The Unbroken

by C. L. Clark

  As Djasha led them around the circle of fires, anxiety built in Luca’s chest. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed a celebration. She would have been young—to attend a gathering without wondering who wanted her influence or who was judging her fitness for the throne. Her own party in the Quartier had been no exception. Above all, she hated dances.

  She loved music, though.

  In Balladaire, stringed instruments provided subtle, elegant background accompaniment. Musicians were to be heard, not seen, and even the sound was not meant to attract attention.

  Here, though! The drummers beat their hide-bound instruments and shouted with joy. Their rhythms sounded broken to Luca’s ear until she understood their patterns.

  And the smells—spices filled the air as people cooked at almost every fire. Luca’s stomach growled. People scooped stews out of clay bowls with round bread and ate small pastries with their bare hands.

  The dancers, Jaghotai among them, started up again. They jumped over each other, swinging their legs as if they meant to kick one another. Other dancers simply stomped and clapped their hands as they moved around in circles. It looked so disorganized. What were the partner formulae? How did people know who they could dance with, and when? What was appropriate for what song? She was so entranced that she almost forgot why she was there.

  Djasha followed Luca’s attention. “Do you like to dance, princess?”

  “Dancing is not my strength, all things considered, Djasha din.” She held up her cane.

  However, Djasha’s attention was captured by someone else, and a bright smile cracked over her tired face.

  They had reached a fire where sat a middle-aged Qazāli woman with deep brown eyes and short, curling spikes of brown hair spread with shocks of white. She was undeniably beautiful. The woman stood as Djasha approached. Where Touraine’s physical grace was dangerous, a snake ready to strike, this woman moved like a stream, at peace with its inevitable course.

  “This is my wife, Aranen din Djasha.” Djasha clasped the other woman close, and Aranen fell into her. The couple stumbled, laughing. It was the strangest, giddiest thing she could have imagined the Brigāni woman doing. This was the witch? The woman Touraine had said to pay attention to?

  “Enchanted,” Luca said, bowing slightly to the other woman.

  If their positions had been reversed, Luca would not have shown Djasha whom she loved. That knowledge was only another weapon to be wielded.

  Gillett and Touraine introduced themselves, as well, but Touraine’s attention was clearly elsewhere as her knee jiggled in time with the beat. Touraine hadn’t acknowledged Jaghotai as her mother at all, but Luca saw where her gaze drifted almost idly.

  “Would you like to dance, Touraine?” Aranen asked. She smiled rakishly, and Luca had to calm the warm spike of jealousy in her stomach. “Shāl moves within you.”

  Touraine only looked once to Luca before allowing the other woman to lead her away. Soon, her soldier was clapping like the others, flicking and waving her hands. She even picked up the cross-step jumps that Luca couldn’t even follow with her eyes.

  Djasha caught Luca staring at the dancing couple.

  Luca’s cheeks burned. “What?”

  Djasha shrugged. “You want to dance. Why don’t you? I’ll take my wife back, and you can go dance with Touraine. She can teach you—she learned quick. She moves like it’s her life.”

  “She was a soldier. It is her life. I, on the other hand, am not particularly graceful.” She tapped her cane into the ground again.

  “You keep waving that thing around like it means something.”

  “It does. It means dancing is difficult for me. At the very least, I won’t manage like everyone out there.”

  Djasha shook her head. “Perhaps.” She pointed to an old man in the crowd. “Elder Ebrahm manages.”

  Elder Ebrahm moved slowly, shuffling only side to side, within a pace. He kept rhythm with everyone else, and the drummers near him hooted while he clapped.

  “I think I know my body better than you do. Why don’t you go out, if you’re so keen? Or we could discuss the reason I’m here.”

  The woman’s smile flickered like a lantern going dim. “I don’t dance, because I haven’t been feeling well. My doctor-wife has ordered me to rest. If you won’t dance, sit and eat. It’s hard to talk peace on an empty stomach.”

  They sat on wood-and-hide stools, and another Qazāli at the fire held out two bowls of beans and a hunk of bread. Gil sniffed his bowl, then attacked it like a soldier. How did he know it was safe?

