“Is that in Zima?” she asks.
“Yes,” he grumbles. “Shizar is in Zima.” He coughs. “We’re staying with our ally there, Luka. Shizar is Luka’s Lordship.”
“Lordship?”
“Did you never attend Territory History?” Aldrik snaps. “Ever? Or is the village idiot act not an act after all?”
Solomon quickly intervenes. “In Zima, every Lord presides over a Lordship,” he says. “Think of it as a small, self-contained city. Zima has the harshest climate in the country. Lordships are how the citizens survive, in a sort of feudal system. Shizar is the Lordship farthest North. We are hoping you will be safest there, since the Medis have the least access to it.”
“Got it.” Nazirah sighs, remembering how dangerous the rest of campaign will be. Sulking over Cato made Nazirah temporarily forget how dead the Chancellor wants her.
Solomon suddenly claps his hands. “That reminds me,” he says, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I have a special announcement to make! I was waiting until Miss Nation was in better spirits to tell the three of you together.”
“Tell us what?” Aldrik asks suspiciously.
“Tomorrow night,” Solomon says, “the evening before you depart Rubiyat, I will be throwing a goodbye party here in your honor.” Solomon sees Aldrik’s startled face, tries to reassure him. “Do not worry, everything is already planned! I have only invited a few of our allies, the Red Lords and their families. It will help us maintain our accord. And, of course, celebrate Mr. Morgen’s win.”
Aldrik immediately starts arguing with Solomon, citing the long journey they’ll have the following morning and the potential threats to security. Solomon will hear none of it. They begin a heated debate over the breakfast table, which Nazirah promptly ignores. Under normal circumstances, a party would be nice. But she is in no mood for celebration.
Nazirah fondly remembers the parties in Rafu … a few stolen bottles of tequilux, the old boardwalk, dancing on the beach with only the stars for chaperones. She longs for something like that again. But thinking of those endless nights, those sanguine mornings … it hurts too much.
“You look like shit, Nation,” Adamek says from across the table, grabbing some bread.
“You don’t look so hot yourself,” Nazirah retorts, unfazed.
“Caal left in quite the rush.”
“I’ll tell him you miss him.”
“What happened?” he asks. “Didn’t feel like putting out?”
His words are crude, but his tone is unusually lighthearted. Like he’s saying it just for the sake of saying it. Like he’s trying for some semblance of normalcy, which would be the two of them arguing. Nazirah briefly glances at Aldrik and Solomon, still quarrelling at the head of the table.
“No, he didn’t.”
Nazirah flips his words around in a bored voice. She casually reaches for some yogurt. Adamek gets a rare smile on his face, cheeks dimpling. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”
Nazirah thinks she may have been better off eating in her room after all. She excuses herself from the table, rising swiftly. Adamek looks at her curiously. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she says before leaving.
#
Nazirah spends the day in her room, packing or reading on the balcony. She tries to stay occupied, keep her thoughts off of Cato. Although Nazirah hates to admit it, he is right about a lot. She is a tease, even when she doesn’t mean to be. Nazirah knew how he felt, knew what buttons to press. She led him on with her silence, and Cato is understandably fed up. Nazirah knows she has hurt him. But he has hurt her too! His disgusting words, the things he accused her of! She doesn’t know how they move forward from here.
The night of the party, Nazirah hears pounding at her door. Opening it reveals three women wearing crimson headscarves, clearly Solomon’s servants. Nazirah quickly jumps aside as they schlep in an assortment of boxes, oils, and jewels.
“Hello,” the oldest woman, hunched over, says in a heavy accent. She’s as wide around the middle as she is tall. “I Padmakali.” She points to a middle-aged woman beside her. “This my daughter, Padmalaya.” She then points to the youngest, rail thin girl. “Granddaughter, Padmini.”
“I’m Nazirah,” she says, knowing she will never remember their names. “Nice to meet you … all.”
“Here.” Padmakali pushes Nazirah towards the middle of the room.
“What are you doing?” Nazirah asks the granddaughter.
“They are not speaking the language of you,” Padmakali tells her harshly. “Master Salaahi is asking that us arrange you.”
“For the party?”
Padmakali nods, says, “Strip.”
She looks at Nazirah expectantly, sausage fingers poised and waiting. Nazirah blushes red as dust, but pulls off her clothes and hands them to Padmakali. Padmakali nods, noticing the amnesty pendant around Nazirah’s neck. She gestures for Nazirah to remove it as well, but Nazirah shakes her head.
“I’d rather keep it on, if that’s all right.”
“Is fine.”
Much to Nazirah’s chagrin, besides overseeing, large Padmakali is also responsible for waxing, lotioning, and oiling. “This is really … ow… unnecessary … ow.” Nazirah grimaces as Padmakali relentlessly tweezes and plucks every last stray hair.
“No sense,” Padmakali says, retrieving lace undergarments from one of the boxes. Nazirah yanks them on quickly, eager to wear something besides skin. “Master Salaahi is wanting you have full luxury treatment.”
She forces Nazirah into a chair, barking at her daughter. Padmalaya hurries into the bathroom. She fills a basin of water, adding scented oils, then rushes back and begins vigorously washing Nazirah’s hair, scrubbing and yanking and tugging. Padmini takes out a palette and several brushes, skillfully mixing Nazirah’s makeup.
Three generations of Padmas hover around Nazirah like nesting dolls, relentless lotus flowers of birth and rebirth. Padmalaya curls Nazirah’s long hair slightly, braids some of it, lets the rest fall in thick copper waves down her back. Padmini applies the makeup, concentrating hard even with her grandmother shouting in her ear. She straightens up, grabbing Nazirah’s wrist and spraying it with perfume that makes Nazirah cough. Padmini glances at Nazirah’s arm strangely and says something to her grandmother. Nazirah doesn’t need a translator to understand what she asks.
“No tattoo,” Nazirah says bluntly. “Intermix.”
Padmakali slaps Padmini’s arm, scolding her. Padmini looks away, abashed. Nazirah is reminded that even in the Red West, where intermix probably have the most freedom out of all the territories, she is still considered subservient to everyone else. Nazirah touches her arm self-consciously.
“Most sorries, Nazirah,” Padmakali says. “Padmini is not of the badness. We are not often pampering intermix.”
“It’s okay,” she says. “I know she didn’t mean anything by it.”
Padmalaya pulls out Nazirah’s dress and the three lotuses help her into it. It’s made entirely of scarlet lace, cinching at the waist and flowing freely around her feet. Long sleeves elegantly cuff the wrist. There’s a high neckline in front, while the back plunges open, stopping just above the base of Nazirah’s spine. It’s breathtaking and Nazirah knows it probably cost more than Kasimir made in his most productive years combined.
Padmini enviously hands Nazirah a pair of nude heels. Nazirah slips them on, wobbling slightly. Clearly impressed with their handiwork, they push Nazirah towards the floor-length mirror.
Nazirah spins happily in the dress, whipping it up behind her like a dust storm. “Thank you so much,” she tells them honestly. “It’s beautiful. I could never do it justice.”
Padmakali shakes her head, forcing Nazirah to really look at herself in the mirror. Her hair is styled similarly to Riva’s. Her skin is luminous, cheekbones prominent and rosy from Padmini’s delicate touch. Her eyes are heavily lined with kohl, lashes long and thick, bringing out the natural flecks of gold in her irises. Her lips are nude, full.