The Unbroken

by C. L. Clark

  “Noms de guerre actually sound very useful, General. We’ll talk further soon.”

  This morning’s attack had startled and, yes, if she had to admit it, frightened her. She wasn’t going to tell General Cantic, though, and she certainly wasn’t going to let it stop her from fixing the Qazāli situation. Or stop her research.

  Cheminade smiled conspiratorially, looking almost eager to countermand the general. “I’d also be happy to speak with you anytime. I’ll get my books in order, have legible copies made. I look forward to your thoughts on the colonial theorists and your ideas on the situation.”

  Cantic scowled and tossed back the last of her drink. Luca caught the general’s glance to Gillett behind her.

  “One last thing, and then I’ll excuse myself.” The general beckoned sharply with one hand, and the Sand who had been clinging desperately, awkwardly to the walls of the sitting room strode over. “Your Highness, allow me to present Lieutenant Touraine of the Balladairan Colonial Brigade, Rose Company, Gold Squad.”

  The lieutenant was a little shorter than Luca but broader. Handsome, with a hard jawline and striking, dark brown eyes. She bowed deeply.

  “Your Highness, I’m at your service.” Softer spoken now.

  “Lieutenant.” Luca returned the bow with a gracious nod. “I owe you a debt of gratitude. If there is a boon I can grant you, please ask.”

  “Always appear generous,” Jean Yverte wrote in his aptly titled The Rule of Rule. Small gifts could breed great loyalty.

  The soldier bowed again. “It’s honor enough to serve the crown, Your Highness.”

  The general bowed stiffly to Luca and barely bent her neck to Cheminade. “Your Highness. Lord Governor. We thank you for your hospitality.”

  Cheminade watched the two soldiers walk away, intrigue playing in her eyes.

  “What is it?” Luca asked.

  “Oh, nothing.” Cheminade smiled mischievously at Luca. “I was just thinking about how useful it would be to have a conscript we could send as an envoy of sorts to the rebels. The general doesn’t like to relinquish control of her troops, but we are just as much a part of the empire as she is.”

  Luca smiled back. She was beginning to like this woman’s mischievous eccentricity. It was looser than the rigid Balladairan court. “Isn’t that what ambassadors are for?”

  “Indeed. I just find that the Qazāli don’t trust people who look like us as much. Too many like a certain comte. Plus, she’s a trained soldier.” Cheminade shrugged. “Anylight, plenty of time to talk about that later. Please, Your Highness. Make yourself at home.”

  For the rest of the evening, nobles and merchants presented themselves to her. Though she waited all night for the chance to meet Cheminade’s husband, she only received Cheminade’s apology.

  “Nas is… distressed, Your Highness.” The other woman looked away, up toward the bedrooms. Concern was plain on her open face. “Perhaps another time. A more private dinner. It would be my honor to host you again, for dinner or for any questions. Nothing is too silly or uncivilized for me. I’m also looking forward to your welcome ball.”

  A surprising warmth spread through her, and not just because Cheminade had hinted that she was interested in talking about Shālan magic. She finally had a peer. Someone with the same curiosities, who wouldn’t make Luca feel ashamed of them, or herself.

  Less than one full day in Qazāl, and she had an ally.

  By the time she returned to her own sitting room, however, she had already begun second-guessing her interpretations.

  “Gil. Do they all think I’m a fool?” Luca asked over her shoulder.

  She stood at the wide window that overlooked the streets of the Quartier. The town houses in the Balladairan district were small, and hers was no exception. It was made of stone from Beau-Sang’s quarry, with a door of imported lumber. There was little to recommend it from the outside. No garden, no escape from the sky-falling heat, not even an awning or umbrella. It sat, instead, in a patch of colorless dirt; it was shuttered tight against the warmth. It was a young construction, though, barely a decade old, compared to homes built by the first Balladairans to delve roots into the colony. It had all the modern flourishes one could expect so far from home.

  Still, she found it cozy rather than cramped. She kept a small, trusted staff and had a room for her office with a desk and most of her books. That was all she really needed.

