Текст книги "Intermix Nation "

Автор книги: M. Attardo

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Luka rolls down a tinted window, nodding at a guard stationed outside the truck. The guard exits the underground garage through a nearby door which leads directly into the manor above. The four rebels sit in tense silence until he returns.

Nazirah shakes her leg, drums her fingers against her jeans. This probably annoys Adamek. But she doesn’t care and he doesn’t stop her. She needs to get away from everyone, especially Luka. Nazirah will attack her again if she has to wait much longer. And this time, Adamek won’t be able to intervene.

The guard soon returns, accompanied by an elderly, hunchbacked man. His head is shaved. Exotic characters, similar to Adamek’s dusza, line his scalp. He’s also barefoot, wearing only a deep yellow robe. He shuffles his feet meekly as he walks. The man is unlike any Ziman Nazirah has ever seen, with high cheeks, frail bones, a flat nose, and almost golden skin. Before he enters the truck, he gives a bow so deep it could rival one of Solomon’s.

“It’s one of the silent zimbaba,” Adamek whispers in Nazirah’s ear, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand straight up. She’s almost forgotten how her body reacts around him.

Almost.

“What’s a zimbaba?” she asks, watching as the man sits down. He rifles through his deep pockets, pulling out a bag of electric blue powder and shaking it gently into his outstretched palm. He spits into his hand and begins rolling the powder into a small ball.

“A spiritual leader here,” Adamek replies, watching the zimbaba closely. “He’s taken a vow of silence for the remainder of his mortal life, pledging to uphold the honor of Zima.”

Nazirah notices that the zimbaba’s eyes are completely clouded over, milky white orbs. He smiles toothlessly, somehow recognizing her presence. Extending his arm, he drops the marble of blue sky and saliva clouds into Nazirah’s reluctant hand. “What am I supposed to do with this?” she asks.

“What do you think?” Luka asks. “Eat it.”

“What is it?” she asks, disgusted.

“An altered strain of MEDIcine,” Luka replies vaguely. “They use it for plastic surgery and cosmetics … we use it for concealment. It’s obscenely expensive, so we could only get our hands on a day’s worth. But it should last long enough for your trip here.” Nazirah looks at Adamek, who nods once. She grimaces, popping the mushy ball into her mouth and swallowing quickly.

Nazirah instantly doubles over, clutching her abdomen. She feels like snakes are winding and writhing underneath her skin. Nazirah squeezes her eyes shut, but the pain is over almost immediately. Ears ringing, she opens her eyes, blinking rapidly. “Did it work?” she asks curiously.

Her voice sounds the same. Nazirah inspects her arms, rolling up her sleeves. Her bruises are miraculously healed, replaced by pale, smooth skin. She looks at Aldrik and Luka, who are both smiling. And at Adamek, who is not.

“See for yourself,” Luka says. The zimbaba reaches into his robe, pulls out a hand mirror. Nazirah glances into it warily.

It is her face, yet not her face at all. Her cheekbones are just as prominent, nose has the same slope. But her skin is several shades lighter, tan completely gone, like she hasn’t seen a beach in decades. The bruises on her cheek and forehead are vanished. Her hair is unruly as ever, but platinum blonde instead of copper brown. And her eyes are indigo as a cloudless Rafu sky. Nazirah touches her face, blue eyes wide.

“You look good as a blonde, Nation,” Aldrik says approvingly. “But this doesn’t mean you can go off gallivanting. It’s still your face. You’re still recognizable to those who know to look. You can’t leave your room.”

“Fine,” Nazirah scowls. “Are we done?”

“Just one final touch,” Luka says, nodding at the zimbaba. He delves into his robe once more, retrieving a thin brush and jar of black ink. He leans forward, gently grabbing Nazirah left arm. She pulls away quickly.

“Is it permanent?”

“As if you’re worthy of a real Ziman tattoo,” Luka scoffs. “It’s just paint! It will wash off in a few days.”

