explain, Luca looked down at her bare feet. Her pale toes splayed across the rug.

  “What did the rebels say?” she asked, just before the silence became even more awkward.

  “Oh.” It didn’t seem like what Luca had planned to say. Touraine flipped the mirror over in her hands again. When she saw her face, she saw Jaghotai’s disgust. “They said you’ve a deal.”

  A week later, Luca got news that made Touraine’s stomach sink further.

  They were working together in the official governor-general’s office on the compound when an aide brought a report from General Cantic.

  The aide tipped his cap to Touraine with a smile as she took it. She barely registered the kindness, she felt so leaden.

  “From Cantic? I’ll take it.” Luca held out her hand expectantly.

  The camaraderie they’d built over the last months remained chilled over. They still shared quiet moments together during her Shālan lessons, and Luca wasn’t stingy with her praise as Touraine progressed, but every moment was taut with the words they’d said and the ones they hadn’t. Touraine sought refuge in the role of obedient soldier. No, obedient assistant.

  She watched Luca from behind that wall of quiet obedience and saw the princess pale. Luca looked at Touraine and back at the paper.

  “Touraine, two squads of colonials—” Luca looked away, eyes fixed on a small, desiccated lizard perched on a shelf, as if it had the words she wanted to say.

  Touraine already knew she didn’t want to hear the rest. She asked anyway. “What about them?”r />
  Luca spoke in a rush. “Cantic sent two squads of colonials from Rose Company to deal with the desert tribes disrupting our supply lines to the inner colonial cities and their compounds. They haven’t come back.”

  A spike of adrenaline helped keep Touraine upright. “Let’s go get them, then. Maybe they were taken prisoner.”

  Luca was already shaking her head. “I know these people. I’ve been reading Cheminade’s books on them, and they don’t take prisoners. They’re… like beasts. And I don’t mean that they’re uncivilized. I mean that… they think they are animals. They leave their dead like carcasses in the open plains instead of giving them proper burnings.”

  She stood and limped around her desk, reaching for Touraine’s hand. “I’m sorry—”

  Touraine pulled her hand back. “My squad, they’re still—”

  “They’re still stationed in the city. ”

  Touraine hid her face. She was ashamed to feel so relieved. Rose Company was her company. She’d grown up with those Sands. She’d fought beside them. She felt Luca’s gentle hand on her shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry,” the princess whispered.

  “Then why not send the blackcoats?” growled Touraine. She backed away from Luca’s hand again. “Why send us—why send the conscripts?”

  Luca stared blankly at her until understanding clicked.

  “Touraine, they’re soldiers. It’s their job. The general deploys them based on skill and needs.”

  Touraine knew all about skills and needs and the “sacrifices” that must be made.

  “Then why is it always us first? The first to fight, the first to die?”

  “What do you want me to do, Touraine?” Luca gestured in the direction of Cantic’s office. “Tell Cantic to never let them fight again?”

  “That’s the problem, Luca.” Touraine gestured through the sandstone walls at Cantic’s office and toward the city, too. Her eyes burned, and all of Cheminade’s old junk blurred. Her voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. “It’s not a matter of let. They never chose this. They’re not getting rewarded for valor with ribbons and raises. We just die, and when we die, we’re not even worth the wood to burn us.”

  Luca made a small sound as if she’d been punched in the belly.

  Touraine’s faith in Luca’s ability to keep the rebels from turning the guns on the Sands dwindled to nothing.

  This time, the princess didn’t try to touch her again, even though now a part of Touraine wanted the warm touch of sympathy. But the distance between who Luca was and who Touraine could be gaped impossibly wide.

  Touraine sniffed, stepped back, and bowed. “May I be excused, Your Highness?”

  Luca ran her hand over her messy blond hair. She started to speak twice before finally saying, “Of course. Take as much time as you need.”

  CHAPTER 22

  AN ALLIANCE

  The day Luca meant to meet the rebels, she thought she’d die of the heat first. The last two weeks had seen the dry season rise to a peak, and the sun seared like a judging eye over the city.

  Or maybe Luca only imagined it, and the heat was the flush of guilt as she diverted one hundred guns away from her military to her military’s de facto adversary. Old guns, likely to be jammed or to backfire in the shooter’s face, but still. Weapons that could be used against her people. Of all her concessions, this was the most dangerous. Economic changes she could justify, but this was as good as treason.

  It was easy, surprisingly easy, to wedge open this crack in her empire. If Cantic had been a traitor to the realm, it could have been done long ago.

  No. It was only the baking earth and lack of breeze that kept her sweating in her office on the compound.

  She looked over the last of the notes for her first foray into arms dealing. Two separate shipments, in two separate storehouses. Just in case. When the time came, it would look like someone had broken into her personal stores, guided by an unfortunate leak on the merchant’s end or an especially enterprising network of spies. Not a queen sabotaging her rule for the chance at foreign magic. A chance at peace, not power, she told herself, multiple times a day. And yet her fingers itched for it. The magic. Her triumphant return to Balladaire, leaving a restful colony behind. Her coronation.

  Luca would give the instructions to the rebels tonight—if they upheld their end of the bargain and told her how to use the magic.

