by C. L. Clark
“You’re… sorry?” Luca said archly. There was no sign of the woman who had curled into her shoulder. That was fair enough, Touraine supposed, when the woman you lay beside stabbed you in the back.
She dared a glance upward to meet Luca’s eyes. Luca approached Touraine like a woman in a trance. Her hands trembled as she grabbed Touraine by the wrists, tugging sharply to urge her to her feet. Touraine’s heart pounded in her throat as Luca traced the air above her arms, not daring—or willing?—to touch more of her. Luca’s eyes shone.
“I should have you killed.”
“I’m a free woman. You drew those papers up for me yourself. Are you going to take them back?”
Luca’s voice went low as a whisper, her face scarlet. “How dare you? Have I ever given you reason to doubt my word?”
Touraine wanted to apologize again. She wanted to start over and ask, How are you? And yet she was so tired of apologizing to people who didn’t care for her and hers. And for better or worse, the Qazāli were slowly becoming hers.
Instead, she said, “How could you put Beau-Sang on a governing seat? You know how he is.”
“You were gone. I thought he was the best chance I had to secure the Balladairan hostages. I was right.” Luca dropped her hands and balled them into fists. “Hostages that wouldn’t have been taken if not for you. Why did you do it, Touraine? We were so close to bloodless peace.”
Luca limped back to her seat, and Touraine followed. She took the cup of coffee Luca offered her.
“Innocent people died, Touraine. Civilians, soldiers, your own sky-falling Sands. What was worth all of that?”
Touraine had accounted the price more often than Luca knew. A night hadn’t passed without her picturing Tibeau’s outstretched hand still clutching his baton, or his blood soaking the knees of her trousers as she knelt by his side. She hated herself enough without Luca’s goading.
How many more of them would be dead, though, if the Qazāli had gone against Balladaire with guns? And she still wasn’t sure she had made the right choice.
“My family.”
“Your family?” Luca said incredulously.
“To be a lieutenant—or a captain or, sky above, a queen—you’ve got to do the hard math. You’ve got to protect what’s most important.”
“You’re lecturing me again on how to be a leader? You didn’t even do the hard math—how many more people will die if the rebellion doesn’t stop?”
“I know. I made a mistake. That’s why I’m here now. The rebellion won’t stop, Luca. Not until you leave. I know them now. I’ve been living with Djasha and Aranen since—”
Touraine looked down at her boots, the supple leather shining. “Luca. Tell me the truth. Do you still want peace with Qazāl?”
The question was as much for her own heart as for the Qazāli. She missed playing échecs with Luca here, drinking coffee. She didn’t want to believe Pruett was right—that Luca was as Balladairan as the rest of them. Maybe that was partly why Touraine had decided to venture out to the Quartier today. To see her again. To see for herself.
“I did, until they took Balladairans hostage and sent me their sky-falling fingers!” She splayed her own ink-stained fingers.
Touraine frowned. “The hostages weren’t the council’s idea.”
“What about throwing the city into starvation and riots? Terrifying my citizens with—sky above, I hope it was only goats’ blood. It’s—you’re—” Luca struggled to find the right shade of insult. “Barbaric.”
“I didn’t come here to trade insults,” Touraine snarled back. “I wanted to offer you something.”
Luca snorted and lowered herself onto her usual chaise. “You did, did you?”
“Something you’ve been looking for.”
The princess’s eyes narrowed, and she tilted her head to look just behind Touraine, as if for a hidden package.
Touraine smiled bitterly and tugged up her shirt. Lanquette and Gil were private enough. The shining scar on her belly was small but plain.
“The council still has the magic. Can still teach it to you. And it’s more powerful than we ever thought. The bullet wreaked havoc on my insides during the Battle of the Bazaar. They said my own shit had poisoned my blood. Common enough on the battlefield. Not common to recover from it.”
Luca’s eyes flicked across Touraine’s body. She licked her lips and looked like she wanted to touch the scar but only tact held her back. “This is what we came here for.”
“I was hoping that I could convince you to… make a gesture of faith.”
