by C. L. Clark
Where the words woke something in Jaghotai, though, they broke something in Touraine, siphoning away her anger, her strength. She countered one, two, three of Jaghotai’s strikes only just in time, and as she staggered from the third, the fourth put her on her knees, chest heaving.
Jaghotai looked down on her in contempt. “I would have raised you better than this.”
In a rush, the rest of the world seemed to return. Djasha clapped again and pointed to Jaghotai, and the Qazāli cheered for their champion as if they could dissipate the tension with sheer noise. Touraine dragged herself to her feet.
Djasha held a cup in front of them, her smile tense.
Touraine stared at it while Jaghotai looked as if she’d been told to swallow piss.
“Traditionally, you shake the hand of the opponent and share a drink.” Djasha leveled her gold eyes at both of them. She lowered her voice for their ears alone and said through her still-smiling teeth, “Now is not the time for petty mother-daughter bickering. You represent two nations trying to make peace, and if you don’t fucking act like it, I will kill you myself in your sleep.” Her smile widened.
Touraine couldn’t tell whether Djasha was joking, but Jaghotai dangled her hand in front of Touraine’s face.
She took Jaghotai’s hand, tempted to twist it until the small bones popped apart. Then they drank from the same cup. The audience cheered. Then, her gaze unfocused, Touraine watched Jaghotai saunter away to celebrate with the other dance-fighters.
“Are you all right?” Luca asked, touching her hand gently. Luca’s ring was cool against the heat of her skin.
Touraine struggled to focus on the princess. The ring of fires had grown hostile. She was too close to Balladaire to be safe here. “Fine. We should go back.”
“I agree.” Luca scanned the Qazāli without moving her head. “I am walking a very tenuous edge of welcome.”
“Are you? What did you do?” Touraine’s voice was thick and slurred, even to her own ears.
“Sky above, you really are drunk. By proxy, I took over their country.”
“Oh. Right.”
They lingered a little longer, but gloating eyes watched them as they clung to Djasha and Aranen’s fire. Aranen held Djasha in her arms, and they both smiled and laughed even though Djasha’s face looked drawn. So much joy.
When the knife flashed toward Luca, Touraine was slow. Maybe she was distracted by the two women’s happiness; maybe she was just too drunk. Before coming to El-Wast, she’d never fought against assassinations—the Sands got to die in wide, bloody fields.
She jerkily pushed the knife away, but the blade caught Luca’s skin before Touraine grabbed the enemy’s wrist and tumbled over with them. Luca shouted in pain and the world spun. Sheer luck kept Touraine from getting herself stabbed before she disarmed them and flipped the person onto their back.
A woman looked up at her. No more struggling. She spat full in Touraine’s face.
Touraine hauled her up just enough to slam her into the ground. The woman’s head bounced once, and Touraine knew it hurt.
Gil had Luca. Safe. Lanquette and the other guards circled them.
“What is this?” Luca waved her forearm, and blood splattered the sand. She held the wound up to Djasha, who also stood. “I thought we were your guests.” The cold menace was back in Luca’s voice.
“You are.” Djasha eyed the woman under Touraine with distaste. “Bring her to me.”
Touraine dragged the woman to her feet and over to Djasha before she realized she was following another general’s orders. A soldier’s instinct beaten deep.
“Yasmine.” Djasha said only the woman’s name, but the tone of her voice said the rest. Fury. Unforgivable disappointment. Cantic had spoken to Touraine this way before her trial.
Luca broke from her protective circle to stand next to Touraine. Her eyes were as hard as Djasha’s. She gestured to her guards. “I want her arrested immediately. Her and anyone working with her.”
Touraine was stricken more by Yasmine’s face. Anger worked her jaw, tightened it so the tendons showed. A rapid pulse jumped at her throat. Most surprising was the shine of unshed tears.
“We will punish our own criminals,” Djasha snapped, without looking at Luca. There was a sense of finality that hushed even Gil’s indignation on Luca’s behalf.
“Yasmine,” Djasha repeated.
Whatever passed between them was brief, but it must have satisfied Djasha’s unspoken question.
“I’m sorry, my teacher,” Yasmine said in Shālan. Finally, the would-be assassin bowed her head.
