Intermix Nation (34 page)

The door swings open with a crack and bang.
“Morgen!” shouts Aldrik, barging into the room. “You’d better be
decent! I don’t care what whore you have in –” He stops in his
tracks. “Here.”

In absolutely any other situation, Nazirah
would revel in seeing Aldrik’s jiggling potbelly protruding from
hastily thrown-on pajamas. She would rejoice in his eye patch,
askew, in his remaining hair shocked straight to one side of his
head. Any other time, she would bask in the look of total
astonishment on his face.

But not now.

Open-mouthed he stands, face like a fish on
land, foot hovering midair for several seconds. Solomon and Olag
are right behind him, peeping nervously through the doorway. From
the horrified look on Solomon’s face, Nazirah knows she must look
pretty roughed up. Gathering his wits, Aldrik slams his foot down
in fury. He storms across the room to Adamek, who rises to face
him. Aldrik digs a hand into his injured arm.

“You didn’t feel the need to tell me last
night?” Aldrik snarls.

“I did not.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, you traitorous
fuck,” he screams, face purple, “I’m in charge here!” Nazirah can
see the spit flying from his mouth.

“You were … preoccupied,” Adamek says.
“Nation needed rest.”

“I can see that.”

From the protruding vein in Adamek’s neck,
Nazirah knows he wants to slam Aldrik’s head into the floor, much
like he did to Ramses. His fists remain balled at his sides. “Get a
life, Slome.”

“Morgen,” Aldrik hisses, digging his hand in
deeper, “if you ever pull something like this again, I don’t care
who the fuck you are or how much money you have … no amount of
amnesty will protect you. Understand?”

Adamek nods tersely. Aldrik releases his
shoulder, wheeling around menacingly. Nazirah quickly scrambles out
of bed.

“And you!” Aldrik points a fat, aggressive
finger in her face. “The Commander said you could be a little
reckless. But you, Nation, are an absolute dolt! You honestly
thought it was smart to go on a little tryst with the late Khan’s
eldest son? You seriously hate Morgen so much you would risk your
own life and jeopardize the entire campaign, the entire rebellion,
just to spite him?”

“That’s not what happened!”

“Shut up!” he yells. “I don’t know what game
you two are playing with each other, and I honestly don’t care! Do
you understand what may have happened if Morgen killed Ramses,
destroying three generations of overlord bloodline? The Deathlands
could have revolted against us! As it is, Solomon’s healers
couldn’t help him! They had to smuggle him into Mediah last night
in order to save him! Do you understand how many strings Solomon
had to pull, how many people had to be bribed, had to die, to make
that happen? And even then, there’s only so much the Medi healers
can do … only so much they will do for a Deathlander.”

“So I was supposed to just let him rape me?”
she screams.

“You put yourself in that position!” Aldrik
retorts. “And sometimes, sacrifices need to be made!” He steps
closer. “Next time you’re that stupid, you lie on your back and
take what’s coming to you.”

“I would rather die first,” she spits.

“That may very well happen.”

Nazirah stalks out, fuming. She ignores
Solomon calling after her. Safely in her room, she hunches against
the door, breathing hard. Standing up, she rips off Adamek’s
clothes, practically running into the bathroom. Right now, all she
wants to do is get under a scalding shower and wash the memories
from the last few days away.

All of them.

Nazirah scrubs herself raw, humiliated,
infuriated, and entirely confused. Standing before the bathroom
mirror, she wipes away the condensation droplets and stares at her
battered self. Her limbs resemble a morose watercolor painting. Her
face is a portrait of abuse. It won’t inspire thousands of intermix
to join the rebellion. If anything, it will send them running for
the hills. She feels no physical pain, as promised. But there are
some aches so deep, not even MEDIcine can cure them.

Nazirah groans in resignation. She dresses
in a long sleeve shirt and dark jeans, covering what bruises she
can. Just as she finishes lacing up her boots, Nazirah hears a soft
rapping at her door. From the politeness of the knock, she knows it
is Solomon. As soon as she lets him in, he wraps his small frame
around hers. Nazirah immediately bursts into tears. She collapses
onto the plush rug, sobbing into his arms.

“This is my fault, Miss Nation,” Solomon
says, eyes glistening. Dark circles frame his eyes. “I invited
Khanto’s extended family. I should have known better. I am truly
sorry.”

