“Thanks to a random passerby.”
Hakim regarded him quietly for a few moments, brows scrunched. Then, slowly, he laid his hand over Mazen’s. “Peace, Mazen. I believe you.” His eyes flitted to the hourglass on his desk. “We must meet with the sultan’s guest soon, but we have time for you to tell me more of the story.”
Mazen was more than happy to oblige. After he had finished, Hakim eyed Mazen’s hands and said, “You aren’t wearing the rings.”
Mazen glanced down at his bare fingers. “Why would I walk around in disguise with the royal rings? The guards would come running if I so much as raised my hand.”
Hakim sighed. “Melodramatic as always.” He raised his own hand, revealing five elaborately designed iron rings nearly identical to the ones the sultan had gifted Mazen. “We have these rings for a reason. Wear gloves if you must, but don’t put yourself in danger for the sake of making a disguise more convincing.”
Mazen had nothing to say to that. Hakim was right; a disguise was not armor if it had such exploitable weaknesses.
“I am glad you are safe.” Hakim leaned forward in his chair. “I know you do not wish to tell Omar about this, but have you considered—”
“Omar knows.”
Hakim pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ah.”
“He caught me sneaking out and said he would keep it a secret so long as I did him a favor.” Mazen could only pray Omar honored their deal.
Hakim looked like he was on the verge of scolding Mazen when he paused, glancing at the depleted sand in the hourglass. He stood. “We must go meet with the sultan.” He eyed Mazen’s baggy attire. “You might want to change into something more appropriate. Go, quickly. I will tell the sultan you were helping me with the map.”
Mazen sighed with relief. “Bless you, Hakim.”
Hakim simply smiled as he waved him outside. “Yalla, you don’t have all night.”
Knowing that his father did indeed despise tardiness, Mazen hurried to his rooms to prepare. The servants inside said nothing upon his return—they never did, when he paid them to keep his secrets—and left the chamber without comment when he dismissed them.
Without them, the space felt enormous. Mazen had spent years trying to fill it, but to little avail. Because he was, on occasion, obligated to entertain esteemed guests here, his father had forced him to dispose of anything “too personal.” So Mazen kept his most treasured possessions out of sight. The two mother-of-pearl chests on either side of his canopied bed contained city maps Hakim had drawn for him over the years, and he had stored the commemorative coins he’d stolen from the treasury in an extravagant wooden cupboard by the window. The only sentimental collection he had on display was the dozens of miniature clay creatures he and his mother had purchased in the souk when he was a child. The collection was showcased in the alcove where he entertained his guests, on the shelves surrounding the perimeter.
And then there was the blue-and-white carpet beneath his feet—the one that was nearly identical to the rug in the souk. He’d told the weaver it was a gift when, in truth, he had taken it from his mother’s rooms knowing it was one of her favorite possessions. He could still remember the way her eyes had lit up when the sultan gave it to her. Before she’d married him, she had been a wanderer; no doubt the carpet had reminded her of her own tribe and travels.
Mazen had never met the family on his mother’s side, had never even seen another city outside of Madinne, but he was plagued by that same wanderlust.
He sighed as he threw off his nondescript robe and donned a rich-red tunic and sirwal trousers. He pinned his mother’s red-gold scarf—the only heirloom he possessed from her tribe—around his neck and slipped his ten rings onto his fingers. Last came the three royal earrings: a small crescent, a star, and a sun.
Once he was prepared, he left his room and hurried through the open-air corridors until he came to the diwan, which was marked by gargantuan doors painted with extravagant depictions of Madinne’s city life: marketgoers bartering with merchants, pearl divers riding sambuks across the waves, soldiers striding through fields made green by jinn blood. The images vanished from view as guards opened the doors.
The sultan’s diwan was intimidating in its grandiosity. The walls sparkled with mosaic images that featured Madinne’s first sultan slaying jinn and befriending fantastical creatures. Elaborately painted lanterns hung above the art, illuminating the rest of the interior—the spacious mezzanines; the impressive half stage; and in the heart of the room, the dining area.
Only four people sat at the low-rising table, though asha’a had been served for at least six. At the head of the table, dressed in the finest cloaks and jewels, was the sultan. Today he wore an expensive silk shawl around his head, with a band of gold wrapped around his forehead like a circlet. His hair was a smoky gray beneath the fabric.
Sitting to his right was Omar, whose definition of dressing down was to remove some of the knives from his person. On the sultan’s left was his guest, a middle-aged man dressed in vibrant green. He looked vaguely familiar, though Mazen could not remember when and where he had seen him. Hakim sat at the guest’s left, clutching a scroll. His discomfort was clear in the tenseness of his shoulders; he looked less at home than the stranger.
But then, Hakim had always been an outsider. A prince in title but not in blood. He was a living reminder of the infidelity of the sultan’s second wife—a fact he was made aware of constantly. Mazen forced the gloomy thought away as he sat and greeted the guest.
“Mazen,” his father said as he made himself comfortable. “This is Rasul al-Jasheen, one of the merchants I do business with. You recognize him?”
Mazen smiled. “Ya sayyid, you must forgive me. Your appearance is familiar in the way a dream is. Has something about you changed?”
The merchant grinned. “Only in the face, sayyidi.”
The memory clicked. The single eye, the beautiful robes, the mouth filled with colorful teeth—yes, Mazen knew this man. He received generous compensation from the sultan for presenting his rare trinkets to him first.
“You have…” Mazen tapped his right eye.
The merchant laughed. “Yes, I am one-eyed no longer. A miracle, wouldn’t you say?”
The sultan cleared his throat. “You were about to tell us of this miracle when my son arrived, Rasul.”
“Ah yes! Allow me to enlighten you, my sultan.”
And so he told them of the elixir delivered to him by the elusive Midnight Merchant. Mazen was fascinated. He’d heard tales of the merchant and her adventures but had never gotten an account from someone who’d met her. He couldn’t help but be envious.
“I know the look in your eyes, sayyidi.” Rasul grinned at the sultan. “You want to find this Midnight Merchant, don’t you? I hope you do not plan on throwing her into the Bowels.”
Mazen shuddered. The Bowels—aptly named because they were prisons erected in holes that ran deep beneath the city—were inescapable. Anyone foolish enough to land themselves inside never saw the sun again.
“While she is engaged in many illegal dealings, no. I have a more useful purpose for her.” The sultan gestured at Hakim, who unrolled his scroll, revealing his map of the desert.
Rasul stared at it intensely, as if assessing its monetary value. The sultan seemed unimpressed; he never complimented Hakim on his skills. He simply expected him to employ them on demand. The sultan ran his finger over the carefully drawn oases, past the cities of Dhyme and Ghiban, and to an ocean of sparkling sand labeled Western Sandsea. Mazen’s eyes widened when he saw the word printed in the center of the Sandsea: Dhahab. The lost jinn city of legend.