Cato smiles. “And my mother?”
“She would be happier with you home, but she’s managing,” Nazirah says. “Honestly. She practically force fed me cookies intravenously as soon as I walked through the door.”
“Did Cander give you a rough time?”
Nazirah shrugs noncommittally. “No worse than usual.”
Cato nods and there’s a moment of awkward silence. Nazirah braces herself for what she knows is coming. “So,” he begins, “now that we’ve gotten the pleasantries out of the way.…”
“Were those pleasantries?”
“Compared to what we’re about to discuss … yes.”
“I’m really not in the mood.…”
“There have been rumors flying all over about you and Morgen.…”
“You know what they say about rumors.”
“That they start with a grain of truth?”
Her eyes narrow. “That you can’t always believe them.”
“I don’t, usually.”
“If you have something to ask me,” Nazirah snaps, “ask it.”
“Why are you getting so defensive?”
“Because I can’t believe I’m actually entertaining this conversation!” she screeches. “Don’t trust everything you hear!”
“You think I don’t know that?” Cato hisses. “I nearly died laughing when I first heard the tale Aldrik is spinning about you two. Then I came here tonight and saw it for myself. I guess the joke is on me, huh?”
“Nothing was going on.”
“Nothing was going on?”
“No.”
“Do you take me for an idiot?” he growls. “I saw the two of you, frolicking in the goddamn fountain! It sure didn’t look like nothing to me!”
“Then maybe you should get your eyes checked!” she shouts. “Because you don’t know what you saw!”
“Then why don’t you explain it to me?” he yells. “Unless you think I’m too dense to get it!”
“Stop turning this into something bigger than it is! I know it looked strange, but we were just talking! I mean, the guy might die tomorrow!”
“Exactly, Irri! Your parents’ murderer, the man who has made your life a living hell for months, the man you hate,” Cato emphasizes, spitting his words, “will probably die tomorrow. You should be jumping from the rafters of this riad with joy! But you’re not. And I don’t understand why.”
“It’s complicated, okay?”
“But why is it complicated?” Cato pleads. “A few weeks ago, you were practically begging Nikolaus to kill him. What’s changed?”
Me.
“Nothing’s changed.”
“I don’t buy that.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Do you care for him?”
Does she?
Don’t ask a question, if you don’t want to know the answer.
Nazirah stands up and marches to the door. Cato follows her. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “But I am learning the hard way that people are not simply good or bad. They are complex. They are imperfect, Cato, damaged and flawed. A man is not defined by one thing.”
“What are you even saying?”
“I’m saying that it’s complicated! People are complicated! I am complicated! And how I feel about tomorrow, about this campaign, this rebellion, this situation and yes, even fucking Adamek Morgen is complicated! So I would appreciate it if you would get off my back about it!”
Nazirah wrenches the door open, glaring. Cato looks at her, silently processing, but doesn’t leave. He grabs her hands. “Look,” he says, more quietly. “I shouldn’t have attacked you like that. I’ve just thought about you so much since you left, worried how you’ve handled everything. And then I hear all of these rumors. And then I come here and see you with him. It messed with my mind. I’m sorry.”
Nazirah interlocks their hands, breathing deeply. She’s forgotten how calming his simple presence could be. And she really has missed him, despite everything. “I’m sorry too,” she says. “This campaign, the fire, the expectations, having to fake so many emotions all the time … it’s been a lot harder than I thought. It’s wearing me out.”
“I know,” he sighs. “This has been difficult for us both. But it will all be over soon. Let’s get some rest and we’ll regroup tomorrow after … just after.”
Nazirah nods silently and Cato gives her a long overdue hug. He drags it out to the point of discomfort and then leaves. Nazirah slumps against the door, head pounding and heart aching … heart pounding and head aching. She pulls out the amnesty pendant, looks at it thoughtfully.
Why did she go outside?
Nazirah wasn’t lying when she said her feelings about Adamek were complicated. Does she not want him to die tomorrow so that she can eventually kill him herself? Or does she not want him to die at all?
She’s worried it’s a bit of both.
