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

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.

He came back with a small book, slimmer than her little finger. “A personal favorite. Words are easy enough, but you can chew on them for days. Come back when you can read one. Tell me what you think.”

She handed him a couple of silver sovereigns, well more than the books were worth.

“I know this isn’t yours, so I’ll take it.” The silver glinted in his palm. He wouldn’t stop smiling. “My name is Saïd. The dāyiein are welcome here.”

The Shālan word reminded her too much of the Brigāni and the woman with the boots for her to accept the welcome with more than a terse nod and quick thanks.

“Idris Yassir was his name. Jaghotai’s brother.”

It felt like a kick out the door, and Touraine stumbled into the street.

The dāyiein. The Lost Ones. She was halfway up the street, skirting the curious glances of the Qazāli, when she remembered what, exactly, the word meant.

She’d never considered herself lost before, but every day since she’d stepped into this sky-falling city, the path she’d expected to walk crumbled beneath her boots.

Idris Yassir. A mother. An uncle. A whole language.

She didn’t want any of it.

She paged through the poetry book as she walked. Nothing she could read. She shouldn’t have bothered. She’d tell the princess it was to gain his confidence, but what if she considered it as good as treason?

“Ya, sister!”

She slowed at the bookseller’s deep voice behind her. He beckoned for her to come back.

“I was just closing my shop to meet some friends. Would you like to come?”

The big man spoke softly, not as if he intended to go carousing. Not as if he intended to extend a welcoming hand to a lonely stranger. It was one conspirator to another, and his face was deathly serious.

Touraine thought of Luca in her study, planning. Luca in her bedroom, laughing over apples and tea.

“All right.”

CHAPTER 15REBELLIONS

Saïd the bookseller blindfolded her and banished any lingering ideas that he was taking Touraine to an elaborate drinking party. Saïd guided her with a hand on the small of her back on a dizzying, circuitous walk. Finally, he untied the scarf.

They were in a different building than she remembered from her captivity. No crumbling railing, no bloodstained corridor.

“We also rotate locations,” Saïd said. A warning: if you look to betray us, you will not find us here.

“If you’re so worried, why did you bring me?”

“Hope,” he said simply. “But I’m not naive.”

He led her upstairs, following the sounds of heated voices. They went silent as Touraine and Saïd grew closer. He knocked once and said a short phrase in Shālan. The door opened.

Touraine recognized the woman at the door immediately, even with the frayed deep-red scarf around her face. More accurately, she recognized the boots. The woman had escaped the Sands’ attack, then.

Touraine’s hand went to the knife at her side. She heard the echo of Luca’s warnings—how a Balladairan representative conducts herself and all—but this wasn’t Luca’s realm. Her grip tightened on the handle. Touraine would bet