“Excuse me?”
“Get rid of Beau-Sang, and let the council take over. Start making your exit now. Qazāl deserves to be sovereign. Let the Sands do as they choose.”
Luca shook her head, chuckling and leaning back in her seat. “Pardon me.” She faltered as she stretched her leg. “Let’s say Beau-Sang has killed a dozen or so Qazāli a day for the last couple of weeks to discourage their association with the disloyal. The Qazāli civilians will stop abetting the rebellion, which will then gutter out as it starves for food, funds, and fools.”
She beckoned for another cup of coffee. She gestured to Touraine, but Touraine shook her head. Luca was playing with her.
“I didn’t come here to gawk at the sights, Touraine. My capabilities as a ruler are under scrutiny. If I can’t handle the Qazāli situation, my uncle could make a case of incompetence against me and hold the throne even longer.
“Do you know who thinks the Qazāli are barely capable of rational thought? My uncle. Do you know who recommended an ‘experimental’ education program with a brigade’s worth of Shālan children? My uncle. And if I don’t keep a foothold here, the likelihood of my uncle surrendering the throne when I return is slim.” Luca held her index finger and thumb apart for emphasis. “That means civil war and tens of thousands more dead, and if you don’t think they’ll try to pull your precious Sands in, too, you’re badly mistaken.”
Touraine winced at Luca’s words. Too much of it rang true.
“If you want to end the bloodshed,” Luca finished, “you tell the rebels to stand down and be patient.”
The words rang true, but just to a point, and only from one point of view.
“How long do they have to be patient on their own soil?” Touraine countered.
Silent seconds crawled by.
“How many people do you lose to every plague?” Touraine asked. “To accidents and blood poisoning and childbirth? If you brought Qazāli healers willing to work with you—willing to, not forced to…”
Luca’s chest hitched, though she tried to hide it with cool disinterest. Touraine heard the catch in her breath.
“What would it be worth, to stop that from happening?”
“Well, if they’re willing to trade it, they should have said so several decades ago,” Luca snapped. “Maybe none of this would ever have happened.”
The dismissive tone of Luca’s voice shattered the glass wall Touraine had been using to keep her contradicting feelings apart from each other.
“We aren’t your toys or coins to be passed from hand to hand, Luca. If someone prefers not to fuck you, are you disgusting enough to force them anylight?”
Luca’s face twisted. After a long moment she said, “Give us a cure to the Withering, and we’ll discuss terms. I’m prepared to offer their magistrate, with elected officers this time. They would have their own government while remaining under our protection from other powers in the north. A true protectorate. After I have my throne.”
“It’s not a cure. It’s a skill—you can’t just take it like you take their stone or their beads—”
“Then I want a hundred doctors or healers—whomever. I want a cadre to teach us, and then I want my throne. Help taking it, if need be. Then a protectorate.”
Touraine shook her head, incredulous. Who was this? What had happened to the dreaming scholar?
The answer was glaringly simple. Luca was Balladairan. She was Ballada
ire.
Touraine stood. Luca’s pale jaw flexed. The hollows of her eyes were skeletal in the dim light of the salon.
“And let them pay you in their own resources for the privilege of your protection?” Touraine scoffed. Her eyes burned and she blinked them clear. “You can’t be yourself unless you have a leash in your hand, and there’s always got to be someone attached to it.”
“Not you,” Luca said, voice surprisingly soft.
“No. Not me. Not anymore. And how long until the rest of Qazāl says the same? The rest of Balladaire?”
Touraine let the silence sink between them.
“They don’t need your protection. The magic does more than heal. If the rebels come for you, don’t look for me to stop them.”
“Are you threatening me?” Luca stood and walked slowly around the table, her cane tapping, until Touraine could have leaned over and kissed her.
“No.” Touraine dug her fingernails into her palms. Despite everything, the idea of Luca being hurt set her heart racing.
The sharp edge of Luca’s voice rested against Touraine’s throat. “I’m letting you walk out of here on one condition. Get the rebels in line. I don’t want any more bloodshed than you do. The sooner they stop fighting, the sooner I call off my hounds.”
