The Unbroken by C. Clark (ebook reader .txt) 📕

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. Finally, 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 38A 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.

Well, it was in part, but not near as much as her role in it. And her role in it didn’t make her as sick as knowing Touraine had seen her do it.

Now Touraine was silent, limp in a dead faint, in the arms of a pair of blackcoats. Luca hoped it was just a faint. More soldiers had formed a protective cordon around the gallows while the civilians were forcibly dispersed. Thankfully, the people left willingly, no matter how or what they muttered. Luca didn’t need another city-destroying riot. Was it the sting of Cantic’s metaphorical whip that kept them placid, she wondered, or the honey Luca herself had promised?

And there was that phrase again. We pray for rain. A natural thing to pray for in the desert. Now it was a rallying cry for the rebellion. She hoped the people would ignore it. The message of the hanging was clear: joining the rebels will only bring you pain.

“Release her!” Luca demanded of the blackcoats