The Unbroken by C. Clark (best novels to read for students TXT) 📗

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.

Two dogs sprinted from an alley, a spotted one chasing a mangy gold one. Touraine jumped back, heart hammering. Her head spun.

Hounds.

That bastard at the party had called them hounds. And the things that old hag had said…

And that poor kid. There were Balladairans like Cantic and even Cheminade, then there were Balladairans like the comte de Beau-Sang. When Touraine saw what the comte had done to the boy’s fingers, she’d felt the kind of anger she’d reserved just for Rogan.

Some Balladairans would never see the Sands as true citizens. Those people didn’t matter. Or they wouldn’t if the law would protect the Sands as citizens. And it didn’t. Which meant Beau-Sang and Rogan were dangerous. Which meant she had to keep knuckling her forehead at them, keeping her eyes and her voice down whenever they said shit like this.

It was so unfair that the anger pulled tears from Touraine’s eyes. There had to be something better than this. Look at Cheminade, she told herself. Married to a Qazāli! If that was possible, why not a promotion? Why not a Qazāli-born captain? General, even? It was hard to convince Tibeau of it, though, when there were a dozen moments like the one she’d had with the shit cabbie. A dozen chances for him to say he’d told her so.

And what would he say if he knew her mother was alive?

Her mother was alive—or no, Touraine thought, maybe not. No one had said with certainty that the woman was her mother, just someone she resembled a little. It was hard to convince herself. The old man knew her name. The name of that woman’s daughter. That woman was alive.

Alive.

Cheminade was kind, sure. But she was Balladairan. She didn’t understand the lines a Sand had to dance between. Even if Touraine wanted to meet Jaghotai, it would be impossible to open the doors to her past and keep her vision of a golden future in Balladaire’s army. And that was what she’d always wanted.

Cut off the most undesirable traits.

Was family an undesirable trait?

Touraine’s head was thick and woolly. All she wanted to do was lie down and sleep. She took a shuddering breath and tried to get her bearings.

She was lost.

From what she could tell, the Grand Temple and the Grand Bazaar were the social center of the city, closest to the river but still outside the floodplain. The Mile-Long Bridge stretched from the dock quarter over the floodland and into the city. She could see none of that from the ground where she walked; the clay buildings were too tall. Only occasionally did she glimpse a temple spire. She angled herself toward them. If she could find the temple, the bazaar and Ibn Shattath couldn’t be too far off.

The sickly sweet smell of refuse grew as Touraine walked on. A woman with a cart trundled behind Touraine. Beggars lay against walls, some maimed, some drunk. A small family, a mother and two children, slept under a single tattered blanket. Touraine shivered and walked faster. The desert night was chilly.

Those children should have been in a charity school. Balladaire made provisions for children. What kind of mother would keep her children from those benefits?

Dizzying anxiety seized in Touraine’s chest, competing with the fog in her mind. She stepped into a narrow lane to lean against a wall. Just to have something at her back until this all passed. Just to stop spinning. She hunkered down on her heels, pressed her palms into her