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

her teeth that this was the woman who had framed her for killing a blackcoat, too. She’d ruined Touraine’s life in more ways than one.

But this wasn’t Touraine’s realm, either. She was used to rank and file, the open sky above, and clear enemies. Not mazes of close buildings and secret alliances.

“What in Shāl’s name is she doing here, Saïd?” the woman asked.

Saïd used his bulk to usher Touraine through the door so he could close it. Trapping her in.

“Easy, Jackal. Today, she’s a friend.”

“A friend my ass. She’s one of their tools. You just compromised all of us for your stupid dream of reconciliation. It’s not going to happen, Saïd.”

Touraine was inclined to agree and started to say so when Saïd held his hands up and stood between Touraine and the woman he’d called Jackal.

“She’s here now,” he said. “Give her a chance.”

Touraine scowled at them both as they talked over her. “Give me a chance to what?”

Saïd smiled back at her. “We’ve all had bad first impressions. Let’s start over.” He turned back to the Jackal. “She has the foreign princess’s ear.”

The Jackal glared at Touraine, her snarl baring teeth. Touraine thought the woman would stab her rather than let her stay, but finally she stepped aside. Saïd ushered Touraine forward.

Princess Luca wanted to open peace talks with these people.

The room was cozy, with five people sitting in a circle on poufs or boxes with cushions. Sunlight streaming in through the windows lit their veiled or scarf-covered faces. A beaten metal plate held half a circle of bread and a bowl of oil. In the back, a small altar held a stub of incense. The room smelled sweet with its smoke. Touraine spotted the Brigāni woman immediately, her golden eyes like a falcon’s.

“Ah, daāyie. Welcome.” The woman smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Sit. Eat.”

Touraine thought through the forms of address Luca had drilled into her, then settled on a simple half bow. “Thank you.”

The bitch with the boots, the Jackal, dropped onto a pillow next to the Brigāni witch and rolled her eyes. “Yes, welcome, Mulāzim. Careful not to spill any oil on your new clothes.” Her left arm ended in a painful-looking twist of flesh halfway down her forearm.

Touraine tried to ignore her, tearing a chunk of bread off the round, swiping it almost carelessly through the oil. The oil was sweet but sprinkled with salt that dissolved against her tongue.

“You don’t look like a conscript anymore,” the Brigāni said, leaning forward. She sat with a blanket over her lap. Her face was tight at the eyes and lips. Strained.

Touraine took her time chewing and swallowing her bread.

“No. I’m not. One of you framed me for killing a blackcoat. I was supposed to be executed. I lost everything.”

The Brigāni witch gave the Jackal a questioning look, and the dark-eyed woman shrugged innocently.

“Now I’m the queen’s assistant.”

Saying it out loud felt strange, as if she were stretching out a pair of tight trousers and feeling them loosen until they fit. This was what she was now. What she would learn to be. Which meant she had to put aside what she wanted and think about what Luca wanted. Presumably, that didn’t include killing rebel leaders. Not yet, anyway. She glared at the Jackal. What a shame.

A curvy rebel sitting with legs crossed and palms on knees laughed a tinkling, self-assured laugh and said, “Balladaire has no queen.” That voice was familiar. Touraine’s suspicions had been right.

“Mademoiselle Abdelnour.” Touraine saluted her with a piece of bread. “Princess Luca will be queen soon enough.”

The young woman only laughed again. She wore a gray scarf that, at first glance, was nondescript. On a closer look, though, it was woven with a delicate pattern and made with almost the same quality as Touraine’s own clothes.

“A dog with a fancy collar is still a dog, Mulāzim.” The Jackal chuckled at her own joke, crossing her legs to prop one bastard boot on a bent knee while she slouched back on her hand.

It wasn’t even a funny joke. Touraine chewed her lip until the flare of her anger dimmed again. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

“It just means lieutenant,” Malika said. “Not an insult, for once.” She pointed at Touraine, then the ass of a woman, and then the Brigāni witch. “Mulāzim. The Jackal. The Apostate.”

Noms de guerre.

The Jackal snorted. Fitting.

Touraine looked sideways at Malika and Saïd. “So who are you?”

“Uh-uh. One name’s enough.” Saïd crossed his arms across his chest. He looked to the Jackal and the Brigāni witch—the Apostate. “Let her take a message back to the princess for us.”

At first, Touraine felt indignant. She wasn’t their courier. But Luca wanted to set up negotiations with the rebels, and Touraine knew for a fact that Luca didn’t know how to initiate those talks, or she would have set Touraine to it already. So Touraine swallowed her pride and did her job. That’s what she was good at, after all.

She bowed her head. “What do you want me to say?”

“We want peace over—”

“No one agreed to this, brother,” the Jackal interrupted. “Why should we trust the foreign girl any more than the rest of them?” Then she looked at Touraine with so much scorn, Touraine thought she would spit. “And I wouldn’t trust one of these bootlicking traitors to help. Tell him, Apostate.”

Saïd and the Jackal both looked at the Brigāni woman for backup, but it was Malika who spoke.

“The princess did donate the slots for Qazāli children at the Citadel.” She shrugged prettily, holding one edge of her scarf so that it didn’t fall off her shoulder. “I checked with the school this morning. We can at least send her a few demands, see how much of this is just her putting a dress on a goat.”

Malika looked Touraine up and down, and Touraine wondered if she was the goat.

It came again to the Apostate, but she looked pained as she studied Touraine. Out of nowhere, she winced and