The Unbroken C. Clark (best books to read for self development .txt) 📖

Aimée looked hurt. “Some of us want to help. Pruett said you wanted guns, right? I can do that.”

“No!” Touraine said sharply. Aimée jerked back.

More gently, Touraine repeated, “No.” She put a hand on Aimée’s shoulder. “I risked everything to keep you lot safe. If you want to help… could you keep an eye out for the people around here? The blackcoats like to target the Qazāli near the temple. On suspicion of religious practice.”

Their eyes met for a long, silent moment, then Aimée gave the ration line one last look.

Aimée shrugged out from under Touraine’s hand. “As you like, Lieutenant.”

After Aimée left, Touraine swore so loudly that everyone turned in her direction. Sky above. Pruett had hardly done enough to head Luca off. Even if Luca didn’t know where Touraine was, she knew that Touraine was alive, and Luca wasn’t the type to rest until she sussed out the truth.

The rebels were committed to their path now. They wanted the Balladairans out, and they were willing to sacrifice for it—even the Qazāli who weren’t active rebels donated a few extra supplies here or shared information about the blackcoats there. Touraine doubted that Jaghotai and the others would consider any more deals from Luca, but maybe, just maybe, Touraine could try negotiating one more time.

Otherwise, it was going to take a lot more blood before the rebels got the rain they wanted, and the Sands wouldn’t be the only unwilling casualties.

In her sleeveless shirt the brown red of a dry scab, Touraine looked like any other Qazāli laborer. There were few enough to recognize her face as she walked from the Old Medina to the Quartier, even if she weren’t wearing the common hood and sand veil.

And in her pocket, she had the writ of passage Luca had given her. It was crumpled, and one edge was brown with old blood, but Luca’s signature and stamp were clear.

When the trio of blackcoats at the entrance to the Quartier stopped her, she held it out.

A blackcoat with a sergeant’s wheat pins took the paper and looked Touraine up and down. She stepped close enough that Touraine could smell her cologne, a heavy, sweet thing that mingled well with her sweat. “Who are you, to have something like this?”

Touraine swallowed and kept her head down. She wasn’t sure what Luca had said about her or how things stood between the blackcoats and the Sands right now.

“It’s classified, sir. She wanted me to report as soon as I was able.”

“Are you a Sand?” The sergeant tipped Touraine’s chin up. The other two soldiers flanked her.

Shit.

“Sir. Yes, sir.”

“Then where are your pins?”

“I’m—I’ve been secret, sir.”

“Well. Seems to me that we could use some more proof. So how about you go with my boys to see the captain, and we’ll see what she thinks. It’s a tricky time, you understand. You can’t be too careful, especially not with Her Highness’s person.”

Touraine stepped back reflexively, and a blackcoat behind her moved closer. She couldn’t afford to be taken in. There were too many unanswered questions about her position as a not-quite-dead traitor to the queen and informant for the army. A tight spot, all right.

One of the blackcoats locked Touraine’s arms behind her and began to frog-march her to the Quartier guardhouse, where she’d be fettered more adequately.

Touraine struggled, but the blackcoat’s grip held firm, and the sergeant wasn’t moved. “The pass is valid. I have information about the rebellion. The princess will want to see me—”

“I’ll want to see whom?”

Touraine hadn’t noticed the carriage driving up from the direction of the compound. The disembodied voice came from the open window.

Surrendering to the blackcoat’s grip, Touraine called, “Tell them it’s me, Your Highness. I have news you’ll want to hear.”

Touraine held her breath too long waiting for an answer. Finally, Luca leaned forward enough to show her face through the carriage window. Her eyes widened only marginally.

“Escort her to my home, Sergeant.”

“You’re lucky I was on my way back into the Quartier. They would have taken you to Cantic.” Her smile was a cruel quirk of the lips. “You and she are apparently quite close. Only, she’s less inclined to consider you a hero now that she knows you’re helping starve her city.”

Luca’s body betrayed her cold insouciance. Her face was pale as a corpse in snow.

At the side of Luca’s salon, Guard Captain Gillett stood somberly. Lanquette’s sharply arched eyebrows had jumped up his face when Touraine pulled her veil down. Now he feigned stoicism, too.

“I’m sorry.” She stepped forward and surprised herself by kneeling, head bowed.

“You’re… sorry?” Luca said archly. There was no sign of the woman who had curled into her shoulder. That was fair enough, Touraine supposed, when the woman you lay beside stabbed you in the back.

She dared a glance upward to meet Luca’s eyes. Luca approached Touraine like a woman in a trance. Her hands trembled as she grabbed Touraine by the wrists, tugging sharply to urge her to her feet. Touraine’s heart pounded in her throat as Luca traced the air above her arms, not daring—or willing?—to touch more of her. Luca’s eyes shone.

“I should have you killed.”

“I’m a free woman. You drew those papers up for me yourself. Are you going to take them back?”

Luca’s voice went low as a whisper, her face scarlet. “How dare you? Have I ever given you reason to doubt my word?”

Touraine wanted to apologize again. She wanted to start over and ask, How are you? And yet she was so tired of apologizing to people who didn’t care for her and hers. And for better or worse, the Qazāli were slowly becoming hers.

Instead, she said, “How could you put Beau-Sang on a governing seat? You know how he is.”

“You were gone. I thought he was the best chance I had to secure the Balladairan hostages. I was right.” Luca dropped her hands and balled them into fists. “Hostages that wouldn’t have been taken if