by C. L. Clark
“But there’s always more.
“Across the empire, the crops outside of the river floodplains were failing. The animals they kept died, and the desert crept closer to the cities all across the empire. People starved. Djaya couldn’t send food from Briga’s stores quickly enough, and she couldn’t risk starving her own city. They say she lived on a soldier’s rations and required it of everyone in her court.
“The Qazāli priests and priestess in their temples said the people’s faith in Shāl was too weak. The scholars at Briga’s university agreed—there were books in the Scorpion Library that showed this—droughts had been recorded in the past, whenever great comfort and technological advances dulled the need for faith. They took for granted the healing gifts of the priests and needed to be shown Shāl’s power again.”
The woman paused to take a drink of water. She looked as if the telling drained her, but her eyes glittered with life, sharp as a dagger beneath the ribs. The look filled Touraine with unease. She fought the instinct to lean closer. It was a betrayal, to want to know this in her own right, but she clung to every word.
“Djaya sent her army north, across the narrow strip of sea. The very first Balladairan raid. On a small town, one not likely to be missed, perhaps. The Balladairans were known for their mysterious agricultural talents. Their god of the fields was generous and their fields bountiful. Briga had traded with them before. No one knows quite why Emperor Djaya turned to violence instead of seeking aid. Perhaps she did and was denied. Perhaps it was greed after all. Either way, she broke Shāl’s One Tenet—peace over all.”
The Jackal cut in. “And she kept breaking it and breaking it until they went to war, and Balladaire started invading everyone who worshipped a god so that they’d never have to deal with screaming holy hordes.” The woman lay on one elbow, picking at her fingernails again, now stretched out more like a cat than a dog. “That’s what Djaya did for the Shālans she claimed to protect.”
The Jackal’s interruption broke Touraine out of the spell. Enough for her to be glad the Jackal treated everyone like shit, not just her. The Apostate glared at the other woman and grunted low in her throat.
“If you’d like”—the Apostate made a welcoming gesture—“you’re more than welcome to finish your version.”
“Gladly.” The Jackal pushed herself upright and glared at Touraine. “Empress Djaya was glorious, they said. Burned their armies down in their armor. They say the blood ran so thick”—she paused and winked at the Brigāni—“that you could’ve drunk it from the streets.”
The Apostate rolled her eyes. “They didn’t fight in the streets.”
The Jackal shrugged. “Just a saying.”
Touraine reassessed their relationship. They bantered like old friends, however morbid the subject, however vicious the cuts. They reminded her of a crueler version of her and Tibeau and Pruett, the edges sharpened by time instead of dulled. Touraine looked harder at them. No distinguishing features but the Brigāni’s eyes. Where the Brigāni moved almost like an elder now, the Jackal bounced like a cocksure new blackcoat.
“Djaya makes the other Shālans believe, though,” the Jackal continued. “They hear the stories of how Shāl works through her. They believe. They pray and they heal. The food grows again; the animals are born healthy. Across the empire, people live again.”
“Except for Emperor Djaya and her Brigāni.” The Apostate slid in smoothly. “They abandoned the One Tenet, so Shāl banished them and cursed the city so that they couldn’t return home until one hundred and one hundred years had passed. Those who trespassed would sicken mysteriously or have ill-born children. The magic that Shāl had taught the Brigāni, the blessed powers Djaya and her forebears used to create and protect the empire, were lost, never intended to be used again, unless we learned restraint.”
“Some of the powers. The Qazāli priests kept the faith and held fast to the Tenet. Peace over all. And your master would take that gift from us,” the Jackal growled.
Touraine had thought the two women had forgotten about her and the other rebels, but the Jackal turned on her fiercely. Touraine sat back, off her guard, lulled by the story. The history. The history Balladaire had never told her.
“So the magic is real.” Touraine’s voice came out shakier than she wanted it to, with fear or awe, she didn’t know. Probably both—two sides of the same coin, really. And she remembered the first story the Apostate ever told her, about a young, gifted healer who had lost her family to a young Cantic. “And Balladaire has its own magic?”
