by C. L. Clark
“The modiste girl. I wondered if she might be a rebel.”
Luca opened one eye. “What makes you say that?”
Touraine shrugged. “The things she said. She didn’t sound impressed by us.”
Luca sniffed and closed her eye. “I half expect any Qazāli with money to have some deal with the rebels. She did speak as if she was on their side.”
Touraine looked wistfully around for a chair, but none were close enough for debriefing. That, and Luca had not invited her to sit.
A tense silence. “Excellent. Maybe the rebels will use your indiscretion against me as well.” Could acid freeze? If so, that was how she sounded. She cleared her throat. “Help me up.”
Luca half pushed herself out of the chair, strain clear on her face.
Touraine went over, arms out. Luca shooed her back.
“Don’t be stupid. Get the chair. Corner of my room.”
Touraine retrieved the chair. It was normal for Luca to be angry. A plan had fallen through; her weapon had misfired. Touraine wasn’t above being afraid of where that anger might turn. No matter how unfair it was, she couldn’t let Luca see her as a liability. Right now, Touraine was definitely that. She needed to give Luca something in return. She’d learned young that fairness and Sands rarely went together.
As she wheeled Luca across the threshold of the bedroom, her face warmed with the memory of this morning. The way Luca had looked at her as Touraine helped her dress. The husky whisper of Luca’s voice.
Touraine could help Luca out of the sleek trousers now. She could make the rumors true, and Luca probably wouldn’t mind as much as she seemed to.
It’s the truest rumors you deny the hardest.
It was one thing to dodge Rogan in the compounds or the field. It was another impossibility entirely to deny the Balladairan heir. Even she wasn’t that stupid.
And Luca had already given her so much. What gifts would she give to a lover?
Touraine stopped beside the bed and stood in front of her. Luca’s mouth was twisted with her mood. She raised a pale eyebrow.
Touraine bent over the wheeled chair and kissed Luca on the mouth. No small satisfaction knowing it would catch the scholar off her guard.
It did. Luca tensed but relaxed into it almost instantly. As if it were a matter of course that Touraine would give her this.
And then Luca’s hands were pushing against Touraine’s chest, pushing her off, even as she held on to Touraine’s vest. The princess’s face was bright pink.
“You want this?” she asked, shrill with surprise.
Fear kept Touraine frozen in place. Her mouth worked, but she couldn’t get the words to come out. Say yes. Say yes. Make your life easy for once, you sky-falling idiot.
“I didn’t think so.” Luca let go of the vest and sank back into her wheeled chair with a huff. “That’s got to be the worst kiss I’ve ever had. If you’re going to pretend to want me, you’ll need to pretend harder.”
Touraine let out a strangled cry, caught somewhere between insulted and flabbergasted.
“Well, no offense to you. I’m sure you can do better under other circumstances.” Luca shrugged and sighed, shaking her head. The corners of her lips twitched, the only warning before she exploded into laughter and Touraine followed her, chuckling nervously.
It was like the venting on a meat pie, and the tension steamed out—just a bit. Enough so that when Adile knocked on the door and offered to bring tea, Luca invited Touraine to stay for a cup—and she said yes.
To leave that new space so soon would have made Touraine’s relief feel false. And maybe it was. Maybe in the morning it would be gone, and regret would crash in. Right now, it felt real, and right now she was lonely.
While they waited on the tea, Luca began to lever herself out of her wheeled chair and into the bed.
Touraine reached to help. “Your Highness, do you—”
An impatient wave. After a series of grunts and winces, Luca sat in her bed, legs stretched out. She sucked air through her teeth as she kneaded the muscles in her right leg. Slowly, the lines of pain in her face softened.
Touraine pulled the chair from the small writing desk and sat at the side of Luca’s bed, facing her.
“Does it hurt often?” Touraine found she was rubbing her own leg in sympathy and stopped.
“Yes. It’s why I hate these stupid parties.”
Adile came in and set the tea on Luca’s bedside table.
