No. More than enough. She wanted to be a queen for the histories. Someone who changed Balladaire for the better. Someone who changed the world.
How to do that when this is how my people see me?
It wasn’t just her, though. Whoever had made this didn’t like the military or the empire—or at least, the royals. That left the nobles and the general citizens. She didn’t understand why either group would object to her stopping the rebellion in Qazāl, unless the broadside was from a Qazāli source. The likelihood of Qazāli having access to a printing press, however, was slim.
A knock on the carriage. Luca wiped her eyes with a finger. She opened the door on Lanquette.
“Your Highness. Where to now?”
Luca thumbed the broadside again, her lips pursed. Bn Zahel’s book would probably not be at a dockside bookstore, if it was this rare. And if it were, PSLR would likely have found it; PSLR seemed like a devoted scholar, not one to leave avenues untrodden. Neither was she.
More importantly, she needed to understand the city. A ruler who doesn’t see their city is a ruler who won’t see the knife plunge into their back. That was already too true. Luca needed to know the city to change the city, no matter what the danger was.
And yet… she swallowed against the quick rise of her heart in her throat. If that conscript hadn’t caught the woman at the docks, Lanquette and Guérin would have, but that didn’t make the reality of the cold steel any less sharp.
Luca slumped against the door in defeat. “Back to the Quartier,” she said softly.
Lanquette’s shoulders relaxed, and Luca heard Guérin exhale a sharp breath of relief. Lanquette was a few years younger than Luca herself, which said something for his skill and the trust Gillett had placed in him. Guérin had, at most, a decade on Luca, near retiring if she wanted to. She was still at least twenty years younger than Gillett.
Lanquette closed the door with a bow, and the carriage shook as he climbed on top with the driver.
The cabin was too quiet as they began moving. She wondered if Guérin judged her silently for not being the right kind of queen.
“Guérin, what do you think of the Qazāl question?” Luca asked abruptly. She flicked the curtain to peer through the window. The clay buildings passed quickly. The streets in the New Medina were clear, except for the odd Balladairan or well-dressed Qazāli shopping or conducting business.
“Not my place, Your Highness.” The other woman’s grimace showed something else, though.
Luca fixed her with an eye. “Shall I order you to have a frank conversation with me? You and Lanquette must talk about this when I’m not around.”
Guérin bowed her head. Her words came out rushed. “I think we should pull out of the colonies and focus on the Taargens. We share a border with them and no natural defenses. No disrespect to the king, of course, Your Highness. We weren’t spread so thin then as we are now.”
“Even though we’ve signed a peace treaty with Taargen.”
Guérin made a skeptical sound in her throat. “Might be best to stay prepared instead of spending the money to keep a pack of jackals in line. Instead of teaching them, we could teach our own. I know a few kids back home who’d love a decent book, or to know how to read one.”
Guérin was from a town northeast of La Chaise, surrounded by mountains on three sides, known more for its sheep than its people. It was part of the Marquisate de Durfort, her friend Sabine’s domain. Luca had heard more than one joke about the “simple mountain folk” in court—which meant Guérin had, too.
“You make a fair point.” One that Luca had considered, of course. Still, it was hard to reconcile that with how much Balladaire’s economy was fueled by controlled trade—which was to say, control that benefited Balladaire first and foremost—with the Shālan colonies.
“It’s risky, too.” Guérin hesitated before adding, “Guarding you—it’s an honor I’ve been given, I understand that. Worked hard to earn it. But I do—uh, miss my family sometimes, Your Highness.”
“You’re right. You do take grave risks. Stopping the rebellion will help us, though.” So would taking her uncle off the throne; she made a mental note to address literacy soon. Maybe Sabine could help her set something up now, while Luca was away.
As the carriage rolled on, Luca let herself get lost in thoughts of home—Sabine de Durfort more pleasantly, the rest of the court rather less so.
When she was young, after that horse had trampled her leg to pieces, she noticed the young nobles wearing beautiful new swords, gifts for their comings-out, and she made the mistake of saying aloud that she’d like one, someday. Later, she overheard Sabine, the lordling of Durfort, laughing at her earnestness.
The next day, she hid herself in the armory and tried sword after sword, all heavy, some ancient and broad, some newer, fashionably curved after cavalry blades but less functional.
“You’ll never beat anyone with a sword you can’t carry,” Gil tried to tell her when he found her in tears, her arms shaking with fatigue.
With one hand on her cane, she yanked another blade from the hanging rack. She had never wanted a sword, never wanted to be a fighter, before the accident. Now she needed it.
The weight of the weapon surprised her, and it plummeted down. Out of poor instinct, she dropped the