  Instead of accepting the other bowl, Luca reached into her satchel and pulled out a waxed leather tube. Their months of hard work, distilled into a few sheets of paper. The rebels’ copy of the accord.

  “Thank you, but—”

  Djasha took the bowl from the other Qazāli and put it in Luca’s hands, deftly taking the sealed tube and tucking it away. “Eat, Your Highness. We’ll have time for this later. And don’t worry about poison,” she added wryly. “You’re too big a prize. Your death would help us a little but hurt us a lot. Besides, you’re a guest.”

  Gil nodded subtly in encouragement, his cheeks full.

  Before Luca realized it, her bowl was empty and Touraine was swaggering back, beaming and breathing hard, a cup in her hand. She gulped down the contents, shuddered, and had it refilled.

  “What is this stuff?” Touraine asked Djasha.

  “That, girl, is Shāl’s holy water. It will make you the most honest woman alive. So tell me—where did you put my wife?”

  Touraine pointed behind her. Aranen waved from a group of older Qazāli, and Djasha went out to meet her. Despite her smiles, the woman did move as if everything hurt.

  Touraine turned to Luca, apologetic. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be drinking.”

  “Do as you like. I have my guards tonight.”

  “Would you like some?” Touraine held the cup out to Luca.

  Luca shook her head. She didn’t need that kind of honesty right now. She stuck her hands in her pockets to remove temptation.

  “What about the dance?” Touraine smiled slyly when Luca hesitated. “The drink might help.” Her lingering anger seemed dulled.

  Luca was never one for drinking much more than mulled wine. Spirits resulted in a freedom she was unwilling to give herself. Inhibitions were there for a reason.

  Then, still holding the cup, Touraine giggled. This broad-shouldered, muscle-bound ex-soldier, who spent most of her time either glowering or bowing at people, had smirked at her future queen, and now she was actually giggling.

  Sky above, Luca wanted to do right by that laugh. She wanted Touraine to giggle at her, to smirk and smile and tease her. She hated to want it. She could have fought it, pushed back, snapped Touraine away. Swatted down the cup. That wouldn’t get her anything she wanted.

  Luca took the cup.

  Only the Shālans’ god knew what was in that fucking cup, but it burned Luca’s nose as she inhaled, then coughed.

  Touraine laughed again, mouth wide and open. None of the conscripts looked like that in the compound. Did the freedom come from the liquor or from being with other Qazāli?

  Luca closed her eyes and bowed her head over her drink. For a second, she forgot about the magic and the rebellion.

  She had been an idiot all this time. Touraine blamed her for everything—not just Guérin, but the Sands who had died protecting Balladairan interests, too. Luca’s interests. Luca was as culpable as Cantic, as Rogan. Touraine couldn’t possibly forgive her, and so Luca could never have more of Touraine than the occasional late-night tea or afternoon échecs game. This drunken giggle, this smile, might be the closest Luca ever got.

  She opened her eyes again. Gil’s eyes bulged as he shook his head minutely, which she knew translated to Please don’t do this, not even over my steaming corpse, but she ignored him and tossed the drink down her throat.

  Shālan exclamations erupted around her, and laughter a
s the stinging bitterness made her cheeks suck in. She sputtered like a drowned woman until only a sour aftertaste and a warm sweetness in her belly remained.

  Touraine held on to her by the shoulder, a gentle vise. Luca leaned into the safety of the touch.

  She smiled up at Touraine. “Let’s dance, then.”

  Touraine took her hand and led her out to the dancing.

  Touraine and Aranen both threw an arm under Luca’s shoulders, and other dancers linked around them until they became a circle. The drums beat, tak-tak-tak, but in a rhythm that allowed her to shuffle sideways with the others. Her awkward hops fell in time with each beat. She didn’t feel as stilted as she did on a ballroom floor. The drummers slowed for her, and a whole melody sprang up around this new beat. And if she started to stumble, Touraine and Aranen took her weight on their shoulders and carried her through the steps. She focused on keeping the weight on her quickly tiring good leg. Finally, the drummers reached their crescendo, and even Luca gave a short yip at the end.

  Still, she was grateful when the drummers stopped to sate their hunger and slake their thirst. Her hip caught with the tightening of muscle. Touraine led her back to their fire, where Gil and Djasha sat with Elder Ebrahm. They had been deep in conversation but stopped as she approached. The elder smiled in her direction, his eyes unfocused. He was almost blind.