The warmth of the cup was a comfort in Touraine’s hand. “You fight, though.” When Luca raised a questioning eyebrow, Touraine added, “You stand like a duelist.”
“And it’s awful,” Luca said after a sip. “However, being able to fight could be the difference between life and death. Knowing the latest dances, not so much.”
The same logic ruled the Sands’ training.
“It happened on my birthday. A beautiful autumn afternoon.” The word beautiful came out more like “sky-falling.” “Red leaves on the trees, even more rotting underfoot, the smell of two hundred horses’ shit, and about fifty trumpeters who kept blowing triumphant even after I’d fallen.”
“You mean the autumn parade?”
Luca nodded.
Touraine laughed softly. “I just thought it was a national holiday. Your birthday. Same thing, I guess.”
At a sore spot on her leg, Luca hissed. “Yes. I was lamed on my birthday because of a shoddy saddle buckle.”
Touraine raised an eyebrow. “A saddle buckle? That’s a bit obvious, isn’t it?”
She thought of the stories where dark villains from the south allied with Balladairan princes and betrayed them, only to fall to the righteous heroes. They’d inspired her own fantasies—and experiments—of rigging Rogan’s saddle. In her head, she had been the Balladairan hero, despite all physical evidence to the contrary.
Luca cocked her head. A trail of blond hair escaped to fall across her face, and she pushed it back. “How do you mean?”
“It’s the oldest trick, isn’t it? Makes it all look like an accident.”
“Ha! If my uncle had wanted to kill me, there are a million equally subtle and more guaranteed ways to make it happen. That only barely works, even in the stories.”
Touraine’s face warmed in embarrassment.
“If I’m honest,” Luca added, grimly, “I think he’ll try to discredit me first. Less messy.”
“Over the rebellion.”
Luca nodded, doing that dismissive wave again. “I don’t want to think about him. You like the old adventures, then? Did you ever read ‘The Journeys of the Chevalier des Pommes’?”
Touraine grinned and nodded. The Chevalier des Pommes was a knight of lore who walked a thousand leagues, and every time he slept, an apple tree grew. “What about it?”
“When I was quite small, I tried to fall asleep in the palace gardens so there would be trees when I woke up.” Luca’s smile slid sideways. “No, now that I think about it—my father was so angry at me, and I don’t even know why. It was my mother, I think—when I fell asleep that night, she tucked an apple in my bed.”
They talked through the entire pot of tea, about stories and their youths, though Touraine kept only to innocent misadventures and Luca avoided further mention of her parents. The pot was down to the dregs when Luca drained her cup and then peered somberly over the rim at her.
“Is Captain Rogan one of the Balladairans from your old compound, then?”
“Aye.”
“Has he always been like… that?” Luca waved thin fingers in the direction of the dance floor, which was a sitting room again.
“You mean a rapey son of a bearfucker? Yeah.” Darkness crowded back into Touraine’s thoughts.
Luca’s face went open in alarm. “He—”
“Tried to.”
The memory of that night closed hard around her. She’d been on her way to visit Pruett’s bunk for a night’s tryst.
There were things she still remembered when she didn’t want to. The sound
of boots behind her in the dark. The feel of a brick wall, cold through the back of her shirt, the fabric snagging. Pruett and the Sands who’d saved her, screaming at the whipping post.
Luca’s mouth went into a thin line. She looked down at her lap, one hand playing with the bedclothes, the other still around her empty teacup. “I’m sorry I invited him. He’s a captain and represents an important house. If I had realized the full extent of his behavior, I would have happily snubbed him. I apologize for putting you in that position.”
“Thank you for standing for me.” Touraine tilted her head.
“If I could, I’d have him killed.” The princess spoke it as a matter of fact, and it was more frightening for it. It wouldn’t take much effort at all, Touraine supposed. A word to Guérin or Lanquette or Gil—and Luca would be held blameless. Touraine wondered what mistakes she would have to make to turn Luca’s whim against her.
Luca continued to muse, “It might be difficult if he’s one of Cantic’s favorites. She doesn’t like to believe ill of her favorites.” She gave Touraine an arch look with her lips pursed.