Nazirah gently takes his hands. “I don’t
accept your apology, Solomon,” she says, “Because you have nothing
to apologize for. You’ve been a true friend … my only friend,
lately. I won’t let you blame yourself.”

Solomon shakes his head sadly. “I thank you
for that,” he says. “But it is a kindness I do not deserve. I was
there during the final battle between Mr. Morgen and the overlord.
I heard his last wish. I should have realized his son would try to
honor it.”

“Wait,” she says. “The Khan’s last wish was
his dying wish?” Nazirah remembers Khanto hovering over Adamek,
speaking quietly, sadistic fire in his eyes. Those words sparked
something inside Adamek, making him finally fight back. That was
considered the Khan’s last wish? Why hadn’t Adamek told her that
last night?

“Yes, Miss Nation,” Solomon murmurs. “As I
said before, there are men of honor and there are honorable men. In
those final moments, the Khan was neither.”

“What exactly did he say?”

“Very bad things,” Solomon whispers. “You
must understand. The Khan was not evil, but his desire for
vengeance locked evil inside his heart. So his final words were
rife with hatred, tarnished by rage.”

“And they were?” Nazirah presses.

Solomon clears his throat. “I believe it was
something along the lines of ‘Victoria is a pretty whore. I will
spend the rest of my life hunting down everyone you care for and
making pretty whores out of them. Starting with your intermix
bitch.’”

Nazirah is appalled. “The Khan said
that?”

“He did,” Solomon replies. “I do not believe
it was Khanto’s true intention, but his eldest boy took those words
quite literally.”

“You think?” she asks, giving a teary laugh.
Even Solomon chuckles, just a little.

#

They depart after breakfast, silent and
quick. Solomon gives Nazirah a lengthy, sniffling goodbye. Even
Olag embraces her gruffly at the door. Solomon assures Nazirah that
their friendship is only beginning, that they will see each other
again. She hopes he is right.

They travel north by train for several hours
to the furthest reaches of Solomon’s influence, exiting at the last
stop before crossing the Ziman border. Nazirah looks around the
platform, dropping her luggage in surprise.

This is still the Red West?

Rubiyat was chimerical, strange and fabulous
and wild. This landscape is barren, desolate, and empty. There is
no warmth, no dust, no snow, no spice or song, no life. It is not
quite the Deathlands, but not quite Zima either. Nazirah thinks it
is a transition area, unable to make up its mind, lacking an
identity of its own.

“Intermix,” she whispers. Nazirah wraps her
arms around her body, shivering, hopping from foot to foot. A
bitter chill hangs in the air, warning them of what lies ahead.

Aldrik marches up to her, fidgeting
uncharacteristically. He twirls his beard nervously and licks his
palm, slicking back his straggly hair. “It’s not that cold,
Nation,” he scoffs, glancing around.

Nazirah’s chattering teeth disagree. “You’re
from Zima,” she snaps, not wanting to talk to him at all. “You’re
used to this weather.”

“This isn’t even Zima,” he says, readjusting
his eye patch. “Let alone NoZima. It’s about to get a whole lot
colder.”

Nazirah only huffs in response, watching her
breath condense before her. She blows again, fascinated, but stops
when she notices Adamek staring at her in amusement. She forgot
he’s trained in Zima too.

A wiry woman, wearing a fur pelt and tall
boots, strolls up to them. Her hair is bone white, skin
translucent, eyes liquid silver. She appears harsh, with deep
angles, emaciated. Nazirah cannot tell if she is twenty or
sixty.

The woman circles Nazirah slowly, inspecting
her face, all visible bruises. “Weak,” she says.

“What was that?” Nazirah asks, offended.

She stops directly in front of Nazirah,
sterling stare. “I said … you are weak.”

“I’m not weak,” she snaps.

The woman harshly grabs Nazirah’s chin,
running a pallid finger over the bruise on her cheek. She releases
her, looking at Aldrik. “This is the face of our rebellion?”

“Luka, relax,” Aldrik says gruffly. “It’s
been a trying few days.”

“Okay,” Luka says. “I’ll relax.” She walks
up to Aldrik, inhaling deeply and spitting on the ground. “You
stink, Aldrik. I do not know which foul odor is worse … the slut or
the cheap wine.”

Nazirah glances questioningly at Adamek, who
watches their interaction in uncontained amusement. “Nation,”
Aldrik mutters, coughing, “This is Luka, Lady of Shizar … my
wife.”

“Wife?” she asks, bewildered.