The woman’s golden eyes crinkled even more. “Don’t be silly. No one here is uncivilized enough to believe that old nonsense. They’re just fire stories we tell to deal with the systematic expunging of our culture and history. They keep us warm and make us feel grander than we actually are. That’s all.” She shared a look with the Jackal, head tilted. “We can’t even agree on a single version of the tale.”
It took a long moment for Touraine to regain her purpose. She cleared her throat. “The Second City. Across the river. That’s Briga’s capital? Is there anything that could help there?”
The Qazāli rebels flinched, and the Apostate shook her head sharply. “That’s not a wise avenue. For many reasons. She won’t find what she’s looking for, and we don’t control that territory or the river crossing.”
This was the first Touraine had heard of any territory “controlled” by anyone other than Balladaire. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you should trust me and leave the Cursed City alone. There’s nothing there.”
“How do you know?”
The Apostate’s golden eyes locked on Touraine’s, her mouth set. “Because I’ve been. I used to be curious like your princess. Now I’m paying the price for that ambition.”
The woman was deadly serious, her body still with a threat Touraine couldn’t name. Despite the fit she had had last time, her voice was steady and strong. If she felt weakness or pain, she didn’t show it to Touraine. The illness… Was that the price she paid? A shiver coursed up her back.
Still, Touraine said, “We need it. The magic will help the sick in Balladaire. And if Balladaire has its own magic, maybe that will help.”
The Apostate leaned over her crossed legs, elbows on knees, chin propped on fingertips. It was so like General Cantic that Touraine leaned farther away. “Will it, though? She doesn’t know that. I certainly don’t know that. What’s she willing to spend on a rumor?”
Touraine didn’t know. She didn’t know what someone could pay for that kind of knowledge. She didn’t know why someone would. Power like that cost—it had cost the Taargens, and they’d taken the price out of her soldiers’ flesh. She didn’t want to think what an emperor could do, would do with that kind of might. What a princess would do.
“What else do you want?”
“We told you. For her to get the fuck out of my Shāl-damned country,” the Jackal growled. Then she nodded toward the Apostate. “And the Blood General’s head for my friend here, as a bonus. That’ll do for starters.”
Touraine shook her head. “Any requests that won’t get me laughed to the gallows.”
The Jackal’s laugh was another rough bark, and she leaned forward on one bent knee, hanging like a wild dog over a kill. A vicious mirror of the Apostate. The secret name was so apt that it seemed a poor choice.
“We could still use those guns.” The Jackal smiled wide, baring teeth.
“Why would she arm a rebellion against her crown?”
“If we’re allies, it wouldn’t be a rebellion, would it?” The Apostate shrugged. “It would be an investment, to strengthen us.”
“And a guarantee of her good behavior if we can shoot back for once.” The Jackal laughed and laughed. “And tell her to come herself. I want her to look me in the eye while she tries to feed me gullshit.”
Dread settled in the pit of Touraine’s stomach. She wasn’t fooled for a second that the Jackal wouldn’t turn those weapons on Ballad
aire if given half a chance. There would still be a price then, and knowing Balladaire, they would see it paid—by someone else. Touraine knew all too well the coin that soothed Balladairan debt. Pruett and her heavy-bagged eyes. Tibeau’s crushing hugs and Aimée’s irreverence and Noé’s perfect voice and—
Luca would spend them all. If the rebels got the guns and the general went against Luca’s alliance—under her own power or the duke regent’s authority—the Sands would fall first.
Unless they defected. Then they’d be shot by blackcoats instead.
Unless Touraine never let it happen—unless she found another way.
The Jackal’s laugh mocked Touraine all the way back to the Quartier.
Luca laughed in Touraine’s face when she returned with the rebels’ counteroffers. Offers was a strong word.
“Are they insane?” Luca asked incredulously.
They were in her office in the town house again, this time with Lanquette outside the door, no one privy to their schemes but them. The sky outside was clear and specked with stars. The fresh, cold air would calm Luca down. After.
