by C. L. Clark
“A giraffe, exactly like them.” The dark-haired one leaned into her companion and lowered her voice. “She only needs a fourth leg.”
Luca cleared her throat, and when the women turned, their faces paled. Luca wanted to hurt them, to punish them, but what, realistically, could she do besides harbor a grudge against them and call the debt later? She lingered on the notion of having Lanquette shatter their legs slowly. With a blacksmith’s hammer. Actually, she’d rather do it herself. Ah, but for diplomacy.
“Hello, mesdemoiselles.”
The women bobbed into curtsies, but Luca pushed past them to see what had caught their attention. The single sheet of a broadside had been pasted to the clay wall. A picture took up most of the space on the page, a crude woodcut rendering of two women on puppet strings—one with a dark tricorne, a sagging, lined face, and hands dripping dark ink; the other with a tight bun, lips pursed sourly, hunching over a cane on impossibly crooked legs. The strings linked their hands to wooden handles held by sausage fingers. A large belly filled the background of the picture. She wondered if it was meant to be Duke Regent Nicolas Ancier, who was known for his belly, as Luca was known for her leg. “Puppets of the Empire’s Hunger” was printed in large block letters across the top. She scowled.
It came too close to her own feelings for comfort. Her uncle had sent her here as if she were nothing more than an errand child to clean up his messes or chase his coin. The humiliation of it made her eyes sting. She ripped the broadside off the wall. Her fist convulsed around the page.
She turned to the women. She didn’t recognize either of their faces, but only one woman in Balladaire—besides herself—had enough money and land to maintain a menagerie with giraffes. Lady Bel-Jadot. She could turn this to her advantage one day.
“Mademoiselle Bel-Jadot, yes?” Luca said to the dark-haired one. Lady Bel-Jadot had similar coloring.
“Yes, Your Highness.” The young Bel-Jadot curtsied again, her face blushing red beneath olive-toned skin.
Lanquette had hardened into something handsome and formidable, someone who could increase the women’s embarrassment. Luca was grateful. Surely it wouldn’t do for so eligible a bachelor to think so ill of the two women before her. It wouldn’t do for their princess to want them hanged, either, but there they were. She exhaled sharply through her nose. You need them.
“We apologize, Your High—”
“You may leave.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.” They bobbed again and vanished up the street.
Lanquette glared after them. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Your Highness. Shall I look for any more?”
“Not yet.” Luca could tell he was trying to be kind and reassuring, but it irked her that her pain was so evident.
She stepped back inside the bookshop and called for the proprietor, who had been shelving his latest acquisitions in the back. He huffed his way back to his counter, mopping sweat from his face even though it stained the front of his shirt and under his arms. She wrinkled her nose at the odor.
“I’m at your service, Your Highness. All that you like is yours, of course, as I said.”
“What I like is this sterling piece of art.” Luca waved the broadside she clutched in her fist. “What I would like is to never see its like on this shop ever again. Especially not if you’d like me to remain a patron. Where did it come from?”
The shopkeeper flushed and stammered as he set his page to running up and down the streets to look for more of the broadsides to tear from the walls and doors of the neighborhood.
“I’m so sorry, Your Highness. I never saw it! Forgive—”
The poor man had a point. Luca hadn’t seen it when she arrived, either, which meant it was probably recent.
“Do you have The Last Emperor by Yeshuf bn Zahel?” Luca cut in.
The man pursed his lips. “No, Your Highness. Only Balladairan books here, or approved Shālan authors. I’m afraid I don’t know Yeshuf Benizel.”
“Bn Zahel,” Luca muttered. She cleared her throat. “Nothing else, then.”
“You might try down in the Old Medina,” the man said quickly, mopping his face again. “I’ve… heard—that is, there are some Balladairans who collect Shālan books as decorations, and I’ve… heard them… speaking of a place in the Puddle District. Better to send someone, though. Like him.” The shopkeeper nodded to her guard and then to the sword on his belt.
