by C. L. Clark
“Tell your princess I don’t have it.”
Touraine’s mouth dropped open. “How—”
“Not hard to see if you think.” He grinned. “You look very nice. Madame Abdelnour does excellent work. Expensive work.”
Touraine huffed. “Is there anything like it she might want?”
“No. If she wants this, she’s serious. A real scholar. Haven’t seen her like in years. If it’s not sold, it’s across the river.”
“Across the river?”
“In Briga. The Cursed City. The library?”
Touraine shook her head each time.
“Did they teach you anything over there?” he muttered.
“They taught us plenty.” Her hand moved toward her belt, and she was surprised to find the knife instead of the baton.
He held his palms up. “Sorry, sister. Nothing against you, just—it’s not right.”
“I can decide what’s right for me, thanks.” She turned toward the door. “Stars and sky and all that.”
Her frustration warred with the depths of her mission. If Luca wanted an inroad with the rebels, the best way would be to ask. And here was a man who seemed more than happy to pull her into Qazāl. She didn’t know if he was connected with the rebels or not.
And to ask meant to expose the dangerous questions she’d buried since the old man had recognized her—where had she come from? Whom had she come from? Even Lord Governor Cheminade had offered, at dinner, to help Touraine reach out to her mother. Was her mother a rebel?
She kept telling herself that she didn’t care about her past. That she cared about the rebels only because the princess cared about the rebels. That she cared about the rebels because they’d killed two of her friends. No more than that. And yet…
She put her hand on the edge of the clay doorframe. Dragged her boots to a stop. Turned back.
“Who was he? The man—who recognized me,” she asked, looking at the table. She couldn’t bring herself to meet the bookseller full on. Not when she was seeing the old man’s eyes bulge and the vain struggle of his tongue to make sound or find air. Looking at her. Calling her out. She didn’t want to see that same accusation in the bookseller’s face.
“Not who is she?”
“No—never mind.” Touraine rolled her eyes and spun for the door.
“Ya, wait.” He shifted some crates as if he knew what was in each stack by heart, and came back with a worn book.
Touraine took it skeptically.
“It’s a reading primer. For Shālan. You can teach yourself. Ask your, uh, friend to help.”
Suddenly, it felt like holding a live scorpion. When they were kids, Tibeau and Pruett had tried to talk to her in Shālan. She’d refused, to please the instructors, and she’d never regretted it.
Suddenly, she missed the two of them so fiercely it caught in her throat. The idea of a peace offering to them felt like a good idea. “Do you have something—nice to read?” she asked. “Something to enjoy, but not too hard?”
The man’s face split in a smile. “Do you like poetry?”
She didn’t. Pruett had a penchant for quoting Balladairan poetry when she was in a good mood, though. She’d even written Touraine a romantic verse or two. Who needs a god of oceans when I could drown inside your eyes? Who needs a god of grain when I could feast between your thighs? Touraine smiled. Frowned. Maybe Pruett would like Shālan poetry. She and Tibeau could share it.
He came back with a small book, slimmer than her little finger. “A personal favorite. Words are easy enough, but you can chew on them for days. Come back when you can read one. Tell me what you think.”
She handed him a couple of silver sovereigns, well more than the books were worth.
“I know this isn’t yours, so I’ll take it.” The silver glinted in his palm. He wouldn’t stop smiling. “My name is Saïd. The dāyiein are welcome here.”
The Shālan word reminded her too much of the Brigāni and the woman with the boots for her to accept the welcome with more than a terse nod and quick thanks.
“Idris Yassir was his name. Jaghotai’s brother.”
It felt like a kick out the door, and Touraine stumbled into the street.
The dāyiein. The Lost Ones. She was halfway up the street, skirting the curious glances of the Qazāli, when she remembered what, exactly, the word meant.
She’d never considered herself lost before, but every day since she’d stepped into this sky-falling city, the path she’d expected to walk crumbled beneath her boots.
Idris Yassir. A mother. An uncle. A whole language.
