“Say there weren’t. What’s happening to the Sands?”
“Well, your princess wants to know if we’re responsible for it. Barring that, if we know where you are.”
Alarm locked Touraine stiff. “If you know—how does the princess even know I’m alive?”
The other woman shrugged, but Touraine could tell Aimée was pissed. “Pru told her. Surprised the sky-falling fuck out of the princess, to hear Pru tell it. Surprised the sky-falling fuck out of me, too. Said you were responsible for the attacks and then laughed like a madman in the princess’s face.”
“What else did she tell her?” Touraine asked through gritted teeth.
The air felt too thick to breathe. She would have to tell Djasha and Aranen that she’d been compromised. Blackcoats would be on their way. Jaghotai would be insufferable.
“Nothing, I guess.” Aimée shoved her hands in her pockets. “Fuck if I know why, but Pru said she didn’t know where you were. Then she sent me here to warn you off. She’s hunting you and the rebels.”
Even though she feigned casualness, Aimée kept seeking Touraine’s eyes. Touraine kept trying to shrug the looks away, eyeing everything from a volunteer’s worn trousers to the faded fabric of an embroidered cushion.
“I know why,” Touraine said wryly. “She may hate me now, but she hates Luca more.” Pruett never wanted to rebel against Balladaire outright like Tibeau had, but she had a petty streak. Touraine imagined Pruett was more than happy to hurt Luca with the truth or hamper the hunt for Touraine. The thought that Pruett would rather see Touraine slip the blackcoats’ clutches than hang was a small comfort.
Aimée gripped Touraine’s arm. “Is there a reason she wouldn’t tell the princess where you were?” she asked quietly. “Are you with the rebellion?”
Finally, Touraine looked up. How did Pruett know she’d stayed in Qazāl? Had Touraine been seen, or did Pruett just know she couldn’t stay out of trouble?
Whatever Aimée saw in Touraine’s face must have pleased her. She nodded once. “How can I help?”
Touraine wanted to lead Aimée over to the Qazāli waiting for their rations. She wanted Aimée to know what she was doing. She wanted some of the Sands to see, to approve. And secretly, selfishly, she hoped Aimée would spread the word and convince the others to join them. She wouldn’t admit that she was lonely, but she was surrounded by people who didn’t understand where she came from, how she had lived. Even living with Luca had felt less isolating; at least then she had understood the language and expectations.
Instead, she tightened her shoulders and let them fall. Then she shook her head. “There’s nothing you can do without risking yourselves. Pruett already told me the Balladairans are breathing down your necks.”
Aimée looked hurt. “Some of us want to help. Pruett said you wanted guns, right? I can do that.”
“No!” Touraine said sharply. Aimée jerked back.
More gently, Touraine repeated, “No.” She put a hand on Aimée’s shoulder. “I risked everything to keep you lot safe. If you want to help… could you keep an eye out for the people around here? The blackcoats like to target the Qazāli near the temple. On suspicion of religious practice.”
Their eyes met for a long, silent moment, then Aimée gave the ration line one last look.
Aimée shrugged out from under Touraine’s hand. “As you like, Lieutenant.”
After Aimée left, Touraine swore so loudly that everyone turned in her direction. Sky above. Pruett had hardly done enough to head Luca off. Even if Luca didn’t know where Touraine was, she knew that Touraine was alive, and Luca wasn’t the type to rest until she sussed out the truth.
The rebels were committed to their path now. They wanted the Balladairans out, and they were willing to sacrifice for it—even the Qazāli who weren’t active rebels donated a few extra supplies here or shared information about the blackcoats there. Touraine doubted that Jaghotai and the others would consider any more deals from Luca, but maybe, just maybe, Touraine could try negotiating one more time.
Otherwise, it was going to take a lot more blood before the rebels got the rain they wanted, and the Sands wouldn’t be the only unwilling casualties.
In her sleeveless shirt the brown red of a dry scab, Touraine looked like any other Qazāli laborer. There were few enough to recognize her face as she walked from the Old Medina to the Quartier, even if she weren’t wearing the common hood and sand veil.