by Sarah Fine
The carriages pull into the municipal compound, which is surrounded by a high wall, part of which is crumbled and destroyed. Guards, mostly Noor, patrol with their rifles at the ready. As Melik lifts me from the truck, a few of the guards call to him, and I recognize them as more men from his village. The commander barks a few orders and then says something to Melik, who turns to me.
“The commander says we must give your report to the general.”
“Does he believe me?” Because Commander Kudret is staring at me with raw mistrust.
“I believe you,” Melik says. “And the general is a good leader. He will hear us out.”
“I am glad.” I am fighting fatigue so heavy that I want to ask Melik to carry me again. “What will happen afterward?” Please say I can sleep.
Melik takes my arm and leads me into the main building, all chipped paint and tile, water-stained ceilings and blank walls. “We might be able to stop the machines before they exit the canyon,” he says. He is close enough for me to feel his urgency, his need to move, to take action. I wonder if he is thinking about his little brother, Sinan, and about his mother, and about all the little boys with wooden horses who play in the dirt next to the road. “We must get a force to Dagchocuk quickly.”
“Dagchocuk,” I murmur, trying it out. “That’s your village?”
He gives me the tiniest of smiles, like he has told me a wonderful secret about himself. “It means ‘mountain’s child.’ ” He hesitantly tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear. “And you may have saved it.”
I cannot translate the mad thump of my heart when he touches me like that, when he looks at me the way he used to. I cannot reconcile it with the cold man I now know him to be. I stare straight ahead because looking into his eyes is too confusing. His hand falls away from my face. He does not try to touch me again.
We are led into a large meeting room that smells of cigarettes and sweat and strong mint tea. Maps have been laid over the tables, and several men, both Itanyai and Noor, huddle over one, arguing with rumbling, harsh voices. They go quiet when they see us, though. One of them, a tall, lean Noor man with thinning light brown hair combed away from his face, steps forward. He wears the same brown trousers, leather-wrapped boots, and plain tunic as the rest of the men, but when he comes toward us, Melik and Commander Kudret salute with their hands on their hearts.
“General Ahmet,” Melik says in Itanyai, even as Commander Kudret opens his mouth to speak. “This girl comes with news from the east that may change your strategy.”
General Ahmet arches his eyebrow, and Commander Kudret glares at Melik. The commander begins to speak to the general in Noor. While he does, the general’s gaze keeps darting to me. His appraising glances remind me that I must look frightful. My overcoat is torn and dusty, my hair is tangled, my face is dirty, and . . . my fingers travel to my throat, which is crusted with scabs and hot with swollen lines where the rope rubbed me raw. I wince as feeling returns all of a sudden, as my numbness slides away before I’m ready.
“I think the girl needs to sit down,” says the general in perfect Itanyai. He barks out an order in Noor, and a chair is shoved against the backs of my legs. I am so weak that I fall onto it with a hard thump. “There we go. Now, it’s Wen, isn’t it?”
I nod as he moves closer. Unlike the commander and so many of the rebels, the general is clean shaven. His eyes are deep set, his skin stretched tight over his skull. “My name is Ahmet, dear. Tell me why you came here.”
“I work in the Gochan Two factory in the Ring, over the Western Hills. It makes war machines.” My voice sounds tiny in this big room with these big men.
“I’m well familiar with the Ring and its war machines,” says the general. “One of those machines killed my entire family.” His hands are clasped behind his back, and his posture is straight and proud. This will be what Melik looks like in thirty years, I think, if he lives that long. “I had a son once,” says the general. He tilts his head as he gazes at Melik. “He’d be about your age if he’d lived.”
“Then you know about the machines,” I say, “and how dangerous they are.”
He nods. “But you did not come here to tell me war machines are dangerous.”
“No, sir.” My cheeks grow warm with embarrassment. “Three days ago, on the eve of First Holiday, the boss of Gochan Two received a large order of war machines from the head of the national army.”