She didn’t want any of it.
She paged through the poetry book as she walked. Nothing she could read. She shouldn’t have bothered. She’d tell the princess it was to gain his confidence, but what if she considered it as good as treason?
“Ya, sister!”
She slowed at the bookseller’s deep voice behind her. He beckoned for her to come back.
“I was just closing my shop to meet some friends. Would you like to come?”
The big man spoke softly, not as if he intended to go carousing. Not as if he intended to extend a welcoming hand to a lonely stranger. It was one conspirator to another, and his face was deathly serious.
Touraine thought of Luca in her study, planning. Luca in her bedroom, laughing over apples and tea.
“All right.”
CHAPTER 15
REBELLIONS
Saïd the bookseller blindfolded her and banished any lingering ideas that he was taking Touraine to an elaborate drinking party. Saïd guided her with a hand on the small of her back on a dizzying, circuitous walk. Finally, he untied the scarf.
They were in a different building than she remembered from her captivity. No crumbling railing, no bloodstained corridor.
“We also rotate locations,” Saïd said. A warning: if you look to betray us, you will not find us here.
“If you’re so worried, why did you bring me?”
“Hope,” he said simply. “But I’m not naive.”
He led her upstairs, following the sounds of heated voices. They went silent as Touraine and Saïd grew closer. He knocked once and said a short phrase in Shālan. The door opened.
Touraine recognized the woman at the door immediately, even with the frayed deep-red scarf around her face. More accurately, she recognized the boots. The woman had escaped the Sands’ attack, then.
Touraine’s hand went to the knife at her side. She heard the echo of Luca’s warnings—how a Balladairan representative conducts herself and all—but this wasn’t Luca’s realm. Her grip tightened on the handle. Touraine would bet her teeth that this was the woman who had framed her for killing a blackcoat, too. She’d ruined Touraine’s life in more ways than one.
But this wasn’t Touraine’s realm, either. She was used to rank and file, the open sky above, and clear enemies. Not mazes of close buildings and secret alliances.
“What in Shāl’s name is she doing here, Saïd?” the woman asked.
Saïd used his bulk to usher Touraine through the door so he could close it. Trapping her in.
“Easy, Jackal. Today, she’s a friend.”
“A friend my ass. She’s one of their tools. You just compromised all of us for your stupid dream of reconciliation. It’s not going to happen, Saïd.”
Touraine was inclined to agree and started to say so when Saïd held his hands up and stood between Touraine and the woman he’d called Jackal.
“She’s here now,” he said. “Give her a chance.”
Touraine scowled at them both as they talked over her. “Give me a chance to what?”
Saïd smiled back at her. “We’ve all had bad first impressions. Let’s start over.” He turned back to the Jackal. “She has the foreign princess’s ear.”
The Jackal glared at Touraine, her snarl baring teeth. Touraine thought the woman would stab her rather than let her stay, but finally she stepped aside. Saïd ushered Touraine forward.
P
rincess Luca wanted to open peace talks with these people.
The room was cozy, with five people sitting in a circle on poufs or boxes with cushions. Sunlight streaming in through the windows lit their veiled or scarf-covered faces. A beaten metal plate held half a circle of bread and a bowl of oil. In the back, a small altar held a stub of incense. The room smelled sweet with its smoke. Touraine spotted the Brigāni woman immediately, her golden eyes like a falcon’s.
“Ah, daāyie. Welcome.” The woman smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Sit. Eat.”
Touraine thought through the forms of address Luca had drilled into her, then settled on a simple half bow. “Thank you.”
The bitch with the boots, the Jackal, dropped onto a pillow next to the Brigāni witch and rolled her eyes. “Yes, welcome, Mulāzim. Careful not to spill any oil on your new clothes.” Her left arm ended in a painful-looking twist of flesh halfway down her forearm.
Touraine tried to ignore her, tearing a chunk of bread off the round, swiping it almost carelessly through the oil. The oil was sweet but sprinkled with salt that dissolved against her tongue.