And then she was Luca the woman again, gazing away at her window, where they could see the black of night turning into deep blue. “Sky above, it’s late. Early. Sleep in tomorrow. Rest. Don’t think about that bastard. You’re safe with me.” She punctuated her words with a yawn.
Touraine’s own jaws cracked in echo as she stretched. “Thank you.”
Before Touraine made it to the door, Luca called her back. “And—I spoke to you as a friend tonight. Don’t betray that trust. Please. I’ll do the same.”
Lines of uncertainty shot across the princess’s forehead, her eyes just a little frightened.
Touraine ducked her head. “Of course.”
She left lighter in her step. Whatever she’d done to make the princess so angry, she had corrected it, that was certain. But Luca’s affections were just another edge to walk.
CHAPTER 14
THE BOOKSELLER
Break fast with me.” Princess Luca pointed to the table with a long, just barely ink-stained finger. The late night showed in the hollows of her eyes, but she smiled warmly. Over a breakfast of a crusty baguette and soft eggs flavored with pepper and herbs and tart, soft cheese, Touraine got her first mission.
Touraine wanted to love the food. When Adile brought in two small cups on a tray and poured the coffee, it smelled like fresh earth, churned by boots on the march. She was breaking fast at a princess’s table. She also wanted to love the idea of her new clothing from the modiste’s. Her narrow victory over Rogan still felt unreal.
It should have been easy to be grateful, especially after their conversation last night.
It should have been easy to answer the princess’s questions. Easy to show an interest.
This morning, though, Touraine had woken up uneasy.
Yes, deep, deep down, Touraine was curious. She wanted to know what Princess Luca wanted and how she thought. But the truth was it didn’t matter what the princess thought, because Touraine would obey anyway. Tibeau was right. She was their pet. And she’d be a well-dressed one, but she’d dance all the same.
Touraine mimicked the princess’s small bites instead of scooping the eggs with a fork and bread like she would’ve with her squad. Her mouth was full when the princess set her knife and fork down and wiped her lips delicately with her napkin.
Today, the princess wore a deep-green coat open over a cream shirt and brown trousers. Green vines twined up the coat. Her blond hair was pulled back, and her spectacles perched on a lightly freckled nose. She radiated control.
“Today,” she said, “I need you to go down to the Puddle District, near the docks.”
Touraine swallowed and put her own knife and fork in the same position, on her own plate. “Yes, Your Highness.”
“There should be a bookstore run by a Qazāli. I’m looking for a book called The Last Emperor by Yeshuf bn Zahel.”
“Yeshuf bn Zahel.” Touraine repeated the name to get the feel for the syllables. They felt awkward and familiar at the same time, like picking up a toy you outgrew years ago.
“I’ll write it down for you. You’re done already? Would you like some more?” She nodded to Touraine’s empty coffee cup.
Luca tended to ramble. Still, she had a sharp eye.
“Yes, please.” The taste was growing on Touraine, like a callus.
Instead of the coffee, Adile returned with a package, smiling at Touraine. “Your new clothes, it feels like.”
Princess Luca gestured for her to go try them on and followed. Malika and her mother had rushed to complete the order for the ball first. Touraine had been wearing Guérin’s plainclothes during the days.
Touraine tossed the wrapping paper onto her new bed and shook out the clothing. A black sleeveless vest with a hood, like the Qazāli wore, only made of finer fabric than Touraine had ever touched in her life, smooth against the hair of her body, embroidered with black thorns that shone just a little in the sunlight. The trousers were black, too.
The princess leaned against the door, and when Touraine was dressed in the vest and trousers, she made an appreciative sound in her throat and smirked. “It’s a crime to keep those arms of yours hidden away in an army coat.”
Touraine blushed. The vest did give her greater freedom of movement, and it was light. The trousers were loose enough to be cool, but not so baggy they’d trip her up with useless fabric. And the ensemble did suit her.
What she heard as she turned about, though, was Pruett’s voice. You want what she can give you.
