Rebel of the Sands (8 page)

There was another crash and I reached for a gun that wasn't there as Jin turned around, already tensing for a fight. The card table across the room was overturned, and the man in the green sheema was on the ground, clutching a bloody nose.

I had a moment of distraction to decide.

If I stayed with Jin, I wasn't getting to Izman. He'd left me behind once already and he could just as easily do it again.

Besides, we only had one Buraqi.

I fished out the bottle Tamid had given me. The pills crushed up easily in my fingers and I put them straight into Jin's drink. My fingers were back around my own glass by the time the fight got broken up and Jin faced me again.

I watched him drain his drink.

I
'd never seen so many people in my whole life as there were outside the train station in Juniper City. On my left, a man with a gray beard shouted through the steam rising from his stall as he shoved more skewers of meat into the fire; on the other side, a woman dressed in gold and bells sang with every step. The sound of someone preaching carried over the ruckus. A Holy Father stood on a small platform, his hands raised, the twin circular tattoos on each palm facing the crowd. The rise and fall of his voice as he preached reminded me of Tamid. A shot of guilt went through me thinking of my friend. I'd left him bleeding in the sand to keep myself alive.

The Holy Father dipped his hands at the end of each prayer, blessing the crowd huddled around his feet. Forgiving us our sins.

The stream of bodies pushed me past him through the tail end of the souk, under the soot-stained archway. Women carrying bundles on their heads slipped by me; men dragging trunks twice their size crowded me forward.

I moved with the crush of bodies into the shade of the station, stumbling as I took in the sight before me. I'd heard about trains, but I hadn't imagined this. The huge black-and-gold beast stretched out across the station like some monster out of the old stories, breathing black smoke into the dirty glass dome. The crowd jostled toward it.

“Ticket?” A man in a pale yellow vest and cap reached out his hand, looking bored.

I tried to keep my fingers from clinging to the ticket as I handed it over. It had taken me two days to get from Sazi to Juniper City, even on the Buraqi. It hadn't exactly helped that the compass I'd stolen from Jin while he was unconscious, along with half his supplies, was broken and steered me the wrong way, making me wait for sunrise to find my way again.

I'd reached the city in time to get ripped off selling the Buraqi for half of what it was worth. But half was better than nothing. And more importantly, it was enough to buy a ticket straight to Izman. Seeing the name printed in black ink on yellow paper made it seem like just another story in my fingers, ready to slip away at any second. I'd hidden the ticket under the mattress of the room I'd rented and checked it over and over again until I decided it was easier to just keep it against my skin.

The ticket man frowned at me, and I ran my palms over
my new clothes self-consciously. I didn't pass for a boy quite so easily in daylight, but I had to try anyhow. The ugly bruise on my cheek had gone down to a yellow-green that just peeked over the red sheema, and my new clothes were loose in the right places—what was left of my money and some spare Xichian coins and the battered compass that Jin had left jangling around the saddlebags were stuffed into the wraps around my middle that hid my waist. All it'd take was someone looking for too long to see through my disguise. But even a poor imitation of a boy was better than a girl traveling on her own.

I tugged the edge of the shirt where it covered the new gun I'd bought with the Buraqi money. I wouldn't be able to fight my way onto the train, but I might be able to outrun men in yellow caps if I needed to.

I could be about to find out.

“This ticket is first class.” He shook it at me like a mother wagging a finger.

“Oh,” I said, because I didn't know what he was talking about. I made my fingers go still. “Yes?”

For a second I was sure he was going to accuse me of stealing the ticket. Whatever first class was, I was guessing I didn't look it. Especially with my busted-up cheek and the cut above my eyebrow. “You need to head to the front of the train for first class.” He shoved the ticket back at me and pointed farther up the metal beast, somewhere past the churning crowds.

“Oh,” I said again. I took the ticket back and pressed through the crush of people, narrowly dodging a man
wheeling a covered cage from which I could hear squawking, even over the din.

The man who'd sold me the ticket had asked if I wanted a compartment to myself and I'd said yes. It'd seemed safer, and I didn't think anything of handing over the money he asked. Now I wondered if I might have more than twenty fouza to my name if I'd been smarter.

