Rebel of the Sands (Rebel of the Sands, #1)(14)

“Ah.” Looking at him closer now, I could see he was clutching the counter to stay upright. “I’d almost forgotten about that.”





four


We sat on the floor behind the counter so that the foreigner could hide if someone came in. The blood was mostly dry, and his shirt was sticking to his skin. I had to cut it off him with his knife. His shoulders were broad and all hard muscles; they rose and fell with shallow breaths as I peeled away the ruined fabric. I was close enough to smell the smoke of last night’s fire on him.

I’d grabbed a bottle of liquor off the shelf. The foreigner sat perfectly still as I doused a clean corner of his shirt in the spirit and wiped it across his skin. We had more liquor to spare than water.

“You shouldn’t be helping me, you know,” he said after a moment. “Didn’t you hear the righteous Commander Naguib? I’m dangerous.”

I snorted. “Yeah, well, so is he.” It was as much truth as I could give without telling him the Blue-Eyed Bandit owed him a favor. “Besides”—my hand darted up—“I’ve got the knife.” He froze, feeling the blade against his neck. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. And then he laughed.

“So you do.” When he spoke, his skin scraped across the edge of the knife like a dangerously close shave. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know you won’t.” I tried to make it sound like a warning as I went back to work on his shoulder. I dug the tip of the knife into his skin. His muscles bunched under my hand, but he didn’t cry out.

As I tried to get under the bullet, I noticed a tattoo inked on his ribs. I traced the edge with the tips of my fingers. His muscles tensed under my hand, sending shivers all the way through my arm.

“It’s a seagull.” When he spoke, the inked bird moved under my fingertips. “It was the name of the first ship I ever served on. The Black Seagull. It seemed like a grand idea at the time.”

“What were you doing on a ship?”

“Sailing.” I could feel the restlessness building below my fingers. He let out a long breath that seemed to make the bird fly. I pulled my hand away and felt him ease.

“I don’t think the bullet tore any muscles in your shoulder,” I said, moving the knife. “Hold still.” I leaned my elbows into his sides for support. He had a tattoo of a compass across his other shoulder; it rose and fell against me as he breathed heavily. The bullet pinged to the ground and blood started to gush freely. I pressed the ruined shirt over it quickly with one hand. “You need stitches.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe, but you’ll be better with stitches.”

He laughed, but it didn’t sound easy. “You’ve had medical training, then?”

“No,” I said, pressing the rag soaked in liquor against his back harder than I needed to. I grabbed a spool of ugly yellow thread and a needle off the shelf. “But you don’t grow up round these parts without seeing a few dozen people get shot.”

“I didn’t think there were more than a few dozen people in this town.”

“Exactly,” I said, and though I couldn’t see his face, I knew he was smiling. His fingernails dug into the floor as the needle slid into his skin. A question was building like an itch, and I had to ask. “So how did you commit treason against the Sultan when you’re not even from Miraji?”

“I was born here,” he said after a moment. He knew that wasn’t what I’d been asking. What kind of treason can a mercenary possibly commit? The question was on the tip of my tongue.

“You don’t look it,” I said instead.

“Not here. In Izman.” Mention of the capital struck too close to the bone just now, when I’d been so close to getting there last night. “Though my mother was from a country called Xicha. That’s where I lived most of my life.”

“What’s it like there?”

He was silent, and I was sure he wasn’t going to tell me.

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen a rainstorm,” he said, “so you don’t know that kind of heavy air that clings to your skin and gets its fingers under your clothes.” My eyes went to my own fingers against his naked back; his shoulders rose and fell as he spoke. “The air in Xicha is like that all the time. And everything is as green and alive as this country is dry and dead. The bamboo grows so fast, it might uproot houses someday. Even in the city. Like it’s trying to take the ground we’ve built on back from us. And it’s so hot, the women walk around with paper fans colorful enough to make the spirits jealous. We used to cool off by jumping in the sea fully clothed and trying not to get hit by any ships. Ships from all over the world. Albish ones with naked sea maids carved into them, and Sves ones built against the cold. And Xichian ones that looked like dragons, carved out of a single tree. Some of the trees in Xicha are taller than the towers in Izman.”

“Don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what you’re doing here?” I asked. “If Xicha is so wonderful?”

“Don’t suppose I am,” he replied, wincing as the needle went through his skin. “Don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what made you lie to our friend Commander Naguib Al’Oman for me?”

“Don’t suppose so.” My needle paused in his skin. “Naguib Al’Oman?” They were both common names, but all the same. “He’s the Sultan’s son?”