Luca wanted to ask, Had it ever been this bad? Did she think it would get worse? They were the questions of a child in need of reassurance. Luca wasn’t a child.
Instead, she asked, “Where is Nasir?”
For a moment, the general’s mask of command dissolved entirely. She closed her eyes and shook her head, lips folded in. A second later, she was stern and implacable.
“It’s hard to lose a spouse. He’s gone to be with family in Zanafesh.”
“I see.” A palpable grief hung between the two of them, though Luca wasn’t sure it was Cheminade that Cantic mourned. She wasn’t sure it was Cheminade she mourned, either. “I’ll come to go through Cheminade’s office later.”
Cantic’s visit left Luca’s mind full and fogged at the same time.
As she dressed for the day, she imagined Cheminade splayed across the ground. Had she been poisoned? Had she spasmed and choked on her own tongue? Had it been sudden and painless?
Had she seen it coming?
If Luca died, Uncle Nicolas would stay on the throne. The man was a coward. He wouldn’t protect the nation from another outbreak of the Withering. He had chosen to run away to the north rather than stay in the city with the king and queen, helping their people. And he had signed away a fertile region of eastern Balladaire because he was afraid of the Taargens. If he stayed on the throne, who would stand for Balladaire? Her father’s legacy, their empire, her home would be chipped away by enemies and plague until it fell.
When Luca emerged, Gil was waiting outside her door. She put a hand on his arm. She wanted to put her head on his shoulder and find comfort in his hug, but just the thought of it made her feel too small for the role she’d set herself.
Instead, she went up to her office and sat at her desk. With so much to do, and the city hostile to her, she couldn’t get to the books and the magic they offered. That was only a dream, anyway. As governor-general, she held true power in her hands, and an entire quartier hoped for influence with her or her uncle. Time to play the role, then. To gather all the pieces to her and see how she could make them move.
CHAPTER 8
THE LIEUTENANT
The murder of a Balladairan soldier?
Rogan whistled as he marched Touraine to the general’s door. Dread weighed her boots down, but she refused to let Rogan drag her. He knocked sharply, regulation three times. Cantic called, and he pushed Touraine in. Rogan saluted; Touraine did not. The effect would have been ruined by the manacles around her wrists, and Touraine preferred not to call attention to them.
“Thank you, Captain. You’re dismissed.”
Rogan’s glee flickered. “Yes, sir.” A smirk still played across his mouth as he walked out.
The room was bright with sunlight, and Touraine squinted. She would kill Pruett for this hangover. She blinked hard and focused on the general.
“Explain yourself, Lieutenant.” General Cantic loomed over her desk, which was covered in stacks of fresh ivory-colored paper, pristine and more expensive than Touraine could even imagine. Letters from the regent, perhaps. The lines of her face were deep with disappointment. No nostalgic fondness this time.
Touraine looked suspicious. She couldn’t change that. And if she couldn’t convince Cantic that she was innocent, she would die.
She spilled everything, from the carriage driver tricking her and her getting lost in the Old Medina to émeline’s death in the rescue. Everything except that she had gotten so drunk on the governor-general’s wine that she had passed out.
“You deny killing the Balladairan soldier?”
“What soldier, sir? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“We found his body in an alley, his skull bashed in and his… testicles removed and placed inside his mouth.” Cantic frowned in distaste.
Touraine’s mouth dropped in surprise. Despite the horror of the crime, though, she couldn’t muster much sympathy. She had her own grudges against Balladairan soldiers who thought those with less power were playthings. Cantic’s frown deepened.
“Whoever he pissed off, General, it wasn’t me. I never even saw a blackcoat that night. I swear it.”
“A bloody baton lay nearby.”
Touraine stopped breathing. Her baton was gone.
“Sir, one of the rebels took my baton that night.” Touraine had forgotten. Stupid. If she hadn’t goaded that asshole of a woman, maybe Touraine would still have her weapon. She wouldn’t be in quite so shitty a position. “She took my baton off my belt. They—she must have killed him. She could have left him to set me up, or—”