“If the Midnight Merchant is so adept at tracking and collecting magic, then perhaps she can find what others cannot—a priceless relic from the city of Dhahab.”
Mazen paled. He knew the relic his father spoke of. The sultan had already sent dozens of men to find it. All had failed. No one ventured into the Sandsea and survived.
He would be sending the merchant to her death. He wanted to object, but to question the sultan would undermine his authority, so Mazen struggled quietly with his distress.
The room was tense after the sultan’s proclamation, their meal eaten in near silence. Mazen was relieved when his father dismissed them early, saying he wanted to speak to Rasul alone. Outside the diwan, Hakim followed his guard escorts back to his room while Omar veered in the direction of the courtyard. Mazen trailed him.
And yet despite his resolve to apprehend his brother, he still somehow lost him.
When Mazen turned the bend into the rose garden, Omar had vanished. Mazen was baffled, but nonetheless determined. He rushed down the pathways between the flowers, following them through an orchard filled with various fruit-bearing trees, until he reached the sparring pavilion, a large wooden platform surrounded on all sides by tree-shaped columns.
At first, he saw nothing. But then he backtracked and realized there were people standing by the platform. A cloaked woman and, in front of her, Omar. Mazen mentally chided himself for his nearsightedness as he approached.
The two were in the middle of a conversation when Omar abruptly turned toward him, lips curved. “Why, if it isn’t my adventurous little brother.”
It was an effort to return Omar’s smile. “Salaam, Omar. Who’s your friend?” He glanced at his brother’s female companion, whose face was hidden beneath her hood. Mazen could make out dark brown eyes, fierce eyebrows, and an aquiline nose.
“This is Aisha bint Louas,” Omar said. “She is one of my best thieves.”
Mazen blanched. This woman, a hunter? One of Omar’s forty thieves? Mazen had seen the thieves in passing but never spoken to them. In fact, he tried to avoid them at all costs. Most of the time, this was easily accomplished. The thieves did not participate in court life; they were simply here to report to Omar.
Mazen had definitely never seen this woman before. He would have remembered her piercing stare. He put a hand to his chest and bowed. “It is a pleasure.”
Aisha raised a brow. “Is it?”
Mazen blinked, at a loss for how to respond.
Omar just laughed. “Aisha is also my most honest thief. She can cut a man down with her words just as easily as with her knives.” He waved a hand. “You are dismissed, Aisha.”
Aisha bobbed her head and walked off. When she was gone, Omar leaned against a pavilion column and smirked. “Do not take offense, Mazen. Aisha dislikes most men.”
“But not you?”
Omar shrugged. “It hardly matters whether she likes me. She is an excellent hunter and obeys my orders without hesitation. That is all that matters. But…” He cocked a brow. “You are not here to speak about Aisha. What do you want?”
Mazen took a deep, stilted breath. “I want to know why you returned early today.”
“Has your memory failed you? I told you I found all my marks. I have no reason to remain in the desert after my job is done.” He grinned. “I am sure you had a much more interesting day than I. You told me you were going to the souk to find a storyteller, but that is not the whole truth, is it? There was a woman.”
Mazen stared at him. “What?”
“You must have left quite the impression for her to stalk you through the streets.”
Mazen was beginning to feel faint. “What are you talking about?”
“A woman followed you into the noble quarter. I thought you’d broken her heart, the way she was chasing you.”
Layla. Or—the shadow jinn? Mazen shook off his fear before it grew roots. He focused on Omar’s words. What they implied. “You were following me,” he said. “Because you were tracking a jinn, weren’t you?”
Omar didn’t even bat an eyelash. “A valiant pastime, yes?”
Mazen could hear the thud of his heartbeat in his ears. “You knew there was a jinn in the city when I left the palace. You could have told me it was out for your blood. For our blood.”
Omar shrugged. “I may have forgotten to mention it.”
Mazen’s fear burned away, replaced with an anger that shot through his veins like ice. He moved without thinking, grabbing the collar of his brother’s tunic and shoving him into the column. “This is no laughing matter, you ass. I could have died!”
His hand quivered as he looked into his brother’s eyes. Even now, they sparkled with amusement. Mazen wanted to punch him.
“On the contrary, I find it quite entertaining.” Omar set his hand atop Mazen’s. Mazen flinched at the coldness of his fingers. “Seeing you angry is always a good time, akhi. But, as always, you are concerned about the wrong things. Let me worry about the jinn. You should worry about Father finding out what happened. Imagine what he would do if he realized that you had not only left the palace but were attacked in doing so.”
Omar pried Mazen’s fingers from his tunic. “You think he would give you a second chance? No, he will do to you what he has done to Hakim. He will make you a prisoner in this place. There would be no escape, not even with guards.”
Mazen stepped away. Omar’s gaze had become thoughtful, as if he could read all the insecurities in Mazen’s heart. “Remember, akhi, which of us has the upper hand.”
Omar smiled pleasantly, tucked his hands into his pockets, and walked away. Mazen watched him go, mute. No argument could save him from this predicament. It would not matter if he proved Omar’s incompetence as a hunter to his father. Ultimately, Omar would be scolded, and Mazen would be trapped.
It was a long time before he swallowed his dread and returned to his room.
7
AISHA
When Aisha bint Louas was given an order by her king, she obeyed.
There were fights worth picking, and then there were fights with Omar bin Malik: one-sided battles fought with gilded words and patronizing smiles. It was a battlefield Aisha avoided at all costs. She was a thief, not a politician. Her victories were claimed with blades—shamshirs lined with the silver blood of her victims.
Still, that didn’t mean she was always happy about acquiescing.
She’d been irritated when Omar asked to meet her in the courtyard after his dinner, and now, with his message beating through her head, she was even more annoyed. Her unexpected encounter with the youngest prince had only soured her mood further. She’d been looking forward to spending the night curled up in her favorite window alcove, with only her knives and whetstone for company. Yet here she was, delivering a message to one of the sultan’s most infuriating soldiers instead.
She dragged her feet through corridors glowing with moonlight and up stairwells illuminated by dusty lamplight until she came to the qaid’s room in the soldiers’ halls, unmarked except for an evil-eye charm hanging on the door. She knocked: four quick taps followed by two louder raps. The door flew open to reveal a bulky middle-aged man in a turban.
The qaid scowled when he saw her. “Thief.”
“Thief is not my name.” She crossed her arms. “Can you say ‘Aisha’?”
The qaid ignored her, stepping aside and gesturing her into the room. Aisha walked past him, eyes flicking from the weapons lining the walls to the scrolls strewn across his desk. It certainly looked like a room belonging to the sultan’s military leader.
“What do you want, bint Louas?” He eyed her warily as he closed the door.