Of Dreams and Rust (12 page)

“Why would she say that?”

“She meant that you should be treated with proper respect. It means something different to us than it does to you.”

“If you say so.” My eyes drift back to the little boy's. He stares intently at me, clutching a carved wooden horse in his tiny hands. He holds it up for me to see as we pass him by. “Where are we?”

“Czizhgie,” he says. “The Line. This village, along with many others, is strung along the road that skirts the Western Hills and connects south to north on the eastern side of Yilat. From here it turns west toward Kegu. My village is also on the Line, but far to the south.”

“At the mouth of the canyon,” I whisper.

What will happen to that tiny boy with the wooden horse when a war machine comes thundering up this road? No matter what Melik has done or become, no matter how cruel these Noor raiders have been, does that little boy deserve to die? How many of these villages lie between the canyon and Kegu, and how many little boys with wooden horses? How many worried mothers with gaunt faces?

“Melik,” I say, my voice cracking. “Where are the men?” I have not seen one young man in this village, save for the few rebels who kissed their loved ones and rejoined their comrades on the march, and now we are at its outskirts, approaching five large carriages, their beds lined with benches on either side.

“The men have joined the revolutionary force,” he says, as if it should be obvious. “The general has recruited many, ready to meet the national army as they march into Yilat. We will give them a fight.”

As they march into Yilat. This general must believe the threat will come from the northern grasslands, then, instead of over the Western Hills. “Is there no one defending these villages?”

Melik frowns. “They should be safe enough if we can repel the army, or at least make them think twice about invasion.” His gaze is distant for a moment, and I realize that is the best they can hope for—to put up a fight, to make the invaders think twice. They cannot hope to win. I watch Melik, wondering if he is seeing his own death playing out before his eyes.

He sighs before continuing. “We received word that the army would try to infiltrate Kegu in advance of an invasion from the north, which is why our unit was sent to sabotage the rails, and others are gathering along the northern border. We will join them once we report to the general.”

His jaw clenches and he gives me a sidelong glance. Maybe now he is seeing my death play out before his eyes. Perhaps this is why he is so free with this information. He understands that I will never have a chance to share it. He will hand me over to be executed by his general, and then he will leave for the north.

Suddenly Melik hefts me a little higher, holds me a little tighter. As if it has a mind of its own, my arm coils around his neck. I catch myself a moment later, but before I pull away, I realize this may be the last peaceful, gentle touch I receive. I close my eyes and allow myself to pretend that this is the Melik from my dreams, and that I am the bold Wen who lives inside my head, the one who more than once has unbuttoned his shirt and run her hands over his body. My fingers brush the back of his neck, beneath soft locks of his rust-colored hair. I lean my forehead against the side of his face, and my fingertips slide along the bumps of his spine.

Melik shivers, a violent, hard sort of tremor, and leans away. “I wish I'd never met you,” he whispers fiercely, more to himself than to me. He scowls at the horizon.

I exhale the moment and all the childish pretend. I could let his hateful expression seal my decision and his fate. If I want him to die for his crimes, all I have to do is keep silent. But instead of making things murkier, his harsh words make everything very clear, because they have rendered a year's worth of passionate dreams irrelevant.

I raise my head and look over his shoulder, past the faces of the Noor rebels, and find the small figure of the boy, playing in the dirt like all children do. I never came to save only Melik. I didn't come to save these rebels, either. And I didn't come to save the Noor simply because they are Noor. This is not about choosing a side. It's about choosing a principle and being willing to see it through to the end.

I came to prevent suffering and death. I came to save that little boy, and his sister, and that woman, and these helpless people who wear their naked hope and love like armor.

I have failed to save a single soul so far, and I am on my way to die. Does all that failure absolve me of the burden of trying again? If my father were in my place, what would he say, and what would he do?

“Melik,” I whisper. “I will tell you why I came here.”

Chapter

THE RIDE INTO Kegu is bump after bump and mile after mile of dismal sights. I knew Yilat was poor, but I had little idea what this kind of poverty really looked like. In the Ring it is sagging skin and bent backs and a bowl outstretched for a coin. It is grasping and groping and hustling and stealing, a bun swiped and stuffed into a starving mouth before the vendor notices, a penny pinched from a pocket followed by a sprint into an alley. In Yilat poverty looks different. There is no movement to it at all. It is wary gazes and complete stillness. Gaunt and hollow.

Many of the people I see are Noor, but there are Itanyai, too, and in some villages I see the most remarkable thing: faces that are neither and both, eyes and hair and skin that are a melding of the two. I stare and stare, wondering where their loyalties fall. What do they call themselves? Who claims them, and whom do they claim? Where do they belong? Are they wanted and cherished? Do they ever wish they were one or the other instead of being both at once?

I glance up at Melik and find him looking down at me, like he's trying to read my reactions to all I am seeing. I tear my gaze from his and continue to watch as we enter the city. Painted slogans have been scrawled on walls and splattered on roads, accusing the government of abandoning the people of this province. It is only after I've seen a few that I realize I can read many of them—not all are in Noor. We pass a few blocks of smoldering and blackened ruins, and other blocks where the destruction is evident but not complete. The streets appear largely deserted, but a few times I see dark figures running from building to building. Melik points at a woman sprinting across the road behind us. “There are pro-government snipers. It is not safe to be on the streets.”

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.”