Chapter Twenty
Nazirah walks towards the front row, trying to extend the moment indefinitely. They have traveled, by carriage, to this circular outdoor arena on the outskirts of Solomon’s property. Elevated stands, hewn from thick blocks of red stone, surround an impacted field. Nazirah takes a seat to the left of Solomon, atop a lavish cushion. Cato scoots in beside her, Aldrik in tow. The rock is hot, sunbaked and sizzling. Nazirah embraces the burn.
She recognizes several of the Red Lords and their bodyguards in the throng of thousands. Word must have spread about the impending battle, because there is not an empty seat in sight. If Nazirah extended an arm, her fingertips would skim the gritty field, the caked layers of blood and dirt, organ and sediment. They have a perfect view to watch the event … a perfect view to watch someone die.
“Solomon?” she asks curiously, “what is this place normally used for?”
“The same thing it is being used for today,” he replies. “These battles are fairly common throughout the Deathlands. The Salaahis have always hosted them under our code of neutrality.”
“I see.”
But she doesn’t. Nazirah looks around the stands, disgusted. She doesn’t understand how the Deathlanders view this as some great festivity, as fun. All around the arena, they laugh and ululate, hiss and spit, eat and drink and piss.
Solomon notices her revulsion. “Do not be quick to judge us,” he says. “This is a part of our culture, unpleasant as it may be. These stands are filled with intermix and native alike, celebrating together, cheering together, just as they work together. Could the same be said of your own territory?”
“No,” she admits, thinking of those gallows. “I suppose not.”
Solomon smiles wisely, leaning in close. “Like a person,” he says, “no territory is perfect. Sometimes you must take the good with the bad.”
“And what if the bad is really bad?” she whispers.
“Then maybe the good is exceptionally good,” he whispers back.
“Solomon,” Aldrik grumbles, “can we get this started already?”
“Everything in due time!” he replies, struggling to be heard over the uproarious crowd. He gives Nazirah a reassuring pat on the knee. “Do not fret, Miss Nation. Mr. Morgen will be just fine.” Cato shoots Nazirah a sideways glance, which she ignores.
Khanto appears to Nazirah’s right, at the far end of the field. As soon as the crowd sees him, they go wild. He is their overlord, their Khan, and he has never once lost a fight. Khanto is bare-chested. His Deathland tattoo gleams in the sun like a calling card. Two red handprints are emblazoned on his chest. His hair is tied back in its typical braid. White war paint covers his face and his necklace of teeth is displayed proudly. Khanto sneers, displaying his own set of gleaming ivory bones.
Nazirah incongruously recalls the first Red Westerner she ever met, the peddler with the broken mosaics and kind smile. Whatever happens, she hopes to remember Deathlanders like that man and like Solomon. Not like the sadistic Khan before her. The Khan unsheathes a long sword, glittering to the hilt in rubies.
&n
bsp; “This is a sword fight?” she questions, appalled. Nazirah doesn’t know why she never thought to ask before.
Solomon nods grimly. “It is tradition,” he says. “As is the beheading.”
“Beheading?”
Screaming jeers and hisses suddenly erupt from the stands. Nazirah snaps her head to the left. Adamek enters from the opposite end of the field, dressed simply, carrying a silver sword. Nazirah hasn’t seen him since last night and her heart skips a beat.
“This is very unusual.”
Nazirah is unable to take her eyes off Adamek. “What is, Solomon?”
“It is an archaic Ziman custom to wear gloves when intending to kill a foe,” he answers. “It is done out of respect for the opponent, covering one’s own scratch marks. Mr. Morgen seems to follow that tradition, so I assumed he would be wearing them.”
Small bits of information click into place. In Adamek’s memory, he returned from Rafu wearing fingerless gloves. Victoria had stared and stared at them. And Nazirah knows why he isn’t wearing them now. He left them behind, buried on a beach far away, never again to see the light of day.
Adamek and Khanto approach each other slowly, meeting at the center of the field. Nazirah nervously wrings her hands, thinking about Adamek’s dusza, his scratches, and now the gloves. She wonders what she’s missing, what binds it all together. “Why is following these outdated Ziman rituals so important to him?” she asks Solomon.