  She let Touraine guide her back onto a stool, and she slumped there, grinning like a fool.

  Is it the drink?

  Perhaps, but not only. She felt safe. Even though by anyone else’s reckoning, she was in an enemy camp.

  No sooner did she think that did she feel the slight dimming in her head. A sharp crack and someone’s stifled cry. She jumped, and Touraine was in front of her, hand on her knife.

  It was only some sparring dancers. One of them had landed a hit. Jaghotai, standing nearby, noticed their defensive reactions and laughed. It was an ugly, barking sound.

  “So scared to be among your conquered? Your Highness.” Jaghotai tilted her head and approached.

  Touraine kept herself between them, and the other guards flanked her. Gil edged closer to Luca, the better to whisk her away.

  “And you defend her.” Jaghotai sneered as she addressed her daughter for the first time all night. “You really are a faithful hound, all dressed up in her collar. Where is your spine?”

  Touraine’s palm cracked against her cheek.

  The sound rang across the fires, and people hushed to watch. They smelled blood on the air, sizzling in the flames. The peace Luca had thought was so certain developed a brittle texture.

  Aranen stepped forward. “Touraine. Jaghotai. This is unnecessary.”

  “Come out.” Jaghotai ignored Aranen and jabbed her thumb to the empty space behind her. “Just a friendly go.”

  “Be careful,” Luca murmured. “I’d hate to have to find a new assistant.”

  Touraine rolled her neck and shoulders. “No one else would do it.”

  Luca couldn’t tell if that was a joke or not.

  The two squared off in the center of the fires.

  “No fancy knife?” Jaghotai circled Touraine, barehanded.

  Touraine gave a faint, barely perceptible smile. Gone was the exuberant woman who had cajoled Luca into a drink.

  Djasha took the role of judge without prompting, as if this were a common occurrence. Space in front of Elder Ebrahm remained clear. Luca wasn’t sure how well his eyesight would let him see, but the intended courtesy was obvious.

  Djasha clapped once and the fight began.

  It was like watching the dancing, only deadlier.

  They were both quick, and Luca thought for certain that Touraine would have a clear advantage because of her age, but that wasn’t the case. Jaghotai was bulkier, but she was as light on her feet as Touraine. One hit from that powerful arm—a thrill of fear for Touraine jolted up Luca’s back.

  Such close fighting, so intimate with the body… Luca had never learned that. Her rapier kept enemies at a distance. Touraine and Jaghotai clenched each other in locks before someone got the upper hand and shoved the other away. It stirred Luca’s blood even though she hadn’t moved a muscle. She barely blinked. Her heart thumped with Touraine’s bravado. And what was Touraine to her, again? The governor’s assistant? Her companion? Her champion?

  Jaghotai got close, pretended to leave Touraine’s reach, and then came close again and slammed her elbow into Touraine’s gut before twirling away. Luca gasped, held the breath. Touraine doubled over and staggered once before regaining herself. First real contact. It ended the pretense that neither fighter was out for blood.

  Touraine struck next, like lightning. When Jaghotai chopped at her, Touraine blocked the attack to the outside with a forearm, bent her knees, and rammed the heel of her fist in the space between Jaghotai’s stomach and ribs. That was the end. When Jaghotai bent, Touraine kicked her sharply in the thigh. The other woman crumpled to one knee, clutching her stomach.

  Djasha clapped twice and then pointed to Touraine. One person applauded, then maybe three joined.

  Touraine strutted toward Luca with her chin high, a smug smile on her lips. Djasha, however, caught Touraine’s arm.

  “There are three rounds, girl. The victor takes two.”

  As the edges of Luca’s mind still blurred with drink, Touraine walked back into the circle. Gil squeezed Luca’s shoulder.

  CHAPTER 23

  A HOPE IN THE DARK

  Touraine squared off in front of Jaghotai again. Sharp inhale through the nose, slow exhale through the mouth. Breathe like the wolf, not the deer. Which instructor had told them this, in Balladaire? Her entire core ached, but she pushed the pain away.

