The Unbroken

by C. L. Clark

  Jaghotai stood. Touraine stepped back, making it look like reflex, and cracked the tent flap open enough to let in the moonlight. The pale light slashed across Jaghotai’s face, showing deep bags beneath her eyes. “She really was trying to make peace. Do you know how many people you’ve killed?”

  Touraine swallowed. “My family was in danger.”

  “Your family.” Jaghotai’s chuckle sounded pained.

  Touraine’s back went rigid in response. Instead of stepping away again, she dug her words in even harder. She said, “More family than you ever were.”

  Jaghotai snorted. “I had no choice in that. They took you—”

  “And I came back. You knew who I was when you broke my ribs with your sky-falling boot. You’d have killed me then if it would have gotten you what you wanted,” she snarled.

  Jaghotai hesitated. “I wouldn’t have.”

  Touraine laughed, too, incredulous even though she wanted to believe it was the truth so badly that she couldn’t help but break that hope for the lie that it was. Otherwise she might cry instead, and she wouldn’t give Jaghotai that satisfaction.

  “You’re saying if it had come down to Djasha and Aranen—or me, some strange enemy—you wouldn’t risk my life?”

  Jaghotai flinched back into shadow.

  Touraine had her beat. She twisted the sharp words tighter. “If you wouldn’t, I don’t need you as my family anylight.”

  Touraine would work with her. She could. If the woman kept her space. The closer Jaghotai got, the more panic sent her flailing. This was the closest she could get right now to a concession. She would try—later, when this was all over, if she survived, she would. Touraine crossed her arms over her chest but didn’t back any farther away even though her legs felt weak.

  “Tell me where the guns are.”

  “A warehouse on rue de Sarpont, one of those little obnoxious streets in the Puddle District.”

  Jaghotai sniffed. “First thing I do when I’m rid of your masters is rip down every one of those stupid street signs. Rue de Sarpont, my ass.” She sat back down to tug on her boots with the edges worn out. “I’ll take a small group now and see what we find before the sun comes up.”

  “I should come with you. And a couple Sands. You’re short on fighters.”

  “Short on fighters I can trust, sah. Doesn’t mean I want to add fighters I don’t.”

  Touraine rolled her eyes. “As you like.”

  Jaghotai turned to her with a wicked grin. “While we’re gone, do something useful, eh? We could use a few new shit ditches.”

  “Oh, fuck you.”

  The other woman’s loud laughter danced through the night as Jaghotai walked away.

  When Touraine fell back into a fitful sleep, she was woken from dreams of incessant digging by an intense rustling of her tent wall and the whimper of a child. She thought it was part of the dream, until a second, more insistent voice joined the whimper.

  “Mulāzim!” Touraine recognized the voice of the fighting girl with the braid. Her name was Ghadin, and she lived with her uncle and her grandmother and her little sister. Touraine had spent a little of her time each day roughhousing with the children, because somehow, it made the weight of the rebellion less. But Ghadin was a serious kid, the self-proclaimed leader of the slum children, and she wouldn’t wake Touraine up in the middle of the night for nothing.

  Touraine rolled to her feet and pulled up the tent flap. The cold air bit at her hot skin, and judging by the thin line of pale blue on the horizon, it was early morning, not the middle of the night. Outside the tent, Ghadin held a small boy’s hand and tugged her long braid with a worried expression.

  “This kid was looking for you,” Ghadin told Touraine as explanation. Like most of the children, she spoke to Touraine in what Touraine was beginning to think of as “Qazāli”—that combination of Shālan and Balladairan. The girl nudged the boy forward gently.

  “What?” Touraine asked, gesturing for him to speak.

  He flinched when she looked at him, hesitated at her open palm. She recognized that fear. Droitists had gotten to this kid. Sky-falling fuck. She forced her hands down and open instead of making fists to imitate the sudden rock of anger settling in her gut. Fucking Balladaire.

  “She said it was important,” he said, voice barely squeaking out.

  “It’s all right, it’s all right.” Touraine knelt down on one knee to meet his eyes. “What do you need, dear one?” She used the Shālan endearment, and the boy’s face relaxed marginally.

