Текст книги "Intermix Nation "
Автор книги: M. Attardo
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 23 страниц)
Nazirah breathes in, then sits up abruptly. It took her awhile to realize. But it doesn’t smell like her, past or present. She gets up, looks around cautiously. Everything seems to be in place, but Nazirah knows something isn’t right.
Someone has recently been in her room. A neighbor? One of the Caals? What if the Medis know she’s here? Nazirah hurries down the stairs, exits through the back door. She passes Riva’s porch swing, watches as the ocean crashes onto the surf. She should not have come. But Nazirah will be leaving soon. There’s only one more place she needs to go.
Nazirah walks slowly across the dunes behind her home and kneels before two flat headstones. The wind whips her hair and the ocean air stings her burned skin. Nazirah cries salty tears, so it makes no difference.
“I miss you so much,” she says. “I’m sorry I didn’t make you proud. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.” She touches the smooth stone, tears streaking the remaining ash that cakes her face. “I don’t know how to live, when you aren’t here to help me.”
She sinks down lower into the ground, sobbing. “Why did you have to leave me?” she screams bitterly, hoarsely, digging her hands into the sand before her and flinging it away. “Why didn’t you run, or fight?” She lies beside the graves, pounding on the stone. “Why were you so stupid and foolish with your lives? Why?”
Nazirah closes her eyes, remembers to breathe. She kisses each headstone before slowly returning to her knees. “I will avenge you,” she whispers. “I promise I will. I swear it to you.” She balls her fists. “I won’t fail you again.”
Nazirah begins to rise, wiping her red eyes. She’s distracted by a dark object protruding from the hole in the sand before her. Eyebrows knitting in confusion, she pulls it out slowly. It’s black and supple and all too familiar. A pair of fingerless gloves. Nazirah shakes, watching as something falls out from inside one of the gloves, small and delicate, glittering in the dying Eridian sun. Nazirah stares and stares and stares and still doesn’t understand.
It is Adamek’s amnesty pendant.
Chapter Eighteen
The train ride from Krush to Rubiyat drags on, hours wasting away. The night paints the landscape in murky black, stars hidden behind rolling, navy clouds. The allies share one cramped train compartment, bribed for at the last moment. Aldrik, new eye patch secured, snores loudly next to Adamek. Drool hangs from his chin in thin strings, pooling and puddling along his dirty collar.
Nazirah sits across from them, uneager to return. The overwhelming, suffocating crimson dust, the poverty and prison, the first time she met Adamek … none are memories she particularly cares to relive. The silver lining is that Nazirah may get to see Cato – but she has no idea where he’s stationed or how to contact him.
Nazirah guiltily thinks of Caria’s locket, now safely tucked inside her bag. Cato should have been the one to visit Rafu, not her. There is nothing for Nazirah there but bones and stale memories and bitter emptiness. Cato still has a living, breathing family. Like Cander said, Cato’s entire life revolves around Nazirah. And she takes him for granted.
What if she is holding him back?
“Staring won’t make me burst into flames,” Adamek says, startling Nazirah out of her thoughts. “Unfortunately for you.”
“I was thinking about everything that happened today.”
“You mean in the slums?” he asks pointedly.
“Of course.” Nazirah is thinking about the slums, how could she not? She still has the burns on her arms and the grit in her hair as reminders. But she is also thinking about afterwards. There was a promise made, a pendant surveyed.
“You’re a shit liar, Nation.”
He’s a liar too, only he’s better at it. Adamek said he forgot to put the pendant on this morning, but he hadn’t. At some point yesterday, he came into her home, into her room. He visited the graves of her parents, leaving the chain and gloves behind.
Why?
The pendant now hangs around Nazirah’s neck, out of sight, a lingering reminder. For reasons beyond her comprehension, Nazirah did not leave it in the sand with his gloves.
Why?
She has no answers for anything, anymore.
“I’m not lying,” she mumbles. “I just don’t want to talk about it.”
Adamek interlocks his hands casually behind his neck. Nazirah sees a brief flash of a small tattoo on his wrist, one she’s never noticed before. It is four digits, followed by a strange character. Nazirah doesn’t dare ask him what it means. She wonders why that number is so important to him, why it is the password he uses for everything.