  That, and the confidence of the local ministers.

  Luca didn’t have to turn around to see Gil’s flat stare of disapproval.

  “Take Cheminade. Is she just humoring me? Playing on my enthusiasms? What does she want?”

  The captain of her guard, her chief advisor, her second father joined her at the window. His boots were quiet on the thick carpet. He clasped his hands behind his back under his gold cloak. Gil had been King Roland’s guard captain and lover until the Withering Death took the king and queen. Gil hadn’t left her side since.

  A smile broke his weathered face into even more lines. “I think Governor Cheminade is smitten with you. I’m sure it’s been a while since she had another scholar of her caliber to talk to.”

  “You know her?”

  “Not well. Mostly I remember Roland muttering arguments as they wrote back and forth about the colonies.”

  “And Cantic? I know she’s your friend. I saw that look she gave you.” Her voice went sharp, and she side-eyed Gil. The general’s “recommendations” for her safety still needled her.

  “She’s one of the crown’s most loyal and competent officers, Luca. And sky above, she’s not wrong. The rebels tried to kill you today. You need to stay safe.”

  “Which crown is she loyal to?” Luca turned to meet Gil’s eyes.

  He huffed into his thick gray mustache. “There’s only one crown.”

  Luca shook her head, sighing heavily. “Not right now. There’s the legal, inherited claim, and there’s the one sitting on the actual seat. Right now, we’re all pretending it’s all right and that we’ll reconcile the two into one, but—be honest, Gil.

  “If I don’t solve the problem here, do you think Nicolas will be so eager to move his ass? If I don’t fix Qazāl, we’ll have a succession trial at best. I know how that will go. We’re not the first royal family to have a contested succession. Not even the first Anciers.” Luca snorted and gestured out the window. “And all of that assumes I’m not murdered here.”

  Gil clasped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her into his side. “I’ll never let that happen.”

  The hug comforted Luca and made her feel too small at the same time. She straightened out of it and pulled her frustration closer instead.

  “I feel like the general wants to push me out of the way, like I’m too stupid to know what I’m doing—or to learn.”

  And why wouldn’t the general assume that? An untested queen—no, a princess, who hadn’t governed anything unrulier than a library and a pen to anyone else’s knowledge. That’s why her uncle, the regent, had sent her to this sun-scorched desert in the first place. “To gain experience,” Uncle Nicolas had said, “before taking the crown.” Despite his words, however, they both knew there was the possibility that she would fail. That she would make an utter mess of it and he could make a case to the nobles that she wasn’t fit to rule. It wouldn’t be the first time one Ancier had disposed of another for incompetence.

  “I have to be the one to fix this,” Luca murmured as she looked out the window.

  The Quartier was only a brief strip of desert away from where the soldiers lived and one cog of her empire turned. Beyond that, she could imagine the night noise of the city far in the distance. Just beyond the city flowed the River Hadd, and beyond the Hadd were the ruins of the Second City. Somewhere in the Second City was the Scorpion Library. The First Library.

  And maybe the secrets of the Shālan magic that could help her rule one day. The magic that her father had never managed to claim. The magic that might have saved his life.


  Luca ran a finger along the stone sill of the window. It was cool to the touch. “I’m twenty-eight years old, Gillett. I should have been crowned this year. The only reason I agreed to this test of his is so we don’t end up mired in another ten-year civil war. You know I have as strong a grasp of strategy and economics as Nicolas. I’ve read everything there is to read. I’ve been tutored in Shālan since before I could walk.” She turned to him, her voice low and bitter. “He’s too excited to test his Droitist this or Droitist that. Every corner of the empire will be like this if he’s not careful.” She gestured back to the city, as if she could point directly at the gallows and the hanged rebels.

  “I know, Luca.” He tried to soothe her with his murmurs, his rough hands rubbing her shoulders. “You’re going to need people to do this, though. The right people.”

  Luca made a delicate, peeved sound in her throat. “The right people?”