I saw a roped-off area where folks in fine-spun khalats and colorful sheemas waited, holding yellow tickets like mine. My own clothes were new, but they were just desert clothes. My whole life was in a bag slung over my shoulder. Not even much of a life. Extra bullets, a change of clothes. More like survival. Everybody else looked like they could be carrying a dozen lives in their heavily loaded trunks.

I caught a man with a braided beard giving me a once-over out of the corner of his eye and I got the feeling I knew what the pair of girls behind me were stifling laughs over. I wasn't sure if the man who took my ticket was raising his eyebrows at my appearance or if that was just where they sat on his forehead. He took the ticket all the same, tearing it neatly before handing it back. My neck burning, I climbed the metal steps as fast as I could manage without looking like I was getting away with something.

I'd never seen anything like the inside of the train either. A long corridor with carpets the color of new blood shot in a straight line through the carriage, polished metal doors opening off it, each with glass windows hung with red curtains.

And I thought Tamid's family had money.

The giggling girls pushed past me with a huff of air through their muslin veils. The man trailing behind them spat a sharp-tongued “Excuse me” that made me think he wasn't excusing anyone at all. I ducked my head and wound up looking at the colorful hems of their khalats sweeping across the thick carpet and down the hall.

I stayed a few feet behind the group until I found a compartment whose number matched the one inked onto my ticket. I opened the door as carefully as the time I got dared to find out if the snake behind the school was dead or just sleeping. Turned out my mother knew how to get out snake poison. But this, this wasn't something she would've known anything about.

I locked the compartment door safely shut and folded myself into the bed, pulling off my sheema. I reached a hand out to run across the impossibly clean pillow, but my fingers curled back without my meaning them to. I'd bathed that morning. At proper baths, too. I'd poured oil into my hair and dragged a comb through it with my head under water until it wasn't matted anymore. The steam had wound its way around the swirling tiled patterns of the bath, making my hair curl out. But I still felt like I was going to track the whole desert in with me, like the sand was too deep in my skin after nearly seventeen years.

A whistle split my ears. An alarm? I scrambled to my feet and backed to the other side of the room, gun already in my hand, pointing at the door. I waited for it to fly open.

For two long heartbeats nothing happened, though
there was a lot of commotion outside. And then the whole room lurched sideways. I pitched so hard to the right that I sat down hard on the bed, narrowly keeping my finger from hitting the trigger. I clutched the bed while the train stammered a few more times and then started to move, smoother now.

I hadn't really thought about what riding a train would feel like—the same as riding a horse, I'd figured. I was sure wrong on that count. I sat on the bed, feeling the train pick up speed for a few moments before I got to my feet. All I could see out of the window was black smoke filling the station.

Then, in a violent heave, we broke free. Smoke rushed up, sucked toward the desert sky. My window cleared.

I rested my forehead against the glass. For once the desert didn't seem like it went on forever. The horizon was racing up. A grin stretched the bruise on my cheek painfully.

I was on my way to Izman.

•   •   •

I LAY ON
the soft bed, being rocked pleasantly by the motion of the train. The room darkened as the sun made its way from one side of the carriage to the other. Eventually my stomach started to growl hungrily.

I ignored it as long as I could. But it was a week's journey to Izman. I'd have to leave my compartment sooner or later.

The train was bustling when I stepped outside. Women in fine clothes brushed by me in the corridors and men stood laughing and slapping one another on the back with hands so heavy with rings, it was a wonder they could hold them up. I caught myself dragging my hand across the thick red wallpaper as I made my way down the train. I shoved my hand in my pocket. That wasn't the gesture of someone who belonged in first class.

I passed out of the sleeping area and into a carriage that seemed to be a bar. Nothing like the dark dusty one in Sazi, this one was blazing with light, the ceiling stained dark with thick pipe smoke. Laughter exploded among a group of men over a card table as I passed. Beyond it was a dining carriage. I hovered uncertainly in the doorway for a moment before a man in a uniform came and ushered me to a table.