“I bet if I were Caal sitting here,” he says, “You wouldn’t be so quiet.”
Nazirah shoots him an odd look. “But you’re not.”
“Do you see me complaining?”
“I don’t tell Cato everything,” she says.
“Clearly,” Adamek replies. “Otherwise, he’d have tried to kill me several times by now.”
The train slows as it nears the Rubiyat station, whistling shrilly somewhere ahead. Adamek lazily drums his fingers on the silver suitcase. Bribing the Eridian fishermen was apparently easy. Aldrik has said they will certainly need the Iluxor in order to convince the Red Lords, show them exactly how much the Medis keep from the territories.
“Morgen?”
“Nation.”
“What are you planning to do after the war?”
“Are you seriously asking me what I want to be when I grow up?”
“I guess so,” she says, shrugging.
“Ladies first.”
“You’re avoiding my question,” she says.
“I’m evading your question,” Adamek corrects. “There’s a difference.”
Nazirah crosses her arms. “Fine,” she huffs. “I don’t know what I want to do. You?”
“That’s not a real answer.”
“Yes it is!” she argues. “I don’t have a plan! Intermix have never had many options. Die from disease or die from starvation … or die from you. That’s about it.”
His eyes narrow. “But you will once the war’s over,” he points out.
“So they say.”
“You don’t think your brother wants intermix equality?”
“Of course he does!” she says. “But at what sacrifice?”
“Like I said today, there’s always a price.”
Nazirah shakes her head. “So many of those intermix we met today, regardless of if they join us or not, will die in this war … a war that we’re basically forcing upon them! It’s sad that they will have no future.”
“Why are you so afraid of being right?”
“Come again?” she asks.
“Everything you said to Cayus was true,” Adamek tells her. “And now you’re shying away from it. The ones that do survive … think of the future they will have.”
Nazirah does. She thinks of Cayu, of a world where he could grow up beyond the slum. A utopia where he would always have enough to eat, where he and Caria could be best friends, living together in toothless harmony, infamy. And no one would care except their mothers.
It seems like a dream.
The train rolls to a stop at the Rubiyat station and Adamek moves to shake Aldrik awake. Nazirah is entirely aware that Adamek has successfully evaded her question. “I’m tired of fighting,” she sighs.
“You can’t be tired already,” he replies quietly. “The fight hasn’t begun yet.”
#
Rubiyat comes to life at night, after the scorching sun has set. In the small hours of the morning, thick women in long, layered skirts walk through caked streets. They balance empty jugs on their heads and set off for the city wells, waiting in line for hours to receive their daily ration of water. Young boys and girls dance languidly on flat rooftops to the sound of drums and tambourines. The scents of sweat and perfume and sex pervade the air. Yet everything here plays second fiddle to the dust.
Aldrik steps off the train platform, unimpressed and sweating profusely. Thick, pearly white marbles roll down his face. “From what the Commander told me a few hours ago,” he says, “we should have a car waiting for us somewhere … even though we were forced to move our plans up last minute.”
Nazirah’s wide eyes wander over the fray, absorbing every sight. She spots a familiar face in the crowd, sporting a closely cropped haircut and several earrings dangling from each ear. “I’ve got it,” she tells the others, smiling. “Follow me.” Nazirah grabs her bag and finds Adamek has already lifted her remaining luggage. From the stiff look on his face, Nazirah can tell he recognizes the man as well.
Nazirah weaves through the crowd towards the running stretch limousine with tinted windows. “Good to see you again, Olag,” Nazirah says in greeting. Olag only grunts at the three of them, motioning them to get in while he loads the trunk.
Nazirah scurries inside first. She’s instantly greeted by the cherubic, joyful face of Solomon Salaahi. “Oh, Miss Nation!” exclaims Solomon, attempting to bow low even while sitting down. “It is wonderfully refreshing to see you again, although you have arrived a bit earlier than anticipated! Early bird gets the worm!” Solomon’s hands tenderly grasp one of Nazirah’s as Adamek and Aldrik enter.
Aldrik spots some ice chips chilling in a nearby bucket and greedily scoops them up to rub over his sweaty face. Nazirah cringes. Aldrik drops the now-melted chips into an empty glass beside him. He pulls out a flask from his pocket, fills the glass up, and then downs the sweaty-spirit concoction in one gulp.
