“Toothless.”
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.