“It all fits well, Your Highness,” she finally managed, smiling. “Thank you.”
“Yes, it does.” Luca’s voice held a touch of humor.
Touraine pushed at that humor, tried to give the princess some of what she wanted. A gamble toward impudence, but—“If you outfitted the rest of the conscripts like this, you’d have the most loyal army in the world.”
“And the most expensive.” A crooked smirk. “There’s also a heavier set for evenings, shirts. New boots will come later, and we’ll go to the armory soon and see what we can do about…” She waved her hand in Touraine’s general direction as she limped to the door that separated her quarters from the guards’ room. “You need to be properly armed if you’re going to traipse through the city.”
Touraine’s heart leapt. A weapon of her own, to keep. That alone would be worth the position and whatever duties it came with. She’d been feeling naked without her baton at her hip.
“In the meantime, here’s this. Basic but serviceable.” She disappeared into her room and came back with a belt and a long knife. Given so casually and secondhand, but it was finer than an officer’s sword, its silver handle etched with leaves. “I never wear it, but it’s in good repair.”
Touraine stood speechless over the pile in front of her. She had never imagined owning anything of this quality before. A series of extravagant gifts. Balladaire never gave gifts freely.
And you couldn’t own anything if you were owned yourself.
That thought strangled Touraine’s excitement.
“Thank you, Your Highness. Very much.” No jokes this time. “Shall I go for your book now, then?”
“Yes. Come with me.”
Touraine followed her back to the desk in the sitting room, where Luca scrawled something on a piece of paper. Then she pulled a small pouch from a lockbox and handed it to Touraine, along with the pieces of paper. The pouch clinked with a few coins and crunched with paper.
“I don’t know how much he’ll ask for.” For a second, the princess looked troubled. “If he has it, pay whatever he wants.”
“As you say, Your Highness.”
The Puddle District smelled like a puddle of piss, for sure. The pass Luca had given Touraine had gotten her a carriage that had taken her from the Quartier all the way across the Mile-Long Bridge arching over the rich farmland and the irrigation ditches that spread from the river’s banks. Along
with the piss, she could smell the fresh fishy smell of the river, the stale fishy smell of fish carcasses in the garbage, and the cooked fishy smell of fish soups and fish pies and fish fry. Qazāli fishing boats and shipping vessels from Balladaire creaked, and their masters shouted. After the carriage left her—intentionally, this time—at the entrance to the warren of the dock district, Touraine wandered on foot.
She squelched through the winding street and glared at anyone who sized her up. The glare, plus the bare muscles of her arms and the knife at her belt, was a good deterrent.
She stopped at the address written on Luca’s note. An open door showed a man sitting on a pillow, leaning over a book on a low table. A stack of books rose messily beside him. The small shop looked a lot like the princess’s sitting room, but the extra books were in crates, not on shelves. Not to mention the books were water stained and ragged, swollen with moisture or wrinkled from drying out. A waste.
He welcomed her in Shālan when she stepped in, a waterfall of incomprehensible syllables. Then, after he’d actually looked up from his book: “Shāl take my eyes. You really do look like her.”
Touraine stopped in her tracks. She didn’t have to ask whom. She’d spent too long trying to forget the sound of the woman’s name. She’d spent the last week trying to forget about the woman everyone seemed to think was her mother.
“Are you here to see Jagh—”
“Do you have this book?” She thrust out the paper Luca had scrawled on in Shālan. The ink was smeared a little from sweat but still legible—if you could read Shālan. It was nothing but swirls and dots and slashes to her.
He grunted. “Act like her, too.” His excitement turned to an ironic smile that put Touraine even more on edge. She had never liked people assuming they knew her.
He stood to take the paper. He was a big man and looked like he belonged in a wrestling circle. He didn’t move like a fighter, though. Too slow. Tibeau would beat him a hundred times over.
He read the note, studied her from under his thick eyebrows, then shook his head. “Why do you want this? Can you even read it?”
“I’m here to buy it if you have it. I’ll go if you don’t.”