Several of the men in the room stiffen, and I know these are the ones who speak Itanyai. But the general does not seem distressed or surprised. “How did you come into possession of this information, Wen?” he asks, his voice gentle. “Are you the boss’s secretary?”
“No, sir,” I reply. “I work for the surgeon. But I overheard.” Well, I heard only a little, but Bo heard all the details. It doesn’t feel right to implicate him, though, not here, not when he would hate me for handing over this information. “And that night the factory was supposed to close for the holiday, but it never did. It stayed open all night. Gochan Two never runs at night. They brought all of the workers to live on the compound, then closed the gates. I left just before the lockdown.”
The general leans forward, his hands still clasped behind his back. “Anything else?”
I blink at him, then look up at Melik. “That’s all I know,” I mumble.
The general claps his hands onto his cheeks and looks at me with wide dark blue eyes. “But isn’t that enough? The war machines are coming again!”
I nod. “I’m quite certain they are.”
“Taslar,” he whispers. “And you think I should pull my forces from the north and have them march to the south, to stop the machines in the canyon?”
His cadence and tone remind me of Bajram’s mocking, singsong voice as he came down the center of the dining car, stalking survivors, and I feel nearly as hunted as I did then. “I would not presume to advise you on strategy, General Ahmet.”
“General,” says Melik. “This has happened before. Given how effective it was last time, why wouldn’t the national army adopt the same strategy?”
Any friendly amusement on the general’s face disappears in a flash of rage. He snaps at Melik, Noor words so fast and sharp that I feel the stab. Melik bows his head and stares at the floor.
The general returns his attention to me. “Wen, Commander Kudret tells me you were found aboard a train full of Itanyai infantrymen. You were traveling with them.”
“I wasn’t traveling with them. We were on the same train. That is all.”
General Ahmet’s thin lips twitch upward at the corners. “What a coincidence.” He brushes invisible dust off his sleeves. “I am also given to understand that you aided in the escape of several prisoners of war who could have given us vital intelligence.”
My stomach drops, but I manage to say, “Yes, sir.”
He lets out a snort of laughter. “Thank you for your honesty. Please continue, because I’d like your frank opinion. You see, I am in possession of credible intelligence that tells me the army is putting all its resources into an invasion from the north. Along with that information came the news that a small force would infiltrate Kegu to assassinate me and my commanders in advance of that invasion.” He chuckles. “Chop off the head before destroying the body, yes?”
I hope he doesn’t expect me to smile or laugh along, because all I can do is tense against the hard chills that run down my spine. Next to me Melik has gone completely still, those vibrations of urgency and action frozen under the general’s scrutiny.
“I acted on that information,” the general continues. “I sent Commander Kudret and his men to investigate, and lo and behold, they came upon a train packed with Itanyai soldiers headed for Kegu, confirming the intelligence was good. Kudret and his forces dispatched these men, who had been sent to destroy our command center.” He smiles. “But then Kudret brings me you.”
“General Ahmet, please—” Melik begins, but shuts his mouth when Ahmet raises his hand.
“No,�
� says the general. “Let me finish. If you were in my place, Wen, what would you make of you? An Itanyai girl from the east, who travels with enemy soldiers, who protects them, who aids them in a brazen escape attempt.” He begins to pace in front of me, drifting closer with each pass. “If you were me, would you move your forces south to wait in Dagchocuk when you have viable intelligence that the enemy will roll in from the north? Would you risk a single moment or a single life based on what a pretty little Itanyai puppet had to say?”
He grabs either side of my chair and shoves his face in front of mine. “Or would you believe, as I do, that she was nothing more than an attempt at misdirection?”
“Sir, please let me speak,” says Melik, loud enough to turn every head in the room.
The general lets go of my chair and stands up. His fingers tap his thighs like he is playing a piano. “Go ahead.”
“I know this girl,” Melik says. “She is not just any girl.”
The general’s brows rise, and he looks down at me. “Continue.”
