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.
nine
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.