Intermix Nation (31 page)

“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.

She is striking.

Nazirah sees it all, but none of it matters.
What matters is she has never looked this much like Riva before in
her life. She touches her face, speechless. Having her mother here,
with her in this small way, means more to Nazirah than beauty ever
could.

“I have grandson for you,” Padmakali says
seriously. Nazirah laughs, the tinkling of bells. From the final
box, Padmini removes a large gold bangle. She slips it on Nazirah’s
arm, right above the bracelet from her first trip to the
Deathlands. It’s embellished with a dozen red suns, inlaid with
rubies. Padmini says something to Nazirah, happily grabbing her
wrist. “Padmini is saying you now are Deathlander too,” Padmakali
translates. “You are having the red sun like us.”

Nazirah is touched by Padmini’s heartfelt
words. She begins tearing up, but Padmakali shouts at her “Not to
be ruining the makeup.” Nazirah hugs those three nesting dolls
tightly before they leave, feeling closer to them than she dreamed
possible when they first marched through her door. She walks to the
mirror again, tucking the pendant out of sight. Standing before the
mirror, she puts a slow hand up to her reflection. Nazirah traces
the lines of her face, of Riva’s face, heart-shaped and
honey-eyed.

Nazirah finds herself in that mirror. She
may look like Riva, but she is not Riva. She is not Kasimir. She is
born of them, but entirely her own.

She is Nazirah Nation reborn.

There is soft rapping at her door. Behind it
is Olag, dressed in a suit with diamond studs in each ear. “You’re
looking especially dapper tonight,” Nazirah says, taking Olag’s
proffered arm. Nazirah doesn’t think he understands her, but Olag
flashes the first real smile she’s seen him wear. Nazirah returns
the smile, letting him lead her to the celebration.

#

The party is lively and intimate, like
Solomon promised. But it is nothing like Nazirah expected. For the
past two days, Nazirah assumed Solomon’s celebration would resemble
Victoria’s gala. That party was luxurious and strange, uptight and
stuffy. But this is the Deathlands, not Mediah.

She should have known better.

The first thing Nazirah notices is the
music. It is throbbing, pulsating, intoxicating. Cymbals crash.
Camel leather guitars strum, vibrating deeply. Lutes serenade.
Drums bang. Men play the cane flute, while women sing loudly.
Partygoers everywhere chant in Deathlandic, crooning and
rhythmically handclapping. They sway their hips, gyrating,
alternating between sharp and flowing movements. Some people jump
acrobatically to the music in a circle. Veiled women with bright
saris and bare midriffs belly dance through the crowd. People smoke
hookah in a corner.

Solomon sees her, rises in greeting. “Look
at you!” he exclaims. “You are exquisite, the jewel of
Renatus!”

Nazirah blushes. “Thanks for lending me the
dress and bracelet, Solomon,” she says. “They’re absolutely
gorgeous.”

“You are mistaken,” he replies kindly. “The
gold will fade and the lace will unravel. You are the true beauty.
And they are yours to keep. Mementos of your time here.”

Nazirah is floored. “Are you sure?” she
asks.

“Of course I am!” he says, guiding her
through the crowd. “How do you like the festivities?”

“They’re amazing!” Nazirah shouts,
struggling to be heard over the music. “I’ve never seen anything
like this before.”

“A truly Deathlandic event!” he cries,
leading her to a large table with the rest of her campaign members.
“As promised!”

Nazirah spots Adamek speaking to a
dark-skinned beauty with purple lips and gold bangles up her arms.
He is dressed in a metallic sharkskin suit with an open white
shirt. Aldrik, bouncing an obscenely young ingénue on his lap,
leans over and says something to him. Adamek laughs. Nazirah has
never seen him look so relaxed, so approachable before. Several
exotic girls, and quite a few boys, gather around him like moths
drawn to a flame. Because he is the flame, the fire everyone wants
to be burned by.

Nazirah included.

Aldrik kisses along the girl’s neck,
glancing at Nazirah casually. He blinks his one eye several times
before recognizing her. “Good God, Nation!” he cries drunkenly.
“You mean there’s actually a girl under that harpy exterior?”

Adamek looks up, their eyes lock. Nazirah
watches him follow the curves of her dress all the way down and
back up again. The girl with the purple lips continues chattering
away, touching his arm intently. But his focus isn’t on her
anymore. Nazirah sits down with her back to all of them.

This is a very dangerous game she’s playing.
And if there’s anything Nazirah hates more than losing, it’s being
in over her head.

She watches the crowd for hours, mesmerized,
craving to join the swaying mass. The partygoers dance
individually, steps uncoordinated, all of them to their own
rhythms. But together, they somehow move as one, part of something
more than themselves. Together they are whole, carefree,
careless.

She wants that feeling.

“Nation.”

