The Unbroken

by C. L. Clark

  “We have other friends. The Qazāli aren’t the only ones unhappy with your masters.”

  Touraine stared up at the slash of black shadow where the Jackal’s eyes hid just above the lower sweep of her scarf.

  “The thing is, Jackal, if you could beat us, you already would have. These ‘little talks’ could save your ass and all the people you care about.” If the bitch cared about anyone, which Touraine was finding harder and harder to believe.

  The Jackal exhaled sharply and shook her head, as if in disbelief. “Why are you doing this? What do you get out of fighting for them and not us?”

  Touraine was almost taken aback by the broken confusion in the woman’s voice.

  “This isn’t about me,” she answered.

  “No?”

  The Jackal loomed over Touraine. Her crossed forearms were scarred, even beyond the amputation. The Jackal was no stranger to a hard life, and for a second, Touraine thought the Jackal would call her bluff, push her down the stairs and break her neck. She braced herself to use the woman’s weight against her, just in case.

  “You and the other Lost Ones are in the middle of this,” the older woman said. “Without you lot shoving your tongues up their assholes, they couldn’t fight. With you, we win. You’d be free.”

  “Be free? To come die for people like you?” Touraine snorted. “That’s hardly any better. The princess is your best chance.”

  Then the Jackal spat, right on Touraine’s new leather boots. She sneered at Touraine’s entire outfit, from the exquisite black scarf so smooth against her cheeks to those spit-smeared boots.

  Anger erupted white hot in Touraine’s belly as she stared at the white-flecked slime. She knew the reactions the bitch waited for. If Touraine fought with her, she could claim she had grounds to attack. If Touraine did nothing, she was a cringing dog.

  So Touraine did what she did best. She swallowed her pride. She did her job.

  “Her Highness asks for a full list of your requests. She’ll consider them. I’ll come back, we can talk, and I’ll go back. Until we reach an agreement. The sooner she gets the list, the sooner we start working on peace.”

  Even as she said the words, Touraine disbelieved them. The Jackal didn’t want peace, and how many other Qazāli thought just like her? But this was what Luca believed in. Maybe Saïd could convince Touraine; she already had a soft spot for him. But the Jackal made that hard to imagine.

  The Jackal grunted. “This is why I don’t see any good sending more of our children to be brainwashed. They’re no good to us then, parroting the Balladairan ‘uncivilized’ gullshit at us. I don’t have time for it, and I don’t have time for you and your traitor friends. Tell your master we’ll think about it.”

  Touraine grunted back and then flicked a mocking salute. “Yes, sir.”

  But there was a barb stuck in her chest from the Jackal’s parting shot. She remembered Aimée’s words from the other day. The Sands had a shit lot. They were stuck in the middle of this conflict, and neither side gave a shit about them besides how and where they could die in battle.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Touraine turned. The Jackal stood like a spectral shadow outside the door.

  “They’re not traitors, you know,” Touraine said. “They never had a choice.”

  “Then tell them to make a choice now.” The Jackal opened the door to the small apartment. “Or we’ll make it for them.”

  The broadside was only the first indication of Balladairan discontent in the colony. Over the next few days, as Luca continued to respond to grievances and requests in her new role as governor-general, she could practically feel the merchants’ and nobles’ whispers tickling the back of her neck. She suspected she wasn’t imagining the dirty looks she received from other Balladairans as she took her exercise around the Quartier.

  Her suspicions were confirmed when she received a request for an audience from the comte de Beau-Sang and granted it to him.

  Casimir LeRoche de Beau-Sang came from one of the lesser noble houses of Balladaire’s southern coast. Beau-Sang had made his family’s fortune early as Balladaire stretched the reaches of its empire. He was one of the first to invest in developing Qazāl as a colony. His quarries were especially lucrative: marble shipped to Balladaire as an architectural luxury and sandstone for the colonies as an architectural necessity. (The Balladairans in the colonies didn’t favor the pressed-mud style of building that was popular with the Qazāli.)