Ah. That kind of quarter. If Cantic didn’t even want Luca in the New Medina, she would be thrilled about this. Inwardly, she snickered to herself, the spark of curiosity catching in her. Outwardly, she nodded once in thanks.
“If someone ever plasters broadsides of this nature on your wall, or any other door in sight, what will you do?” Luca asked the shopkeeper.
The man paled and bobbed up and down in a bow again. His throat bobbed, as well. “I’ll tear it down, of course, Your Highness. And notify you immediately.”
“Wonderful. Your loyalty is commendable.”
Outside the bookshop, Luca sat in her carriage with her second guard, Guérin, and wouldn’t meet the woman’s eyes. She realized she still clutched the broadside in her fist. She smoothed the large paper out over her thigh. The creases and smeared ink made the angles of her drawn legs look even more disfigured.
“Your Highness? What is it?” Guérin leaned closer, perhaps to comfort, perhaps to see the object of distress. Luca shook her head and tucked herself against the wall. It had felt good to intimidate the poor bookseller, but he wasn’t the one she should have directed her anger toward. He was helpless against her.
“The problem’s not with me. It never has been.”
And yet Luca still wished after all these years that her life had turned out differently. That she had turned out differently. That her legs were fine, that her parents were alive, that no one tittered behind their hands at her limping arrivals and departures. She had tried to offer them something else—as a child, she gave them precociousness, a memory for facts and languages that astounded her tutors. When she was older, she thought to impress suitors with her musical talent, since dancing made her bones ache. Now she was trying to prove to her empire that she didn’t have to ride into battle to be a worthy ruler. That her mind was weapon enough. Yes, she lacked experience, but she had maneuvered in court all her life, and she was here now. By the sky above, she wanted to be enough.
No. More than enough. She wanted to be a queen for the histories. Someone who changed Balladaire for the better. Someone who changed the world.
How to do that when this is how my people see me?
It wasn’t just her, though. Whoever had made this didn’t like the military or the empire—or at least, the royals. That left the nobles and the general citizens. She didn’t understand why either group would object to her stopping the rebellion in Qazāl, unless the broadside was from a Qazāli source. The likelihood of Qazāli having access to a printing press, however, was slim.
A knock on the carriage. Luca wiped her eyes with a finger. She opened the door on Lanquette.
“Your Highness. Where to now?”
Luca thumbed the broadside again, her lips pursed. Bn Zahel’s book would probably not be at a dockside bookstore, if it was this rare. And if it were, PSLR would likely have found it; PSLR seemed like a devoted scholar, not one to leave avenues untrodden. Neither was she.
More importantly, she needed to understand the city. A ruler who doesn’t see their city is a ruler who won’t see the knife plunge into their back. That was already too true. Luca needed to know the city to change the city, no matter what the danger was.
And yet… she swallowed against the quick rise of her heart in her throat. If that conscript hadn’t caught the woman at the docks, Lanquette and Guérin would have, but that didn’t make the reality of the cold steel any less sharp.
Luca slumped against the door in defeat. “Back to the Quartier,” she said softly.
Lanquette’s shoulders relaxed, and Luca heard Guérin
exhale a sharp breath of relief. Lanquette was a few years younger than Luca herself, which said something for his skill and the trust Gillett had placed in him. Guérin had, at most, a decade on Luca, near retiring if she wanted to. She was still at least twenty years younger than Gillett.
Lanquette closed the door with a bow, and the carriage shook as he climbed on top with the driver.
The cabin was too quiet as they began moving. She wondered if Guérin judged her silently for not being the right kind of queen.
“Guérin, what do you think of the Qazāl question?” Luca asked abruptly. She flicked the curtain to peer through the window. The clay buildings passed quickly. The streets in the New Medina were clear, except for the odd Balladairan or well-dressed Qazāli shopping or conducting business.
“Not my place, Your Highness.” The other woman’s grimace showed something else, though.
Luca fixed her with an eye. “Shall I order you to have a frank conversation with me? You and Lanquette must talk about this when I’m not around.”
