Intermix Nation (29 page)

“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.

“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.”