  “Like Cheminade. Cantic. Even Beau-Sang. Never overlook a good weapon.”

  Luca grunted and rolled her eyes. Later, however, her thoughts drifted to the handsome conscript. Perhaps she would make a good weapon, too.

  CHAPTER 4

  CAPTIVES

  Alive.

  Her mother was alive.

  Touraine reeled silently in the lonely dark of the carriage cab. She wished, not for the first time that night, that Pruett or Tibeau could have come with her.

  After the meal, Touraine spent the evening standing awkwardly to the side just like the body servants, except for when Cantic introduced her to the princess. She’d thought this dinner would be the peak of her success, that she’d show everyone that the Sands could belong just as much as anyone else. That hadn’t lasted long at all, between the comte de Beau-Sang and whoever that old noblewoman was. So it was a relief, at first, when Cheminade approached her.

  “Lieutenant Touraine.” The governor-general handed her a drink. Lord Governor Cheminade had a surprisingly tender air for a politician. The wrinkles in her face spread as she smiled.

  Touraine bowed, more out of uncertainty than anything else. The drink was sweet and fragrant and delicious.

  “I wanted to apologize personally for the comte de Beau-Sang’s behavior,” Cheminade said, peering into Touraine’s eyes like she was searching for some kind of reaction.

  Touraine looked into her cup instead. It was cut crystal. Cool to the touch and dazzling to the eye. The governor lived in a completely different world. The fine food, the beautiful home—Touraine could never imagine living in a place like this. And yet Cheminade was the first Balladairan she’d met to suggest that Balladairans treated the Sands… less well than they deserved.

  “It’s nothing, Lord Governor,” she said into her cup. “We’re used to it.”

  “Yes, well. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

  Touraine looked up, startled. “I don’t understand?”

  “I’ve been curious about Cantic’s project for a long time now.” Cheminade regarded the room casually, taking in but not lingering on the general. Cantic was trapped in a scowling conversation with the comte de Beau-Sang. “About what they taught you, what they plan for you when all of the fighting is done.” She waved her hand as if gesturing to battles gone by. “Do you know you’re the first conscript I’ve ever met?”

  “As far as I know, this is the first time the colonial brigade has been used in the colonies, my lady.”

  The older woman smiled tightly. “Indeed. Imagine my surprise when I heard that one of you had already distinguished yourself by saving the princess’s life.”

  Touraine raised an eyebrow. Even she could tell the flattery was thick. Still, she ducked her head in appreciation. “As I said, I’m happy to do my duty.”

  The same tight smile. “I’m sure. Do the conscripts remember much about their pasts?”

  Touraine’s alarm must have shown on her face. Cheminade laughed and put her empty hand on Touraine’s arm.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be honest,” Cheminade said, lowering her voice and smiling conspiratorially. “I did hear the man on the gallows. I can’t say I know his connection to Jaghotai—sky above knows the general will sniff it out—but I do know the woman. An overseer in the quarries. Excellent liaison between the city and the laborers.”

  In a matter of seconds, Touraine felt as if she’d been stripped naked. She even clutched her left arm closer, wondering if Cheminade knew about her newly healed wound, too.

  “I could arrange a meeting, if you’d like.”

  And just for a second, Touraine hesitated. What would it be like to have a mother again? What was this stranger like? Then the curiosity passed, leaving horror in its wake.

  “No. Of course not.” Touraine shook her head hard, eyes shifting nervously to General Cantic. She lifted her cup to her lips only to find it was already empty. “I mean, thank you. But I think we should all keep our distance from the uncivilized.”

  Cheminade grimaced, but when she followed Touraine’s glance, the expression softened. It wasn’t tender, but it looked like pity, and that put Touraine off even more.

  “I understand,” the governor said. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, so I’ll excuse myself. If you do change your mind, however, just let me know.”

  And before Touraine could gather herself again, Cantic swooped in and made their goodbyes, dragging Touraine to her carriage.