“I would imagine it is because he trained there when he was younger,” he replies. “Something must have stuck. You never know which traditions you will disregard and which you will take to heart.” Solomon nods at Olag, who is holding a large gong. Olag hands him the striker.
Nazirah grabs Solomon’s arm, stopping him from hitting it. “Morgen trained in Zima?” she asks quickly, remembering something else from Adamek’s memory. “Is that where the monkey is? What is that?”
“Irri, what are you doing?” Cato demands, clearly upset. He touches her shoulder, but Nazirah shrugs him off.
“So many questions that I am unable to answer,” Solomon sighs. “You are asking the wrong person.” And before Nazirah can say anything else, Solomon rings the gong loudly, letting the fight begin.
The crowd, once raucous and rowdy, instantly goes silent. Khanto and Adamek, mere feet away, face Solomon and bow. Adamek’s gaze lingers on the ground. He looks up, seeking Nazirah out, locking eyes with her. She knows he sees the panic on her face, the trembling of her chin, the fear there. But she doesn’t look away.
She can’t.
Not from those green eyes that are making everything so heartbreakingly, confusingly, beautifully complicated.
Everything slows down. The Khan and Adamek face each other and nod slightly, touching their swords together. Nazirah watches with baited breath. And she waits. Neither makes the first move.
Her heart beats once, twice, three times.
Just when Nazirah thinks she can’t take anymore, when she’s teetering on the precipice of collapse or insanity or both, they start to battle. And Nazirah is ruthlessly catapulted into the present.
The swordfight is terrifying. Khanto, vengeful titan, attacks Adamek viciously, relentlessly. Adamek skillfully blocks each blow. But the Khan gains ground with every cut, forcing Adamek to retreat in defense. Nazirah grips the edge of her seat, knuckles white and bloodless.
“Why isn’t he attacking?” Aldrik shouts. “He’s just blocking him, for fuck’s sake! He’s not even trying to win!”
“Is that true?” Nazirah asks Solomon sharply.
“It does seem rather … one-sided at the moment,” Solomon responds.
“I hope that bastard gets his head lobbed off!” Aldrik rants. “That will teach him a lesson!”
The Khan begins screaming at Adamek in Deathlandic. “Solomon, what’s he saying?” Nazirah asks.
“Lord Khanto is upset that Mr. Morgen is not attacking,” he translates. “He says that by going easy on him, Mr. Morgen prevents the Khan from honoring his father.”
“This is easy?” she asks, bewildered. It certainly doesn’t look like Adamek is going easy on the Khan. If anything, it looks like he’s losing.
The Khan attacks again, enraged, trying to slay Adamek. Adamek sidesteps the blow a moment too late. Khanto’s blade cuts into Adamek’s fighting arm. Adamek drops his sword, falling to his knees. Khanto peers down at Adamek. He grins sadistically, licking blood off the flat of his blade. There is none of the warmth in his eyes, none of the humanity that Nazirah saw two weeks prior. There is only sinister hate and the evil, all-consuming need to kill. To avenge. Is this what Adamek looked like, right before he murdered Riva and Kasimir? Is this what she would look like?
Khanto does not make it a quick death.
He spits in Adamek’s face. He hunches over him, speaking so low that only those closest to the field can hear. Nazirah looks distraughtly at Solomon, hoping he will translate. But Solomon only stares at the Khan with great sadness. Nazirah tries to stand up, irrationally thinking she can somehow stop it from happening. Cato holds her back. She struggles against him. Khanto raises his sword, preparing for the final strike. He brings it down swiftly. Nazirah squeezes her eyes shut, unable to watch Adamek die.
The crowd collectively gasps. Against her will, Nazirah’s eyes snap open. She watches, uncomprehending, as the body slumps forward and collapses. Blood spurts from the neck cavity in waves, deep pulses that spray Nazirah’s face and arms. The severed head rolls towards her, collecting dirt and teeth and sand, leaving a sticky crimson trail in its wake. It comes to a stop only a foot away, mouth slack, lips parted in eternal glory. And still, Nazirah cannot comprehend.