Dark leather gave way under my back as I settled uneasily in a chair by the window. The chair squeaked below me every time I shifted. A woman at the next table looked up at the noise as I tried to make myself comfortable, sitting as still as I could. Being by myself, surrounded by strangers instead of the folks I'd known my whole life—I was still getting used to it. Best not to draw attention. If anyone looked my way they might wonder why there was a scruffy boy still wrapped in his sheema eating among their glittering clothes.

Colorfully painted plates piled high with food were laid out for me. I eased my sheema away from my mouth, keeping an eye on anyone who might be watching too closely.
But everybody else was looking at their own food. I kept my head down as I shoveled a forkful into my mouth. I almost gagged with surprise on the huge bite. Spices like these were worth a month's wages in Dustwalk. I chewed and swallowed before downing the glass of arak that'd been set out for me.

The second, smaller bite was better, since I was expecting it. Soon I was shoveling mouthfuls in fast. I was scraping the fork along the pattern of the plate when they came and took it away.

One plate followed another. By the time I licked the last of the honey from the baklava off my fingers, I was full to bursting. And tired.

Sleeping away the afternoon heat wasn't a luxury we could afford in Dustwalk. But I'd seen it done in Sazi, when the streets emptied of the wealthy, who drew in behind their cool walls. It looked like they honored the tradition here. Folks were slipping back to their own compartments or settling back on the cushions in the dining carriage to close their eyes.

I retreated to my own compartment, kicking the door shut behind me. I tugged off my boots and collapsed on top of the clean linens. In a week we'd be in Izman. By then, I'd have to figure out how to eat and dress and act like I was supposed to in the big city. Until then, though, I could do whatever the hell I wanted.

I
woke in the dark. The thin light that still lingered outside the curtains of my compartment told me the sun had only just set. The full weight of the desert night hadn't descended yet. Folks would just be waking up again to eat dinner.

The meal was still resting heavy in my stomach, and the jolting of the train wasn't helping. The compartment felt close and hot, even after the sun set. I needed clean air. I tried the window but it was sealed shut, as best I could figure from scrabbling at the edges.

I'd bought a few changes of clothes in Juniper City. I pulled on a fresh shirt, reveling in the cool against my skin, before venturing out into the hall. It was quiet, the carriage still heavy with the afternoon's sleep. Though
some of the stifled noises through doors suggested a few folks doing something other than resting. I pulled the nearest window open as far as it would give and let the cooling desert air rush in.

Since the hallway was empty, I pulled my sheema free so my face was exposed as I leaned my forehead against the glass pane. I stayed there, taking deep breaths, settling the rich food in my stomach. The rush of the air, like I was running toward Izman, toward adventure, faster than ever, made me feel that I was finally moving.

A door clattered open behind me. My hand was halfway to pulling my sheema up when I caught sight of a familiar face.

I froze like a fox caught in the henhouse.

Stepping through the door, head tipped forward as she fastened the top button of a new pink-and-yellow khalat, tousled black hair tumbling over her shoulders, was Shira. The sight of her was so familiar that it stuck out like a rusty barb here in this new place.

She didn't see me. She took another step without looking, expecting the world to get out of her way as usual. Her step took her nearly straight into me. Only then did she look up. She was close enough that I could see the biting comment shaping in her mouth. Her lips parted in a surprised
O
and then split into a jackal's smile.

“Cousin.”

I had my gun pointed at her face before the end of the word left her mouth. “Don't scream.” I was already looking for an escape.

“Why would I?” There was mocking in her voice as she clasped her hands behind her back, leaning idly against the wall. “You're not going to shoot me.”

“How do you figure?” I shifted my finger on the trigger.

“It's a sin to kill your own flesh and blood.” She made a pouting face. “See, I paid attention in prayers.”

“What are you doing here, Shira?” I checked over my shoulder as quick as I could without taking my eyes off her long enough for her to get up to anything. Somebody might stumble through any moment and see us.

She rolled her eyes skyward. “Did you honestly think you were the only one who wanted a life outside that useless little town?” Truth be told, I'd never given a moment of thought to what Shira might want. I'd reckoned she was the same as anyone, stupidly content to stay in Dustwalk. “Fazim and I used to talk about a future where we were rich and we had all the things we wanted in the world. Only it seems Fazim didn't much care about who got him rich in the end.” There was still a mark on my wrist where Fazim had grabbed me. “So I'm making my fortune without him. And that charming young commander who busted up your face was nice enough to take me with him. I knew you'd be here, cousin.”

