“Some of the powers. The Qazāli priests kept the faith and held fast to the Tenet. Peace over all. And your master would take that gift from us,” the Jackal growled.
Touraine had thought the two women had forgotten about her and the other rebels, but the Jackal turned on her fiercely. Touraine sat back, off her guard, lulled by the story. The history. The history Balladaire had never told her.
“So the magic is real.” Touraine’s voice came out shakier than she wanted it to, with fear or awe, she didn’t know. Probably both—two sides of the same coin, really. And she remembered the first story the Apostate ever told her, about a young, gifted healer who had lost her family to a young Cantic. “And Balladaire has its own magic?”
The woman’s golden eyes crinkled even more. “Don’t be silly. No one here is uncivilized enough to believe that old nonsense. They’re just fire stories we tell to deal with the systematic expunging of our culture and history. They keep us warm and make us feel grander than we actually are. That’s all.” She shared a look with the Jackal, head tilted. “We can’t even agree on a single version of the tale.”
It took a long moment for Touraine to regain her purpose. She cleared her throat. “The Second City. Across the river. That’s Briga’s capital? Is there anything that could help there?”
The Qazāli rebels flinched, and the Apostate shook her head sharply. “That’s not a wise avenue. For many reasons. She won’t find what she’s looking for, and we don’t control that territory or the river crossing.”
This was the first Touraine had heard of any territory “controlled” by anyone other than Balladaire. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you should trust me and leave the Cursed City alone. There’s nothing there.”
“How do you know?”
The Apostate’s golden eyes locked on Touraine’s, her mouth set. “Because I’ve been. I used to be curious like your princess. Now I’m paying the price for that ambition.”
The woman was deadly serious, her body still with a threat Touraine couldn’t name. Despite the fit she had had last time, her voice was steady and strong. If she felt weakness or pain, she didn’t show it to Touraine. The illness… Was that the price she paid? A shiver coursed up her back.
Still, Touraine said, “We need it. The magic will help the sick in Balladaire. And if Balladaire has its own magic, maybe that will help.”
The Apostate leaned over her crossed legs, elbows on knees, chin propped on fingertips. It was so like General Cantic that Touraine leaned farther away. “Will it, though? She doesn’t know that. I certainly don’t know that. What’s she willing to spend on a rumor?”
Touraine didn’t know. She didn’t know what someone could pay for that kind of knowledge. She didn’t know why someone would. Power like that cost—it had cost the Taargens, and they’d taken the price out of her soldiers’ flesh. She didn’t want to think what an emperor could do, would do with that kind of might. What a princess would do.
“What else do you want?”
“We told you. For her to get the fuck out of my Shāl-damned country,” the Jackal growled. Then she nodded toward the Apostate. “And the Blood General’s head for my friend here, as a bonus. That’ll do for starters.”
Touraine shook her head. “Any requests that won’t get me laughed to the gallows.”
The Jackal’s laugh was another rough bark, and she leaned forward on one bent knee, hanging like a wild dog over a kill. A vicious mirror of the Apostate. The secret name was so apt that it seemed a poor choice.
“We could still use those guns.” The Jackal smiled wide, baring teeth.
“Why would she arm a rebellion against her crown?”
“If we’re allies, it wouldn’t be a rebellion, would it?” The Apostate shrugged. “It would be an investment, to strengthen us.”
“And a guarantee of her good behavior if we can shoot back for once.” The Jackal laughed and laughed. “And tell her to come herself. I want her to look me in the eye while she tries to feed me gullshit.”
Dread settled in the pit of Touraine’s stomach. She wasn’t fooled for a second that the Jackal wouldn’t turn those weapons on Balladaire if given half a chance. There would still be a price then, and knowing Balladaire, they would see it paid—by someone else. Touraine knew all too well the coin that soothed Balladairan debt. Pruett and her heavy-bagged eyes. Tibeau’s crushing hugs and Aimée’s irreverence and Noé’s perfect voice and—