  The quarries had turned him from a member of a small, rarely thought-of house to a major player in Balladaire’s court intrigues, but for all that he preferred to stay in Qazāl.

  So Luca wasn’t surprised that he was the one who came to meet her in her office at the Balladairan compound.

  Touraine opened the door at his knock and bowed him in—only enough of a bow so as to not directly insult him. Close enough. Close on Beau-Sang’s heels was his little assistant, the young Qazāli boy. Richard.

  While the door was open, Luca was surprised at how quiet the military compound’s administrative building was. She had always imagined the noise of battle and unruly troops, even in a place where people were essentially doing sums and writing politely veiled threats.

  What is war if not a complicated web of mathematics and charm? Luca thought.

  It was time for her to use the charm.

  “Good afternoon, Comte. How are you and your family?” Luca gestured for him to sit as Touraine stepped out to fetch coffee.

  “Good morning, Your Highness.” Beau-Sang eased his broad body into the creaky but well-upholstered chair in front of Luca’s desk. “We’re doing well, mostly. Paul-Sebastien asked that I send his regards. He’s glad to have a true scholar nearby.”

  Luca accepted the flattery with a nod. When Touraine returned, she poured them both coffee before sitting at the small traveler’s desk in the corner. Touraine offered the young boy a cup, as well, but Richard shook his head with a look toward Beau-Sang before taking his place standing just behind the comte.

  The room was only barely large enough to accommodate Luca and Touraine both; it was still full of many of Cheminade’s effects. Cheminade had decorated the office like she’d decorated her home, full of travel relics and curiosities. Beau-Sang gave the souvenirs the slightest sneer before he sipped his coffee.

  “It’s unfortunate business, those broadsides,” Beau-Sang said. “I saw them posted throughout the city before you had them taken down. The right choice, of course.”

  Luca felt her face warm, but she kept her expression neutral. She did not look over at Touraine. “Yes, well. As you say, it’s been dealt with.”

  “Of course, Your Highness. I suppose it’s not surprising given some of the changes you’ve proposed as governor-general.” He smiled wryly at Luca, like he’d caught on to her taking an extra turn at échecs. “I don’t mind, of course. I trust your judgment fully. It’s just that one hears people talk.”

  Luca sniffed dismissively, as if “people” were the last thing on her mind. This time, she did give Touraine a quick glance. Touraine met Luca’s eyes from behind Beau-Sang’s back and nodded; she was paying attention.

  “People do like to talk. I find it to be their great shortcoming.”

  The comte smiled and shook his head indulgently. “Indeed, Your Highness, and about nothing important.”

  “Is that what you’re here for, then? Nothing important?”

  He smiled at the joke—or perhaps that was just a tic in his cheek. “The business owners are concerned about the new changes you’ve proposed regarding the Qazāli laborers. They think that you’re bowing to rebel pressure and wonder why Cantic hasn’t used the full weight of her soldiers to put them down instead. Your subjects are simply worried about their livelihoods.” Then, as if the thought had just occurred to him: “Is that what her lot were brought in for?”

  He tilted his head back at Touraine, and Luca was grateful he didn’t turn around. The ex-soldier was glaring daggers at his back. />
  The concerns in question, Luca assumed, were profit losses directly related to her latest requirements: that all Balladairans who employed Qazāli staff were required to pay them an appropriate wage and to meet certain standards of treatment. The rebels hadn’t sent Luca their list of terms, but Luca didn’t need anyone to point out the bond of cruelty and desperation that kept Qazāli working for people like Beau-Sang. And the less desperate the Qazāli laborers felt, the less likely they would be to turn to the rebels to vent their frustration. Or so she hoped.

  “The colonial brigade is here to be used at General Cantic’s discretion,” Luca said sharply. He was prying, and Luca couldn’t tell if it was to irritate her, to goad Touraine, or to get information. Probably some combination of the three, like a proper courtier.

  The problem was, it was working. Normally, Luca was adept at shrugging away negative comments about her—about her leg, about her social bearing, even about her lovers. But these critiques of her work pricked her like sewing needles forgotten in a coat. She wanted to end the rebellion, but she didn’t want to fail the empire in the process.

