by C. L. Clark
“By whom? How do you know?”
Though the lieutenant’s mouth spoke the words, Luca could barely comprehend their meaning.
“I saw her fall.”
In the silence, Luca’s mind conjured up the moment. A carefully aimed shot through the breast, and Touraine lying in the dirt, eyes open.
“Your Highness?”
“Nothing else, Lieutenant. You’re dismissed.”
Lieutenant Pruett bowed, just barely within propriety, stepped to the side, and stood at attention, staring into the middle distance. Luca wanted to slap her across the face. As she turned, however, Luca noticed the sheen on the other woman’s eyes and recognized the tension in her jaw. It was the look of someone trying very hard to keep a neutral face. Luca couldn’t help the irrational spike of jealousy—that Touraine should be hers alone to mourn. Stupid and cruel, of course, but then, everything inside her was twisting into something horrible.
“Your Highness.” The bitterness in the other woman’s voice made Luca slow to turn. The woman’s gray-blue eyes clouded over with the kind of rage that would sink ships on the open ocean.
“Yes?”
“Is hers the only body that matters to you?” Lieutenant Pruett’s breaking voice was the soft scrape of boots on sand. “Sky above knows we’ve got plenty more.”
Luca gripped her cane until pain flared sharp. The words were ambiguous, but there was insult enough in referencing both a sexual relationship with Touraine and the neglect of her army. She stepped to the woman, raked her up and down with the calculated condescension she’d learned from years protecting herself in the noble court. Took in the crisp uniform, the slight shoulders, the sharp eyes. She stepped closer.
“That bitch abandoned you. If she was half the commander she needed to be, maybe you’d have fewer bodies to scrape off of the sand. She was a traitor, and I gave her a second chance. I will not be that kind again.”
She fired her words to hit the woman’s vitals, and judging by the lieutenant’s bared snarl and clawed hands, she had aimed true. It was only later, after the rage had thawed, that Luca acknowledged the wound she’d given herself. She had trusted Touraine. And Cantic lauded the woman as a hero. It turned her stomach.
And yet she remembered the feeling of Touraine’s arms around her at least one hundred heart-stopping times a day.
And at least one hundred times a day, rage tried to start her heart beating again. So far, it had failed.
A gentle knock on Luca’s door cut through another nightmare. A variation on the theme she’d been sleeping to since the bazaar.
Smoke, choking the sky lit red—corpse fires. Her father riding into the flames, her mother dancing into them, and now Touraine falling into them. If she was lucky, she woke up then. If she wasn’t lucky, the fires leapt from their pyres and devoured the city while she ran too slowly to escape. She would feel the heat on her back, teeth of fire nipping at her heels, until finally, burning, she woke.
She was not lucky last night.
Another knock. She shoved the sweat-soaked sheets aside, repulsed by their damp. Her hair was stringy against her face, and she pulled it up into a hasty bun. A scattering of correspondence she’d neglected for a week fell from her bedside table: a letter from Sabine, a note from Cantic, all of it ignored after opening.
“Come in,” she said. Of course, that wasn’t what came out. She hadn’t spoken to anyone in days. It was a croak, an ugly whisper. She cleared her throat and kept it simple. “What?”
Gil opened the door. He took one look at her and came inside, closing the door behind him. “Luca.”
She held a hand up. “Don’t.” She wanted no sympathy or wisdom or pity. It would only be lemon in the wounds.
He inhaled sharply, gray eyebrows bunched together, but he exhaled without a word. Smart man.
“What did you want?” Luca asked hoarsely as she wrapped up in her robe.
“You have a visitor.”
She stopped with the robe half on. “No.”
She couldn’t. Even sitting upright was a heroic effort too great to bear. The thought of having to face someone else, someone who would want something from her that she couldn’t give—a presentable royal, for example—made her want to collapse onto the floor. She held on to her changing screen.
“Luca, it’s time to—”
“No, Gil.”
“Luca, you have to—”
“I can’t!” It came out a growl.