  As she left, she made sure to take all the papers with her. Just in case.

  Back in the Quartier, Touraine was helping the porters pack away Guérin’s belongings. They were burly Qazāli, sweat staining their Balladairan shirts across the backs and armpits even though Guérin had but a single chest. Guérin’s ship would set sail today or tomorrow, depending on the water conditions.

  When the porters carried her out on a litter to the medical carriage, the entire household came to see Guérin off. That surprised Luca more than a little. She didn’t think the taciturn woman had made so many friends. And that was even more to Touraine’s point that night she had railed at Luca.

  Touraine was already dressed for the evening’s activity, in her black Qazāli garb, the face scarf hanging around her neck. She clasped Guérin’s forearm and then gave her a gentle, brief squeeze on the back. Lanquette practically had to bend double to hug her.

  Finally, it was Luca’s turn, and her mouth was dry. She hadn’t planned words for this moment, and of course thank you was shamefully inadequate.

  Still, it was the only place to start. “Thank you for your tireless service, Guard Guérin.”

  She reached out and took the older woman’s hand in her own. The skin was dry, the calluses still hard. Her lower half was covered by a thin blanket despite the heat. The gaping flatness next to her right leg drew the eye. Luca forced her gaze to the guard’s face. Guérin looked up at her from the litter, her chin high and proud.

  “Honestly, I cannot thank you enough for a single lifetime, so I’ll make sure your children and your children’s children know everything you’ve done for me.”

  And I’m sorry. She couldn’t bring herself to say that with so many others watching.

  “My duty is my honor, Your Highness,” Guérin said thickly. “It’s been a pleasure. Mostly.”

  Everyone chuckled at that, even Gillett, who had been grumpy all day. The old man was more sentimental than he let on. That, or he still thought Luca was making a mistake about this evening.

  By the time Guérin’s carriage was rolling out of the Quartier, the sun had set, and it was time for Luca to meet the Qazāli.

  When the invitation to a “cultural celebration” had come, it had been easier than Luca had expected to get Gil and Cantic to agree that she should go—though neither of them knew about Luca’s true intent. Though Gil was less than enthusiastic, General Cantic was drawn into the idea of Luca rubbing elbows with the Qazāli immediately. With safety precautions—a squad of Balladairan soldiers, a large personal guard—it was the perfect opportunity to gather information. Luca knew she should be disgruntled at how easily her general agreed to dangle her as bait, but she didn’t question her luck.

  Still, when she and her retinue set out from the Quartier, she counted and re-counted the guards around her.

  “You’re sure you trust the rebels?” she asked Touraine.

  They rode together in the rickshaw the rebels had sent for her, while the soldiers followed on foot. Luca glanced over. Touraine was looking out, across the desert and into the deepness of the night. Since their argument, there had been no shared coffee, no drubbing her up and down an échecs board. Luca had taken to sending her on errands over the last two weeks just so she would leave the house and take her tight-jawed glare with her.

  “Yes,” Touraine said, without turning. “For this, anyway. They’ve had plenty of opportunity for worse than they’ve done. And—” She shook her head.

  “What? Please.”

  Touraine finally met Luca’s eyes. “They’ve been more than fair, all
things considered.”

  “All things considered?”

  Touraine raised an eyebrow, frowning. “An occupying army, stolen children.”

  Luca side-eyed her, then sighed. “Then away we go.”

  They traveled deeper into that darkness, away from the city, until the great wall of the New Medina was gone and the darkness gave way to flickering fires amid dry, rocky scrubland. The small fires created a circle within which figures moved to the rhythm of beating drums, and around each fire, people sat and laughed and cooked and watched the dancers.

  The people stared as Luca and Touraine arrived with a retinue of guards. The soldiers hung back in a disciplined curve around the perimeter. The dancers in the circle stopped moving as they lost their audience.

  So many people. Even Touraine was nervous, hand straying to Luca’s knife at her hip.

  A Brigāni woman wearing loose trousers beneath a knee-length loose shirt met them just within the circle of light. The one Touraine called the Apostate. Or the witch.

  “Welcome, Princess Luca. Welcome, Touraine,” she said in Shālan, bowing. “I’m Djasha din Aranen.”

  Another woman swaggered over, wearing a vest that showed one arm thick and muscled and the other ending in a twisted stump at the forearm. There was a sheen of sweat on her forehead even in the cool night, and her long dreadlocks were pulled back. She looked Luca up and down, glaring. This would be the Jackal. She was handsome, in a familiar, rough-edged way—and that scowl—

  Luca looked sharply at Touraine, just in time to see an almost identical scowl. By the sky above and earth below. Had Touraine known all this time? There was clearly no love lost between them, but that was too big a secret for Touraine to keep from her. Luca would bring it up later.

  “You sure you’re not violating the law, Your Highness?” The Jackal sucked her teeth. “This is a holy celebration, you know.”

  “The law clearly hasn’t stopped you.”

  Djasha stepped between them and cut the Jackal a wry look. “Jaghotai. A truce. Remember what that means? Peace over all?”

  Jaghotai the Jackal rolled her eyes and spun on her heel, waving a hand as if batting away flies. “Yes, yes. I’ll leave the diplomacy to the diplomats.”