  “And how well do they think their livelihoods will survive if they maim their workers or starve them to death?” The question came out sharper than Luca intended. Slow down. She needed to take her time with Beau-Sang. He wasn’t someone she could afford to alienate—prod, yes, but alienate? No. The Balladairans with stakes in the colonies looked to him as an example.

  Luca cleared her throat and added, “Anyone with concerns about the changes can talk to me directly about their individual situations.”

  This was the crux of the delicate dance Luca had to perform if she wanted to end the rebellion and prove that she was truly ready for the throne. Any agreement with the rebels would require concessions on the part of not just the empire itself but the Balladairans who made money off the colony, and Beau-Sang was chief among those. If she didn’t have them on board, the resolution might be a bloody one no matter what.

  “Your own colonial businesses haven’t suffered, my lord?” Luca asked Beau-Sang. “Surely a man like yourself doesn’t need the law to treat his workers well.”

  “No, no, indeed not. Production will slow at the quarries; I’ll be able to employ fewer laborers, and perhaps there will be an increase in disciplinary problems now, but we’ll manage, of course.”

  “I hear you run a tight system.” Luca couldn’t stop the edge from returning to her voice. She glanced behind him at his young assistant, Richard. The boy stood with his hands behind his back, hiding the stumps of his pinky fingers.

  “It’s dangerous work,” Beau-Sang said. He sipped his coffee somberly. “Strict discipline keeps everyone safe.”

  “Is it true that you cut off quarry workers’ hands when they don’t meet their quota?”

  Luca had found this in the pile of Cheminade’s unresolved complaints. One of the few from a Qazāli. Somehow, Luca didn’t think this was just because few Qazāli had problems with their employers.

  Beau-Sang froze with his cup halfway to his lips again. He set the cup back down on the saucer. The small dishes looked delicate in his large hands.

  “As I said, Your Highness. It’s dangerous work. The loss of a limb isn’t uncommon.”

  “Then I expect you, as the owner, to enact proper safety protocols. I’ll ask the general to send some soldiers and engineers to see what changes can be made.”

  Beau-Sang pursed his lips so tightly that they lost their color. Then he said, “Indeed, Your Highness.”

  This “indeed” was as false as all the others, but Luca smiled a falsely genuine smile in return. “I’m glad you agree, my lord. In these small ways, perhaps we can convince the Qazāli they don’t need to rebel. We’ll show them that the Balladairan Empire takes care of all its people. Good afternoon, my lord.”

  “Good afternoon, Your Highness.” Beau-Sang stood and bowed. Just behind him, his servant-assistant Richard bowed, too.

  Before he reached the door, however, Beau-Sang paused and bowed slightly again. “Is it true that Qazāli prisoners are being released?”

  It was Luca’s turn to freeze. She had taken the utmost care to release certain Qazāli prisoners privately just a couple of days ago. No fanfare, no celebrations of her generosity. She didn’t want to call more attention to herself. She’d even gone through the releases with Cantic, framing them as mistrials. The general had been dubious, but she’d agreed. She’d also understood the need for secrecy; if word got out that the magistrate could commit such a thing as a “mistrial,” the unrest would be total.

  Now Beau-Sang had caught her in a bear trap. Not to mention, it meant he did have eyes and ears somewhere he shouldn’t. Was it Cantic? No, the general hated him, maybe more than Luca did.

  “Those who have served the appropriate sentence for their crimes,” Luca finally said. She felt breathless, her heart hammering so loudly that surely Beau-Sang could hear it.

  “Ah, indeed.” He smiled knowingly and bowed again. Then he left, the young boy closing the door with a soft snick.

  Touraine waited three long breaths before she growled, “Can I kill him, or do you want to?”

  Despite the tension only just beginning to unspool from her shoulders, Luca couldn’t help but smile.

  “Let’s take turns,” she said.