“Er,” Solomon says, “please make yourselves … comfortable.”
Aldrik belches, eyes darting between Nazirah and Solomon suspiciously. “You two know each other?” he asks, waving his empty flask.
Solomon smiles, says, “Only the way that flesh knows bone, the way the moon knows its craters.”
“Right …” replies Aldrik uncertainly.
Nazirah glances out the window. Even though it’s dark outside, the red dust illuminates the chimerical landscape. Olag weaves the limo through the winding, precarious streets of Rubiyat at breakneck speed. He overtakes a caravan and several donkeys, waving his fist angrily.
Solomon shakes Adamek’s hand enthusiastically. “And the handsome Mr. Morgen,” he says. “You are looking much better since last we met! Glad to see that lip healed nicely.”
“Now hold on just a moment!” Aldrik demands angrily. “Who are you?”
Solomon bows low again. “Solomon Salaahi,” he says. “At your service, Mr. Slome.”
Olag swerves sharply, narrowly dodging another caravan. Solomon flies headfirst into Nazirah’s lap. Nazirah blushes profusely and helps Solomon to his seat. She hands Solomon his minute fez, which he shoves onto his head, slightly askew. He proceeds to utter several guttural curses directed at Olag in Deathlandic. Nazirah has no idea what Solomon says, but Adamek snorts appreciatively.
“You’re Solomon Salaahi?” Aldrik asks, clearly shocked. “The Solomon Salaahi?”
“Expecting someone taller?” he responds, winking at Nazirah.
“Okay, Solomon,” Aldrik grumbles. “I’ll bite. Where exactly are you taking us?”
Nazirah is wondering the same thing. She really hopes they don’t have to sleep in the prison. The telephone in the limousine rings and Solomon reaches for the receiver. “Enough with the questions!” he bellows, voice surprisingly deep for so small a person. “You are my guests and you are welcome in my territory with open arms! Please relax and enjoy the beautiful scenery!” He begins conversing loudly in Deathlandic with the person on the other line.
Aldrik leans in close to Nazirah. “And how exactly,” he hisses, “is an Eridian-born intermix so tight with the famous Solomon Salaahi?”
“He’s famous?” she asks evasively. Nazirah’s trip to bargain for Adamek’s amnesty is not something she is open to discussing, especially not with the likes of Drill Sergeant Patch.
Aldrik gets extremely agitated. “We have a mission to accomplish on this campaign, Nation!” he snaps. “If you both keep hiding things from me, we’re going to fail … spectacularly.”
“Hiding things from you?”
“Don’t play dumb,” he growls. “I know you’ve got the village idiot act down pat, but it doesn’t work on me. Did you think I wouldn’t notice the two of you sneaking off last night? And what was that shit you pulled today, in the slums? I don’t care if you both have lovers from Rafu to Kivar. While you’re campaigning – until we storm the last skytower in Mediah, for that matter – you will present a united front to the country! People already think you’re in love, so you better start acting like it!”
“Easy to say,” she mutters.
The limo turns onto a long, hidden driveway bordered by cacti and lemon groves. They are definitely not at the prison, much to Nazirah’s relief. Olag eventually pulls in front of a large mansion and kills the engine. Nazirah hops out of the limo, unable to keep the awe off her face. Terracotta urns taller than she is guard the front entrance. A huge azure door, embellished in gold, welcomes visitors inside. Vines hang from a ceiling trellis of dark wooden beams. Minarets and marbled columns tower above her. It’s open, flowing, and completely unlike anything Nazirah has seen before.
“Beautiful, is it not?” asks Solomon happily, standing beside her.
“This is where we’re staying?” she asks, shocked. “How is this still Rubiyat?” It’s such a far cry from the seedy inn, such a far cry from anything she’s ever thought of the Red West, Nazirah needs to pinch herself.
“Yes,” Solomon says proudly, waving his arms around. “Welcome to my riad, my home. You will be safe here for as long as you need to stay in this territory. You deserve a true Deathlandic welcome, Miss Nation, and that is exactly what you shall get!”
“You live here?” she asks in astonishment.
Solomon nods, beckoning for everyone to follow him indoors.