“A year ago many of the men from Dagchocuk went to work at a factory in the Ring. We were mistreated and exploited. But this girl . . .” His voice trembles and his fists clench. “This girl, she bought medicine when we were sick, and she cared for us as though we were her own people. She sold her possessions to pay our debts, and did so with no expectation of favors or repayment.”
He pulls his tunic to the side and reveals the silver line of the scar that traverses his collarbone and ends in a pinkish starburst below the curve of his shoulder. “She treated my wounds.” He points to his neck, where the faint speckled scarring from the noose tells his story. “With her own hands she cut me from the gallows. If not for her, I would be dead.”
“And you believe this story she’s telling now?” asks the general.
Melik looks at me like he used to, in the unguarded, open, warm, and wondering way that I have been dreaming of for months. It makes my heart beat and my lungs fill. It curls low and tingling in my belly. It is impossible to hate him fully when he looks at me like that. “I believe that everything she is saying is true,” he says softly, “because I have never known her to lie, and because I have always known her to put others before herself.”
“A brave girl,” murmurs the general. “And a caring one.”
“Yes,” says Melik, his voice worn thin with emotion. The sound of it makes my own throat tight.
The general purses his lips. “She would give her all for those she cares about.”
Melik nods.
“So freeing the Itanyai soldiers . . . that would fit your understanding of her perfectly.”
The general sets traps as deadly as Bo’s. As my mouth goes dry and my ears start to ring, Melik gives me a sidelong glance full of uncertainty.
The general reads it easily. “Don’t feel bad, son. She works in a factory that builds war machines, in a Noor-hating city if there ever was one. She has been drenched in their propaganda. How could she withstand such pressure?” He puts his hands on Melik’s broad shoulders. “And why wouldn’t the government want to make the most of such an asset? Especially when she has a history of consorting with the Noor? She is the perfect spy, the perfect carrier of false information.”
Melik’s brows draw together, creating a line of worry between his eyes. “But, sir, Dagchocuk is—”
The general shakes his head. “It’s a ruse, Melik. An Itanyai ruse meant to destroy us. But we won’t let it.”
“My village is completely defenseless, sir. All of the fighters who could protect it are here, with you, and—”
“As you should be. Was I not right about the attack that would come by rail?”
“You were, but—”
He claps Melik’s arms and shakes him a little. “And I’m right about this, too. We must go to the north and face the enemy there.”
Melik draws himself up. He is a few inches taller than the general, but he looks young and unsure. “And the southern villages? Will you act on this information in any way, sir?”
The general steps back, and a ghostly, blank sort of smile slips onto his face. “Oh, yes. I think I must.” He barks something in Noor, and two guards step forward.
Melik stares at him, the blood draining from his face. “Sir?”
The general folds his arms over his chest. “You heard me,” he says as the guards seize my arms and yank me from the chair. “When the forces assemble tomorrow to leave for the north, we will give them a display to fire their blood for battle, and a story that can be sent over the wires to the east, so that all will know about it.” He gives me a hard, cruel smile. “We will execute this spy in the square.”
“Melik?” I say as the guards begin to drag me backward, but his name comes out as little more than a squeak. “Please.” Save me. I don’t want to die.
Melik’s arms rise from his sides like he wants to reach for me but is being held back by invisible ropes. The general steps between us, his back to me. “Do you have an objection, soldier?”
Melik’s eyes meet mine. I can read the emotion there. I heard his words. I mean something to him. He remembers the things I have done. He knows what I have risked. And he might be young, but he is powerful. He knows how to use his words to sway people.
He squares his shoulders, and I silently cheer. He opens his mouth, and my blood sings with gratitude and admiration.
“No, sir,” he says quietly. “I have no objection.”
Chapter
Ten
MY MEAGER LAST meal of soup and biscuits lies uneaten next to the bars that look out on the corridor. Down the hall a man is crying. Perhaps the provincial governor, perhaps one of his ministers. They are all down here, in the municipal jail, watched over by rebel guards, awaiting some unknown fate. I am not like them. I know my fate. The general made sure of it. He speaks such good Itanyai.
