The next day, she hid herself in the armory and tried sword after sword, all heavy, some ancient and broad, some newer, fashionably curved after cavalry blades but less functional.
“You’ll never beat anyone with a sword you can’t carry,” Gil tried to tell her when he found her in tears, her arms shaking with fatigue.
With one hand on her cane, she yanked another blade from the hanging rack. She had never wanted a sword, never wanted to be a fighter, before the accident. Now she needed it.
The weight of the weapon surprised her, and it plummeted down. Out of poor instinct, she dropped the cane to take the weight. Her leg gave out, and she, the sword, and the cane clattered to the ground.
Gil folded his arms across his chest. “Are you ready to listen, Luca?”
She scowled, stubbornly bit her cheek to keep from crying. “Fine.”
He scooped her up and helped her back onto her feet and cane. Then he went and plucked a small rapier from the most ornate swords on display. Not one of the broader blades that were stylish among the other youth, but it was beautiful.
“I can’t fight anyone with that,” she said sullenly.
“You can. Not like they expect you to, but you can. I’ll teach you. And then you can give young Durfort a demonstration.”
Six dedicated months of sweating and constantly aching muscles later, Luca challenged Sabine de Durfort to a private duel and beat her.
Now, as then, Luca couldn’t face this challenge the same way as everyone else. But like her own rapier, she was flexible. She knew the value of finding other avenues of attack, and she was patient.
Cantic and Beau-Sang wanted to crush the rebels with brute Balladairan might, and King Roland would probably have done that.
But Luca wasn’t them. She had never even been in battle; in that respect, she was more like her uncle. Uncle Nicolas was rigid in his own way, though—he was so sure that the Shālans were incapable of rational thought, he’d declined to meet with any Shālan representative for the last decade.
She could be different.
She could send the Qazāli rebels a negotiator who would hear their grievances. She would offer them the dignity of taking them seriously.
At best, she would end the rebellion without bloodshed and turn enemies into allies.
At worst, she would have someone close to the seat of the rebellion’s power. She would have a glimpse at the rebels’ plans and resources in a way Cantic clearly hadn’t managed.
The right negotiator would have access to the rebels, which meant either that Luca needed a well-placed spy from Cantic’s intelligence branch or that the delegate must already be well connected in Qazāli society. They would speak Shālan fluently so that no nuances escaped them and a knife in the guts couldn’t be construed as a “misunderstanding.” Similarly, they would have an awareness of Qazāli culture so that a knife in the guts couldn’t be construed as a “redress to insults.”
The perfect negotiator would be well educated, diplomatic, and courteous and would have a sense of tact. They would be loyal to Balladaire, above all else. And yet Luca couldn’t ignore how often the possibility of a knife in the guts arose, so she added combat skills in the “nice-to-have” column of her mental checklist.
As she shaped the list, the image of the perfect candidate formed in her mind. Bald and bearded, not physically intimidating but with clever, insightful eyes and the ability to keep his tongue civil in front of Casimir LeRoche de Beau-Sang. That feat alone impressed Luca.
Cheminade’s husband, Nasir, would do perfectly.
As if on cue, the carriage lumbered forward again.
CHAPTER 6
A FAMILY
This time, shouting jarred Touraine from fitful half sleep. Sandals slapping, bare feet or boots scuffing outside the door. She snapped herself fully awake and reached for her baton before she remembered she’d been trussed up like a pig. She strained at the cords on her wrists again. Her skin was on sky-falling fire where the ropes had rubbed it raw, but if she could just get loose—
At the crack of musket fire, she stilled, stopped breathing entirely.
Someone yelled in Balladairan close by. She flexed her hands, looking for more play in the rope. Nothing.
“I’m in here!” she shouted.
She yelled until the footsteps came to her. She braced herself. Please don’t be the desert witch. Even the bitch with the boots would be all right. Didn’t fill Touraine with the same kind of fear. The kind of fear that kept her half-awake, even though she was exhausted from travel and fighting and surprises—
It was émeline. She held a musket, bayonet silhouetted against the light.