“You don’t look like a conscript anymore,” the Brigāni said, leaning forward. She sat with a blanket over her lap. Her face was tight at the eyes and lips. Strained.
Touraine took her time chewing and swallowing her bread.
“No. I’m not. One of you framed me for killing a blackcoat. I was supposed to be executed. I lost everything.”
The Brigāni witch gave the Jackal a questioning look, and the dark-eyed woman shrugged innocently.
“Now I’m the queen’s assistant.”
Saying it out loud felt strange, as if she were stretching out a pair of tight trousers and feeling them loosen until they fit. This was what she was now. What she would learn to be. Which meant she had to put aside what she wanted and think about what Luca wanted. Presumably, that didn’t include killing rebel leaders. Not yet, anyway. She glared at the Jackal. What a shame.
A curvy rebel sitting with legs crossed and palms on knees laughed a tinkling, self-assured laugh and said, “Balladaire has no queen.” That voice was familiar. Touraine’s suspicions had been right.
“Mademoiselle Abdelnour.” Touraine saluted her with a piece of bread. “Princess Luca will be queen soon enough.”
The young woman only laughed again. She wore a gray scarf that, at first glance, was nondescript. On a closer look, though, it was woven with a delicate pattern and made with almost the same quality as Touraine’s own clothes.
“A dog with a fancy collar is still a dog, Mulāzim.” The Jackal chuckled at her own joke, crossing her legs to prop one bastard boot on a bent knee while she slouched back on her hand.
It wasn’t even a funny joke. Touraine chewed her lip until the flare of her anger dimmed again. “Why do you keep calling me that?”
“It just means lieutenant,” Malika said. “Not an insult, for once.” She pointed at Touraine, then the ass of a woman, and then the Brigāni witch. “Mulāzim. The Jackal. The Apostate.”
Noms de guerre.
The Jackal snorted. Fitting.
Touraine looked sideways at Malika and Saïd. “So who are you?”
“Uh-uh. One name’s enough.” Saïd crossed his arms across his chest. He looked to the Jackal and the Brigāni witch—the Apostate. “Let her take a message back to the princess for us.”
At first, Touraine felt indignant. She wasn’t their courier. But Luca wanted to set up negotiations with the rebels, and Touraine knew for a fact that Luca didn’t know how to initiate those talks, or she would have set Touraine to it already. So Touraine swallowed her pride and did her job. That’s what she was good at, after all.
She bowed her head. “What do you want me to say?”
“We want peace over—”
“No one agreed to this, brother,” the Jackal interrupted. “Why should we trust the foreign girl any more than the rest of them?” Then she looked at Touraine with so much scorn, Touraine thought she would spit. “And I wouldn’t trust one of these bootlicking traitors to help. Tell him, Apostate.”
Saïd and the Jackal both looked at the Brigāni woman for backup, but it was Malika who spoke.
“The princess did donate the slots for Qazāli children at the Citadel.” She shrugged prettily, holding one edge of her scarf so that it didn’t fall off her shoulder. “I checked with the school this morning. We can at least send her a few demands, see how much of this is just her putting a dress on a goat.”
Malika looked Touraine up and down, and Touraine wondered if she was the goat.
It came again to the Apostate, but she looked pained as she studied Touraine. Out of nowhere, she winced and put a hand to her abdomen before recovering. She sat up straighter. Touraine could see the sharp jut of shoulder and elbow through the loose fabric of her robe. Even from the ground, she gave Touraine the same measuring eye the princess had used in the prison. Always, always someone weighed her. Always, someone looked for the flaw.
Finally, the Apostate said, “If your princess wants to show us she means well, she should release any prisoners arrested on suspicion of rebellion. Full amnesty.”
“I’ll ask.” Touraine thought the likelihood was slim, though.
Her doubt must have shown in her voice. The Apostate added, “Even the so-called violent crimes. Until she and hers are locked up for the violent crimes they’ve committed against us, I don’t think we should be locked up for retaliation.” She shared a look with the bitch on the floor. “Shāl’s peace or no.”