Guérin bowed her head. Her words came out rushed. “I think we should pull out of the colonies and focus on the Taargens. We share a border with them and no natural defenses. No disrespect to the king, of course, Your Highness. We weren’t spread so thin then as we are now.”
“Even though we’ve signed a peace treaty with Taargen.”
Guérin made a skeptical sound in her throat. “Might be best to stay prepared instead of spending the money to keep a pack of jackals in line. Instead of teaching them, we could teach our own. I know a few kids back home who’d love a decent book, or to know how to read one.”
Guérin was from a town northeast of La Chaise, surrounded by mountains on three sides, known more for its sheep than its people. It was part of the Marquisate de Durfort, her friend Sabine’s domain. Luca had heard more than one joke about the “simple mountain folk” in court—which meant Guérin had, too.
“You make a fair point.” One that Luca had considered, of course. Still, it was hard to reconcile that with how much Balladaire’s economy was fueled by controlled trade—which was to say, control that benefited Balladaire first and foremost—with the Shālan colonies.
“It’s risky, too.” Guérin hesitated before adding, “Guarding you—it’s an honor I’ve been given, I understand that. Worked hard to earn it. But I do—uh, miss my family sometimes, Your Highness.”
“You’re right. You do take grave risks. Stopping the rebellion will help us, though.” So would taking her uncle off the throne; she made a mental note to address literacy soon. Maybe Sabine could help her set something up now, while Luca was away.
As the carriage rolled on, Luca let herself get lost in thoughts of home—Sabine de Durfort more pleasantly, the rest of the court rather less so.
When she was young, after that horse had trampled her leg to pieces, she noticed the young nobles wearing beautiful new swords, gifts for their comings-out, and she made the mistake of saying aloud that she’d like one, someday. Later, she overheard Sabine, the lordling of Durfort, laughing at her earnestness.
The next day, she hid herself in the armory and tried sword after sword, all heavy, some ancient and broad, some newer, fashionably curved after cavalry blades but less functional.
“You’ll never beat anyone with a sword you can’t carry,” Gil tried to tell her when he found her in tears, her arms shaking with fatigue.
With one hand on her cane, she yanked another blade from the hanging rack. She had never wanted a sword, never wanted to be a fighter, before the accident. Now she needed it.
The weight of the weapon surprised her, and it plummeted down. Out of poor instinct, she dropped the cane to take the weight. Her leg gave out, and she, the sword, and the cane clattered to the ground.
Gil folded his arms across his chest. “Are you ready to listen, Luca?”
She scowled, stubbornly bit her cheek to keep from crying. “Fine.”
He scooped her up and helped her back onto her feet and cane. Then he went and plucked a small rapier from the most ornate swords on display. Not one of the broader blades that were stylish among the other youth, but it was beautiful.
“I can’t fight anyone with that,” she said sullenly.
“You can. Not like they expect you to, but you can. I’ll teach you. And then you can give young Durfort a demonstration.”
Six dedicated months of sweating and constantly aching muscles later, Luca challenged Sabine de Durfort to a private duel and beat her.
Now, as then, Luca couldn’t face this challenge the same way as everyone else. But like her own rapier, she was flexible. She knew the value of finding other avenues of attack, and she was patient.
Cantic and Beau-Sang wanted to crush the rebels with brute Balladairan might, and King Roland would probably have done that.
But Luca wasn’t them. She had never even been in battle; in that respect, she was more like her uncle. Uncle Nicolas was rigid in his own way, though—he was so sure that the Shālans were incapable of rational thought, he’d declined to meet with any Shālan representative for the last decade.
She could be different.
She could send the Qazāli rebels a negotiator who would hear their grievances. She would offer them the dignity of taking them seriously.
At best, she would end the rebellion without bloodshed and turn enemies into allies.
At worst, she would have someone close to the seat of the rebellion’s power. She would have a glimpse at the rebels’ plans and resources in a way Cantic clearly hadn’t managed.
