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

snatched a piece of bread. Saïd already had a chunk in his mouth and munched quietly, maybe even smiling. Malika took some of the food to the Apostate, who had taken up a similar position as before, in the back of the room among cushions.

“What did you want, then?” The Brigāni woman daintily rubbed the olive oil on her fingers into the smooth, dark skin of her hands. She had tucked the bread into her mouth without removing the scarf enough to show her face. She seemed like she was feeling better after the fit that had taken her the last time they had met, but she moved deliberately.

“Apostate.” Touraine nodded respectfully. “Princess Luca wants your concrete support in an alliance and a cessation of attacks on Balladairan businesses. She released some of your people.”

The Jackal plucked up another piece of bread and twirled it idly between her fingers. “Some isn’t all. Also, saw you and her cronies burning up those deliciously scandalizing broadsides—seems a bit like she’s ashamed of her alliances, if you ask me.”

Touraine’s face went hot. “They were crude slander.”

The woman sucked air in, wincing. “The pup’s a bit touchy about her lover.”

Touraine closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

There were so many ways to die on a battlefield. A lead musket ball to the brain was simple, relatively quick compared to a bayonet to the guts or the lungs. A cannonball could take your stomach out, whole entire, or rip most of your leg off so you’d bleed to death. Touraine was a bayonet’s edge away from wishing them all on the other woman.

The woman bent over her crossed legs, elbows resting on her knees. Her fingers dangled an inch above the dusty clay floor like rug tassels. Touraine couldn’t see the smug expression behind the scarf, but she could imagine it. One day, Touraine would rip the mask from her face and get a good look before punching her square.

“Peace, Jackal.” The Brigāni, who also kept her face masked, shot the woman a sharp look with those golden eyes. The eyes didn’t cow her like they did Touraine.

The other woman just tilted her head from side to side and leaned back on her hands. “What else, then, Mulāzim?”

“First, she had a simple question. Do you know anything about the broadside artist?”

A single shake of the Apostate’s head. “I don’t. Which means they’re not in this city.”

Shit. That skewered Touraine’s hopes of pinning it all on Rogan’s anger. It meant Luca had bigger problems to deal with.

“What else?” The Brigāni—the Apostate—blinked once. “She didn’t send you here to do research like that.”

Touraine swallowed. “No. I have her response to the list.”

It felt like everyone in the room leaned in to listen. Even the Jackal, who was so insistent that this was a waste of time, stopped picking at her nails.

“Regarding a minimum wage for all Qazāli workers under Balladairans,” Touraine announced, “she accepts; she’s already been working on it. She also says she’s willing to require all businesses that rely on Qazāli land to be partly owned by Qazāli.”

Touraine paused to catch her breath, and the Jackal pounced on her hesitation.

“But?” she growled.

“But… she won’t give you guns. She won’t send the soldiers back to Balladaire, but she will reduce the number of them in the city. They’re still necessary since this is a base for the southern reaches of the empire. It also means the compound won’t be vacated for Qazāli use.”

Finally, though she didn’t think it needed to be said, Touraine added, “She won’t acknowledge the colony’s sovereignty. Does that about cover it?”

The emotions around the room were mixed. Malika frowned like Touraine had pissed a puddle in her path. Saïd looked optimistic, as if he hadn’t expected such a pleasant surprise.

The Jackal barked a loud laugh that the Apostate spoke over.

“Not even close, girl. But it’s a start.”

“If this is all she has,” the Jackal said between dark chuckles, “we have nowhere else to go. I told you these little talks were a waste of time.”

“Maybe not. The princess has read things. And heard rumors.” Touraine flicked her eyes up from the olives and met the witch’s eyes for just a moment before looking for safer targets instead, finding none. Malika’s lips pulled tight, and even Saïd’s eyes were angry under his heavy brows. Of course they knew what was coming. “About Shālan magic.”

The Jackal huffed. “Such a noble heart, your master. She wants something that’s not hers, just like every other Balladairan scavenger.”

It echoed Touraine’s earlier thoughts too much for comfort. How much would Luca be willing to take if it won her the throne in the end?

“She doesn’t want to just take it,” Touraine snapped back. “This is a negotiation.”

“An alliance based on a rumor of magic.” The Apostate’s eyes crinkled above her scarf. “From everything I’ve heard about her, I expected her to be more intelligent.”

“Rumors must come from somewhere.” She tossed the witch’s old words back at her.

The witch barked a laugh. “They do. So I’ll tell you.

“The last Brigāni emperor fell two hundred years ago, depending on your position on her rule. Emperor Djaya. She commanded the respect of a hundred thousand troops—and their fear. They called her the warrior priestess because of her devotion.”

The Brigāni twisted her own hands before her face, as if seeing them anew, wondering what power she had herself.

“The Qazāli stories call her greedy. They tell the tale of most empires—a hungry lord, not content with the land and tribute they’ve already taken, not content to call neighbors ‘allies,’ only ‘subjects.’ To them, the story isn’t any different than what they say of the Balladairans today.

“But there’s always more.

“Across the empire, the crops outside of the river floodplains were failing. The animals they kept died, and the desert crept closer to the cities all across the empire. People starved. Djaya couldn’t send food from Briga’s stores quickly enough, and she couldn’t risk starving her own city. They say she lived on a