“I’m sorry, what was that, monsieur?”
He smiled. “Is Qazāl everything you expected?” His look took in the food, the tables, and Cheminade’s dining room, which was as full of trophies as the sitting room.
Luca was still grappling with that question herself. Whenever she had thought of her father’s addition to the Balladairan Empire, she had imagined something more beautiful. More adventurous. More benevolent. The hanging alone was a sharp contrast to those visions, as were the dirty, disheveled masses of people her carriage had navigated through to get here.
“There were some surprises. How often are there hangings like today’s?” she asked, rubbing her thigh beneath the table. A dull ache throbbed wherever the bones had broken and mended poorly—which was everywhere.
Beau-Sang’s face went grim. “The rebels have been getting bolder, but this is the first attempt on someone’s life, Your Highness. I’d say their numbers are growing. They need a firmer hand, or we’ll all lose our livelihoods. You, above all, shouldn’t be put at risk.” He looked pointedly at the governor.
Luca glanced at Cantic. The general clenched and unclenched her fist around her knife before stabbing another vegetable. They had done their best to keep knowledge of the attack to those who had been there and those who needed to know: Luca, Cantic, Cheminade. They couldn’t stop gossip that the soldiers and dockworkers spread, though.
Cheminade arched an eyebrow back. “Actually, Your Highness, our execution rates have remained consistent with the last five years or so. There was an increase in rebel activities, but that’s why we’ve asked our dear general to step in. Her experience with the Brigāni and the Masridāni will be invaluable, I’m sure.” Despite Cheminade’s warm tone of voice, there was a bite to her smile that made Luca suspect this wasn’t a compliment.
On Cheminade’s other side, someone struggled to suppress a cough. Luca craned around and saw the only other non-Balladairan guest. The Qazāli man clutched his napkin to his face while Cheminade stroked his back intimately and pushed a cup of wine at him. He waved her away. Across from him, the Sand soldier was surprised at their intimacy, too—though she didn’t have the grace to hide her expression, eyes wide, mouth half-open. The general whispered something sharply to her, and the Sand mastered herself.
“My soldiers’ comportment has been exemplary,” Cantic responded coldly. She nodded at the soldier beside her. “As you’ve noticed. The lieutenant and her troops will continue to do what must be done.”
Luca had never known Cantic intimately, only by reputation as one of the bloodiest, most effective generals in the Balladairan military. Little was based on fact, however; the original primary reports were mysteriously unavailable, even to Luca—she’d looked. One text credited Cantic only with “Masridān’s expedient surrender.” Whispers spoke of massacre.
Yet Cantic was one of Guard Captain Gillett’s close friends. She belonged to a minor noble house that came from the oft disputed and currently Balladairan region of Moyenne, and many suspected future treachery, but her service record was—almost—impeccable. Luca found it difficult to believe that Gil, with his distaste for so many nobles, would stomach someone so brutal, no matter how effective.
Luca turned the subject slightly. “Which colonial teaching method did you use, then, General? Droitist, I take it?”
Cantic looked surprised at first, then she frowned in disgust and shook her head. “No. The Droitists are cruel. They have no idea what it takes to run an army, let alone foster loyalty.”
“So you’re a Tailleurist?” Luca asked her.
The older woman stroked her chin with a thumb, and Luca wondered if she had looked like this planning the Sands’ lessons years ago, rubbing her face and concentrating on the theories of leadership like Luca had. Luca also wondered if Cantic realized her dear uncle regent was behind the Droitist theories she thought were so ineffective.
“I suppose you could say so. They’re the closest thing. The Tailleurists like their ideas of pruning and encouraging. I developed a suitable combination of the two, I think. Cut off the most undesirable traits and encourage them in other ways. Look at the orphan schools run by the Droitists in the empire—there’s one in southern Qazāl, if you ever visit. The children are miserable wretches. Half-starved for the slightest infraction. If the children had a chance to escape or kill their masters, they’d have no reason not to take it.”