“Luca, it’s Paul-Sebastien. He won’t leave. He’s been standing outside the town house for an hour.”
Bastien. The man who shared her passion for research, for Shālan history. A minor noble, but well placed to help her cement important alliances with the other nobles in Qazāl. He knew the Qazāli and the Balladairans, understood the dance between the two factions of the city. He might even be able to help manage his father, the comte. A friend.
You still need them.
She finally met Gil’s eyes. Something in her face made him step forward, but she held her hand up again.
“Invite him in,” she muttered. “Give him tea, and let him know it will be a while.”
Luca wouldn’t have said she felt better after having washed and dressed, but she could certainly pretend to be a better version of herself. She had spent so much time trying to look like she wasn’t grieving that she was surprised when she walked into her sitting room to see Bastien’s splotchy, red-eyed face. His hair was brushed back into a queue, but his jacket looked slept in—or perhaps not slept in at all.
“They took her,” he said, standing up from his seat as soon as Luca walked in.
Luca shook her head, searching for solid ground. The first “her” that came to mind was Touraine, because the rebels had taken her body. She blinked the thought away, but it was difficult to dredge up the compassion today to ask Bastien, “Who? Who took whom?”
“The sky-falling rebel bastards have Aliez. They have my sister!” At first, Bastien looked abashed at swearing in front of the princess, but he pushed on. “What are we doing about this?”
“We?” She blinked slowly at him. The edges of her temper crept back up, like bile.
Slowly, he backed himself away from his presumption, sitting back down in his seat and folding his hands across the table.
“Please, Luca. I’m asking as your friend. I’m asking as—as a potential ally. I know you want my father’s support in your bid for the throne.”
“I’m not making a bid for the throne. It is my throne.”
He sat back and laced his fingers together over his lap. “Of course it is, and that’s why you’re sitting on it now.”
Luca glared across the table at him, her fingers pressed against the smooth wood.
“I’m doing the best I can. General Cantic is doing all she can. What else do you want?”
You’re lying. You haven’t been doing the best at anything but moping like a jilted lover.
“I don’t know,” he said. The bitter taunt was gone from his voice, replaced with desperation. “You’re my queen. I need you to do something.”
He laid his bait well.
To ignore it was to ignore everything she’d been trying to prove—to her uncle, to the Balladairans. To herself. The throne was hers, and so was the weight of the crown. Already it threatened to bow her shoulders.
Without Touraine, she’d lost her emissary to the rebels. No one to explain to the rebels that she had nothing to do with the assault on the city. No one to explain to Luca why they had taken Balladairan citizens. Oh, yes. That was in Cantic’s note. Aliez must have been one of them.
That was only one front. A general who sees only one battlefront will find herself hamstrung by the end of the war. Was that from The Rule of Rule, too? She couldn’t remember.
Beau-Sang and the Balladairans in Qazāl represented the other front. And to keep that relationship from decaying any more than it already had—
“Bastien.” She put her hand on his. “Bastien? My
soldiers will find her. I promise. I’ll personally oversee it.”
He turned his hand over to squeeze hers. “Thank you, Your Highness.” He ducked his head as if to kiss her knuckles but hesitated awkwardly, bumbling. The knot of his throat bobbed with emotion. “My father will be grateful. Aliez is his jewel.” He gave a rueful smile.
Of course she was.
“Also… I’m sorry about your soldier.” He squeezed her hand again.
She flinched away. His condolences sounded surprisingly sincere. It was an extra twist of the knife that made her lungs hitch, showing her a new depth to this pain, to the crushing loss of something she’d only just realized she had. And he could see it, her nakedness. She slammed down her court mask and nodded curtly. He reached his hand out again for hers but stopped halfway. He bowed instead and allowed himself to be led away.
She stared hard at her hand where he’d held it, the touch echoing. She rubbed her fingers together, as if Bastien’s hand had left a tangible film. A stack of letters she’d left unanswered this week waited for her. One of them from Cantic. She called for pen and paper.