  Now, bumbling through the dark streets, she was sure it had been a test, and she knew she’d given the right answers. So why did it feel like she’d failed?

  The carriage jolted to a halt, and the driver thumped roughly on the wood of the cab. Touraine fumbled the door open to see what was the matter. She didn’t usually feel so clumsy, but then, she wasn’t usually plied with wine fit for royalty and no rationing chit.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, stepping out.

  “This is far enough, friend.” The cabbie spoke in a way that implied they weren’t friends at all. He looked down at her from his perch while the horse stamped impatiently.

  Touraine blinked stupidly at him. “The general said you’re to take me to the guardhouse.”

  “Not the general that paid me.” He shrugged and spat and flicked the reins.

  Touraine dived desperately for the door but found herself stumbling through air while the wheels clattered away into the night.

  “Sky-falling shit.” She kicked the dirt.

  Where even was she?

  Above her, the sky stretched inky black, starless. She turned down one of the wheel-spoke roads to take her deeper into the city, away from the clean, wide boulevards of the New Medina, occasionally taking other turns and noting landmarks. The farther she went, the more she hated it. Give her back the wide roads of the Balladairan countryside, the march through Moyenne, not this cramped misery. The disorganized layout of the city made it difficult to make a mental map.

  Two dogs sprinted from an alley, a spotted one chasing a mangy gold one. Touraine jumped back, heart hammering. Her head spun.

  Hounds.

  That bastard at the party had called them hounds. And the things that old hag had said…

  And that poor kid. There were Balladairans like Cantic and even Cheminade, then there were Balladairans like the comte de Beau-Sang. When Touraine saw what the comte had done to the boy’s fingers, she’d felt the kind of anger she’d reserved just for Rogan.

  Some Balladairans would never see the Sands as true citizens. Those people didn’t matter. Or they wouldn’t if the law would protect the Sands as citizens. And it didn’t. Which meant Beau-Sang and Rogan were dangerous. Which meant she had to keep knuckling her forehead at them, keeping her eyes and her voice down whenever they said shit like this.

  It was so unfair that the anger pulled tears from Touraine’s eyes. There had to be something better than this. Look at Cheminade, she told herself. Married to a Qazāli! If that was possible, why not a promotion? Why not a Qazāli-born captain? General, even? It was hard to convince Tibeau of it, tho
ugh, when there were a dozen moments like the one she’d had with the shit cabbie. A dozen chances for him to say he’d told her so.

  And what would he say if he knew her mother was alive?

  Her mother was alive—or no, Touraine thought, maybe not. No one had said with certainty that the woman was her mother, just someone she resembled a little. It was hard to convince herself. The old man knew her name. The name of that woman’s daughter. That woman was alive.

  Alive.

  Cheminade was kind, sure. But she was Balladairan. She didn’t understand the lines a Sand had to dance between. Even if Touraine wanted to meet Jaghotai, it would be impossible to open the doors to her past and keep her vision of a golden future in Balladaire’s army. And that was what she’d always wanted.

  Cut off the most undesirable traits.

  Was family an undesirable trait?

  Touraine’s head was thick and woolly. All she wanted to do was lie down and sleep. She took a shuddering breath and tried to get her bearings.

  She was lost.

  From what she could tell, the Grand Temple and the Grand Bazaar were the social center of the city, closest to the river but still outside the floodplain. The Mile-Long Bridge stretched from the dock quarter over the floodland and into the city. She could see none of that from the ground where she walked; the clay buildings were too tall. Only occasionally did she glimpse a temple spire. She angled herself toward them. If she could find the temple, the bazaar and Ibn Shattath couldn’t be too far off.

  The sickly sweet smell of refuse grew as Touraine walked on. A woman with a cart trundled behind Touraine. Beggars lay against walls, some maimed, some drunk. A small family, a mother and two children, slept under a single tattered blanket. Touraine shivered and walked faster. The desert night was chilly.

  Those children should have been in a charity school. Balladaire made provisions for children. What kind of mother would keep her children from those benefits?