The zimbaba dips his brush into the jar and details a perfect replica of the Ziman crescent moon on Nazirah’s forearm. Satisfied with his work, he stuffs everything back into his deep pockets. Nazirah inspects her arm, touching the mark gingerly.

Luka retrieves two heavy coats from a compartment under her seat. She tosses them at Nazirah and Adamek. “Here, take these.”

Adamek shrugs his on easily, but Nazirah struggles with the fat buttons. Finished, she looks at them, seeking their approval. “Well?” she asks.

“Keep your hood up,” Luka says, sighing. “And say a prayer.”

#

Nazirah rips off her coat as soon as she is alone, growling, popping several buttons. They fall to the floor like suicide jumpers, plunging eagerly to their deaths.

Nazirah sympathizes.

She tosses the coat carelessly onto a solitary chair. Her room here is cramped, even smaller than her bedroom in Rafu. Nazirah could walk it entirely in three paces. It’s also freezing. Yet the draft feels like the kiss of an angel, because she is so relieved to be free of Luka.

From the garage, they were escorted straight into the manor. The jackets were for additional concealment only, unfortunately. Nazirah wasn’t allowed to step even a foot outside. After a detour to the kitchens for a brief meal, they were directed to their quarters.

Nazirah thinks guiltily of Cato as she sets the photo of them on her small bed. He’ll be returning early from recon about now, finally reunited with his family at headquarters, preparing to defend them against Ivan’s troops that are slowly burning their way towards Krush. Nazirah sits on the squeaking mattress, placing the mason jar of black stones next to the picture frame. She also pulls out her parents’ wedding photo, completing the triangle of bittersweet memories.

Nazirah traces her mother’s silhouette, thinking of Niko, hoping there is a cottage for them to return to when this is finally over. She thinks of Caria and Cayu, of how scared they must be right now. She wonders if their paths will cross at headquarters, maybe by luck, perhaps by fate.

Nazirah stares out the small window. The sun hangs low in the sky, the day nearly spent, only a few hours of light remaining. For a race so fair, every Ziman seems driven by cold and damp darkness. Nazirah touches her platinum locks thoughtfully. She is a child of the sun, not of the snow. She doesn’t belong here.

There is a pounding at the door. Nazirah stuffs the photos and jar under her mattress, crosses the room swiftly, letting Adamek inside. Aldrik bumbles behind, plopping down heavily on the chair. “Fucking freezing in here, Nation,” Aldrik gripes. His breath condenses before him as he complains. “Why didn’t you light a fire?”

“I didn’t know how to,” Nazirah explains. They never had a need for their fireplace at home.

Adamek rolls his eyes. He picks up some logs from the corner and tosses them into the fireplace, bending down to ignite them.

Aldrik rubs his hands together. “Moving on,” he slurs. “Let’s make it quick?” He has clearly tapped into his flask. Nazirah doesn’t blame him. She would do the same thing, if she were married to Lady Luka.

“Go for it,” Adamek tells him.

“To reiterate,” Aldrik says, “Morgen and I meet tomorrow afternoon with the mine owners. If we can’t bribe them to help us, we can at least bribe them to stay quiet.”

“Sounds promising,” Nazirah says.

“Shut it, Nation,” Aldrik grumbles. “I’ve had enough of you today to last me several lifetimes.”

“Anything else?” asks Adamek.

“That’s it,” Aldrik says. “We leave the following morning for Valestream. Morgen, you do not leave your room except for the meeting tomorrow. Nation, you do not leave your room at all. Your meals will be brought to you. Think of it as a reward for your hard work, ceaseless enthusiasm, and unparalleled charm.”

Nazirah glares at him. “Wonderful.”

“Excellent,” Aldrik says, rising from the chair. His stiff joints crack and clack. “Oh, and Nation? Welcome to Zima.”

Aldrik slams the door shut and Nazirah faces Adamek. “Is he still upset about this morning?” she asks.

“Most definitely,” Adamek says. “But right now, I think he has more … preoccupying concerns.”

“Like how to get back into Luka’s good graces?”

“Like how to get back into Luka, period.”