Touraine shrugged, bemused. “Desperate, I expect.”
“Well, I’m not. Not that desperate.” She wanted to stop the rebellion peacefully, the right way, but she wouldn’t sacrifice the empire to do it. She had accepted everything else on their sky-falling list of demands and stretched her relationships with the Balladairan nobles to their limits.
She huffed. “What about the magic?”
Her chief negotiator shrugged again, the gesture so casual it was infuriating. Why couldn’t she see how important this was? They were on the edge of something great, if the Qazāli would only stop being stubborn.
“That’s the interesting part, Your Highness.”
Touraine always used Luca’s title when she could tell Luca was irritated. Shame flooded her, and Luca eased her grip off the arms of her chair. She nodded for Touraine to continue, and the other woman told her a dazzling historical fantasy about gods and empresses. To some, it might have been laughable, but to Luca…
“That’s not why Balladaire abandoned religion,” Luca said when Touraine finished. “It was holding us back. When we focused on science and developing better tools, our crop yields increased. We had enough to feed the whole country, our armies—even other countries. The Brigāni just got greedy.”
“Just saying what they told me, Your Highness. It sounds like they meant magic, though. Balladairan magic.”
Luca paused. “Balladairan magic? As in our own, based in the empire?”
Touraine shook her head. She looked tired. Luca would let her go in just one minute; she just had to know—
“What do they know about it?”
“I don’t know. Probably not much. And the Apostate says you shouldn’t go to the library. That you won’t find what you’re looking for and you’ll pay a heavy price.”
“What kind of price?” Luca said sharply.
“I don’t know. But that pretty much leaves them as the only source for…” The ex-soldier swallowed. Luca finally understood her reticence toward the idea of magic. It wasn’t because she didn’t believe but because she’d seen it in its awful power.
This won’t be like that.
“Do they sound amenable? To a trade that involves magic?”
“No?” Touraine gave a sharp gesture to the desk. The list of Luca’s offers that she’d memorized was still on the desk. “They want the guns. Or Balladaire to leave.” Touraine snorted. “They also mentioned wanting Cantic’s head. I’d just as soon not add my own to the chopping block.”
Luca scowled down at the list, too. “Nor would I.”
CHAPTER 20
FOR RESEARCH
Luca awoke the next morning still feeling irritable, so she kept to her rooms, rereading a book that was strictly fun—not research. Another volume in the saga of the Chevalier des Pommes. Slowly, the book and a cup of coffee were recalibrating her mood.
Someone knocked on the door. “Princess?” It was Gil, his voice only slightly concerned.
“Come in.” Luca closed her book around her finger.
Gil stepped in. “You’ve had a messenger from the Beau-Sang place.”
Luca’s heart leapt with adrenaline. What now? She beckoned for the letter and tore it open before sighing in relief.
“Good news, then?” Gil sat on the edge of her bed and squeezed her shoulder. It was the closest he’d gotten to a hug in ages. She leaned briefly into the touch. She missed him.
“Possibly.” Luca couldn’t help the excitement creeping into her voice.
Gil raised a wry eyebrow. “Coming from that family?” He scoffed in disbelief. “You and the lieutenant were up late last night. How are things in that quarter?”
Luca wasn’t sure if she imagined the suggestive teasing, but she chose to ignore it.
“The rebels are reticent, despite all of the concessions I’m willing to make. And”—she looked down and fiddled with the book in her lap—“I am having a hard time balancing the rebels’ demands with the nobles’.”
“Luca,” Gil said softly, and Luca looked up to meet his eyes. The lines of his face deepened as he smiled at her. “Stay the course. You’re doing the right thing. Just be patient. You can’t expect to erase the pain of decades with a few gifts.”
“Of course not.” Luca was simultaneously warm with Gil’s pride in her and annoyed by his advice. He was right; she just didn’t like that she needed to be reminded. “I suppose I should get dressed. Thank you.”
She squeezed his hand. It was dry and rough, still calloused by his regular exercise. He squeezed her hand back, then left her to change.
