Gil folded his arms across his chest. “Are you ready to listen, Luca?”
She scowled, stubbornly bit her cheek to keep from crying. “Fine.”
He scooped her up and helped her back onto her feet and cane. Then he went and plucked a small rapier from the most ornate swords on display. Not one of the broader blades that were stylish among the other youth, but it was beautiful.
“I can’t fight anyone with that,” she said sullenly.
“You can. Not like they expect you to, but you can. I’ll teach you. And then you can give young Durfort a demonstration.”
Six dedicated months of sweating and constantly aching muscles later, Luca challenged Sabine de Durfort to a private duel and beat her.
Now, as then, Luca couldn’t face this challenge the same way as everyone else. But like her own rapier, she was flexible. She knew the value of finding other avenues of attack, and she was patient.
Cantic and Beau-Sang wanted to crush the rebels with brute Balladairan might, and King Roland would probably have done that.
But Luca wasn’t them. She had never even been in battle; in that respect, she was more like her uncle. Uncle Nicolas was rigid in his own way, though—he was so sure that the Shālans were incapable of rational thought, he’d declined to meet with any Shālan representative for the last decade.
She could be different.
She could send the Qazāli rebels a negotiator who would hear their grievances. She would offer them the dignity of taking them seriously.
At best, she would end the rebellion without bloodshed and turn enemies into allies.
At worst, she would have someone close to the seat of the rebellion’s power. She would have a glimpse at the rebels’ plans and resources in a way Cantic clearly hadn’t managed.
The right negotiator would have access to the rebels, which meant either that Luca needed a well-placed spy from Cantic’s intelligence branch or that the delegate must already be well connected in Qazāli society. They would speak Shālan fluently so that no nuances escaped them and a knife in the guts couldn’t be construed as a “misunderstanding.” Similarly, they would have an awareness of Qazāli culture so that a knife in the guts couldn’t be construed as a “redress to insults.”
The perfect negotiator would be well educated, diplomatic, and courteous and would have a sense of tact. They would be loyal to Balladaire, above all else. And yet Luca couldn’t ignore how often the possibility of a knife in the guts arose, so she added combat skills in the “nice-to-have” column of her mental checklist.
As she shaped the list, the image of the perfect candidate formed in her mind. Bald and bearded, not physically intimidating but with clever, insightful eyes and the ability to keep his tongue civil in front of Casimir LeRoche de Beau-Sang. That feat alone impressed Luca.
Cheminade’s husband, Nasir, would do perfectly.
As if on cue, the carriage lumbered forward again.
CHAPTER 6A FAMILY
This time, shouting jarred Touraine from fitful half sleep. Sandals slapping, bare feet or boots scuffing outside the door. She snapped herself fully awake and reached for her baton before she remembered she’d been trussed up like a pig. She strained at the cords on her wrists again. Her skin was on sky-falling fire where the ropes had rubbed it raw, but if she could just get loose—
At the crack of musket fire, she stilled, stopped breathing entirely.
Someone yelled in Balladairan close by. She flexed her hands, looking for more play in the rope. Nothing.
“I’m in here!” she shouted.
She yelled until the footsteps came to her. She braced herself. Please don’t be the desert witch. Even the bitch with the boots would be all right. Didn’t fill Touraine with the same kind of fear. The kind of fear that kept her half-awake, even though she was exhausted from travel and fighting and surprises—
It was Émeline. She held a musket, bayonet silhouetted against the light.
“They’re on the run.” Émeline picked Touraine’s bindings apart with the bayonet. “All right, sir?”
Touraine groaned as her arms and legs sprang apart with relief, settling back into their sockets. She felt like soft candy stretched too far.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Émeline let Touraine hold her arm as she stood. “Pru’s going to fucking kill you, sir.”
“Is she the only one?” Touraine searched her face.
Émeline cocked her head apologetically. “Tibeau might be in line, yeah.”
“Excellent. Sky-falling excellent.” She limped out of the room, her hips grinding back into place.
The rest of the building looked like the guardhouse. Rooms square around a courtyard in the middle. They were on the second floor, and a rotting, latticed railing clung to the stone pillars. There weren’t enough lanterns in the corridor to lift the shadows, and the stars shining through the courtyard didn’t offer much light. The courtyard fountain was dry.
Musket fire shattered the fountain’s ornament in a spray of shards and dust, a burst of thunder followed by pattering rain. They hunched behind the rail, and Émeline dragged her down the corridor. Only slightly better protection than standing in an open field.
Another shot and someone below screamed in pain. Émeline knelt behind a pillar to fire back. Touraine dropped to the floor, hunting for the gunman. They fell into the roles so seamlessly that her blood sang with the beauty of it.
“One shot.”
Émeline nodded.
Touraine poked her head up to look at the corridor on the other side. A dark figure craned around another pillar to look down into the courtyard.
She ducked back. “On your left, third pillar—”
“Got it.”
One deep breath, then Émeline turned, waited, fired. The rebel fell. The women moved again, down the hallway, to the stairs.
Each breath Touraine took was a wince. She didn’t hear the other footsteps. She didn’t turn until she heard a sharp, surprised gasp. Touraine spun, ready to help Émeline finish off their attacker.
The bayonet of an ancient musket stuck out of Émeline’s