The right negotiator would have access to the rebels, which meant either that Luca needed a well-placed spy from Cantic’s intelligence branch or that the delegate must already be well connected in Qazāli society. They would speak Shālan fluently so that no nuances escaped them and a knife in the guts couldn’t be construed as a “misunderstanding.” Similarly, they would have an awareness of Qazāli culture so that a knife in the guts couldn’t be construed as a “redress to insults.”
The perfect negotiator would be well educated, diplomatic, and courteous and would have a sense of tact. They would be loyal to Balladaire, above all else. And yet Luca couldn’t ignore how often the possibility of a knife in the guts arose, so she added combat skills in the “nice-to-have” column of her mental checklist.
As she shaped the list, the image of the perfect candidate formed in her mind. Bald and bearded, not physically intimidating but with clever, insightful eyes and the ability to keep his tongue civil in front of Casimir LeRoche de Beau-Sang. That feat alone impressed Luca.
Cheminade’s husband, Nasir, would do perfectly.
As if on cue, the carriage lumbered forward again.
CHAPTER 6
A FAMILY
This time, shouting jarred Touraine from fitful half sleep. Sandals slapping, bare feet or boots scuffing outside the door. She snapped herself fully awake and reached for her baton before she remembered she’d been trussed up like a pig. She strained at the cords on her wrists again. Her skin was on sky-falling fire where the ropes had rubbed it raw, but if she could just get loose—
At the crack of musket fire, she stilled, stopped breathing entirely.
Someone yelled in Balladairan close by. She flexed her hands, looking for more play in the rope. Nothing.
“I’m in here!” she shouted.
She yelled until the footsteps came to her. She braced herself. Please don’t be the desert witch. Even the bitch with the boots would be all right. Didn’t fill Touraine with the same kind of fear. The kind of fear that kept her half-awake, even though she was exhausted from travel and fighting and surprises—
It was Émeline. She held a musket, bayonet silhouetted against the light.
“They’re on the run.” Émeline picked Touraine’s bindings apart with the bayonet. “All right, sir?”
Touraine groaned as her arms and legs sprang apart with relief, settling back into their sockets. She felt like soft candy stretche
d too far.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Émeline let Touraine hold her arm as she stood. “Pru’s going to fucking kill you, sir.”
“Is she the only one?” Touraine searched her face.
Émeline cocked her head apologetically. “Tibeau might be in line, yeah.”
“Excellent. Sky-falling excellent.” She limped out of the room, her hips grinding back into place.
The rest of the building looked like the guardhouse. Rooms square around a courtyard in the middle. They were on the second floor, and a rotting, latticed railing clung to the stone pillars. There weren’t enough lanterns in the corridor to lift the shadows, and the stars shining through the courtyard didn’t offer much light. The courtyard fountain was dry.
Musket fire shattered the fountain’s ornament in a spray of shards and dust, a burst of thunder followed by pattering rain. They hunched behind the rail, and Émeline dragged her down the corridor. Only slightly better protection than standing in an open field.
Another shot and someone below screamed in pain. Émeline knelt behind a pillar to fire back. Touraine dropped to the floor, hunting for the gunman. They fell into the roles so seamlessly that her blood sang with the beauty of it.
“One shot.”
Émeline nodded.
Touraine poked her head up to look at the corridor on the other side. A dark figure craned around another pillar to look down into the courtyard.
She ducked back. “On your left, third pillar—”
“Got it.”
One deep breath, then Émeline turned, waited, fired. The rebel fell. The women moved again, down the hallway, to the stairs.
Each breath Touraine took was a wince. She didn’t hear the other footsteps. She didn’t turn until she heard a sharp, surprised gasp. Touraine spun, ready to help Émeline finish off their attacker.
The bayonet of an ancient musket stuck out of Émeline’s stomach. Her eyes and mouth were wide, fishlike with shock. Even the rebel looked surprised at what they had done, their eyes wide above their hooded veil. The blade glistened wetly with blood in the dim moonlight that came in through the courtyard.
