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

enterprising network of spies. Not a queen sabotaging her rule for the chance at foreign magic. A chance at peace, not power, she told herself, multiple times a day. And yet her fingers itched for it. The magic. Her triumphant return to Balladaire, leaving a restful colony behind. Her coronation.

Luca would give the instructions to the rebels tonight—if they upheld their end of the bargain and told her how to use the magic.

As she left, she made sure to take all the papers with her. Just in case.

Back in the Quartier, Touraine was helping the porters pack away Guérin’s belongings. They were burly Qazāli, sweat staining their Balladairan shirts across the backs and armpits even though Guérin had but a single chest. Guérin’s ship would set sail today or tomorrow, depending on the water conditions.

When the porters carried her out on a litter to the medical carriage, the entire household came to see Guérin off. That surprised Luca more than a little. She didn’t think the taciturn woman had made so many friends. And that was even more to Touraine’s point that night she had railed at Luca.

Touraine was already dressed for the evening’s activity, in her black Qazāli garb, the face scarf hanging around her neck. She clasped Guérin’s forearm and then gave her a gentle, brief squeeze on the back. Lanquette practically had to bend double to hug her.

Finally, it was Luca’s turn, and her mouth was dry. She hadn’t planned words for this moment, and of course thank you was shamefully inadequate.

Still, it was the only place to start. “Thank you for your tireless service, Guard Guérin.”

She reached out and took the older woman’s hand in her own. The skin was dry, the calluses still hard. Her lower half was covered by a thin blanket despite the heat. The gaping flatness next to her right leg drew the eye. Luca forced her gaze to the guard’s face. Guérin looked up at her from the litter, her chin high and proud.

“Honestly, I cannot thank you enough for a single lifetime, so I’ll make sure your children and your children’s children know everything you’ve done for me.”

And I’m sorry. She couldn’t bring herself to say that with so many others watching.

“My duty is my honor, Your Highness,” Guérin said thickly. “It’s been a pleasure. Mostly.”

Everyone chuckled at that, even Gillett, who had been grumpy all day. The old man was more sentimental than he let on. That, or he still thought Luca was making a mistake about this evening.

By the time Guérin’s carriage was rolling out of the Quartier, the sun had set, and it was time for Luca to meet the Qazāli.

When the invitation to a “cultural celebration” had come, it had been easier than Luca had expected to get Gil and Cantic to agree that she should go—though neither of them knew about Luca’s true intent. Though Gil was less than enthusiastic, General Cantic was drawn into the idea of Luca rubbing elbows with the Qazāli immediately. With safety precautions—a squad of Balladairan soldiers, a large personal guard—it was the perfect opportunity to gather information. Luca knew she should be disgruntled at how easily her general agreed to dangle her as bait, but she didn’t question her luck.

Still, when she and her retinue set out from the Quartier, she counted and re-counted the guards around her.

“You’re sure you trust the rebels?” she asked Touraine.

They rode together in the rickshaw the rebels had sent for her, while the soldiers followed on foot. Luca glanced over. Touraine was looking out, across the desert and into the deepness of the night. Since their argument, there had been no shared coffee, no drubbing her up and down an échecs board. Luca had taken to sending her on errands over the last two weeks just so she would leave the house and take her tight-jawed glare with her.

“Yes,” Touraine said, without turning. “For this, anyway. They’ve had plenty of opportunity for worse than they’ve done. And—” She shook her head.

“What? Please.”

Touraine finally met Luca’s eyes. “They’ve been more than fair, all things considered.”

“All things considered?”

Touraine raised an eyebrow, frowning. “An occupying army, stolen children.”

Luca side-eyed her, then sighed. “Then away we go.”

They traveled deeper into that darkness, away from the city, until the great wall of the New Medina was gone and the darkness gave way to flickering fires amid dry, rocky scrubland. The small fires created a circle within which figures moved to the rhythm of beating drums, and around each fire, people sat and laughed and cooked and watched the dancers.

The people stared as Luca and Touraine arrived with a retinue of guards. The soldiers hung back in a disciplined curve around the perimeter. The dancers in the circle stopped moving as they lost their audience.

So many people. Even Touraine was nervous, hand straying to Luca’s knife at her hip.

A Brigāni woman wearing loose trousers beneath a knee-length loose shirt met them just within the circle of light. The one Touraine called the Apostate. Or the witch.

“Welcome, Princess Luca. Welcome, Touraine,” she said in Shālan, bowing. “I’m Djasha din Aranen.”

Another woman swaggered over, wearing a vest that showed one arm thick and muscled and the other ending in a twisted stump at the forearm. There was a sheen of sweat on her forehead even in the cool night, and her long dreadlocks were pulled back. She looked Luca up and down, glaring. This would be the Jackal. She was handsome, in a familiar, rough-edged way—and that scowl—

Luca looked sharply at Touraine, just in time to see an almost identical scowl. By the sky above and earth below. Had Touraine known all this time? There was clearly no love lost between them, but that was too big a secret for Touraine to keep from her. Luca would bring it up later.

“You sure you’re not violating the law, Your Highness?” The Jackal sucked her teeth. “This is a holy celebration, you know.”

“The law clearly hasn’t stopped you.”

Djasha stepped between them and cut