  “The lieutenant from the guardhouse. She told me to get help.”

  Touraine’s stomach dropped to her bare feet. “The lieutenant. The one with bluish-gray eyes. That lieutenant?”

  “Yes. She said look for the Mulāzim. Everyone sent me here. To you. I know you.”

  Pruett. How did she know the name—? Pruett.

  “Help for what? What’s happening?” She had to stop herself from gripping the boy in her desperation for answers.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know! She didn’t say, sir.”

  “Sky above.” She pushed back into the tent, swearing as she fumbled on the rest of her clothes. Her limbs were heavy; her mind was slow and bleary with fever.

  There was so much for the rebels to do, still so much to plan. But Pruett needed her. The Sands needed her. Her family needed her.

  CHAPTER 37

  A REMINDER

  The carriage rattled Luca’s concentration as she practiced her latest speech. Already, Qazāli civilians were acting on yesterday’s declaration of reparations. They queued at the Balladairan bank, waiting to be verified, to have their grief quantified and paid for.

  Cantic still insisted on Luca saying something before the hanging to encourage “loyalty and duty.”

  “Loyalty and duty,” Luca muttered to herself.

  Beau-Sang, on the bench across from her, nodded.

  “Indeed, Your Highness. The most important attributes of a civilized citizen.”

  “Indeed,” she echoed. Loyalty. Its opposite, treachery. So hard to detect sometimes. She sensed no loyalty in Beau-Sang, so she wasn’t worried about mistaking him for an ally. On the other hand, she’d been blinded to the treachery in Touraine.

  “My family has been most loyal to the Ancier crown, in fact.”

  Luca raised an eyebrow. “Indeed.” She waited.

  “I suppose you must think me ham-fisted and vulgar”—he smiled—“but a father with his children’s best interests at heart can’t help but notice. You’ve spent time with both of my children of late.”

  At that moment, the carriage jostled over a rough patch in the street, and Luca used the surprise to cover up the flush of embarrassment that crept up her cheeks.

  “To my eye, a match would be beneficial to both of us,” the comte said after the road evened out. He adjusted his coat carefully around his broad shoulders. He clung to Balladairan-style clothing despite the heat, and in return, the tight coat and trousers clung to him, and sweat stained the layers of silk and wool even though the morning was still cool to Luca.

  “Indeed?” Luca tried not to yawn, and the effort almost cracked her jaw.

  Beau-Sang gave Luca a paternal smile, as if it would reflect the depths of his affection for his own children. “I understand what’s at stake for you here. You’re afraid of failing to crush the rebellion, your uncle calling a trial of competence against you.”

  Suddenly, Luca felt stripped bare. It wasn’t as if Beau-Sang’s observations were secret, but one would point them out only if one wanted to do something about them—for better or for worse.

  “We have the rebellion well in hand, my lord.”

  “Of course we do,” he said, as if he believed anything but. “However, we’re losing control of commerce. It’s difficult for your merchants to turn a profit, especially in more expensive industries, like stone.” He waited for her to ask for more, but she only stared him down. He continued on his own, “I’ll take the prisoners
in the quarries. You can keep your high-handed ideals and appease the rebels. The prisoners aren’t subject to your new laborers’ laws. You marry one of my children, and that wealth comes to you. You lose nothing.”

  Beau-Sang folded his thick, hairy fingers together on his lap. Though the hour was early, he didn’t look bleary at all. Luca, on the other hand, had taken two cups of strong coffee, without even milk to soften the bitter flavor. She was awake, but the heady rush was building in her blood.

  Or maybe it was apprehension.

  She would be lying to herself if she pretended the idea hadn’t occurred to her. Bastien in particular had proven a reliable friend and was easy to talk to. He shared her interest in scholarly pursuits, and there was comfort in huddling over books with someone who understood her.

  Circumstances had stopped her, though, not chief of which was a troublemaking turncoat soldier whose face Luca still saw with painful clarity whenever she closed her eyes.

  There was also the matter of Aliez’s allegations against her father. Luca hadn’t had time to look into them yet, but they turned Luca’s stomach more than ever. Beau-Sang had been vocal in his praise of the Balladairans after they had razed the Qazāli neighborhoods. He’d even made snide comments about the fall of the temple.