“As if you didn’t know,” says Aldrik, whistling in appreciation. “This is more like it!” He runs a finger over a marble column, leisurely walking through the gated entrance.
Nazirah turns to Adamek. “How well do they pay at the prison?” she asks in a hushed voice.
“Solomon’s not just head of security,” he says. “He comes from one of the wealthiest, oldest, most respected families in all of Renatus. He chooses to spend his days at the prison because that’s what he finds fulfilling, I suppose. My father has tried to win his family’s allegiance for decades, but the Salaahis are famous for their neutrality.”
They walk through the entrance. All around Nazirah are beautiful mosaics, tiles in various shades of blue. Iron lanterns, illuminated by candlelight, hang at varying lengths. Gold leaf flakes the ceiling. Now Nazirah is sure she’s dreaming. “He doesn’t seem very neutral,” she says skeptically.
They stop under an archway. “He’s not,” Adamek says. “But this riad is a longstanding sanctuary of neutrality, which is why we can safely stay here.”
“My friends,” Solomon addresses them, the perfect image of a dapper host. “Olag will show you to your rooms. Please have a restful night. We will discuss more unpleasant matters over breakfast in the morning … a true Red West feast.”
Solomon gives a short bow and departs quickly, leaving the three of them with Olag. They follow him through a stunning courtyard garden, rife with exotic plants and flowers, a huge fountain cascading in the center. Adamek walks behind Nazirah. He gently pulls up her chin and shuts her gaping mouth. “Wouldn’t want the dust to get in,” he says.
Nazirah is confused by his playfulness, until she sees Aldrik nod approvingly at them. Play along, Adamek’s eyes say. Nazirah smiles slightly, trying to ignore the rush she feels at his touch. Olag gives them a curious look, before leading their party indoors again and up a flight of stairs. They walk into an open corridor, constructed of graceful arches that make it seem like they’re still outside. Olag stops in front of a door, nodding at Aldrik. Aldrik doesn’t even look at them before slamming the door shut in their faces. The smell of fried hair and booze lingers in his stead.
Olag leads them a ways down the corridor, pausing in front of another door and inclining his head towards Adamek. Adamek nods at the two of them, wordlessly entering his room. Olag continues walking, stopping before a final door.
“Goodnight, Olag,” Nazirah says. She is about to enter when he hands her a small scroll of paper.
Nazirah unfurls the scroll as she enters her room, inhaling the scents of amber, myrrh, and musk. An iron-framed canopy bed sits atop a large geometric rug. The bed overflows with deep satins, velvets, and gauzy drapes. The room opens onto a small balcony, overlooking the courtyard garden, and is alight with ornate hanging lanterns and waxy candles. Speechless, Nazirah enters the bathroom. It’s covered in mosaic tiles, replete with a sunken tub and open shower.
Nazirah returns to the bedroom, dives onto the bed and rolls around on the silky sheets. She reads the scroll. It’s from Solomon, inviting her to tea tomorrow afternoon. Solomon also tells her that he’s taken the liberty of buying her some clothes as a welcoming gift. Nazirah hops off the bed, walks past her ratty luggage, and opens the armoire. She pulls out designer dress after designer dress. Awestruck, she prances over to the full-length mirror leaning against the wall. One garment is probably worth several months’ work, in Rafu.
Nazirah stops suddenly. Only a few hours ago, she watched the Medis destroy nearly everything the slum dwellers had, including their lives. She thinks of them now, asleep in their huts, every last one of their meager possessions literally inches from their fingertips. She thinks of Cayu, the crashing surf and crying seagulls his lullabies. Nazirah may not have grown up in the slum, but those are her people. That is where she belongs. Not here, with these fancy dresses and quixotic dreams. This is Solomon’s reality, Adamek’s reality, but not Nazirah’s.
Never Nazirah’s.
Nazirah stuffs the dresses back into the armoire and slams the doors shut, ashamed at getting so carried away. She pulls off her clothes, kicks them onto the floor, and scrambles under the covers – ash and all.
Nazirah dreams of monkeys along the coast, beating their chests, screeching as they burn. Sticking her hand in the flaming sand, Nazirah reaches for beach shells, finds only bullet shells.
