Intermix Nation

“Exactly, Irri! Yourparents’ murderer, the man who has made your life a living hell formonths, the man you hate,” Cato emphasizes, spitting hiswords, “will probably dietomorrow. You should be jumping from the raftersof this riad with joy! But you’re not. And I don’t understandwhy.”

“It’s complicated, okay?”

“But why is it complicated?” Cato pleads. “Afew 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 toknow the answer.

Nazirah stands up and marches to the door.Cato follows her. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “But I amlearning the hard way that people are not simply good or bad. Theyare complex. They are imperfect, Cato, damaged and flawed. A man isnot defined by one thing.”

“What are you even saying?”

“I’m saying that it’scomplicated! People are complicated! I am complicated! And how I feelabout tomorrow, about this campaign, this rebellion, this situationand yes, even fucking Adamek Morgen is complicated! So I wouldappreciate 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 grabsher hands. “Look,” he says, more quietly. “I shouldn’t haveattacked you like that. I’ve just thought about you so much sinceyou left, worried how you’ve handled everything. And then I hearall of these rumors. And then I come here and see you with him. Itmessed with my mind. I’m sorry.”

Nazirah interlocks their hands, breathingdeeply. 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 tofake so many emotions all the time … it’s been a lot harder than Ithought. It’s wearing me out.”

“I know,” he sighs. “This has been difficultfor us both. But it will all be over soon. Let’s get some rest andwe’ll regroup tomorrow after … just after.”

Nazirah nods silently and Cato gives her along overdue hug. He drags it out to the point of discomfort andthen leaves. Nazirah slumps against the door, head pounding andheart aching … heart pounding and head aching. She pulls out theamnesty pendant, looks at it thoughtfully.

Why did she go outside?

Nazirah wasn’t lying when she said herfeelings about Adamek were complicated. Does she not want him todie tomorrow so that she can eventually kill him herself? Or doesshe not want him to die at all?

She’s worried it’s a bit of both.

Chapter Twenty

Nazirah walks towards the front row, tryingto extend the moment indefinitely. They have traveled, by carriage,to this circular outdoor arena on the outskirts of Solomon’sproperty. Elevated stands, hewn from thick blocks of red stone,surround an impacted field. Nazirah takes a seat to the left ofSolomon, atop a lavish cushion. Cato scoots in beside her, Aldrikin tow. The rock is hot, sunbaked and sizzling. Nazirah embracesthe burn.

She recognizes several of the Red Lords andtheir bodyguards in the throng of thousands. Word must have spreadabout the impending battle, because there is not an empty seat insight. If Nazirah extended an arm, her fingertips would skim thegritty field, the caked layers of blood and dirt, organ andsediment. They have a perfect view to watch the event … a perfectview to watch someone die.

“Solomon?” she asks curiously, “what is thisplace normally used for?”

“The same thing it is being used for today,”he replies. “These battles are fairly common throughout theDeathlands. The Salaahis have always hosted them under our code ofneutrality.”

“I see.”

But she doesn’t. Nazirah looks around thestands, disgusted. She doesn’t understand how the Deathlanders viewthis as some great festivity, as fun. All around the arena, theylaugh and ululate, hiss and spit, eat and drink and piss.

Solomon notices her revulsion. “Do not bequick to judge us,” he says. “This is a part of our culture,unpleasant as it may be. These stands are filled with intermix andnative alike, celebrating together, cheering together, just as theywork 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 youmust take the good with the bad.”

“And what if the bad is really bad?” shewhispers.

“Then maybe the good is exceptionally good,”he whispers back.

“Solomon,” Aldrik grumbles, “can we get thisstarted already?”

“Everything in due time!” he replies,struggling to be heard over the uproarious crowd. He gives Naziraha reassuring pat on the knee. “Do not fret, Miss Nation. Mr. Morgenwill be just fine.” Cato shoots Nazirah a sideways glance, whichshe ignores.

Khanto appears to Nazirah’s right, at thefar 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 afight. Khanto is bare-chested. His Deathland tattoo gleams in thesun like a calling card. Two red handprints are emblazoned on hischest. His hair is tied back in its typical braid. White war paintcovers 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 RedWesterner she ever met, the peddler with the broken mosaics andkind smile. Whatever happens, she hopes to remember Deathlanderslike that man and like Solomon. Not like the sadistic Khan beforeher. The Khan unsheathes a long sword, glittering to the hilt inrubies.

“This is a sword fight?” she questions,appalled. Nazirah doesn’t know why she never thought to askbefore.

Solomon nods grimly. “It is tradition,” hesays. “As is the beheading.”

“Beheading?”

Screaming jeers and hisses suddenly eruptfrom the stands. Nazirah snaps her head to the left. Adamek entersfrom the opposite end of the field, dressed simply, carrying asilver sword. Nazirah hasn’t seen him since last night and herheart skips a beat.

“This is very unusual.”

Nazirah is unable to take her eyes offAdamek. “What is, Solomon?”

“It is an archaic Ziman custom to weargloves when intending to kill a foe,” he answers. “It is done outof respect for the opponent, covering one’s own scratch marks. Mr.Morgen seems to follow that tradition, so I assumed he would bewearing them.”

Small bits of information click into place.In Adamek’s memory, he returned from Rafu wearing fingerlessgloves. Victoria had stared and stared at them. And Nazirah knowswhy he isn’t wearing them now. He left them behind, buried on abeach far away, never again to see the light of day.

Adamek and Khanto approach each otherslowly, meeting at the center of the field. Nazirah nervouslywrings her hands, thinking about Adamek’s dusza, his scratches, andnow the gloves. She wonders what she’s missing, what binds it alltogether. “Why is following these outdated Ziman rituals soimportant to him?” she asks Solomon.

“I would imagine it is because he trainedthere when he was younger,” he replies. “Something must have stuck.You never know which traditions you will disregard and which youwill take to heart.” Solomon nods at Olag, who is holding a largegong. Olag hands him the striker.

Nazirah grabs Solomon’s arm, stopping himfrom hitting it. “Morgen trained in Zima?” she asks quickly,remembering something else from Adamek’s memory. “Is that where themonkey is? What is that?”

“Irri, what are you doing?” Cato demands,clearly upset. He touches her shoulder, but Nazirah shrugs himoff.

“So many questions that I am unable toanswer,” Solomon sighs. “You are asking the wrong person.” Andbefore Nazirah can say anything else, Solomon rings the gongloudly, letting the fight begin.