“Ew.”

Nazirah makes a face, but can’t stifle a grin. Adamek stands before her, leaning casually against the bedframe. Nazirah is painfully aware they haven’t been alone since this morning. And the events of last night beat on her mind, restless little drummers, not letting her forget.

Adamek gently tugs a loose, platinum tendril. “What do you think of your new look?” he asks.

“I hate it.”

“Me too.”

“Really?” she says, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you preferred blondes.”

“Are you jealous?”

“That’s laughable.”

“Who’s laughing?”

“Why don’t you like it?” she asks.

“You look exactly like everyone else now,” he says candidly. He untangles his hand from her hair. “It’s just not you.”

Adamek glances out the window beside them and Nazirah follows his gaze. It’s snowing lightly. Nazirah presses her face to the glass, wistful, fogging it up. The room may be a coffin, but the view is unearthly. The town spreads out below her, the mountain range rises in the distance, the deep ravine drops off to her right. Snowflakes melt centimeters away on the other side of the pane, untouchable, intangible.

“This whole campaign is becoming a nightmare,” Nazirah says sadly. “I feel completely … useless. Everyone I care about is in danger. My home is …” she stops, unable to finish. “And to top it all off, my one day in Zima and I have to stay inside.”

Beside her, Adamek appears conflicted, then determined. There’s caution in his eyes, mixed with delicious mischief. “Can you keep a secret, Nation?”

Can Nazirah keep a secret? Of course she can keep a secret! Adamek still doesn’t know about her unescorted trip down memory lane, after all. “Depends on the secret,” she says.

“A very big secret,” he teases, fire flames dancing across his face. “Lord Luka would probably have a stroke if she ever found out.”

“But that’s the secret I would most love to tell,” Nazirah replies, returning his half-smile.

#

Adamek and Nazirah walk quickly through the frozen hallways. They pass several young maids and a few zimbaba, shuffling about in saffron robes. Hoods pulled up, heads turned down, they both go completely unnoticed. Adamek strides through the large manor easily, knowing the winding stone corridors like the back of his hand. “Did you stay with Luka while you were in Shizar?” Nazirah asks curiously.

“No,” he says, turning another corner.

“Then how do you know this manor so well?”

“I’ve been here several times before.”

“Why?”

“What did I say about asking questions?”

“Don’t ask a question if you don’t want to know the answer.”

Adamek gives her a meaningful look as they pass by yet another blonde maid. Nazirah realizes she probably doesn’t want to know after all. He opens a nondescript door leading outside. Nazirah walks through, antsy, almost frantic. She inhales sharply, the deviant frost surging through her, so cold it burns. Nazirah lifts her arms up, spinning in a wide circle. She tips her head back, letting the hood fall. The snowflakes melt on her face. Everything is muted, a hushed whisper.

“I keep forgetting this is all new to you,” he says. Adamek stands before her, hood also down. He rubs some flakes off Nazirah’s nose before pulling back and shoving his hands into his pockets. White crystals frame his eyelashes, salt his hair. A devil disguised as an angel, Nazirah thinks.

Or maybe she has it twisted.

Nazirah shivers lightly. “I never thought it would be like this,” she says, unable to meet his eyes.

“The snow?”

She shakes her head, clearing it. “Right.”

“What were you expecting?”

“What door did we come through?” she asks quickly.

“Servants’ entrance.” Adamek shrugs. “Let’s take a walk.”

They trek along a deserted stone path overlooking the ravine. The snow has stopped falling, leaving only a light, crunching dust. Adamek leads them away from Shizar, away from civilization, and into the wilderness. Nazirah blows into her frozen hands. “How’s your arm?”

“Fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Where are we going?”

Adamek sighs. “Patience is a virtue, Nation.”

“So is honesty.”

“So is silence.”

Adamek finally stops. He turns around, smirking. Nazirah peeks over his shoulder, peering curiously behind him. “You’re joking,” she says.