Then Djasha pulled a thin knife from her sleeve and stabbed under Yasmine’s ribs and into her heart. Crimson leaked from her lips and covered Djasha’s hand as she pushed harder to see the job done as quickly as possible.
At the flash of Djasha’s blade, Touraine stumbled back into a crouch, belatedly dragging Luca with her. Behind them, steel and wood clattered and the soldiers swore, trying too late to raise their muskets. Lanquette and Gil both had their pistols trained on Djasha the Apostate. It took a long moment before any of them realized what had happened.
When the woman’s clutching hands grew limp, Djasha lowered her to the ground. Djasha staggered as she pushed herself up, and Aranen caught her.
“I apologize,” Djasha said, bowing her head to Luca. The bloody knife dripped into the sand. Touraine expected Luca to be as stunned as she was, but Luca always had the perfect calm. Unshakable. A wall of control.
Luca stepped out from behind Touraine and nodded at Djasha. “That will do.”
That… will do? Suddenly, Touraine wasn’t sure whose pawn she was—and which was the more dangerous answer. Cold chilled her stomach. What would happen if either woman found out she planned to break this peace before it began? Maybe it was better not to break it. To hold her tongue and wait for the Sands to take the brunt of it. A small sacrifice.
While Aranen tended to Luca’s arm, Touraine scanned for Jaghotai among the rest of the silent Qazāli. She didn’t find her.
After Gil had sharp words with the rickshaw driver, the man tossed back a drink and left his friends behind to gather the rickshaw. He helped Luca limp in; the princess barely let her right leg touch the ground.
He looked at Touraine dubiously. “You, too, in?”
“No.” She shook her head, and the dizziness made her mind pulse with pain. She grunted.
“Ya, silly, get up there. I can carry. If not, he helps.” He pointed to Gil and forced a smile.
Gil didn’t smile back. “Get in,” he barked.
“Yes, sir.” Touraine climbed into the basket next to Luca. Their thighs touched. The adrenaline rush of the assassin and sparring had faded—the fight with Jaghotai already seemed ages ago—and she was drunk. No more tipsiness. No focused invincibility. It was the dark, useless part of the alcohol. A bayonet couldn’t pierce the tension between her and Luca. And that had nothing on the tension they left behind them at the Qazāli fires, or a woman’s dead body, or the princess’s secret bargain that Touraine was regretting yet again.
At the house, Touraine helped Luca down while Gillett paid the driver. The driver nodded soberly after them before pulling his cart back into the night.
“What did you give him?” Luca asked, suspicious and frowning.
“More than enough.”
Gil trailed them all the way to the door to Luca’s chambers, where he and Luca shared a look Touraine couldn’t read. Lanquette took his place outside the door. Touraine recognized the angry, affronted set of his shoulders—too stiff by half. She couldn’t bring herself to care.
At the bedroom door, Luca winced. “Would you give me a hand?”
Adile jumped from her sleep just inside the room and rushed over, but Touraine waved her away. “I’ll do it,” she whispered to the maid.
Touraine helped Luca pull off her outer jacket. Luca’s bare neck was smooth, barely kissed by Qazāl’s overbearing sun. Touraine’s heart beat faster in he
r chest. Maybe Luca sensed the change. She looked at Touraine skeptically.
“How drunk are you, Lieutenant?” Luca spoke low and very close, but also matter-of-factly.
Touraine wet her lips. “Not very,” she lied. The execution had sobered her, as had the long ride, but the room still lurched if she turned too quickly.
“You had several cups and then fought your mother.” Luca’s brow creased.
Touraine focused on hanging the jacket. “I lost. That’s why I don’t drink.” Jaghotai’s words still slid in the back of her mind. When she’s sucked you hollow, she’ll throw you away to rot.
“Then you saved me.”
The princess slouched to her good side. Luca’s stiff court mask was still up, but Touraine noticed Luca wince as she shifted her weight to pull her inner coat off. Luca smelled like sweat and rose water.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have drunk—” Touraine’s words fumbled over each other on their way out. The music had made everything vibrate. Dancing with Aranen and Luca. She would do the rest of it all again.
