He welcomed her in Shālan when she stepped in, a waterfall of incomprehensible syllables. Then, after he’d actually looked up from his book: “Shāl take my eyes. You really do look like her.”
Touraine stopped in her tracks. She didn’t have to ask whom. She’d spent too long trying to forget the sound of the woman’s name. She’d spent the last week trying to forget about the woman everyone seemed to think was her mother.
“Are you here to see Jagh—”
“Do you have this book?” She thrust out the paper Luca had scrawled on in Shālan. The ink was smeared a little from sweat but still legible—if you could read Shālan. It was nothing but swirls and dots and slashes to her.
He grunted. “Act like her, too.” His excitement turned to an ironic smile that put Touraine even more on edge. She had never liked people assuming they knew her.
He stood to take the paper. He was a big man and looked like he belonged in a wrestling circle. He didn’t move like a fighter, though. Too slow. Tibeau would beat him a hundred times over.
He read the note, studied her from under his thick eyebrows, then shook his head. “Why do you want this? Can you even read it?”
“I’m here to buy it if you have it. I’ll go if you don’t.”
“Tell your princess I don’t have it.”
Touraine’s mouth dropped open. “How—”
“Not hard to see if you think.” He grinned. “You look very nice. Madame Abdelnour does excellent work. Expensive work.”
Touraine huffed. “Is there anything like it she might want?”
“No. If she wants this, she’s serious. A real scholar. Haven’t seen her like in years. If it’s not sold, it’s across the river.”
“Across the river?”
“In Briga. The Cursed City. The library?”
Touraine shook her head each time.
“Did they teach you anything over there?” he muttered.
“They taught us plenty.” Her hand moved toward her belt, and she was surprised to find the knife instead of the baton.
He held his palms up. “Sorry, sister. Nothing against you, just—it’s not right.”
“I can decide what’s right for me, thanks.” She turned toward the door. “Stars and sky and all that.”
Her frustration warred with the depths of her mission. If Luca wanted an inroad with the rebels, the best way would be to ask. And here was a man who seemed more than happy to pull her into Qazāl. She didn’t know if he was connected with the rebels or not.
And to ask meant to expose the dangerous questions she’d buried since the old man had recognized her—where had she come from? Whom had she come from? Even Lord Governor Cheminade had offered, at dinner, to help Touraine reach out to her mother. Was her mother a rebel?
She kept telling herself that she didn’t care about her past. That she cared about the rebels only because the princess cared about the rebels. That she cared about the rebels because they’d killed two of her friends. No more than that. And yet…
She put her hand on the edge of the clay doorframe. Dragged her boots to a stop. Turned back.
“Who was he? The man—who recognized me,” she asked, looking at the table. She couldn’t bring herself to meet the bookseller full on. Not when she was seeing the old man’s eyes bulge and the vain struggle of his tongue to make sound or find air. Looking at her. Calling her out. She didn’t want to see that same accusation in the bookseller’s face.
“Not who is she?”
“No—never mind.” Touraine rolled her eyes and spun for the door.
“Ya, wait.” He shifted some crates as if he knew what was in each stack by heart, and came back with a worn book.
Touraine took it skeptically.
“It’s a reading primer. For Shālan. You can teach yourself. Ask your, uh, friend to help.”
Suddenly, it felt like holding a live scorpion. When they were kids, Tibeau and Pruett had tried to talk to her in Shālan. She’d refused, to please the instructors, and she’d never regretted it.
Suddenly, she missed the two of them so fiercely it caught in her throat. The idea of a peace offering to them felt like a good idea. “Do you have something—nice to read?” she asked. “Something to enjoy, but not too hard?”
The man’s face split in a smile. “Do you like poetry?”
She didn’t. Pruett had a penchant for quoting Balladairan poetry when she was in a good mood, though. She’d even written Touraine a romantic verse or two. Who needs a god of oceans when I could drown inside your eyes? Who needs a god of grain when I could feast between your thighs? Touraine smiled. Frowned. Maybe Pruett would like Shālan poetry. She and Tibeau could share it.