“Estranged wife,” Luka corrects. She
unstraps her pelt, dropping it onto Nazirah, who struggles to hold
it up. “You are a tiny thing, aren’t you?”

Nazirah’s eyes narrow. She already loathes
this woman. “I’m big enough.”

“We will find out, won’t we?”

“Yes, you will.”

Luka ignores Nazirah. “Hello, ‘Renatus,’”
she says in a mocking tone. “I can’t say I am pleased to see you,
either.”

Adamek nods stiffly. “Luka.”

Luka leads the three of them to a large
white truck. It has fluorescent headlights, black windows, and huge
snow tires. She nods at Nazirah. “Southies first,” she says.

Nazirah scrambles inside the truck, which
she guesses will lead them safely through Zima and into Shizar. She
never imagined that the Lord of Shizar would be a Lady, much less
Aldrik’s wife. And Luka is so incredibly unpleasant. She and Aldrik
make a perfect couple.

Nazirah wraps the pelt around herself
tightly. Adamek get in beside her, while Luka and Aldrik speak
outside. “What’s her problem?” Nazirah asks quietly.

“Many things,” Adamek responds, “Chiefly,
her husband’s philandering ways.”

“She knows?”

Adamek nods. “How do you think he lost that
eye?”

“Are you serious?” she whispers,
perplexed.

“As a slum fire,” he says. “Don’t worry too
much about Luka. She truly cares about her people, but she’s a
complete witch.”

“Yeah,” Nazirah mutters. “With a capital
‘B.’” Adamek snorts. “So,” she asks, “Aldrik is Lord of
Shizar?”

“No,” Adamek replies. “Shizar is Luka’s
birthplace, her childhood home. She returned there after she
finally left him. Slome’s from SoZima.”

“Where?”

“Southern Zima,” Adamek says. “When they
first got married, it was a huge deal. The fact that he was of a
lower class was already an issue. But a NoZiman marrying a SoZiman
is practically unheard of.”

Nazirah sighs. “There’s even racism between
pure Zimans?” she asks. “Life for intermix in Zima must be
unbearable.” Adamek doesn’t respond. “How do you know her?”

Luka and Aldrik enter the truck, preventing
Adamek from answering. The engine roars to life and they begin
traveling down the desolate road. “It’s been a long time, Luka,”
Aldrik says, peering nostalgically out the window.

“Not long enough,” she snaps. “What happened
to your hair?”

“Salty wench.”

Luka focuses on Adamek. “Don’t think your
siding with this rebellion erases the past between us,” she hisses.
“I am the laughingstock of Zima because of you! Shizar took you in
when you were younger, not that we had much of a choice. Yet you
repay our kindness by killing countless NoZimans, under the guise
of maintaining the Median order? It is a pity you have amnesty;
much of Shizar is eager to see you dead, myself included.”

“I know it,” Adamek says simply.

Nazirah observes their interaction closely.
Solomon said that Adamek trained in Zima. Could it have been in
Shizar? It would make sense why Luka hates him so much.

“Aldrik,” Luka says, “what updated news of
the southie rebellion? I have heard of the turmoil in Eridies.”

Aldrik shakes his head. “You’ve heard of the
slum fire, then? And the redistribution of food? Eridian intermix
and refugees are migrating to headquarters by the thousands,
essentially seceding from the nation. The Chancellor is in an
absolute uproar. He’s dispersed troops throughout the southern half
of Eridies, trying to quell the turbulence before the rest of
Renatus realizes what’s happening.”

“What?” Nazirah cries, panicking. “Rafu is
in anarchy?” Nazirah thinks of everyone she’s left behind, of
Cander and Caria and the remaining Caals. She thinks of her small
cottage, waiting in solitude on the beach. She thinks of home.

“It’s a very recent development,” Aldrik
says. “A small battalion, spearheaded by Ivan Grigori, Lord
Grigori’s bumbling oaf of a brother. They have started a slow march
towards Krush, burning everything in their path from homes to
infrastructure. It is a scare tactic, Nation, an attempt to
intimidate us. The Commander did not want to burden you while still
on campaign.”

“Screw my brother!” Nazirah shouts angrily.
“We need to go back and help them! The rest of my family is
there!”

“If you’re talking about the Caals,” Aldrik
says, “they’ve already been relocated to the compound, yesterday
afternoon.”

“But why are we continuing with this
campaign?” she cries. “If the troops are marching to Krush, they
are clearly preparing to attack headquarters! We should return to
the compound and fight!”