Luca turned around and her mask fell. She watched Touraine with naked apprehension, fear, guilt. “I’m sorry, Touraine. I… know you don’t want to be here—”
Touraine couldn’t smile at that. “General Cantic made it clear that it was this or nothing. I’m not ready to be nothing.”
Only, there was irony in it: now she did want to be here, in this room, with Luca. She shouldn’t have. The Sands would never forgive her—Pruett would never forgive her—for enjoying the other woman. And Jaghotai wouldn’t, either, for fuck’s sake. Not to mention the fragile alliance that had almost ended with a knife in Luca’s ribs, the alliance that Touraine was still thinking of ending soon.
And yet there was something in this moment of honesty that Touraine wanted to touch, to hold on to. Sky above knew it probably wouldn’t come again.
“Sit down.” Touraine pointed toward the bed.
Luca furrowed her forehead but obeyed. Tension eased out of her face in relief. Touraine kicked off her own boots and sat down facing her. Gently, she pulled each of Luca’s legs straight, watching her face for discomfort. Then she pulled off the high hose. Luca’s face was guarded and suspicious.
She started with the princess’s toes on her bad leg, the little muscles in Luca’s foot. The tightness pulled her arch into a claw. The skin was clammy. Her mouth fell open in confusion, but a moment later she tilted her head back and sighed.
Still squeezing Luca’s foot, Touraine slid her pant leg up enough to reach her calf and began rubbing there. Luca whimpered some at first, eyes closed. The muscles in the leg had knots hard as rock. Beneath the soft, pale hairs was a patchwork of scars as elaborate as her own.
Then Touraine put a hand on Luca’s thigh, to warn her. Luca opened her eyes, swallowed, nodded.
“Just—careful, please.”
Touraine worked from the crease of Luca’s hip down to the knee, squeezing and kneading. Hard muscle-scars ran throughout Luca’s entire thigh. At a nod from Luca, she pushed a little harder with her thumbs. A muscle-scar crackled under her hand.
“Fuck!” cried Luca, flinching away.
“I’m sorry—”
“No.” Luca gritted her teeth. “It… feels… good, I think.” She took a few short breaths before groaning again.
Touraine massaged until she started drowsing off and Luca’s breath slowed. She meant to roll away and off the bed, but she was caught by the sight of her hand on Luca’s thigh, the cloth of her pale, loose trousers a stark contrast with Touraine’s dark skin. Then Luca’s hand was on hers, stopping any movement.
“Thank you,” Luca said.
She met the solemnity in Luca’s face. She swallowed and nodded. She didn’t have words. The drive to touch her was like the drive to dance. Natural. Unbidden.
So she leaned over, and the heir to the Balladairan throne ran a finger around the curve of her ear, making Touraine shiver. Her own hand trailing up Luca’s leg, across her hip, to rest lightly on Luca’s stomach. Touraine could feel the coiled tension beneath her fingers.
And then Luca smiled ruefully and shook her head. “I want you sober or not at all. But—” She covered Touraine’s hand with her own again. “Would you… like to stay?” Luca said. Her voice was a little raw. “To sleep.”
Luca’s hand was soft and warm on top of hers. Touraine brushed her thumb across the other woman’s knuckles, surprised at the sharp twinge of disappointment she felt and also surprised at the relief. Luca wasn’t like the rest of Balladaire. She wouldn’t take and take and take. When she took the throne, she would make Balladaire better, if anyone could. One day.
Touraine let herself entertain that hope while sudden exhaustion dragged her down into the pillows. Or maybe it was their lushness. And Luca settled on her chest.
“What do you want, Touraine?”
The question startled Touraine away from the brink of sleep.
“I don’t want to be your servant anymore.”
Fuck. Djasha was right. Shāl’s holy water. A statement like that couldn’t stand alone, though.
“Not Balladaire’s. I want to be free. Paid a wage, not an allowance, and free to spend it at my leisure. Free to make my own home somewhere, free to… quit my post. If I wanted to.”
Luca went rigid in her arms. “Do you want to quit your post?”
“No—not right now.”
The seconds drew out before Luca relaxed again.