  Djasha clapped again. Jaghotai rushed Touraine immediately. Jaghotai spun and kicked, and Touraine batted the leg away with her fist. Another kick. This time, Touraine hopped sideways—but couldn’t avoid Jaghotai’s second rotation. Her boot clipped Touraine’s temple, and Touraine dropped, stunned, to her knees.

  Touraine expected someone to call foul, but no one did. Somehow, she had a feeling headshots weren’t common in friendly sparring.

  Djasha clapped twice and stepped between them. This time, she pointed to Jaghotai.

  Touraine blinked the stars from her eyes. Jaghotai’s smile was smug. Luca sat on the edge of the hide chair, arms wrapped tight around herself.

  Fine. One more time.

  “Are you surprised, daughter?” Jaghotai danced around Touraine on her toes.

  There was a collective inhale from every person around the fires. Certainly they couldn’t all be surprised. Her uncle had put the pieces together, and Saïd, too. Maybe they never expected Jaghotai to acknowledge the traitor child, as good as a bastard—if they even had that concept here.

  Touraine was surprised by many things in this scenario, but the Jackal’s fighting skill wasn’t one of them. She still remembered the feel of those boots in her gut.

  Also not a surprise: the boot didn’t feel any better against her head.

  The pain in Touraine’s torso kept her breaths shallow. She needed to watch out for those sky-falling boots. Balladaire hadn’t prepared her for anything like those kicks. The dizzying swirl and shift from one angle of attack to the next—she had been caught off guard. She wouldn’t be again.

  “When I found out a conscript killed my brother, I swore I’d get revenge,” Jaghotai said. Her dancing steps kept her out of reach. “I just didn’t expect I’d be this unlucky.”

  Before she finished speaking, she closed the space between them and aimed a kick at Touraine’s gut. Touraine spun away from the kick and landed a solid jab in the other woman’s kidneys before she widened the space between them again.

  “If you’re unlucky, I must be sky-falling cursed.” Touraine spat. “A mother like you.”

  Touraine kept circling, waiting, waiting for her opening. The other woman held her arms in a loose cage as she swayed to her own mental rhythm, left elbow protecting her body, her rig
ht hand up near her face. Jaghotai was slowing, and a beautiful bruise was already swelling on her face from an earlier hit.

  Touraine ducked in, teasing Jaghotai into lashing out with her legs again. This time, the kick came and Touraine was ready. She grabbed the leg, spun Jaghotai off balance, and pounced on her. Somehow, with a deft twist of the hips, Jaghotai pinned Touraine under her instead.

  Jaghotai laughed in Touraine’s ear. “How long are you going to serve them, Mulāzim?” Her voice was gravelly as Touraine writhed in her grip.

  Touraine managed to roll onto her side. The woman’s breath was sour with food and drink. Sweat made their skin slick and hard to hold, but Jaghotai still had a fistful of Touraine’s shirt.

  “She doesn’t care about you,” Jaghotai hissed in Touraine’s ear. “They don’t see any of us as people. When she’s sucked you hollow, she’ll throw you away to rot, and find a new tool.”

  Past Jaghotai’s shoulder, Touraine saw Luca watching from the edge of the circle, her pale hand covering her mouth. Jaghotai was wrong about one thing, at least. Touraine hoped. Luca had danced with her.

  She wanted Jaghotai to be wrong about the rest, too.

  “It’s not just Balladaire who doesn’t care,” Touraine choked out. A quick knee to Jaghotai’s crotch gave Touraine just enough space to wrap her legs around the other woman and squeeze her still. “I wouldn’t be in this position if it weren’t for you.”

  Jaghotai jerked above her but couldn’t escape. She tried to punch, but Touraine locked her arms, too.

  “I was a lonely kid,” Touraine growled, “crying in the dark of some strangers’ ship. Shouldn’t you have protected me?”

  There. There was the bitter truth that lay behind every sharp retort. Touraine didn’t care that Jaghotai hadn’t stopped Balladaire from taking her. Her life was better this way. She didn’t care. She didn’t. But if she didn’t, why was she yelling it?

  Touraine knew only that the words hit Jaghotai where she wanted them to. The other fighter roared and threw herself free of Touraine’s hold.