Mazen knew this. His father had a small collection of relics that had been “donated” to him by the hunters and nomads who roamed the desert. He paid good gold for them, of course, but the real reason anyone surrendered relics to him was because they feared him finding out they possessed them. It was not a common problem; relics were rare, after all.
Omar continued speaking slowly, calmly, as if to a child. “These bracelets are special. You remember the lamp the jinn king enchanted for Amir? These were also created by that jinn. They are as ancient as Amir’s scrolls.”
Mazen picked up one of the bangles and ran his fingers over the gemstones in awe. “Passed down through the family?”
“For hundreds of years. They’ve been in the treasury gathering dust, so I doubt they’ll be missed.” He leaned forward. “As you can see, I’ve already fed my blood to one of them. In order to pull off our illusion, you must offer your blood to the other.”
Mazen’s stomach knotted. “Illusion?”
Omar smiled. “We are going to switch places, Mazen.”
The bangle fell from his hands. “But Father wants you to accompany the merchant—”
“And that is exactly the problem. I am preparing for an important operation with my thieves, and I cannot miss it.” He rested his elbows on his knees, leaned forward. “I thought you would be excited about this. Have you not always wanted to go galivanting around the desert? Now you can.”
Mazen bit back a self-mocking laugh. As a child, he’d always craved adventure—the kind in his mother’s stories, which featured heroes and magic and fantastical creatures. But that had been then, and this was now. “Not this kind of adventure.”
Omar frowned. “I have kept your secrets, akhi, and I have saved your life. You owe me this. Or…” His eyes flashed. “Would you like me to explain to the sultan how the jinn came to possess your shadow?”
Mazen’s heart beat in his throat. It was you who brought the shadow jinn back. You who provoked her! He held his tongue. He knew he could not afford to say the words, knew that the sultan’s disappointment in Omar would be second to his anger at Mazen.
But Omar’s request—it was impossible.
“I don’t know how to use a blade. I could never pretend to be you.”
Omar stabbed his knife into the table and smiled when Mazen recoiled. “Never fear. I will send Aisha, my best thief, with you. She and my other thieves will know your true identity. If there is any fighting to be done, leave it to her.”
Mazen faintly remembered the hooded woman he’d seen with Omar in the courtyard. How was it that that meeting had been less than a week ago?
“What say you, Mazen?” Omar tilted his head.
Mazen let out a single, strained “ha” that was half a cry for help, half a laugh.
Before his mother’s death, he’d thought the world outside Madinne a magical place. His mother had made it seem full of life and light and endless possibilities. And then she had been killed by one of the creatures in her stories, and the magic had disappeared.
And yet…
Death in a free land is better than life in a gilded cage.
He had told Loulie al-Nazari he enjoyed stepping into a life where he could be someone other than himself. Someone other than the overprotected son of a legendary storyteller.
This was his chance to leave Madinne. His single, dangerous chance.
It would not be the first time he had pretended to be someone other than himself.
“Fine.” Mazen lifted his head and met his brother’s eyes. “I will go on your adventure.”
15
LOULIE
“Do you really need another drink?” Dahlia bint Adnan held the wine bottle a safe distance from Loulie, who sat at the tavern counter, shaking a precariously tipped cup at her.
“No.” Loulie frowned. “But I want one anyway.”
Dahlia sighed as she set the bottle back on the liquor shelf behind her. “Any more wine and you’ll fall off your horse tomorrow during the procession. You don’t want that, do you? You may not care what the sultan thinks of you now, but you certainly will tomorrow.”
Loulie scowled. “Let him think what he wants. I’m sick of letting him parade me around. Look at me, Dahlia!” She grasped the collar of the horrendously shimmering dara’a she was wearing. “Imagine my embarrassment at being forced to wear this tonight. And worse! Being forced to wear it while hanging off of Prince Omar’s arm.”
Prince Omar had been all cocky smiles as he led her around the diwan earlier that evening, introducing her to guests she’d never wanted to meet. The nobles had gaped at her like she was some treasure on display, cooing over her dress and waggling their brows at her.
Loulie hated them, all of them.
It had been a small relief to escape the nobles tonight, to have been given permission by the sultan to spend the last night before her terrible journey here in Dahlia’s tavern.
“Listen to yourself. You hardly sound like the Midnight Merchant.”
Loulie laughed. A hollow, bitter sound. “The Midnight Merchant you know is gone. I may as well be a celebrity now.” She focused intensely on the inside of her empty cup; it was the only way to keep her frustrated tears at bay.
What was she doing confiding in Dahlia? She’d never broken down in front of the woman, never let her see any of her insecurities. Dahlia may have been a generous landlord and a shrewd confidante, but Loulie took great pains to hide the more sentimental parts of her personal life from her. The less vulnerable she was with someone, the easier it was to leave them behind.
That was why, even with Ahmed, she’d—
Loulie cut the thought off with a growl. Damn that man for sneaking into my thoughts as soon as I let my guard down. She ignored Dahlia’s raised brow and turned her mind to more productive musings. She wondered, not for the first time, where Qadir was. Though he’d assisted her in the diwan, he’d been missing since their separation at the Night Market three days ago.
“A person’s reputation is determined by how they interact with others,” Dahlia said as she set another bottle down on the shelf behind her. She was cleaning them with a rag, as was her habit when she couldn’t sleep. Normally, all the tables would be occupied at this time, and the tavern would be full of customers sharing wine and snacks. But after the incident at the souk, all of Dahlia’s patrons had vanished. It was likely they’d decided to lie low after the purge.
“The Midnight Merchant does not converse with uppity nobles.” Loulie slammed her cup on the table. Then she did it a few more times, because it made her feel better.
Dahlia groaned. “Oh for gods’ sake…”
It was at that moment that the tavern’s front door opened and a man stepped inside. Loulie whirled, half expecting one of the sultan’s guards. But it was not a soldier.
It was Qadir, standing before them in all his unimpressed glory.
He raised a brow. “Who is this sorry drunk?”
Dahlia smirked. “I don’t know, but I have half a mind to throw her out.”
Loulie straightened. Too fast. The world blurred, and she had to steady herself against the counter before she could focus on Qadir. “Where have you been?”
He sighed as he slid onto the stool beside hers. “A hearty salaam to you too.” His gaze grew frosty when he saw the gown she was wearing.
“A present from the sultan,” she said. “I’m sure the customers will love it; they won’t be able to tear their eyes away.”
“Which is exactly why I should burn it,” Qadir said.
Dahlia just snorted. The tavernkeeper had no idea Qadir really could burn the dress with just a snap of his fingers. She slid one last bottle onto the shelf before turning to them with her hands on her hips. “I’ll leave you two to catch up. Burn out the lanterns when you’re done.”
Qadir dipped his head. “Tesbaheen ala khair.”
Dahlia responded only with a yawn before heading upstairs, leaving Loulie and Qadir alone. Loulie felt the urge to throw her arms around his neck and cry into his shoulder. She waited for it to pass before she repeated, “Where have you been?”
“Watching from a distance. I know about the quest.”