“How could you know that?”

She raised one shoulder coyly. “Well, you don't sleep three feet from someone and not know a thing or two.” That was true. I knew Shira liked wearing yellow, hated the taste of pickled lemons, and played with her hair when she was lying. And Shira knew I'd head for Izman if I ever
got out of Dustwalk. But there was no way in hell or earth she could know I'd be on this train.

Even if there was only one train a month.

“So what does that get you?” I asked. “Knowing that?”

“I'll show you, cousin.” She smiled like we were both in on some big joke. And then she took a deep lungful of air and screamed.

Before I could run, the door of the nearest compartment crashed open in answer, spilling Naguib out. It was the same one Shira had just tiptoed out of. Naguib looked younger with his uniform jacket missing, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat. His eyes went wide when he saw me.

“Help! I found her!” Shira screeched. “The traitor can't be far. Help!” I wasted a precious second wishing a good lie would come.

My tongue failed me.

My legs couldn't afford to.

I grabbed Shira and moved at the same moment the train pitched sideways. The force sent Shira careening backward into the young commander with a cry. He caught her clumsily.

I flung myself through the carriage door, ignoring the shouts behind me. I ran the length of the carriage, shoved past the passengers who'd started to emerge into the corridor, and through the next door, fumbling for a lock behind me. Anything to slow them down.

Nothing.

Cursing, I turned and kept running, down and down until I was halfway through second class. I could still
hear my pursuers. I was going to run out of train any minute now. I needed to figure out where I was going before I wound up in the sand.

I'd worry about that when it happened.

I flung myself against the door at the end of the carriage. It jammed.

I rattled the handle, looking behind me for uniforms. I rammed my shoulder against the door again and again. Shouts were getting closer, though it was hard to tell over the rattling of the train.

The door gave. Night air, rails, and sand rushed up to meet me as I pitched forward. I grabbed the door frame, catching myself just in time.

Where there'd been a walkway between the other carriages, here there was only a yawning gap with a narrow metal coupling linking the two cars. In the light from the carriage behind me I could make out the rails whipping below my feet. The air lashed my clothes around me, invisible fingers trying to snatch me back to the sands where I belonged.

There was another door across the way. I could make it through that.

Probably.

Only one way to find out.

I leapt and hit the door full force. It gave way with a dull thud that sent me sprawling, battered and breathless, but alive, across the carriage floor.

I pulled my dangling feet up behind me in a graceless scramble. The door swung shut, narrowly missing my
toes. There was a lock this time, and I shoved the bolt into place and hurried to stand up.

There were no more compartments here, just rows of bunks, stacked one atop another all the way back. Dozens of passengers craned around the metal frames to stare at me. They looked like prisoners pressing desperate faces through iron bars. At least one of them was bound to give me up as soon as the soldiers got through the door.

I dodged between beds. A game of dice and drink was under way between some men. They were sitting on the floor, using a bunk like a table. Stained cards were spread out across the sheets, between handfuls of coins. I wove my way through the mass, looking for a place to hide. Four women huddled together on a single bunk, combing one another's hair and eating dates. A little boy with bare feet ran up and tried to grab one. He got a hairbrush to the knuckles and started to wail.

I realized my sheema was loose around my neck, my hair tumbling free, making me a girl again. A girl in boys' clothes. I went to wrap it back around my face. Even as I did, an arm latched around my waist, a hand over my mouth. My attacker pulled me free from the crowd and pushed me up against the train wall between two bunks.

I looked up straight into a pair of familiar foreign eyes.

“You,” Jin said, pinning me in place, “are really something else.”

The panic dropped away. Jin might not look all that happy with me, but it was better than being caught by a soldier. I shoved him so his hand fell away from my
mouth. “I'm going to go ahead and take that as a compliment. What are you doing here?”

“Searching this whole damn train for you,” he said, sounding relieved.

“Well, you didn't make it to the front,” I said.

