“I have a message for you from Prince Omar.” She paused to relish the fear in his eyes before continuing. “My king brought your concerns to the sultan. Fortunately, His Majesty dismissed them. So, as per his original proposition, Prince Omar will be sending some of my comrades to fill the gaps in your security by the end of the month.”
For a few moments the qaid simply gaped at her, lips flapping uselessly as he tried to form a fruitless argument. But then he clamped his jaw shut and stepped toward her, eyes flashing. “Why does the prince not deliver this message to me himself?”
Because he’s a royal pain in the ass.
“Ask him yourself. I wasn’t sent here to answer your questions.”
She moved toward the door—and managed only a single step before the qaid blocked her way. “Tell your prince there are no holes in my security. My men are more than capable of protecting this city. We do not want your help. We do not need it.”
Aisha could have laughed in his face. All these fools ever did was throw people in the Bowels and cringe at silver blood. Even the sultan knew his men were incompetent; gods knew they’d been unable to protect his late wife.
Aisha wasn’t conceited enough to call herself a hero, but at least she had never let any of her targets escape. Not since she’d picked up a blade and promised to kill them all, anyway.
“His Majesty seems to think otherwise. Perhaps it was all your pleading. A competent leader wouldn’t need to build his case with words; his actions would speak for him.” She briskly sidestepped the qaid and headed for the door. The man was visibly shaking with rage, and when he turned toward her, it was with a speed that made her tense.
But the qaid’s only riposte was his words, which he hurled at her like throwing knives. “Do not think this scheme will give you power over us, bint Louas.” He glared at her. “You all are killers; no one could ever mistake you for soldiers.”
Aisha looked at him for a long moment. And then she snorted and turned away.
What did he think soldiers were, if not glorified murderers?
She didn’t bother with a response as she ducked outside. A cool breeze nipped at her clothing as she shut the door, ruffling her cloak and tugging at her hood. For a few moments, the world stilled, and Aisha let herself savor the tranquility of the night. It was not lost on her that this type of quiet was rare in this place, but she did not mind it. The silence was somnolent rather than tense and reminded her of the refreshing calm that rolled in after a storm. Even the weather was pleasant: not yet frigid, but cold enough to comfortably don extra layers of clothing.
She was still savoring the peace when a blur of motion caught her eye and she looked up to see a messenger, marked as such by his satchel. The man lowered his gaze as he approached, and Aisha noticed his shoulders tense as he brushed past her. It was not until he was on the stairwell that he visibly relaxed. Aisha watched him disappear without comment. She was accustomed to this type of encounter; those who knew her kept their guard up. She supposed it was for the better, as she preferred avoiding conversation with spineless fools when possible.
Still, she pictured what it might be like to wander these halls as a visitor rather than a thief—to be catered to rather than avoided.
She let the musing evaporate as she started back the way she’d come, heading down the stairwell and back to the ground floor. As she strode down the corridor in the direction of the thieves’ hideout, she was aware of every flicker of light and motion. She didn’t miss the servants who shrank away from her or the soldiers who glared at her with open hostility. And she did not miss the footsteps trailing hers—the tread that was as familiar to her as her own breathing.
She didn’t so much as flinch when Omar fell into step beside her, appearing from gods knew where. He did that sometimes—appeared suddenly from the shadows like some wraith. It irked her that she couldn’t always hear him.
“I’m not delivering any more godsdamned messages for you,” Aisha muttered.
Omar clucked his tongue. “I take it the qaid didn’t receive the news well?”
“Working under him is going to be hell.”
Omar flashed a pleasant smile at her. Even in the darkness, it was dazzling. “Then it’s a good thing you won’t be one of the people I assign to his security force.”
Aisha turned away with a grumble. “I’d stab you in the throat if you tried to shove me into that uniform. Is this infiltration really necessary?”
Omar chuckled. “It’s not an infiltration if everyone but the qaid consents to it. You know as well as I the failings of Madinne’s security. My own brother was assaulted by a jinn in the souk today, you know.”
A jinn you ought to have killed, she thought, but didn’t voice the opinion. Omar’s tortuous games had never appealed to her. She preferred to kill her targets on sight, with as little struggle as possible. There was little point in playing with something that wound up dead.
“Your idiot brother walked into the souk of his own accord.”
Another laugh from Omar. “You don’t find his little ventures courageous?”
“I find them foolish.”
They were walking through the orchard now, down a path that shot past trees heavy with apples and oranges. Dimly lit lanterns hung from some of the branches, coating the ground in a hazy light that made the grass shimmer. It looked, Aisha thought, like it was covered in dew.
She plucked a golden apple from a branch in passing and tossed it absently between her palms. “What do you want from me, sayyidi?”
Omar blinked at her with faux innocence. “What, can I not simply enjoy your company?”
“Don’t flatter me. You do not enjoy someone else’s company without an ulterior motive.” She bit into the apple, wrinkled her nose at the tartness. When Omar flexed his fingers at her, she was more than happy to toss it to him.
“How foolish of me.” The prince held the apple up. Its color was dulled in the moonlight. “I should know better than to attempt casual conversation with you.” He bit into it, putting the conversation on hold.
They walked the rest of the way to their hideout in companionable silence, following the path to the outer palace wall and then to an unassuming tower that stood sentinel at its southeast corner. The building was a shadow amongst the pale minarets, an ominous-looking place that leaned so heavily against the wall, it looked in danger of crumbling over it.
Ostentatious locations make for the best hiding places, Omar had once told her when she asked why he’d situated their base here. He claimed it was easier to keep secrets from nobles who consciously avoided them than from the curious commoners who hero-worshipped them.
Aisha didn’t care about any of that. There was a door on this side of the palace wall they could use to slip covertly out into the city, and that was all that mattered. The less time she had to spend walking through this gold-plated trap, the happier she was.
She turned to Omar expectantly. The prince was twirling the apple core by its stem, lips upturned slightly. “You want to know why I’m following you? Guilt.”
Aisha frowned at him, unimpressed.
“Don’t give me that look. I wanted to apologize for dismissing you so abruptly earlier. My brother has a bad habit of asking questions he won’t understand the answers to. I thought it better to avoid this conversation with him.”
“You wanted to avoid the qaid too. That’s why you sent me to speak with him.”
“I’m expected to be pleasant at court. You, on the other hand…” He smirked. “I appreciate you using that needle-sharp honesty for the greater good.”
I did it because you ordered me to, you bastard.
But she found her lips quirking despite the thought. She liked the prince—enough that she didn’t mind taking orders from him, occasional frustrating fights aside. He was straightforward and honest and didn’t waste time on words he didn’t mean.
“Shukran, Aisha.” Omar considered her with a tilt of his head. “I promise I won’t hand you over to the qaid. That hardheaded security fool doesn’t deserve you.”