“Who are you writing to?” Gil asked, sliding into Bastien’s seat.
“Cantic. And Beau-Sang. I’m going to let Cantic disband the Qazāli magistrates.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” No. “They can’t be trusted. None of them can.” The part of her that wanted—hoped—for Qazāli allies rebelled at this. If they wanted allies, they would behave better. The part of her that would be queen began to write.
“You don’t want to give Beau-Sang too much rope, Luca.”
“I know, but I think I need him,” Luca told Gil, who sat in Touraine’s chair by the échecs table while Luca paced. The movement hurt her hip, but it was a reassuring sort of pain, like biting one’s lips or digging one’s fingernails into the palms or bashing one’s head into a wall. It distracted her from another, different pain that blossomed when she looked quickly past Gil and he became another person in that chair.
After Bastien’s visit a few days ago, Luca had written to Cantic about disbanding the Qazāli magistrates. She just needed to figure out how to replace them. She was governor-general; consolidating power under herself was the obvious choice. Share a little power, though, and you’ll have stronger allies. The rebels weren’t her allies. Instead of Bastien’s tear-streaked face in her mind, she saw his father’s, sly under the ruddy blustering.
Before Gil could reply, a blackcoat knocked outside.
“Come in,” she called.
“Your Highness.” The soldier bowed after he was let in. “This was labeled for you, from the main guardhouse, but I think Guard Captain Gillett should—” The soldier glanced at Gil.
Luca snatched the box. It was plain, with a letter affixed. She opened the letter first.
The paper shook as she read. For some reason, she had been hoping for something good, a gift, even if she didn’t deserve one. Anything but a ransom note. It ended with a list of names, and she recognized them from the families whose complaints were scribbled on expensive paper on her desk. Aliez LeRoche’s name included.
“Your Highness?” Gil asked.
“They’re going to torture one Balladairan for every day we remain in Qazāl.” Her voice trembled like the paper.
Gillett crossed the room and grabbed the box away from her. He barely opened the lid before grimacing. The smell of decaying flesh curled through the room and hung like a dead man. Luca retched.
Gil shoved the box back at the soldier, whose eyes darted between her and Gil. “Get rid of that and keep quiet, or I’ll put your balls in a box, too.”
“Let me see.” Luca held out a hand. Gil hesitated. It took one long breath before he proffered it to her. She bit the insides of her cheeks to keep the bile down.
A gray finger, dried brown at the end, a nub of bone sticking out. Blood crusted the grooves in the skin. It curled stiff, beckoning her close. Tufts of fair hair sprouted from the thick knuckles. She exhaled sharply as she handed it back to Gil, trying to blow the stench away from her before she inhaled again. Not Aliez’s delicate hand.
“I have to fix this,” Luca said numbly after the blackcoat left. She stood in the middle of the room, hand open as if still holding the box. She squinted up at Gil from behind her spectacles and then looked back down at the paper, hoping the words would arrange themselves into a different story.
He looked grim. “You’re thinking Beau-Sang again.”
“No,” she lied quickly. Luca rubbed her forehead with the heel of her palm. There was nothing useful in The Rule of Rule on the topic of ransom and the torture of subjects. Nothing useful to her, anyway. If they were valuable, it said, of course they should be rescued—high profile, uniquely skilled, etc. Lower workers, however—expendable.
Was it responsible for her to disagree with that? If complete war was at stake, couldn’t she sacrifice a few laborers, even merchants? Aliez was nobility, but her brother was still free.
Beau-Sang had clout in this city. He had clout in La Chaise, as well. He and his son knew El-Wast and its people better than she did.
Luca stabbed her cane into the rug, gouging the ornate diamond-shaped weave. She swallowed.
“Put him in charge and you’ll never bring the Qazāli back to your side.”
“I know! I know that.” She flushed and paced again. “I know you’re a sympathizer, Gillett. Sky above and earth below, even I sympathize with them. I’ve eaten their food; I’ve danced with them. Only, I made one mistake.” She had trusted Touraine. She had wanted her. “Am I supposed to send Balladairans to slaughter for it?”