It is not Adamek’s head.
Adamek stands, silver sword in his uninjured hand. The crowd silently watches him pray over Khanto’s body and then walk resolutely towards the severed head. With his still-bleeding arm, Adamek grabs what remains of the overlord by the braid, lifting it high for all to see. The crowd, once quiet, goes insane. They rise to their feet, cheering and screaming and ululating. The surviving Red Lords bow in respect.
But Nazirah cannot focus on any of it. She cannot hear any of it. Spots dance before her eyes, growing, blending, and changing colors. Her ears ring, muffle, and then dampen. Cato says something. His lips move, vocal chords vibrate, mashing syllables and consonants. Nazirah cannot process the words. She feels dizzy. Everything goes black, then blank.
#
Nazirah awakens in her room, feeling like her brain has been slammed with a sledgehammer. Solomon and Cato hover above. Her sight slowly sharpens into focus. She tries to sit up, but Olag gently presses her down.
“What happened?” she murmurs, holding her head.
Solomon dabs her forehead with a warm compress. “Oh, Miss Nation!” he exclaims. “Praise the gods, you are awake! We were so concerned!”
“You fainted, Irri,” Cato clarifies. “Just after Morgen won.”
“Olag carried you back,” Solomon confirms.
She fainted?
Nazirah has never fainted before … ever.
She sits up sharply this time, ignoring their protests. The cloth slides off her forehead, falling to her lap. Nazirah flings it away in frustration. “Why does my head hurt so much?”
“I tried to catch you when you collapsed,” Cato says. “But you hit your head on the stone first. We think you have a concussion.”
“And Morgen –”
“He is fine, just fine!” exclaims Solomon. He picks up Nazirah’s discarded cloth, wiping his own sweaty brow. “We had quite a scare at the end, but Mr. Morgen prevailed. He is with Mr. Slome right now and my best healers are tending to his arm. He will be perfect in no time at all.”
Nazirah’s head feels fuzzy. Like she needs everything repeated several times and then maybe once more to boot. “The Khan is dead?”
“He is,” Solomon replies sadly. “But he knew the risk. It is unfortunate that things have come to this, but it is a blessing in
disguise. We mourn the loss of Khanto. But we also look towards the future, as the Red West allies with the rebels.”
“But,” she persists, “how did he win? He was on the floor. I thought for sure…”
Cato supplies a brief, nonchalant answer. “Khanto thought, as did we all, that Morgen was done for after getting injured. When he was speaking at the end, the Khan didn’t even notice Morgen reaching for his fallen sword with his uninjured arm. He let his guard down … didn’t even see it coming.”
“The Khan was not a man of honor today,” Solomon mutters. “His desire for vengeance blinded him, leading him astray from his own code.” He looks at Nazirah. “That was his downfall.”
“Thank you for bringing me back,” she says to them, glancing at Olag. “All of you.”
“I am relieved you are all right,” Solomon says. “But I should go check on Mr. Morgen’s progress.” He says something to Olag. “Please stay here and rest. I will send someone up with tea shortly.”
Nazirah smiles weakly, mumbling her thanks again. Solomon and Olag depart, leaving her alone with only Cato and stiff silence. The pain in her head has subsided to an unforgiving roar. “I can’t believe I fainted,” she says. “Must have been the heat.”
“Or the severed head,” Cato responds quietly.
“Wait until Lumi hears,” Nazirah sighs. “She’ll crucify me.”
“Probably.”
Nazirah, bumbling and ever articulate, attempts to change the subject. “Have you spoken with her at all?”
“Once, a few days ago,” he says, shrugging. “She really seems to enjoy working at the hospital, especially in Zima.”
“Really?” questions Nazirah. “I never pictured Lumi as having a wonderful bedside manner.”
Cato looks at her, impassive. “Stranger things have happened.”
Nazirah coughs. “I guess.”
“I think that after what happened to Ani,” he explains, “she finds comfort in saving the lives of others.”
“That makes sense,” Nazirah replies. “She likes you, Cato.”
“And I like her,” he says. “She’s my friend.”
“You know what I mean,” Nazirah presses. “She really likes you.”