“Come on, Nation.” Adamek takes an effortless step backwards onto the narrow hanging bridge. The ropes gently give, swaying over the abyss. Wooden planks groan under his weight. He smiles, completely at ease, wind ruffling his hair.

Nazirah wipes her hands, sweaty palms on blue jeans. “No way, Morgen!” she squeals. “I’m not into suicide.”

Adamek takes another step backwards. “Where’s that Eridian, cliff-diving courage?” he teases.

“Back in Eridies,” she answers seriously.

“You’ll be fine.”

“What if I fall?”

“I’ll catch you.”

“What if you miss?”

“I never miss,” he says, extending a hand to her.

Nazirah looks at it, hesitating. It’s his hand all right. The same long fingers, trim nails, calloused knuckles, bruised from last night. The same black scratches, prominent as ever. This hand traced the lines of her face, laced through her fingers. It helped her fight, saved Cayu. It killed Riva, Kasimir, and countless others. A hand of life and death. A hand that gives and takes. And it waits for her to decide, steady, unshaken.

She grabs it.

The air crackles. Adamek pulls her onto the rickety bridge. With knees knocking, Nazirah clutches the ropes. Adamek holds her waist securely, making sure she doesn’t lose her footing. They begin walking across. “You do this for fun or something?” she asks, shaking.

“Not exactly,” he replies. “It’s better not to look down.”

Nazirah looks at him. “Where does this lead?”

“You’ll find out.”

“If you won’t answer any of my questions,” she huffs, “why bring me along?”

Adamek steps onto solid ground, shrugging. “Because everyone should experience snow,” he says, “at least once.”

“And we couldn’t do that by the manor?” she grumbles, hopping onto the ground beside him. There is a huge monastery before her. It is carved entirely into the face of the mountain. The setting sun, peeking through receding storm clouds, bathes the monastery in orange and golden light, giving it the illusion of being aflame. Nazirah knows immediately where they are. “This is where you trained?” she asks, astonished.

“Who said anything about training?” he says sharply.

Nazirah swallows hard. “It’s pretty obvious,” she mumbles. “Luka said you stayed in Shizar, and you have the dusza.…”

“It’s not that obvious,” he says, “unless you already knew.”

“Fine,” she admits. “I asked Solomon about it, okay? I was curious.”

“And what else did Solomon tell you?” he asks, eyes flashing. “I’m … curious.”

“N-Nothing,” Nazirah stammers.

They walk towards the monastery, stopping at the entrance. “You’re too nosy for your own good,” he says. “You know that, right?”

“Yes.”

He sighs. “I shouldn’t be taking you here.”

“Why not?”

“The zimbaba don’t ordinarily let civilians enter,” he says. “It’s a holy place.”

“Are Luka’s guards waiting behind the door or something?”

“No,” he says. “Even she’s not allowed in here.”

“And you are?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he replies, chuckling a little. “It’s just another reason she hates me. They agreed to train me, a foreigner, but not her. She’s still pretty bitter about it.”

“Do you want me to wait here?”

Adamek is silent then, staring at the heavy doors. They are engraved with the same strange characters as his dusza. “Screw it,” he says, pulling them open. “It’s not like I followed the rest of their rules.”

It’s tranquil inside, still and quiet. Hundreds of statues, honoring unfamiliar gods, line the walls. They are hewn directly into the rock, calling followers to worship. Wax pillars light the floor, the windows, spilling prophecies.

Nazirah follows Adamek through several connected chambers. He onerously searches the face of every zimbaba they pass. They chant and pray, kneeling prostrate before their gods. Several stare, expressions ranging from outrage to apathy. Adamek finally walks into an isolated room, stops. He pulls off his coat entirely. The room is empty, save for two zimbaba speaking in a corner, lighting candles. One is extremely elderly, with a round face and protruding ears. The other is slightly younger and much paunchier.

Adamek hands Nazirah his coat. “Stay here.”

Nazirah sits on the nearest chair, watching curiously as Adamek approaches the two men. The potbellied zimbaba recognizes him first, his shocked eyes narrowing. “You would dare show your face here, animal?” he demands.