Adamek sits down beside her, his jacket now
removed. He hands Nazirah a drink, which she sips without a second
thought. “Tequilux?” she asks curiously.

Adamek smirks. “That’s your drink,
right?”

“Thanks.”

“Sure,” he says, shrugging.

“So,” Nazirah asks, “how does this compare
to a Medi party?” She already knows, of course. But she’s curious
what he will say.

Adamek stares ahead. “Medis are all about
showing off,” he says. “It’s about having that something, that
hook, which no one else has.”

Like tigers, perhaps.

“And this?”

“This is about the vibe,” he says, “the
experience … the feeling.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.” He
looks at her oddly, but she is lost in thought. “I always wanted to
come here,” she says. “When I was little, Kasimir brought home a
Deathlandic peddler for dinner. I remember listening to his
stories, wanting to experience it all for myself.” She sighs. “But
he was always too afraid to take me.”

Adamek gives a short, mirthless laugh.
“Sounds nice,” he says, “having a father who cares.”

“Cared,” she corrects automatically.

“Cared.”

Nazirah glances at him, but he remains
fixated on the crowd, eyes glazed over. Turning her attention to
the table, she finds that Aldrik is gone … probably to bed with
that infant. “Disgusting,” she mutters.

Adamek also focuses on the empty space over
her shoulder. “Yes, he is.”

“Do you think anyone here really believes
we’re together?”

“Probably more than we think.”

“But we hate each other.”

“Cheers to that,” he replies, clinking his
glass with hers and taking a sip. “Half the time I’m around you,
all I want to do is strangle you with my bare hands.”

“And the other half?”

He looks at her fully now. Nazirah is
acutely aware that she is entering forbidden territory.

“Miss Nation.”

They glance up at the new, deep voice.
Standing before them is a handsome, tall man. He is dark, with kind
eyes, and a dazzling white smile. He looks strangely familiar,
although Nazirah knows she’s never met him before.

“Nazirah, please.” She extends a hand to
him, which he kisses softly. He’s completely disarming and Nazirah
is grateful for the distraction.

“Nazirah,” the man corrects. “Your face is
legendary throughout our humble territory. But you are somehow even
more beautiful in person.”

Nazirah flushes. “What is your name?” she
asks.

“I am Ramses,” he says, “son of the late
Khan.” Adamek stiffens beside her, but Ramses pays him no notice.
“Would you do me the great, undeserved honor of a dance?”

“Of course,” she says, standing up and
setting her drink down. Nazirah is more than eager to get away from
Adamek and their escalating conversation. Ramses escorts Nazirah
into the throng of bodies. He gently grabs her hands and they begin
dancing to a lively tune. Nazirah tries to follow the people around
her, laughing as she stumbles, unfamiliar with the steps that come
naturally to them. Ramses grins, teaching her the moves
patiently.

“You’re a quick learner,” he says, dipping
her effortlessly.

“I have a good instructor.”

A slower melody begins playing as a female
soloist chants ethereally. Ramses wraps two firm hands around
Nazirah’s tiny waist. “We have to get a bit closer,” he says,
pulling her towards him. Nazirah hesitantly places her head onto
his chest, relaxing after a moment. It feels nice, platonic, and
safe.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Ramses,” she says
softly, knowing his grief all too well. She has felt it too, caused
by the same person.

“It is quite all right, Nazirah,” he
replies. “The Khan and I were not especially close. I was but one
of dozens of his progeny.”

“But he was still your father.”

Nazirah recalls how she felt right after her
parents died. She locked herself in her new room at the compound,
not speaking to anyone, not eating, barely living. She didn’t come
out for days, except to attend their funeral. She thinks Ramses
might still be in denial.

“We deal with loss differently than in other
territories,” he says. “Deathlanders do not dwell on the tragedy of
death, but rather celebrate the joy of life.”

A worrying thought pops into Nazirah’s head.
“You’re not going to challenge Morgen to a battle, are you?”

Ramses laughs. “I am not,” he says. “That
was Khanto’s burden, what Bantu asked to be done in his honor.
Although I am not sure my grandfather imagined it turning out quite
that way.” He is serious now. “No, I must pay tribute to my father
differently.”

“How?”

“Honoring his last wish,” Ramses
replies.

Nazirah gets the feeling he doesn’t want to
talk anymore about it, so she drops the subject. The party is dying
down. Nazirah spots Adamek sitting exactly where she left him,
watching them closely. She turns her attention back to Ramses. “I
should probably head back,” she says, smiling. “But thanks for the
dance.”

His grip on her waist tightens. “Nazirah,”
Ramses says, “I know that you are with Adamek Morgen.” His eyes
flash briefly. “And that he cares for you. But before you return to
him, would you be gracious enough to accompany me for a walk in the
gardens? They are truly stunning at night.”