The short letter trembled in Luca’s hand when she went outside to find Touraine. I’ve found something, Paul-Sebastien LeRoche had written. I would be honored to host you for luncheon. Please bring your soldier. Apparently, if she had alienated Beau-Sang, she hadn’t alienated his son.
It was late in the morning, but Guérin was working with Touraine on more hand-to-hand and knife fighting. They were in their shirtsleeves, Guérin blond and towering over Touraine, her hair slicked back in a queue with sweat, and Touraine laughing as she darted in and out with a practice blade. As Luca watched, Touraine blocked a stab from Guérin and squirmed in close to hook a leg around Guérin’s. Luca gasped, certain someone’s leg would break. They both fell in a heap of awkward splits, Touraine laughing and Guérin smiling quietly.
Luca cleared her throat. “I’m sorry to interrupt the fun, you two. We’ve an invitation to the Beau-Sang place.”
Touraine frowned as she wiped the desert dirt off well-muscled thighs.
Luca found herself blushing and had to clear her throat again. “We’re visiting the son, not the father.”
Even Guérin’s shoulders sagged in relief.
It was at the Beau-Sang home that Luca truly began to understand life for Balladairan colonials, those who lived in—were perhaps even born in—the colonies.
The Beau-Sang town house was smaller than Luca’s but only just, which said something about Beau-Sang’s profit from the Qazāli quarries. Like most of the town houses, there was a small patio area shaded by canvas, a bit like a parade pavilion. Two young Balladairan women and two young Qazāli sat beneath the shade with drinks and fans. A hush fell over them as Luca alighted from the carriage.
She recognized Aliez LeRoche and the menagerie girl immediately. The Qazāli were at their ease, lounging in Balladairan trousers and unbuttoned jackets as comfortably as if they’d been born to it. Which, for all Luca knew, they might have been. And if Luca didn’t know better, she would have thought Aliez LeRoche had been flirting with the dark young woman with short hair before Luca interrupted them.
From the corner of her eye, Luca saw Touraine staring, but she couldn’t tell from her face what she thought of the scene. Was she thinking about the flirting couple? Or the Qazāli youth at ease?
Anylight, that wasn’t why they had come. LeRoche
the son greeted them at the edge of the patio. He took Luca’s hands and bowed over them. “Welcome to my home, Your Highness. Guard. Lieutenant.” He nodded once each to the rest of Luca’s party.
“I believe you know my sister and Mademoiselle Bel-Jadot. They’re entertaining some friends of ours at the moment.” LeRoche waved to the two Qazāli, and they smiled back, as if they were used to the bookish man flitting back and forth as they drank their juices.
“If you’d like, Your Highness, we can have a drink with them first—or after, whatever you prefer.” Even as he offered, he was already leading them inside, away from the socialites and sunshine and into the cool darkness of the house.
“I’d love to see what you found, Monsieur LeRoche.”
He smiled over his shoulder, a disarming, excited look that made her just as eager as he was.
“Please, Your Highness. Call me Sebastien, or Bastien if you’d like.”
Ducking into the house felt like ducking into a cave. There was a sense of adventure in it, especially since she knew she was going in to find some lost piece of knowledge.
They passed through a sitting room that was stuffed overfull with Balladaire, as if Beau-Sang were overcompensating for the desert outside. Paintings upon paintings of still forests, of stags chased by baying hounds, of orchards, of fields of wheat, of chevaliers in their armor—it was almost like a museum of Balladaire.
Bastien, looking over his shoulder again, saw her expression. “It’s excessive, I know. Do you know Aliez and I have never seen any of these sights?”
“You’ve never been to Balladaire?”
“Not once. Father speaks as if it’s the most magnificent place, of course, but…” He shrugged. “Here we are. My office.”
Luca glanced at Touraine, who followed impassively behind her. Luca wondered what the other woman thought of Bastien and his sister. Their lives paralleled Touraine’s own displacement, though, of course, their displacement had been by choice. And didn’t risk their lives. And was more profitable on the whole.