“Anything else?”
“She’ll also close down all of the Droitist schools in the region. No children will be taken to any of them, anywhere in Qazāl.”
That took Touraine aback. “I thought you were happy about her offer for the orphans?”
“It proves she is a political animal, offering us what she thinks is valuable. That is all.” The Apostate grimaced and put a hand to her body again. “Besides, do you think they treat students at a school for Balladairan children the same way they treat students at a school especially for us lowly, uncivilized colonials?”
The Jackal snorted. Saïd looked at Malika, who looked down at her hands, eyes vacant.
“It’s not an easy life, either,” Malika said, “being one of the few Qazāli at a Balladairan school, but it will teach the children a few things.” Then she met Touraine’s eyes with a dark, crooked smile that was mostly a grimace. “I’m sure you understand.”
Touraine only partly understood. She was proud of her Balladairan education. It was extensive and effective. But any child who went to a Balladairan school risked coming out… like the Sands. Too Balladairan and not Shālan enough. What would the Qazāli do when their new batch of orphans came out like Touraine?
Touraine was starting to think it was impossible to come from one land and learn to live in another and feel whole. That you would always stand on shaky, hole-ridden ground, half of your identity dug out of you and tossed away.
A sharp wheezing sound brought all eyes to the Apostate. The woman sank back into her cushions. A spasm racked her, and she grimaced in fierce pain.
The Jackal moved first, diving to cradle the woman’s head in her lap as she writhed in pain. The Jackal jerked her head at Malika.
“Malika, get her out of here.”
Touraine thought that Malika was going to take the Apostate to safety, but it was her own arm that the modiste’s daughter grabbed.
Malika dragged Touraine down the stairs, but in her distress, she forgot to blindfold Touraine with a scarf when they were outside. The smell of baking bread and hot stone filled the air. Youths carried long trays of bread and dough up and down the streets. She caught the eyes of one, gangly and pimpled, a tray balanced on his shoulder while he smoked a cigarette against a whitewashed wall covered in a peeling broadside. The young man glared at her, even though he couldn’t possibly know who she was.
And then Malika yanked her away, tugging her through
the warren of the Old Medina until they were somewhere more familiar: the edge of the New Medina, at the Blue Gate, which opened onto the road to the Quartier and the compound.
“I trust you can find your way from here. I’m sure we’ll talk soon.” Though her face was covered again in that beautiful gray scarf, Touraine could hear the worry in her voice.
“What? How will I tell you what she says?”
“We’ll contact you.” Then the other woman said something in Shālan, already backing away.
“Hold on—”
“It means goodbye.” And then Malika was gone.
While Touraine was gone, Luca spent the day obsessing about the last thing any decent Balladairan citizen should even be considering.
Religion.
Gods. Prayer and faith and magical beings that granted wishes, and the kinds of people who communed with so-called deities and only ended up looking like madmen.
She had begun to feel like one of those madmen.
She should have been combing through Cheminade’s notes and getting the city under her feet. Merchants were complaining about raids from the desert tribes along the southern routes. She should have been acting.
Her eyes throbbed. She took off her spectacles and rested her forehead against the heels of her palms. That stupid little book Paul-Sebastien had given her hadn’t been stupid at all. It just left her with still more questions.
She couldn’t believe that Paul-Sebastien LeRoche de Beau-Sang had written it. The intricate knowledge of the Qazāli—of Shālan customs and religion—spoke of someone intimate with the culture, someone who had spent time around Shālans, if not with them. The last time scholars had done that peacefully was before the religious bans, before half the nations in the Shālan Empire became Balladairan colonies.
LeRoche posited that Shālan magic, if it existed at all, was actually connected to the religion. The theory was flimsy, though, based only on the Taargens, Balladaire’s hostile neighbors to the east. The Taargens worshipped a bear god, and the bed tales to scare children spoke of magical bears ravaging the Taargens’ enemies after human sacrifice.