#
The next morning, Nazirah wears a light, mint green dress. It’s delicate, feminine, and accentuates her slender waist. The dress is one of Solomon’s gifts, because Nazirah doesn’t want to be rude. But it’s the simplest one. It’s also the most beautiful thing she’s ever worn.
She takes her time, walking slowly back towards the entryway. Everything about the riad is more breathtaking in daylight. The colors, muted at night, are suddenly hyper-intense. The smells are richer, the sounds lovelier. Olag meets her near the entrance and they walk together to the dining room. Adamek and Aldrik are unsurprisingly already present, sitting at a long gilt table and talking strategy with Solomon.
“Yes, I have already spoken with them,” Solomon says as Nazirah walks into the room. “The enforcers throughout the prisons are with us. Besides their own personal incentives, they are extremely loyal to me. It is not an issue.” Solomon sees Nazirah and lights up. “Oh, Miss Nation! You are absolutely radiant!” He sighs. “You would make such a lovely Red bride.”
“Good morning, Solomon.” Nazirah greets him awkwardly, sitting across from Adamek. She isn’t usually one to turn down a compliment, but Solomon is downright embarrassing sometimes. She looks up to find Adamek’s eyes lingering on her. She blushes, wondering if it’s still for show.
“You were saying, Salaahi?” Aldrik asks, annoyed. He reaches for some bread and drenches it with honey and oil. True to Solomon’s word, the table is completely loaded with Deathlandic delicacies. There are warm breads, yogurts, sausages, juices, and omelets with spices. Nazirah steers clear of what looks to be a stuffed goat’s head, the centerpiece of their meal. Nazirah hasn’t seen this much food in her life, and for only the four of them! She guiltily fills up her plate, thinking of how many slum dwellers this could feed.
Solomon shovels jasmine rice onto his already heaping plate. “Yes, right,” he continues. “Like I said, Red law enforcers are with us, no questions asked. I have left them in charge of the prison during your stay, so I can focus solely on this. Jasmine is right from the garden,” he says proudly, tucking into his meal.
Aldrik bangs on the table with his fork, trying to hold Solomon’s attention. “And what of the Red Lords?”
Solomon’s face turns serious. “Therein lies the rub,” he says somberly. “Our numbers as enforcers are limited. We need the Lords’ support because they control the vast mercenaries. We have an informal gathering with them here in a few hours. I must confess, though, that I am extremely worried about the outcome.”
Nazirah doesn’t see an insurmountable problem. “So?” she asks. “Why can’t we win them over like we did in Eridies? Bribe them, or show them the Iluxor like we planned? Promise them better access to food and water after we win? Piece of cake.”
“It’s not quite that simple, Nation,” Aldrik snaps. “This isn’t Eridies, where everyone holds hands and skips in the sand.”
Nazirah looks at the three of them. She gets the distinct feeling the joke is on her and no one is letting her in on it. “I don’t understand.” She hesitates. “What am I missing?”
Solomon’s eyes dart around nervously. “It is unfortunately a complicated situation,” he says. “Unlike in Eridies, we are traditional here. The Red Lords do not make their own decisions or accept their own bribes. They only prescribe to the ruling of their overlord, their Khan, Lord Khanto. And he is not exactly pleased with the rebels.”
“Why not?”
She looks at Adamek, who meets her gaze steadily. Nazirah notices for the first time that his plate is empty, utensils untouched. “Lord Bantu was Khanto’s father,” he says expressionlessly. “Up until a few months ago, Bantu was the overlord and one of my father’s harshest critics.”
“Was?” she asks slowly. No one responds. Nazirah stares hard into her plate, realizing. She isn’t hungry anymore. “Oh.”
“So we are in quite a bind, you see,” Solomon says, trying to defuse the tension. “But never fear! We will meet with Lord Khanto soon enough, and convince him to see reason for the sake of his people.”
They finish eating in silence. Nazirah doesn’t look up from her plate again. She can’t blame this overlord if he doesn’t agree to join them. Will Adamek’s wake of destruction never end? There is so much pain, so much devastation tied up in his life. Nazirah wonders how he deals with it all … how he deals with it at all.
She thinks of Victoria, red water in the bathtub; of Aneira, lit red with Bilungi’s candles; of the dead intermix, scorched red in the flames; of Riva and Kasimir, wasted red on the floor.
Nazirah doesn’t cry.
