She turned away, leaving Mazen to stare in wonder at her back. He hesitated. Would she flee if he asked more questions? She obviously wasn’t keen on speaking to the sultan, but maybe she would talk to him?
Cautiously, he stepped into the rose bed and crouched down beside her. “The stories they tell about you—the tales of Loulie al-Nazari, the Midnight Merchant—are they true?”
The merchant shrugged. “It depends on what they say. I haven’t, for instance, single-handedly defeated a group of notorious robbers with magic. But I did once set a hideout on fire and let the robbers fight over the rescued spoils until they defeated themselves.” There was humor dancing in her eyes. “And what about you, Prince?”
She shifted so that her rust-brown eyes bored right into him. “They tell many stories of your brother, but you are a mystery. You are the son of a storyteller, and a storyteller yourself, yet there are no tales about you.”
The words were a simple observation, but they fell on his shoulders like a physical weight. “Yes. There are not many stories to tell of a prince locked in a palace.”
“You can’t leave?”
“Not without a retinue.” He laughed weakly. “Every outing would be a procession.”
“And so you become Yousef.” She was still looking at him, brow furrowed. Mazen realized there was no judgment in her voice; she spoke matter-of-factly.
“Truth be told, I was just an anonymous man in the souk before I met you. You were the first to wonder about my identity.” A sad smile curved his lips. “Though I doubt I’ll be able to do it again anytime soon, it was nice to live a fictional life for a time.”
Loulie didn’t respond, not immediately, but when she did her words were a cold mumble. “I understand what you mean. A reputation can be a nuisance. Apparently, it can even be used to blackmail a person into going on a perilous quest.”
Mazen flinched. He knew her bitter words were not directed at him, but that did not make him feel any less responsible for his father’s cruelty. He was struggling to come up with a response when someone clamped a hand on his shoulder, startling him. He turned to see Omar looming behind them, surveying the scene with a lazy smile. “Salaam, Mazen.” He looked at Loulie. “Midnight Merchant.” His voice was cool.
Loulie’s expression went rigid. “High Prince.”
“It is, as always, a pleasure. I hope you do not mind me stealing my brother away.”
Mazen frowned. What now? He was certainly not late for the morning meal.
“Not at all.” The merchant rose from the bed of flowers and dusted off her robes. She looked out of place in the sunshine: a patch of night in a field of bright flowers. Yet she carried herself with the confidence of someone who belonged. No, with the confidence of someone who deserved better than this place, this quest.
With a sigh, Mazen begrudgingly let Omar steer him away. They had not gotten far when the merchant called out to them. “I’m curious, High Prince. Your black knives—where did you get them? They made even an incorporeal jinn solid.”
Mazen thought of the black knife in his dream and flinched. He hadn’t considered it before, but his brother’s knives were strange, weren’t they?
“They are the same as your blade. A weapon enchanted by jinn.” Omar smiled over his shoulder. His lady-killing smile, Mazen and Hakim called it, though Loulie did not look impressed. “Do not worry; I will use them to protect you if the need arises.”
The merchant just rolled her eyes. She turned and walked away without another word, her dark robes flaring behind her. Mazen wished he could join her. She wasn’t free, exactly, not anymore, but she had been before his father found her. Free to roam the desert and live as she wished, without the weight of a kingdom on her shoulders.
“Such a pleasant personality she has,” Omar said. He gestured for Mazen to follow.
She has a better personality than you, at least, Mazen thought.
He followed Omar through one of the open-air corridors, up a stairwell, and to a simple wooden door. He knew even before entering that it was a storage room, for a piece of parchment listing the inventory inside was pinned to the door. Before Mazen could ask what they were doing there, Omar pulled him inside.
The room was full of cleaning supplies and shoddy, dusty furniture. Two servants sat at a table, playing shatranj. They looked up at Omar’s entrance and hurriedly vacated the area on his command. Once they left, Omar slid into one of the chairs and smiled. “This will do perfectly for some peace and quiet.”
“Is there a reason we’re having this conversation here?”
“I needed a room, and this was the closest one not filled with your spying servants.”
Mazen crept to the window ledge and positioned himself on the sill. Just in case I need to call for someone to rescue me, he thought. But the corridor outside was empty at this time of day. Knowing Omar, he had planned for even this.
“You remember the favor you promised me, Mazen?” Omar’s eyes glittered as he reached into the satchel at his belt and withdrew some golden object. “I have found a way for you to repay me.” He tossed the object to him.
Mazen leaned forward barely in time to catch it before it dropped to the floor. He stared at the thing in his hands. It was a golden bangle: a gaudy thing with glittering jewels. “A gift? You shouldn’t have, Omar.” He tried a smile, hoping it would mask his confusion.
“Oh, but I have.” Omar reached into the satchel again and withdrew—the same bangle.
Mazen eyed the replica warily. “I thought you found jewelry distasteful.”
Omar snorted. “Not so much distasteful as inconvenient.” He slid one of his blades from his belt and held it out to Mazen. “Feed one of the gems on the bracelet your blood.” Instinctively, Mazen flinched away. Omar just waved the knife at him. “I assure you there’s a good reason.”
“Well then, enlighten me. I’m not going to cut myself for some unknown reason.”
Omar set the knife down on the table with a sigh. “Fine. You want an explanation?” He held out the second bangle. “Put this on.”
“But I—”
“Just do it, Mazen.”
He caught the bangle when Omar tossed it to him. After a beat of hesitation, he clasped it onto his left wrist. The sensation that followed was one of the strangest he’d experienced: he felt unbalanced and dizzy, as if the center of him had shifted. His body felt too cold, too big. He had the inexplicable urge to scrub at his skin until it flaked off. He blinked, and his vision sharpened, the details of the room becoming more vivid.
“What just happened?” He froze at the sound of his voice. Because it wasn’t his voice. The timbre was too low, the words too heavy on his tongue.
“Omar, what—” Mazen stopped abruptly. He’d caught sight of his appearance in a mirror wedged into a corner of the room. He looked away. Then back again. The image remained unchanged.
Omar bin Malik stared back at him, eyes wide with shock.
Mazen touched his face—now his brother’s face—and gasped. He said nothing at first, just stared with dawning comprehension at his changed reflection. Then the panic came, sharp and wild, and he pried the bangle from his wrist and threw it on the cushions.
When he again looked in the mirror, he was back in his own body. He brushed his hands over his face with a groan. Omar had the audacity to chuckle.
“Your melodramatic responses never fail to amuse.”
Mazen looked up sharply. “What was that? Magic? Are these a pair of relics?” He remembered the Midnight Merchant’s bag of relics. “Did you steal these from the merchant?”
Omar clicked his tongue. “I only steal things I cannot get through other means. The merchant is not the only one who collects magical items.”