The old soldier sucked in his cheeks, then puffed them back out. “You’re the queen of Balladaire first, Luca. Even I can’t argue with that.” Shaking his head, he added, “I didn’t expect the rebel council to resort to this method.”
“I didn’t, either. It’s probably the Jackal.” Luca dug her cane in again, feeling the satisfying give as the rug’s threads split.
Fuck Touraine. This was all her fault. And Luca should have known better.
“I’m not even queen yet. That’s part of the problem. If I could do whatever I wanted—”
“May I be frank, Luca?” Gil never interrupted her, and he asked permission only when he was irritated.
“By all means.” She braced herself.
“If you were queen and had all the power of the realm to do with this country what you will, would you leave Qazāl?”
Luca scoffed. “That would be impossible. Our commerce is too finely wedded. They depend on us for wood and metalwork, and we depend on their goods to sell in the north.”
Gil nodded impatiently. “Yes, but if it were possible, would you?”
Luca frowned down at the carpet. There was so much she still wanted to know. An entire library she hadn’t searched. “They have the magic here. We could still find a cure for the Withering.”
The plague sounded like a thin excuse, even to her. Her breath escaped in a whistle as she understood Gil’s insinuations. If she was unwilling to leave, there would be no peace short of physically crushing the rebellion. Otherwise, the Jackal and the Apostate and everyone else would fight Balladaire, fight her until they had what they wanted or died for it.
She would have to kill them all or scare them so badly they surrendered.
“What do you think my father would have done?”
Gil scrubbed his cheeks. “I’m sure my memory colors him in rose.”
As much as he loved the king, Gil wasn’t prepared to say her father would have made the right decision. Whatever that meant.
She wanted her throne, and to get it, she needed to end the rebellion. To do that, she needed power. Maybe it could have come from the Qazāli and their magic, but that would never happen now. So she needed her people’s power. The nobles’ support. The army’s support. And none of them would support her while citizens were held hostage and the princess was a Sand lover.
�
��I’ll send for Beau-Sang,” she said, more to herself than Gil.
Gillett scrubbed wearily at the scruffy beard growing on his cheeks. “You’re sure?”
“I instated a curfew. I’ve disbanded the magistrate. There’s just the governor-general’s position now.”
It was time to shift that mantle to someone else so she could wear the one she was meant to.
She turned back to the ransom note. There was a brown stain on the bottom. She threw the letter onto the table and went to a basin to wash her hands.
The comte de Beau-Sang strode into Luca’s office—the governor-general’s office—as if it were a room in his own home. Luca bristled and sat up straighter. Beau-Sang bowed quickly but carefully within the boundaries of propriety. He spared a sharp glance for Gil and Lanquette and a more disparaging look at Cheminade’s effects covered in their thin layer of dust.
“Your Highness,” he said smoothly.
The sandstone walls had come from Beau-Sang’s own quarries. Building this compound alone had probably lined his pockets thick with the crown’s money. Maybe Luca could promise him more arrangements like that to secure his cooperation.
Luca acknowledged his bow with a nod. She retained some of her court aloofness, but she diminished her casual imperiousness, offering him a slight smile. She didn’t need her spectacles to see the smug look on his face, but they made her look more earnest. Cantic appreciated strength and decisiveness; Beau-Sang would be more malleable if he thought Luca was warming up to him.
“I have a proposal for you,” she started.
This was her best choice. Without Touraine, she didn’t even have an emissary she could trust. Whatever friendship they had kindled with the rebels over the last few months was an illusion. Friends did not send human pieces carved like roast pigs, nor threaten to torture innocents to coerce each other. Of course she had no other option.
“When we spoke at Lord Governor Cheminade’s dinner, you had several ideas for the appropriate governance of the peoples here.”
“Yes, Your Highness, of course.”
“I was overhopeful and thus overlenient on the Qazāli when I arrived.” She rubbed her eyes under her glasses.