“You deserve this fight.”
“The civilians, too? The children?”
“You teach the children to spit on us! Crawl out of your books, and open your fucking eyes, Luca. This is real. We are real.”
At the whistle of air, Touraine flung her hand up by instinct. Luca’s wrist crashed against her forearm, and Touraine whipped her hand over, grabbing Luca’s wrist so hard that Luca’s pulse pumped against her thumb.
“Boot me to the moon if I’ll let another of you women hit me in the face.”
“Let go of me.” Luca didn’t struggle.
“Keep your hands to yourself. I’m not your pet anymore.”
“Touraine—” For a moment, something softened her face. Touraine could almost hear her say it: Come back. The temptation to surrender and apologize was there. She could tell Luca wanted it. So did she. Just not with this Luca.
The window of apology slammed shut. “I hope their magic is as strong as you say it is,” Luca said. “If I were you, I would ask your new friends to hide you well.”
Her voice didn’t shake, and her blue-green eyes were colder and more uncompromising than frozen earth when you had a whole squad to bury. Her face flushed. They shared the silence and the air between them for three breaths, breaths that shuddered in Touraine’s chest. Her heart pounded all the way to her fingertips. She dropped Luca’s hand and brushed past Gillett without meeting his eyes.
CHAPTER 32
A FAMILY (REPRISE)
The sun was blazing when Touraine made it back to the Old Medina, and she was fuming. She tried to wipe the evidence of her visit from her face behind the veil as she wove through the almost-familiar streets to Djasha and Aranen’s riad. The priestess had finally deemed her wife recovered enough to move, so Djasha and the pack of strays had relocated.
Jaghotai arrived at the same time, carrying a tray of khubza, the thick rounds of bread that Qazāli ate at meals. “Where have you been?” she grunted.
“Nowhere,” Touraine grunted back. She reached out to catch one end of the tray, but Jaghotai twisted away and nodded at the door instead.
The sharp smell of pungent vegetables met them immediately, along with the sound of pleasant banter. Saïd the bookseller was there, two books beside him while he cut the vegetables that Aranen threw into a pot already simmering.
Djasha lay in a corner, and Malika padded around her in bare feet and a casual dress—which meant it was still more elegant and sleek than anything in Balladairan high fashion. She held a cup of water for Djasha. A quick smile at Touraine and Jaghotai tugged the scar on her chin.
“She said she was fine.” Malika rolled her eyes, but Touraine heard the twist of grief in her voice.
“I lied.” Djasha winced as she pushed herself up to take a drink and tried to turn it into a scowl.
“Aranen said rest.” Malika pulled the thin blanket up Djasha’s stomach.
“I am. We are,” Djasha said, teeth gritted. With a start, Touraine noticed the tribal priest’s giant cat, its head resting at Djasha’s side. Their golden eyes matched. “It just hurts so Shāl-damned much.” She shoved the blanket off. “And it’s too damned hot in this place.”
“Can I bring anything?” Touraine directed the words more to Malika, who looked grimly at their patient, but Djasha answered.
“Both of you. Stop hovering over me like a nest of mosquitoes. Go bother my nurse.”
The doctor-priestess snorted from her side of the single room. “It is time you learned how to make a proper Qazāli dinner. Even Niwai is… helping.”
The tribal priest was poking at something in the tajine while Jaghotai peered suspiciously over their shoulder.
“Ya, Touraine!” Saïd threw his arms wide, knife included, which made Aranen squawk indignantly before swearing at him.
Touraine greeted him back in her awkward Shālan. Though Luca had been teaching Touraine the stiff scholar’s version of the tongue, being surrounded by the rebels’ liquid syllables was rubbing off on her. She braved the vegetable knife to kiss the man on both cheeks. Of all of them, he was still the warmest toward her.
“Watch yourself, Saïd,” Aranen said. “If you lose your lips—or anything else—I can’t promise to heal you.” Aranen twirled her own knife through the air, smiling down at her vegetables.