  CHAPTER 18

  SHĀLAN LESSONS

  Over the course of the next week, more complaints from the Balladairan upper crust flooded in. Rich bastards. They were upset because Luca’s new rules wouldn’t let them take advantage of the Qazāli workers. Touraine was ready to admit that the rebels had a few good points, even if she disagreed with those like the Jackal. It was just like she’d always told Tibeau, back when she was with the Sands: life with Balladaire wasn’t perfect, but slowly, they could change it.

  The rebels had sent their list of demands by a runner shortly after Luca and Touraine’s meeting with Beau-Sang. It was written in Shālan, so Luca read it, occasionally scratching things out on her own paper. Soon, Touraine would take Luca’s response to them, and the thought set her blood humming with fear and excitement.

  Tonight, Luca was downstairs in the town house’s sitting room, where she often spent the evening reading a book or treatise or whatever it was she did for fun. Touraine had started using this evening leisure time to sneak into the office. It was a peaceful place, without Luca frowning at her desk or one of her guards hovering just outside the door. She was starting to like the smell of ink and paper, and when she sat at Luca’s desk, she had the perfect view of the sunset through the window.

  “What are you doing?”

  Touraine jumped up at Luca’s voice, splattering ink from her pen all over the pieces of scrap paper she’d stolen from Luca’s waste bin.

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness. Nothing.” She covered the papers quickly with her hands, then swore as ink smeared everywhere. “I—nothing.”

  The princess shuffled over, shoulders sagging, to peer around Touraine at the desk. She looked exhausted. Touraine hid her ink-stained hands in fists at her sides.

  Luca picked up one of the papers and smiled tenderly, and then she pulled a book from underneath the other papers. The Shālan primer.

  “This is a good start,” Luca said. Then shyly she added, “My offer still stands. I could teach you.”

  “No, you don’t need—it’s not important.” Touraine blushed. Furiously. She started scooping the papers into a stack, the better to stop embarrassing herself.

  “No, no. Sit. It is important.” She sat down in the chair next to Touraine’s—the chair Touraine normally sat in—and put a hand on Touraine’s arm. Still, Touraine didn’t sit. “Would it help if I said you’ll be more useful if you know both languages?”

  Touraine sat.

  Luca fanned out the scraps Touraine had been writing on and opened the primer to the first page. In Balladairan, it introduced the letters and their pronunciations. The following pages included introductory words and p
hrases that Touraine couldn’t say and diagrams of the Shālan letters so that she could practice drawing them.

  “First, take a new paper. Let’s try this one.” Luca pointed at the first one.

  It was just a line. Touraine wrote it several times, feeling surer of herself with each stroke. She had been overwhelmed by it all as she tried to decipher it on her own. She didn’t know how to begin, and the phrases she saw in the book all looked useless. I want one apple. Where is my mother? I am happy. They were for children. Alone, Touraine had spent half of her stolen evenings raging at Balladaire for not teaching her and the other half berating herself for even bothering.

  Repeating the sounds after the heir to the empire wasn’t ironic at all.

  Luca made it easy, though. She might have been a bit of a know-it-all, but she wasn’t a half-bad teacher. They’d gotten through half of the alphabet by the time yawns cracked their jaws.

  “I should say goodnight. I have breakfast with Sonçoise de l’Ouest, and I told her that I would join her for a ‘brisk cleansing of the mind’ beforehand. It involves something called a sunrise.” Luca scowled.

  Touraine put her pen down with a smirk. “I’ve heard of that. Me and your guards know about ‘cleansing the mind.’”

  Luca’s look went flat. “I know. I’ve heard you.” She glanced over her shoulder to include Guérin, even though the guardswoman was now on the other side of the closed door. Then Luca sighed and slumped deeper into her chair, away from the desk.

  “If the visits annoy you so much, why do you go?” It felt risky, this casual tone, but the office door was closed, and Luca had made a joke first. Luca had cracked the door of herself open, and Touraine had the crazy urge to pull the door wider.

  No, not so crazy. Vulnerability for vulnerability. Touraine could think of nothing more vulnerable, more terrifying right now, than letting the princess of Balladaire teach her Shālan. It felt good to pry back.