“We couldn’t just command the compass to lead us to ‘that thing the sultan wants’?”
A faint smile touched Qadir’s lips. “I’m afraid not. We need to know what it is.”
“And yet the compass manages to guide you to something as vague as ‘your destiny’?”
His smile widened as he strode ahead of her. “Only because I have a special connection to it. I know the jinn who enchanted it.”
Loulie scowled at his back. She did not see the correlation, but she would let it pass. Qadir was made up of small secrets—they both were. So long as his secrets didn’t harm her, she was content to let him keep them.
She followed after him, and it was not long before the tunnel opened into a spacious cavern lit by multicolored lanterns. Beneath the lights was a cluttered landscape of canopied stalls. Though it was small in comparison to the Madinne souk, the goods hawked here in the Night Market were a hundred times more valuable. Here, merchants set up stalls in gemstone-lined alcoves and advertised rare artisan products beneath painted signs written in elaborate cursive. Intricately designed plush rugs, beautiful blades created from brass and bone and glass, ceramics crafted by famous western artists—it was an impressive assortment of imported goods, to be sure, but nothing near as precious as what she brought to the market.
Loulie knew this. It was why she smiled like a crook every time she visited.
But no one could see that smirk beneath her scarf as she wound her way through the cramped thoroughfares, edging her way past rowdy customers who gave her a wide berth when they noticed Qadir. Though she was the one with the reputation, everyone in the underground souk knew of her so-called mysterious bodyguard. Though rumors still circulated about Qadir, Loulie was glad they had died down in recent years. It had been a profoundly uncomfortable experience to listen to customers guess at their relationship to her face.
Qadir had put an end to the initial speculation when an especially brazen customer had approached their stall to ask how much coin Qadir had offered Loulie for her bridal price. The jinn had looked him dead in the eye and said, My employer is not a commodity to be bought.
Qadir was many things—business partner, guardian, friend—but husband would never be one of them. Even just the thought made Loulie shudder. Qadir wasn’t family, not exactly, but he was something like it. She cast a look over her shoulder and grinned when she saw him glaring warily at the crowds. His frown deepened when he saw her staring. “What are you smiling at?”
“Nothing. I’m just grateful for your glower, which strikes fear into the hearts of men.”
Qadir’s expression softened. “Oh? Your smile strikes fear into the hearts of men.”
“Ah, but not so much fear they hesitate to open their wallets.” She waved a finger at him. “That’s the important thing.”
Qadir’s only response was a long-suffering sigh. He trailed quietly behind her as she turned into another alley of shops. She made her way to an empty stall wedged between two others. Behind one stood a young man selling bundles of expensive shisha; his visage was foggy behind the smoke he blew out in large rings. The other was managed by an old man who sold rare, foreign coins that had been stacked in neat columns behind glass cases.
The young man lowered his pipe and gaped at her, eyes wide enough to catch flies. “Midnight Merchant,” he said in awe.
The old man cackled. “What did I do to deserve you setting up shop next to me, Loulie al-Nazari?”
“Well, salaam to you too, sadiqi.” Loulie grinned as she began to set up her stall.
The young man looked between them, confused.
The old merchant shook his head. “Get close enough to a star and it burns you, boy.”
“You exaggerate.” With some assistance from Qadir, Loulie mounted their treasures on the shelves. “I only burn those who get in the way of good business.” She smirked as she set the magic orb down on the counter and tapped it with her hand.
“Magic,” the young man whispered as it brightened beneath her touch.
It was not long before marketgoers gathered to eye the merchandise. Earlier, Dahlia had said Rasul had some of the most sought-after merchandise in the market. Loulie didn’t know what he sold, but she knew her goods were superior. The relics she gathered were extremely rare; a traveler would be extraordinarily lucky to come across one in their lifetime.
But she had a compass that could lead her to anything—including stray magic.
And she was the only one who dared ignore the sultan’s relic-selling ban, which meant her bravery was rewarded. With coin.
At some point, Qadir stepped away from the merchandise to stand behind her and look intimidating. His stare was both focused and all-encompassing; no one ever dared purloin a relic beneath his watchful gaze.
Finally, when all the objects were placed, Loulie announced the opening of her business. The crowds flocked to her stall like hungry pigeons, prodding and testing the magic with greedy hands. The young merchant watched from his stall with a mixture of awe and envy.
Loulie raised her hands and wiggled her fingers at him. “Magic,” she whispered.
9
MAZEN
The night after the run-in with the jinn, the sultan hosted an impromptu feast to which he invited various court politicians. The palace diwan was decorated in rich reds and golds and made ready for fifty guests. The best dancers and musicians were called to perform, and delicacies from all over the sultanate were prepared. It was an extravagant celebration. All the guests were clearly enjoying themselves.
Except for Mazen, who was miserable.
He’d promised to be at Dahlia bint Adnan’s tavern tonight, and yet here he was, mingling with people wearing fake smiles. It was an effort to keep his own false smile affixed when, on the inside, he was screaming.
Gatherings in the diwan were always a grand affair, but tonight’s celebration was even more of a show. Because no royal gathering was complete without gifts, some of the invited politicians had decided to compete with each other by bringing expensive offerings. The sultan, naturally, had displayed them to show his appreciation. The cluster of flower-shaped lanterns hanging above Mazen’s head was new, as were the gem-embedded brocade curtains framing the windows. An enormous glass plaque featuring spiraling golden lines—the guest had claimed it was a depiction of the royal courtyard—hung behind the half stage, and small but intricate tapestries with the sultan’s legacy written on them had been hung on the walls.
Even just gazing upon the lavish gifts made Mazen tired. He glanced sullenly down at his plate, which was piled high with lamb and fattoush and tabbouleh. He had barely touched his food; he was too busy mulling over the engagement he was missing. Restless, he looked past the crowds gathered at the low-rising table and to the windows. The courtyard seemed to glow, the white roses sparkling beneath the moonlight. Like jinn blood, he thought dully. But of course the courtyard would sparkle like jinn blood; it had sprung from it.
He turned away, nauseated. How many jinn had been bled out on that once-barren soil so that they could live this life of luxury? Though Mazen did not have any memories of his father’s victims, he was still overwhelmed with guilt when he took part in indulgent celebrations like this. It was hard not to think of all the lives lost in that garden. Of the jinn that had been slaughtered by his brother, and of the women his father had killed.
Murderers, both of them. And family, he reminded himself dutifully, with a heavy heart.