Karima shook her head. “The news is that the sultan plans to speak with her over ghada’a. Do not worry, sayyidi; I will deliver the news of your recovery immediately.”
“No.” The Midnight Merchant had saved him—twice—and now the sultan was going to send her to her death? He would not allow it. Standing was an ordeal, but he forced himself to his feet. Sweat beaded his forehead, and he was breathing hard with exertion, but it was a small price to pay for movement.
Slowly, painstakingly, he made his way over to his closets. “Sayyidi!” Karima set a steadying hand on his shoulder. “I do not understand. Why would you want to see the Midnight Merchant now? You can barely stand! If the sultan finds out I let you leave your rooms—”
“I’ll tell him I pushed past you like a rogue camel.”
“But your wounds—”
“Already sealed. Why, I didn’t even need stitches!” Pain flickered through his chest when he laughed, and he had to take a deep breath to collect himself. Karima bit her lip. Then, after a few moments’ hesitation, she began to assist him. She helped him pull a tunic over his head and carefully pin his mother’s shawl, and once he was presentable, she walked him to the doors and the guards outside. When the men protested Mazen’s leaving, Mazen stood as tall as he could manage under the crippling pain and said, “I am going to see my father, even if I have to crawl my way to his diwan.”
The men relented, though they insisted on helping him down the stairs and through the corridors. Everywhere Mazen went, servants stared at him in shock and offered flustered greetings. The corridors had never seemed so long, the sun so bright. But then, at last, they were at the diwan doors. The guards outside eyed him warily.
“Sayyidi,” one of them said. “The diwan is changed. Please, watch your footing.”
Mazen did not understand his meaning until he stepped inside. He nearly stopped breathing when he saw the plethora of green before him: sage-green leaves and chartreuse pathways of grass and emerald shafts of light that burst through the canopies of trees. Mazen stared at it all in wonder as he navigated his way through the vibrant underbrush. Surrounded by the hum of insects and the twittering banter of birds, he found it impossible to conceive of this place as the diwan. But then he saw the tile buried beneath the grass and the mosaicked walls hidden behind the vines and trees.
If he’d had any doubts about what had transpired last night, they would have vanished then. Here was proof that a jinn had died in this room.
He made his way into the diwan slowly, carefully stepping over roots and shrubs. Eventually, the forest thinned, and he was able to make out people sitting on a rug. There sat his father in an uncharacteristically plain beige thobe and ghutra and, beside him, Omar, wearing simple attire and a belt of daggers. Hakim sat on the sultan’s other side, dressed almost entirely in white—the color of prayer. And sitting with her back to him, dressed in dark blue shawls dusted white, was the Midnight Merchant.
His father saw him first. He paused midconversation, visibly paling at the sight of him. “Mazen?” The others turned to look at him, equally stunned. Hakim was the first to rise. He rushed toward Mazen and clapped a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Akhi, are you okay?” He began to lead Mazen to where the others were gathered. “You should not be out of bed! You…” Hakim stopped, swallowed.
“Almost died?” Mazen’s laughter came out a wheeze. “I do feel a little like a ghoul.”
“Mazen.” The sultan’s voice was soft. “What are you doing here?”
“You know me, yuba. It has never been in my nature to sit around doing nothing. How could I sit in my stuffy room when you all are enjoying such a pleasant chat in this beautiful forest?” He smiled and tried to bow, but the movement sent pain shooting through his limbs, and it was all he could do to keep himself from collapsing.
“For the love of the gods, sit. You do not bow to me when you are injured, child.” His father’s voice was strained, filled with an emotion that startled Mazen. The last time his father had so openly worn his sentiments on his sleeve, Mazen’s mother had just died.
Slowly, gracelessly, Mazen lowered himself to the ground and crossed his legs.
“How are you feeling?” His father’s ashy brows were scrunched together. “You’ve barely had time to recover; you should not be here.”
“I am well enough to sit and listen to you speak. Besides.” He turned to the Midnight Merchant, whose expression was unreadable. Even though half her face was covered, he recognized her eyes—they reminded him of smothered fire. “I had to thank you in person, Midnight Merchant.”
The Midnight Merchant tilted her head slightly. In acknowledgment, perhaps. “I simply did what any able-bodied citizen of Madinne would do.” She paused, eyes narrowed. At first, he thought she was remembering him from the souk, that she might mention their perilous first meeting. His heart seized with fear, but she only said, “I am glad for your miraculous recovery.”
“Miraculous indeed.” Omar’s voice was soft but lethal. Mazen felt an inexplicable fear take hold of him as he glanced at his brother. Omar was not looking at him, though; he was looking at the Midnight Merchant. “But I’m sure you’ve witnessed the power of jinn blood before, al-Nazari. You sold a vial of it to Rasul al-Jasheen, no?”
Mazen instinctively put a hand to his wound. He felt an awful, sinking weight in his chest at the thought of the shadow jinn’s blood being used to knit his body back together.
The Midnight Merchant scoffed. “Rasul—he was the rat?”
The sultan smiled thinly. “Even merchants sworn to secrecy can be bought with the right amount of gold.” He leaned forward, hands steepled in his lap. “So tell me, Loulie al-Nazari, what is your price?”
Mazen inhaled sharply. Even Omar raised a brow. The sultan had not extended this generosity to any other person he’d sent on his quest. But then, those men had gone willingly—for glory or out of fear, Mazen was not sure.
“I am not for sale,” the merchant said coldly. Mazen flinched at her boldness.
The sultan was unmoved. “A shame. I had hoped to buy your services.”
“Do you normally preface your sale transactions by threatening to burn down a souk?”
Omar coughed sharply into his hand to hide a smile. Mazen did not share his amusement. He glanced at his father, whose expression had somehow become even stonier.
“I do if the person I am dealing with is a criminal.” He tilted his chin slightly so that Mazen had the impression he was, despite his close proximity, looking down at the merchant. “It is necessary, sometimes, to instill a healthy dose of fear in such people. To remind them that destroying their life would be a simple thing.”
A frigid silence followed. Mazen did not realize he’d been holding his breath until the merchant broke the quiet with a sigh. “You want me to search for a relic,” she said.
“So you have heard of my venture.” He raised a brow. “And what say you? I saw your bag of relics; I know you have some way of locating them. Most travelers would be lucky to come across one relic in their lifetime, but you sell them as if they are sesame dates. If anyone can find the relic I am seeking, it is you.”
The Midnight Merchant did not respond, only stared coolly at the sultan as if sizing him up. Though Layla had carried herself with the same pride, there had been a lightheartedness to her. The woman before him now may as well have been made of stone.
At last, she spoke. “The question is not what I gain from this endeavor, but what I will lose if I do not accept.”
The sultan smiled. A crooked smile that so reminded Mazen of Omar that it made his heart twist. “Smart woman. You are a citizen of Madinne, and you will do as I command, or openly defy me. And you know what happens to those who defy me.”