“You don’t want to give Beau-Sang too much rope, Luca.”
“I know, but I think I need him,” Luca told Gil, who sat in Touraine’s chair by the échecs table while Luca paced. The movement hurt her hip, but it was a reassuring sort of pain, like biting one’s lips or digging one’s fingernails into the palms or bashing one’s head into a wall. It distracted her from another, different pain that blossomed when she looked quickly past Gil and he became another person in that chair.
After Bastien’s visit a few days ago, Luca had written to Cantic about disbanding the Qazāli magistrates. She just needed to figure out how to replace them. She was governor-general; consolidating power under herself was the obvious choice. Share a little power, though, and you’ll have stronger allies. The rebels weren’t her allies. Instead of Bastien’s tear-streaked face in her mind, she saw his father’s, sly under the ruddy blustering.
Before Gil could reply, a blackcoat knocked outside.
“Come in,” she called.
“Your Highness.” The soldier bowed after he was let in. “This was labeled for you, from the main guardhouse, but I think Guard Captain Gillett should—” The soldier glanced at Gil.
Luca snatched the box. It was plain, with a letter affixed. She opened the letter first.
The paper shook as she read. For some reason, she had been hoping for something good, a gift, even if she didn’t deserve one. Anything but a ransom note. It ended with a list of names, and she recognized them from the families whose complaints were scribbled on expensive paper on her desk. Aliez LeRoche’s name included.
“Your Highness?” Gil asked.
“They’re going to torture one Balladairan for every day we remain in Qazāl.” Her voice trembled like the paper.
Gillett crossed the room and grabbed the box away from her. He barely opened the lid before grimacing. The smell of decaying flesh curled through the room and hung like a dead man. Luca retched.
Gil shoved the box back at the soldier, whose eyes darted between her and Gil. “Get rid of that and keep quiet, or I’ll put your balls in a box, too.”
“Let me see.” Luca held out a hand. Gil hesitated. It took one long breath before he proffered it to her. She bit the insides of her cheeks to keep the bile down.
A gray finger, dried brown at the end, a nub of bone sticking out. Blood crusted the grooves in the skin. It curled stiff, beckoning her close. Tufts of fair hair sprouted from the thick knuckles. She exhaled sharply as she handed it back to Gil, trying to blow the stench away from her before she inhaled again. Not Aliez’s delicate hand.
“I have to fix this,” Luca said numbly after the blackcoat left. She stood in the middle of the room, hand open as if still holding the box. She squinted up at Gil from behind her spectacles and then looked back down at the paper, hoping the words would arrange themselves into a different story.
He looked grim. “You’re thinking Beau-Sang again.”
“No,” she lied quickly. Luca rubbed her forehead with the heel of her palm. There was nothing useful in The Rule of Rule on the topic of ransom and the torture of subjects. Nothing useful to her, anyway. If they were valuable, it said, of course they should be rescued—high profile, uniquely skilled, etc. Lower workers, however—expendable.
Was it responsible for her to disagree with that? If complete war was at stake, couldn’t she sacrifice a few laborers, even merchants? Aliez was nobility, but her brother was still free.
Beau-Sang had clout in this city. He had clout in La Chaise, as well. He and his son knew El-Wast and its people better than she did.
Luca stabbed her cane into the rug, gouging the ornate diamond-shaped weave. She swallowed.
“Put him in charge and you’ll never bring the Qazāli back to your side.”
“I know! I know that.” She flushed and paced again. “I know you’re a sympathizer, Gillett. Sky above and earth below, even I sympathize with them. I’ve eaten their food; I’ve danced with them. Only, I made one mistake.” She had trusted Touraine. She had wanted her. “Am I supposed to send Balladairans to slaughter for it?”
The old soldier sucked in his cheeks, then puffed them back out. “You’re the queen of Balladaire first, Luca. Even I can’t argue with that.” Shaking his head, he added, “I didn’t expect the rebel council to resort to this method.”
“I didn’t, either. It’s probably the Jackal.” Luca dug her cane in again, feeling the satisfying give as the rug’s threads split.