“The front?” He cocked an eyebrow questioningly and then it hit him “You bought a first-class ticket? Why? How?”

Like hell I was going to admit it was a mistake. “I sold Iksander,” I said instead.

“Iksander?” Jin's grip loosened a little.

“The Buraqi,” I explained, looking over his shoulder. It was just a matter of time until I'd see the flash of gold-and-white uniform.

“You named him Iksander?” There was something in his face, like he was trying to figure me out.

“I had to call him something, and it's as good a name as any other. My uncle had a horse he named Blue. I don't know about you, but I've never seen a blue horse.” I didn't know why I was getting defensive.

“So you named him after a prince who got himself turned into a horse by a Djinni two hundred years ago?”

“Why does it matter how long ago it was?” I asked in exasperation. “It won't stick anyhow. I sold him. To this trader who called himself Oman Slick Hands, even though his palms just seemed sweaty to me. Only he wasn't exactly honest, because an honest trader would've turned me in for a girl.”

“Or a blue-eyed thief.” Jin looked amused. “
I
ought to turn you in.”

“Well, you're going to have your chance soon enough, because the army is on this train, and they're after me just now. Or probably after
you
, but I'm in their way.”

Jin's head darted up, looking back the way I came.

“Fine,” Jin said. “Give me the compass and I'll get us out of here.”

“The
compass
?” I wasn't sure what I'd been expecting after he'd tracked me three days across the desert, but it wasn't this.

“You're too smart to play dumb, Bandit.” Jin's eyes searched me, like I might be hiding his compass in plain sight.

“You're mistaking my playing dumb for my thinking you're an idiot for wanting a beat-up compass.”

His hand was clamped firmly over my pulse. “So we both know you took it. Give it back and we'll call it quits for poisoning me. I won't even ask you to pay me back half of the money for the Buraqi you stole.”

“I didn't poison you. I drugged you. And that Buraqi was mine.” I tried to pull my arm free, but he was stronger than I was. “You stole it first. If you hadn't set such a bad example, maybe I would've never stolen your broken compass.”

“Broken?” His hand tightened until it hurt.

“Yeah.” I struggled not to wince. He wasn't smiling anymore. “I rode all night in the wrong direction following the needle on that compass, until the sun came up and straightened me out.”

I felt him relax against me. “If it's no good to you, then you won't miss it.”

“Seeing as it's no good to me, why would I have kept it?”

“Amani.” He leaned toward me until I could feel the heat of him in the small space. “Where is it?”

I tightened my jaw. “Soldiers are coming.”

“Then you'd better tell me fast, Bandit.”

I didn't speak right away. Our wills locked against each other. I wanted to lie to him. Tell him it was gone with the Buraqi. Keep making him suffer for refusing to take me with him in Dustwalk, for saying I wasn't going to get to Izman in Sazi. For trying to keep me where I was when I was fighting so hard to break away.

“Amani,” he lowered his voice. A real note of desperation in my name. “Please.” My anger came apart with a tug of his words.

“It's under my clothes,” I admitted finally. He let go of me.

I tugged my shirt up, too conscious of his eyes on me as I bared the skin of my hips to reach the cloth wrapped around my waist to pad it out. My hand slipped between cloth and skin and closed around the cool metal and glass. I let my shirt fall back into place as I pulled it out. The compass was a battered brass thing. The glass was scratched and chipped on one edge. The needle swung back and forth over a background of a blue sky the same color as my eyes, dotted with painted yellow stars. I'd figured it might be of value.

His expression shifted as his hand closed over the compass, locking it between our hands. The tension fled his
body and he leaned his forehead into mine, catching me off guard. I could smell the desert on him. “Thank you,” he said.

His eyes were closed, but mine were wide open. This close I could make out the smallest scar on his upper lip. I was keenly aware of our breathing mixing in the closeness. It would take almost nothing to lean forward and press my mouth to that scar.

There was a crash and a shout from the other end of the carriage. Jin's eyes flew open. What I'd been saying about the soldiers seemed to register on his face at last. “Come on.” He started to lead me out from between the bunks. “Let's—”

White and gold flashed across the carriage, out of place among the dingy third-class passengers.