“I wanted to apologize personally for the comte de Beau-Sang’s behavior,” Cheminade said, peering into Touraine’s eyes like she was searching for some kind of reaction.
Touraine looked into her cup instead. It was cut crystal. Cool to the touch and dazzling to the eye. The governor lived in a completely different world. The fine food, the beautiful home—Touraine could never imagine living in a place like this. And yet Cheminade was the first Balladairan she’d met to suggest that Balladairans treated the Sands… less well than they deserved.
“It’s nothing, Lord Governor,” she said into her cup. “We’re used to it.”
“Yes, well. That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
Touraine looked up, startled. “I don’t understand?”
“I’ve been curious about Cantic’s project for a long time now.” Cheminade regarded the room casually, taking in but not lingering on the general. Cantic was trapped in a scowling conversation with the comte de Beau-Sang. “About what they taught you, what they plan for you when all of the fighting is done.” She waved her hand as if gesturing to battles gone by. “Do you know you’re the first conscript I’ve ever met?”
“As far as I know, this is the first time the colonial brigade has been used in the colonies, my lady.”
The older woman smiled tightly. “Indeed. Imagine my surprise when I heard that one of you had already distinguished yourself by saving the princess’s life.”
Touraine raised an eyebrow. Even she could tell the flattery was thick. Still, she ducked her head in appreciation. “As I said, I’m happy to do my duty.”
The same tight smile. “I’m sure. Do the conscripts remember much about their pasts?”
Touraine’s alarm must have shown on her face. Cheminade laughed and put her empty hand on Touraine’s arm.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be honest,” Cheminade said, lowering her voice and smiling conspiratorially. “I did hear the man on the gallows. I can’t say I know his connection to Jaghotai—sky above knows the general will sniff it out—but I do know the woman. An overseer in the quarries. Excellent liaison between the city and the laborers.”
In a matter of seconds, Touraine felt as if she’d been stripped naked. She even clutched her left arm closer, wondering if Cheminade knew about her newly healed wound, too.
“I could arrange a meeting, if you’d like.”
And just for a second, Touraine hesitated. What would it be like to have a mother again? What was this stranger like? Then the curiosity passed, leaving horror in its wake.
“No. Of course not.” Touraine shook her head hard, eyes shifting nervously to General Cantic. She lifted her cup to her lips only to find it was already empty. “I mean, thank you. But I think we should all keep our distance from the uncivilized.”
Cheminade grimaced, but when she followed Touraine’s glance, the expression softened. It wasn’t tender, but it looked like pity, and that put Touraine off even more.
“I understand,” the governor said. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, so I’ll excuse myself. If you do change your mind, however, just let me know.”
And before Touraine could gather herself again, Cantic swooped in and made their goodbyes, dragging Touraine to her carriage.
Now, bumbling through the dark streets, she was sure it had been a test, and she knew she’d given the right answers. So why did it feel like she’d failed?
The carriage jolted to a halt, and the driver thumped roughly on the wood of the cab. Touraine fumbled the door open to see what was the matter. She didn’t usually feel so clumsy, but then, she wasn’t usually plied with wine fit for royalty and no rationing chit.
“What’s going on?” she asked, stepping out.
“This is far enough, friend.” The cabbie spoke in a way that implied they weren’t friends at all. He looked down at her from his perch while the horse stamped impatiently.
Touraine blinked stupidly at him. “The general said you’re to take me to the guardhouse.”
“Not the general that paid me.” He shrugged and spat and flicked the reins.
Touraine dived desperately for the door but found herself stumbling through air while the wheels clattered away into the night.
“Sky-falling shit.” She kicked the dirt.
Where even was she?
Above her, the sky stretched inky black, starless. She turned down one of the wheel-spoke roads to take her deeper into the city, away from the clean, wide boulevards of the New Medina, occasionally taking other turns and noting landmarks. The farther she went, the more she hated it. Give her back the wide roads of the Balladairan countryside, the march through Moyenne, not this cramped misery. The disorganized layout of the city made it difficult to make a mental map.