“What? The Mulāzim wouldn’t hurt me. I gave her the gift of poetry.”
They spoke a combination of Shālan and Balladairan, heavy on the Balladairan, that Touraine could sometimes follow. Their nickname for her stayed the same—the lieutenant.
They cooked a small feast in the happy chaos, and Touraine let thoughts of Luca, thoughts of Pruett, and even thoughts of Tibeau fade just a little.
Warmth.
Djasha was right. It was sweltering. Sweat on Saïd’s brow, soaking the broad back of his shirt, making patches under Jaghotai’s arms. There was more than that, though, and Touraine could feel it between them.
There was something like family here, even if it was the familiarity of desperation, scrounged from necessity and danger. Just like the Sands had become her family.
Touraine and Malika carried the food to the low table, where Aranen helped Djasha sit. The sick woman clung to her wife’s arm. Despite their laughter, Djasha’s cheeks and eyes were hollow. She’d lost weight. When Touraine first met Djasha months ago, the rebel leader’s presence had been forceful, even terrifying. Her rapid decline was even scarier.
“A blessing from Shāl,” Aranen said after everyone sat down.
“A blessing from Shāl,” the other Shālans murmured. Niwai said their own whispered thanks. Djasha the Apostate said nothing. Touraine stayed quietly self-conscious.
They ate.
Touraine still didn’t know if she believed in Shāl. Not like Aranen, with her unshakable faith. Why would a god direct her life to this moment, this side of the rebellion? No adequate weapons, no actual soldiers, and it was a lot harder to dig out an entrenched army than to rout a marching one. This looked like the losing side. It even felt like the losing side.
It didn’t feel like the wrong side.
Touraine jostled elbows with Saïd as they raced for the same pieces of bread. The first time, he popped the stolen bread into his mouth and made a show of savoring it. The second time, she grabbed his wrist and squeezed the small bones until he yelped.
“Merciful—shit!” He dropped the bread and wrung out his hand. “Did you see that, Djasha?”
Djasha smirked. “Why do you think we keep her around? We’re all very good at what we do.”
“So Saïd’s a very good… bookseller?” Touraine waved her warm, crusty prize in front of him.
Saïd straightened and pulled his thick shoul
ders back, cracked his knuckles. “I am.”
Despite the games and the warmth, Touraine felt small around them. The same way she felt around Tibeau and Pruett—that people didn’t follow her for her sake, but because she had older, smarter, stronger friends. It didn’t help that she had betrayed these friends once.
Touraine dunked her bread into her harira, a red soup with small beans and herbs. “Can I ask how you even got into the rebellion?”
“How does anyone?” Malika tore her own bread in half as sharply as she spoke. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
Saïd’s face sobered. “Let Djasha tell it. She’s the storyteller.” He turned a piece of tomato idly in his fingers.
“It’s not my place to tell everyone’s story,” Djasha said softly. She met Touraine’s eyes with a golden stare. “I do think it’s a good time for you to hear it, though.”
Saïd shrugged his massive shoulders. “I was fifteen, maybe. Old enough to push rocks for Beau-Sang. And I had a younger brother. Bastard followed me around all the time, even wanted to come and work. The quarries weren’t a place for little boys. Shouldn’t have been there myself, but it was tough work. Made me feel strong. And the city being what is was… you have to eat to live,” Saïd said.
“So I go to work one day, and Sahir sneaks behind me the whole way. Lucky I caught him before an overseer did. Could have put my foot through his asshole. I shook him till he cried and left. I thought he had made it safely home, but when I got home that night, my mother and father were crying, and Sahir was gone. Him and a shipful of other brats.”
His eyes shone when he looked at Touraine. Her blood ran cold, her hand frozen with bread and beans on its way to her mouth.
“I know there were a lot of you. Did you know him? Is he here? He was around ten.”
He described his brother, but Touraine wasn’t listening. She could already see Tibeau so clearly. The thick black curls that grew out only on campaign and the beard to match. The tiny scar on his chin where Touraine punched him once and caught him with her thumbnail. As a child, as a grown man.