  And the reverse of his offer was clear—if she didn’t accept the proposal or one in kind, he would endanger her road to the throne, possibly sabotaging Luca’s plans to end the rebellion.

  Through the carriage window, desert-yellow buildings passed by, grayish in the early morning. They would be at the Grand Bazaar momentarily.

  There was no way to guarantee loyalty from anyone except to give them what they wanted and keep up the supply—or hope that no one came along with a better offer. Beau-Sang thought he was holding a knife to her throat and forcing her to empty her pockets, a common thug. At the very least, she could buy herself more time to determine an escape route. Or time to find out the truth Aliez had hinted at.

  Luca adjusted her own short coat over her thin Qazāli-style tunic, trying to let the sudden flush of body heat escape. “I’m honored that they would be interested, my lord. Both Paul-Sebastien and Aliez do you a great credit.” More than you deserve. “I’ll be glad to consider this after I’ve thought about who might make the best companion.”

  “Very good, Your Highness. Let’s speak again next week. That should be enough time.”

  “I’ll send for you when I’m ready,” Luca said. She met his gaze and held it until finally he bowed his head.

  “Your will, Your Highness.”

  Luca closed her eyes and leaned back under the guise of sleepiness, though tears pricked at her closed eyelids.

  Without Touraine, the way was clear for her to choose a consort. Not that she would ever have gone through with proposing that to Touraine, but it had been… such a nice idea. A gentle what-if that had never occurred to her until the night Touraine had rubbed the ache from her legs. And then the next day, she’d betrayed Luca for the first time.

  Even worse than Touraine’s betrayal was the sneaking guilt that crept along Luca’s shoulders like a roach—that she was no different.

  Touraine started toward the guardhouse, thinking to find Pruett there. As Touraine got closer to the center of the city, though, she heard the rapid tap of a Balladairan drummer, waking people up and calling them out.

  She and Noé and the few other Sands who had escaped on the burning night followed the sound unerringly to the bazaar. The Grand Bazaar, now more often called the Gallows Bazaar.

  Already, a groggy crowd was present. The Qazāli stall owners who hadn’t lost their livelihoods—or their lives—in the rioting, early shoppers trying to get the best scraps of food, and Balladairan merchants whose eyes gleamed with an ever-present hunger.

  Above, gulls squawked, waiting for their share. They wouldn’t get it, though. Desperation had made everyone quicker to snatch at anything—including Luca’s handouts.

  The drums stopped. And then, from the back of the crowd, Touraine saw Cantic take the gallows stage, followed by Luca, who leaned lightly on her cane. Her leg must not hurt today. The thought came automatically, but it vanished as Touraine watched two pairs of blackcoats drag two prisoners up the stairs. Though the prisoners weren’t wearing their uniform coats, she could tell they were soldiers by their military-issue boots.

  “Closer,” Touraine muttered to Noé and the others. She pushed into the crowd and lost sight of the gallows stage.

  “Those sky-falling dogfuckers,” Noé said, standing on his tiptoes.

  Touraine couldn’t see. “What? What is it?” The nausea was rising in her again. It was just the press of the crowd and the smell, she told herself. But she was also dizzy with exhaustion. She steadied herself on Noé’s shoulder and tried to focus.

  “They have—I think—”

  “Sky above, who, Noé?”

  “Henri and…” He looked down at Touraine, anguish in his eyes as he hesitated. “Aimée.”

  “Shit.” Touraine shoved harder, forcing her way to the stage.

  Cantic’s harsh voice silenced the crowd. “Citizens of Qazāl, subjects of the Balladairan Empire. The last few weeks in this city have been grim, and I’m not near eloquent enough to address them or the reason we’re here today. I present with honor Her Royal Highness Princess Luca Ancier, queen regnant of Balladaire.”

  Around Touraine, a scattered few clapped, but even the applause was subdued.

  And then Luca started to talk, her voice clear and resonant.

  “Loyalty is part of the social contract we commit to when we decide to be civilized. As humans gathered into societies—tribes and villages, cities and nations—we committed to each other. We promised to protect our fellows, to honor the promises we give and the exchanges we make.”