“Nice as it is to see you too, Monk Ji,” Adamek says coldly. “I’ve come to speak with my master.” Monk Ji moves to strike Adamek, who doesn’t flinch. The second, older zimbaba lightly touches Monk Ji’s shoulder, halting his hand midair.

“Young Adamek,” this zimbaba says, “you still have much to learn. The riddle is not if you shall speak with your master. It is if your master shall speak with you.”

Adamek bows his head. “Please, master,” he says, “I’m in desperate need of guidance.”

“Brother Yi?” Monk Ji snaps. “Shall I remove him?”

The elderly zimbaba gently pulls up Adamek’s chin, staring into his eyes. He shakes his head. “Brother Ji,” he commands, “give us a moment.”

A queer feeling overcomes Nazirah as she stares at two pairs of gloved hands. Monk Ji scoffs, snarling at Adamek before stalking out of the room. Only the elderly zimbaba remains. And with his large ears and kind face, this Monk Yi is the spitting image of a primate.

Of a monkey.

Nazirah’s jaw drops to the floor.

This is the monkey? This small, ancient, unassuming bald man? This is who taught Adamek how to fight? How to kill?

“Please excuse Monk Ji,” the monkey says to Adamek. “Lately, he has struggled to follow the virtues we teach.” He looks at Nazirah. “Like forgiveness.”

“You knew I was coming?”

The monkey nods. “We zimbaba have eyes and ears all over the country,” he says. “I needed only open mine to know. Yet I prefer to hear it in person. Why have you traveled here, my wayward son?”

“I have dishonored you –”

“You have dishonored yourself,” the monkey corrects. “That is more important. But, continue.”

“I’ve joined the southern rebellion,” Adamek persists. “We grow stronger every day, but we’re not strong enough. I have come to ask for your alliance.”

The monkey is thoughtful. “Young Adamek,” he says, “the brotherhood of monks here is more than simple zimbaba, whose fate rise and fall with the tides of Zima. We have been neutral our entire existence. We train and teach in order to carry on our legacy, the skills and knowledge we have honed over the centuries. But we never take sides.”

“Maybe it’s time you started,” Adamek says.

“Our numbers would make little impact,” the monkey replies. “We could not train the rebels to fight like us in a thousand years, nor would we want to. And you know well, we use violence only as a last resort, not as a weapon of destruction. We kill when we must to protect ourselves, our loved ones, and our honor. We do not kill as a means of fear, suppression, or power.”

“I know this,” Adamek snaps.

“I know you do,” the monkey says, nodding. “So tell me, what is the real reason you have come?”

“That is the reason, master.”

“No, my son,” the monkey presses. “That is a reason … but it is not the reason.” Adamek remains silent. “Let me put it another way. When I first agreed to take you in, several years ago, everyone told me I was insane. To willingly train the son of the Chancellor? My brothers believed you would abuse our teachings, twisting them for your father’s destructive purposes. You were so set in your ways, so belligerent, so intolerant of anyone unlike yourself. But when I met you, I saw goodness in you. It was hidden from those who were not looking for it. But the roots ran deep. I still see that goodness, Adamek, although you have long lost the way.”

“Why are you telling me this?” he asks.

The monkey gently grasps Adamek’s hands, stares at them. “The weights you bear are much heavier than when I saw you last,” he says sadly. Adamek looks away, ashamed. The monkey touches Adamek’s back, right over his dusza. “But your soul remains intact. And I sense a change within you that, for a long time, I feared was hopeless.” He carefully inspects Adamek’s left forearm.

“Almost a year now,” Adamek says quietly.

“It suits you.”

“So you won’t help us?” Adamek asks, bowing his head respectfully.

The monkey embraces him. “No,” he says. “But you knew that already.” Adamek gives him one final, searching look before turning to leave. He walks past Nazirah, who clumsily rises to her feet. She glances at the monkey, only to find him smiling serenely at her. “My son,” he calls out, “one last thing.”

“Master?”

“Remember the first rule.”