“I’m glad to hear it. Here, have a seat. Would you like some water?”
The sudden turn made her body lock in suspicion even as her stomach flipped with giddiness.
Cantic flicked her hand impatiently and poured water from the pitcher on a small side table. “Sit. You just marched through the whole sky-falling city, and you look drier than old balls.” She caught herself and smirked. “I suppose you’ve heard worse by now.”
Touraine took the cup out of reflex and sat slowly—an order was an order—but she wanted to look over her shoulder, just in case. This wasn’t turning out to be the moment Touraine had dreamed of for months, of going from lieutenant to captain, of ousting Rogan. She didn’t know what it was, but it was dangerous.
“You fought the Taargens. How was it?”
Touraine took a drink to delay. The water was lukewarm, but it felt like bliss on her dry throat, rinsing away the dust. Somehow, the question was a test.
What are you asking?
Yet another rumor: Cantic’s loyalties were suspect; she hailed from Moyenne, the disputed region between Balladaire and its neighbor Taargen to the east; the spelling of her family name smacked too much of Taargen influence. Training the Sands had been penance and loyalty test, both. Touraine always cut down whoever brought this up. Cantic’s loyalty was no more suspect than her own.
“We won many of our engagements. They weren’t equal to our training, sir.”
Their one notable loss was caused by an anti-Shālan captain of a Balladairan company who refused to send his men to help a “den of sand rats.”
“No, of course not. God-loving bastards. They’ll stay on their side of Moyenne for now. Tell me about your time behind their line.”
Touraine’s mouth went dry again, and there was not enough water in the world to wet it.
“As you said, sir. They’re uncivilized.”
Uncivilized. It meant they kept a god close. Touraine had never believed in magic. It was the sort of crutch the Tailleurist books urged the Sands away from. Gods were myths, and holding them close was the sign of a weak mind. Touraine had honed her mind against them.
“The Qazāli and all the other Shālans are just as uncivilized.” Cantic leaned her elbows on the desk and stared at her. As if she could read the fear in the shape of Touraine’s grip on the cup.
“You’ll be stationed in the main guardhouse in the city, off rue de la Petière. Captain Rogan will rely on your leadership to set steady patrols in the city. The buildings are close together, so you’ll want to watch the rooftops. And beware any proselytizing. Too many damned dissidents trying to stir up trouble.”
Cantic gestured at a parchment on her desk, and Touraine realized it was a map of El-Wast. Smaller maps detailed the various quarters and medinas, but they all oriented themselves by the River Hadd flowing west of the city.
Touraine had never seen a map so beautiful—or, probably, so expensive. The Hadd’s thick blue line flowed south from the sea, separating Qazāl from Briga and El-Wast from the abandoned Brigāni capital drawn in a faded gray. Small green flourishes denoted the rich farmland between the docks and the city; more elaborate ones indicated the Mile-Long Bridge that arched above that land （that wasn’t an exaggeration; the walk from the docks to the city had felt like an age after the voyage）。 From the bridge, the Old Medina wall circled what Touraine understood as the oldest part of the city, including the Grand Bazaar. The New Medina wall made an additional circle around the city, a thin ring of shops and houses marked with bolder ink. And then there were the Balladairan additions, the military compound and the Quartier, where many of the Balladairan civilians lived.
Touraine sat back and exhaled. “Yes, sir.”
“What I really need to know, Lieutenant, is the status of your men and women. This is an abrupt change. It might be troubling for some. We think that your presence—the colonial brigade—will have a positive effect on the citizens. To show that they can have power of their own if they’re cooperative. When we open the ranks to Qazāli, I’ll need experienced officers I can trust.”
A recruitment initiative. The idea sent a thrill up Touraine’s back. So far, Touraine’s cohort of Sands was the only one. Maybe Balladaire was trying a different tactic, one that brought in Qazāli soldiers voluntarily. If the Qazāli could see how the Sands benefited from Balladairan employment, they wouldn’t want to rebel. And if others were recruited, it meant being a conscript would become a job, not a life they were bound to. A choice. With rewards. And her, a captain over her own squad of Qazāli. She could make them a company to be reckoned with.