  An elbow to Touraine’s jaw as she shoved her way to the front showed Touraine just how minute those exchanges could be. She almost fell to the ground, but Noé reached for her, held her up with concern in his soft brown eyes.

  “To betray that trust,” Luca continued, “chips away at the stone upon which we build our great cities. Broken promises weaken the bonds between siblings. When parents abandon the child, do their young hearts not break?”

  Finally, Touraine arrived at the front of the crowd, close enough to get a full view of those standing on the gallows. She and Noé hung back just enough to be invisible behind a group of Qazāli quarry laborers, as stone-faced as their work. Luca. Cantic, Rogan, and that bastard the comte de Beau-Sang stood just behind her. Cantic and Rogan were cloaked in military impassivity.

  Two pairs of blackcoats held Aimée and Henri up by the nooses, Aimée jerking her arms out of their grasps even though her hands were cuffed.

  “Luca,” Touraine whispered. “What are you doing?”

  The princess stood tall and regal, her gaze piercing the crowd. The sunlight sparkled on her spectacles. “If we apply these solemn rules to our most intimate relationships, should we not maintain them in all of our dealings? Merchant to customer, doctor to patient. Subject to crown. Soldier to general.”

  Touraine looked for the other Sands, but the only soldiers keeping the peace were Balladairan. That meant Balladaire didn’t trust the Sands here. Were they being punished for the deserters, like Noé? Or had Aimée tried something on her own and gotten caught?

  “Yesterday, I told you how Balladaire will care for and protect all of its subjects and enact justice. Similarly, though it is hard to govern the treacheries of the heart, the government can protect against the treacheries that threaten the society as a whole. False merchants will be fined. False doctors will be arrested. Traitor soldiers will lose their lives.

  “After you return home today, think well on the type of person you want to be in this beautiful city. Will you uphold it, or erode its foundations? Thank you.”

  Luca bowed her head delicately to the assembled crowd, who watched her in a hush. Even Touraine’s breath caught in her chest. Fin
ally, she let her focus shift from Luca to the nooses behind all the Balladairans and fully absorb the sight of her friend about to be hung.

  Traitor soldiers. Noé’s fingers went tight as a battlefield bone cutter’s vise on Touraine’s arm.

  “Sky a-fucking-bove, you assholes! I can escort my sky-falling self, thanks.”

  Noé’s nails dug even deeper. “No,” he whispered. Whimpered.

  Touraine shook her head. This couldn’t—this wasn’t—

  It didn’t matter how eagerly Aimée shoved her head into the noose or how she smirked at her blackcoat guards. She was terrified. Touraine could see it in the performance and the quick flicker of her eyes toward the crowd, maybe looking for a familiar face. Aimée was being made an example of, and she knew it.

  No. No. No—“Luca, no!” screamed Touraine as loud as she could. Kept screaming it, even as Noé tried to drag her back, out of sight. Blackcoats were coming for her now, too—

  “Luca! Luca, stop them!”

  “Lieutenant, we have to go. They’re coming—” Noé pulled harder, and she yanked herself free, ran to the gallows until she could see the whites of Aimée’s eyes.

  Luca saw her, and the cool mask dropped, replaced with a frightened young woman for just a second. She mouthed something, but Touraine didn’t wait for it.

  Because Aimée’s mask dropped, too, and for a second her fear was plain. She held Touraine’s gaze. “Lieutenant!” She smiled ruefully, like she did whenever Touraine beat her at a hand of cards.

  Then the blackcoats had Touraine by the arms, with an arm around her neck, and she couldn’t breathe. Or maybe—or maybe it wasn’t them, and maybe it was the sobs choking her—

  “Pray for fucking rain!” yelled Aimée. The wooden floor fell from beneath her feet.

  CHAPTER 38

  A SICKNESS

  The rebel Sands dropped with a gagging sound and the smell of voided bowels. That wasn’t what made Luca’s stomach writhe with barely suppressed nausea. Nor was the disturbing angle of the hanged Sands’ necks or the rapidly changing colors of their faces from smooth, wet sand to blotchy purple.