Traitor to the Throne (Rebel of the Sands, #2)(22)

The twins traded a look as they seemed to silently debate the wisdom of that versus how badly they wanted to show me their new trick. Finally they nodded and contented themselves with giving me a very detailed explanation of what elephants looked like, and telling me nothing else about how Amonpour had gone. Well, I supposed we weren’t invaded yet.

Torches were lit. Music had started and with it, dancing and eating and drinking. I was grateful to know that for a few hours we wouldn’t be fighting a war. It was on nights like this in the rebel camp that I believed more than anything in what we could do. Nights when everyone stopped fighting long enough to live like we were promising the rest of Miraji it could.

*

It was a few hours after dark when I spotted him through the crowd.

I’d had enough to drink that I didn’t trust my eyes at first. He was a flash of an impression as I spun. Head tilted back, laughing, at ease, like I’d seen him a thousand times. I lost my step, staggering too close to the fire. Someone grabbed me, pulling me back before I could set Shazad’s clothes aflame. I tore myself out of the dancing and looked back, searching for him through the hazy mess of faces in the dark. But he was gone, as quick as if I’d imagined him. No, there, the crowd split.

Jin.

He was back.

He was standing on the other side of the fire, still wearing his travelling clothes, dust clinging to his dark hair. He looked like he hadn’t shaved lately, either. I had a sudden flash of the last time he’d kissed me when he’d been a few days without a razor. My heart stumbled towards him, but I caught it, fighting to right it.

I turned away quickly, before he could spot me. I wasn’t in any kind of state to face him now. My head was fuzzy with alcohol and exhaustion. I looked for Shazad. She was a few paces away, deep in conversation with Ahmed, hands moving as quick as the dance of insects around a fire as she argued something passionately. And a little tipsily. Shazad wasn’t much for unnecessary motions when she was sober. But when she caught my eye she read me like an open book all the same. I gave a small nod behind myself. Her gaze steadied. Like it did when she was trying to track down an enemy in a fight. I saw the shock register on her face the moment she spied him. Good. That meant it was really him, not some conjuring by Hala designed to torture me.

I had hoped that by the time I saw him again I’d be ready to face him head on. But now I felt split open. Like if I faced him it was all going to come spilling out in words. I wiped away the sweat on my neck. My hand came away red.

For one stupid moment, I thought seeing Jin really had split me open. No – the wound across my collarbone had reopened. The rushed patch-up job in Saramotai hadn’t fared all that well against the dancing and drinking. Shazad had called it a scratch, but right now it looked a lot like an escape to me.

Jin had run away. Fine. I could do the same.

*

The warmth and noise of the camp faded behind me as I picked my way toward the Holy Father’s tent, set far to one side of the camp. It had changed some since it’d been Bahi’s domain, the place I’d first woken up in camp, under a canopy of cloth stars. But that didn’t make it any easier when I had to step inside. Half a year since Bahi had died at my brother’s hands and I still thought I could smell burning flesh sometimes when I got too close to where he’d worked. It was no wonder Shazad steered clear. I’d known him a handful of weeks. She’d known him half her life. The new Holy Father had kept his patchwork of stars. It was the first thing I saw as I pushed my way into the tent.

A woman’s head darted up from one of the beds. I hadn’t been expecting anyone to be here. Leastways not anyone awake. In the bed nearest to the entrance Sayyida was sleeping still as the dead. Across from her was a young rebel whose name escaped me, bandaged from elbow to wrist, where there used to be a hand. He’d been dosed with something that would keep him dreaming he still had ten fingers, by the look of things. And in the third bed … I’d almost forgotten about the woman we’d brought unconscious from Saramotai. The one who’d called me by my mother’s name.

Seemed she wasn’t unconscious any more.

‘I – sorry.’ I hovered, holding one tent flap back, looking for an excuse. Only I didn’t need one. I belonged here. More than she did. So why was I shuffling my feet like I was a kid back in Dustwalk again? ‘I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m just bleeding.’ I held up my hand. Like I needed to prove it to this stranger.

‘The Holy Father isn’t here.’ The woman pushed herself to her elbows. Her eyes darted around frantically in the dim lamplight, like she was looking for some escape of her own.

‘He’s still at the celebrations.’ I finally stepped over the threshold and let the tent flap fall shut. I tried not to look at Sayyida as I pressed forward. ‘I just came for supplies.’

I’d been stuck in this tent for a good long while after I woke up from nearly dying. I could’ve drawn every corner of it from memory. Down to the iron-and-wood chest emblazoned with holy words, where the Holy Father kept his supplies.

‘It’s locked,’ the woman said as I dropped down next to the chest.

‘I know.’ I reached up for the small blue glass oil lamp that the Holy Father always kept burning when there was someone in the sick tent overnight. Nobody ought to be left to suffer and die in the dark. I felt around the base until my fingers closed around the tiny iron key that he kept lodged there. The trunk lock gave way with a satisfying click.