At first I was in shock as they dragged me away from Melik, as he lifted not one finger and spoke not one word to save me. He simply watched as I struggled, as I fought for my life. And I remembered when our positions were reversed, how hard I kicked and slapped and screamed to get to him as the mob descended, how loud I shouted that he had been framed. But tonight he stood completely still. I stared into his jade-green eyes until a door slammed between us. He did not come after me.
At first I could not believe it.
But now it has been hours, and I believe it.
The certainty of death brings with it a kind of peace. My throat hurts, my ribs hurt, my mouth is dry, my eyeballs ache. And yet that pain won’t last much longer. My heart is broken, but it doesn’t matter. No one has to know.
“Mother,” I whisper. “I will see you soon.” That is a comforting thought. I’ve missed her so much. The way she brushed my hair, the way she fussed over my stitches, the way she would sing to me as I fell asleep, the way she navigated the world with her head held high. I wish I had more of her fierceness, her sharpness. Until she got sick, she seemed unstoppable, and in her shadow I felt safe. Now it’s gone, and she’s gone, and when the morning comes, I will face the glaring, blazing sun alone. “I will keep my chin up as I go, Mother. I want you to be proud.”
My fingers trail over the cold concrete floor of my cell, over the rough brick walls. When Bo was barely alive, when he was broken and in agony, my father brought him into the bowels of the factory, to a place with stone floors and stone walls like these. From that he built a kingdom. He transformed his prison into his paradise.
Now that my death is only hours away, perhaps I can do the same. I close my eyes and dream, because wishes are out of my reach. They require hope. Dreams do not; they are fueled by the unreal, the forbidden, the things that will not ever exist in this world. So I imagine a bed stuffed fat with feathers that welcomes the weight of my exhausted body. A pillow that cradles my tired head. Sheets of the softest silk that caress my skin.
A hand strokes my hair. “Why didn’t you believe in me?” Bo whispers.
I open my
eyes, and he is there, whole and beautiful. He does not wear a mask because his face is perfect, as if the accident never happened. “How can you be here?”
“You’re dreaming, of course,” he says with a smile. “Now answer my question.”
“You are far away.” I touch his left cheek, smooth and unscarred. “And you probably hate me.”
“That’s what I mean. You don’t believe in me.”
“How can you say that?”
His gaze caresses my face, the adoration so easy to read. But then his brow furrows and he frowns. “You refuse to wish.”
The crash of metal on metal jolts me awake. Shivering, I rub my eyes and sit up as a door at the end of the hall slams. My body aches from lying on the hard floor, and my mind is still swimming in the fog of dreaming. Bo was right. I should run to his altar. I need to offer him . . . something. A coin. A shell. And then I will make a wish and hope he grants it.
“What shall I wish for?” I whisper. “How shall I let you know?”
I look down at my coat and its round black buttons. Quick and thoughtless, I yank one loose. Deep inside my head I am aware that I have lost my mooring, that I’m drifting away from reality, but it doesn’t hurt and it doesn’t scare me, so I don’t try to hang on. “Here’s my offering, Ghost,” I say quietly. “Now I will tell you what I want.”
But then I pause. What do I want? Not Melik, not the boy who took everything, who stayed just close enough to my heart that he was able to tear it from my hands and toss it into the fire along with the rest of me. No, I will not wish for him. I will not dream of him either. His dominion inside my mind is over.
No, I will wish for something else. “Please comfort Father,” I say, tears forming instantly as I think of my father, his careworn face, his eyes dark and deep with grief and love. If my mother was fierce, my father is constant and steady. His love is less like a protective shadow and more like a path, level and clear, showing me the way to go, the things in this life that matter. Even though I left him behind, I’ve tried to keep walking it, and as I go to the gallows, I will imagine that path beneath my feet. “But please, if I die in an ugly way, never let him know. Let him believe it was quick and painless, and let him think I did not have time to cry.”