“It’s done,” Luca said. “All of it. We’ll draw up your employment papers and discuss wages tomorrow.”
“And for the Sands?” Touraine’s heart stumbled in her chest.
“That, I can’t do. I’m sorry. Not yet.” The arm she had draped around Touraine’s waist squeezed tightly, and she sounded like she meant it.
Touraine sank back into the too-soft pillows.
Everything she’d ever wanted, and nothing at all at the same time.
CHAPTER 24
CITIZENSHIP
Luca woke up surprisingly warm, her cheek sticky with sweat or saliva or both. She was more contorted than usual, too. It took a long time for her eyes and memory to reveal the cause of all the discomfort. As the curve of Touraine’s hip under the blankets solidified, the warmth became suddenly much more pleasant.
Her leg, however, was in agony, and the small knife cut stung and itched. For a moment, she peevishly thought the rebels could have at least healed that. There would be no more sleep today.
The dark, heavy curtains blocked out the day, so she wasn’t sure how late they had slept. She felt a pang of guilt for being grateful that the curtains would keep out not only the sun but any chance glances. For the first time, she wished she’d obeyed Gil’s advice to stay upstairs. The mysterious broadside artist would have had a fucking festival with this.
In sleep, Touraine’s scowl softened, but only just. Even in her sleep, her eyebrows knit and unknit.
I want to be free.
How little Luca knew her, for those words to be such a surprise. There would be time to change that. First, she would fix Touraine’s papers. Employment papers, wage contracts—it was all at the compound.
She eased herself out of bed as gingerly as she could—to spare herself pain but also to let Touraine sleep.
Normally, Adile would have entered at the first hint of Luca stirring. The woman had ears like a hound. Her absence now was conspicuous.
“Luca?” Touraine’s voice, befuddled with sleep.
Heat in her face again. “I’m here.”
Awake, Touraine looked ill. Her eyes were rimmed with dark shadows—one temple was already purplish from where her mother had kicked her. She hunched over her body as if protecting herself.
“Sky above. You need a doctor.”
Touraine held up a hand. “No. I’ll be fine. I just… don’t want to move again. Ever. You’re up early.”
“Am I? I was going to go to the compound and work on those papers for you today. You can
stay here, if you’d like.” Luca gestured awkwardly at the bed.
“No.” Touraine sat up too quickly and winced. “I’ll come with you.”
Touraine didn’t perk up during the carriage ride. She sat across from Luca, staring out of the small window.
Luca longed to reach across the space and touch her, but she was afraid the other woman was having second thoughts about the night before. She should ask—that was proper—but asking Do you want me? opened the door for Touraine to say, Actually, no. And right now, that terrified Luca.
So she kept her hands to herself and asked instead, “What’s on your mind?”
“The rebels,” Touraine answered shortly.
Heat rose in Luca’s face. Of course. Everything else hadn’t gone away. More was the pity. Still, she didn’t understand Touraine’s dour look.
“Despite everything that happened, I’m optimistic,” Luca said. “Jaghotai seems rather temperamental, but Djasha—I like her.” That was an understatement. The Apostate was unflinching, decisive. She never raised her voice, yet the Qazāli followed her lead. She did what needed to be done. Luca wanted that.
Touraine’s lips quirked into a shadow of a smile before settling back into a frown.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked Luca.
“About what? An alliance?”
“About the guns.” Touraine shifted her shoulders uneasily as she briefly met Luca’s eyes. “What if they’re lying and they turn on us?”
“As I said before. They would have to be idiots; the Apostate is no idiot. With one hundred guns, we still outnumber them ten to one. It will be fine.”
“But if not. It’s the Sands who’ll have to pay for our gamble.” Touraine said it softly, as if speaking to the window.
“I…” Luca tugged at the edges of her jacket. The stiff brocade covered a loose linen Qazāli shirt that went down to Luca’s midthigh. She’d chosen the ensemble because it made temperature easy to regulate, but now the carriage felt stifling.
Unflinching. Decisive.
“I’ve made up my mind, Touraine. We’ll go forward as planned.” She added tentatively, hoping to offer Touraine something to hold on to, “And after this is over, I’ll work on freeing them, too.”
