Loulie thought about the rooms she’d wandered into, and of the lanterns that lit those rooms. Qadir could watch her from those fires if he chose to; fire magic was his affinity, after all. Short of shapeshifting into a lizard, there was no other magic he could perform.
“And what do you think?” She mindlessly spun the cup between her hands. “About the legend and the lamp?” She looked up. “About what comes afterward?”
Qadir stole the cup before she could twirl it across the wood again. “I think it is useless to worry about a future not set in stone. As for the lamp—have you tried asking the compass where it is?”
Loulie set her chin on the table with a sigh. “It exists. I asked the coin and the compass.”
“Then it can be obtained.”
“And you have no qualms about handing an imprisoned jinn to the sultan?” She paused. “Do you know anything about this lamp?”
“Me?” Qadir shrugged. “Nothing. I was not in the human world that long ago. But if your sultan’s story contains even an inkling of truth, it is likely the jinn he is looking for is an ifrit.” His lips quirked at her puzzlement. “Ifrit are what we call the seven jinn kings in our land. It is a title bestowed upon beings of fire who are powerful enough to use various magic affinities.”
Ifrit. The word was raw with power, more ominous by far than jinn king.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the ifrit before?”
He shrugged. “We have never run into one, and no one in your land uses the word. Jinn kings may be an inaccurate title, but it does not merit a history lesson.”
It was true that all the jinn they’d come across specialized in only one type of magic. Opponents like the shadow jinn who could manipulate the world through a single element. Jinn were rare, and the so-called jinn kings were legend. It was no wonder Qadir hadn’t brought up the term before.
“Fair enough.” She sighed. “So, say we find this all-powerful ifrit. Do we simply hand it over to the sultan?”
“Who says we have to hand anything over?” Qadir angled his head toward the nearest lantern. The flame inside flickered and died, and the other lanterns dimmed shortly after. Qadir’s eyes danced with a playful fire that made his irises flash gold and red. “Think of the sultan as a customer to be scammed.”
I think it is useless to worry about a future not set in stone. Maybe Qadir had a point. She had not become so successful by overthinking.
“You’re recommending I leap before I think? How irresponsible of you.”
Qadir set his hand on the table. “I live to be a bad influence.”
Loulie set her hand atop his, savoring the warmth of his touch. It occurred to her that she was becoming drowsy and that this was only because Qadir had returned and was sitting beside her. It was difficult to let her guard down when he was absent. She had spent the last three nights worrying what would become of him on this quest.
As he always did, Qadir read the concern on her face. “I never thought I’d see the fearless Midnight Merchant look so defeated before the journey even began.”
“The ifrit in the lamp isn’t the only jinn in danger.” She gave him a pointed look.
“You ought to have more faith in me. I haven’t lived this long just to be bested by an arrogant human.” He cocked a brow. “And I have never known you to concede victory to someone either.”
Loulie bristled. Qadir was right; she may have been a citizen of Madinne, but she was no one’s servant. She refused to let the sultan destroy the life she had worked so hard to make.
“You’re right; the Midnight Merchant would never yield to some conceited noble. Not even the sultan.” She laced her fingers through Qadir’s, suddenly feeling resolute. “He’ll regret threatening us.”
Qadir smiled. “They always do, in the end.”
16
AISHA
It was a suspiciously tranquil night.
Usually, on evenings like this when the sultan had guests, the courtyard was scattered with loud and annoyingly curious nobles. Tonight, however, the area was empty, and Aisha did not hesitate to pull open her curtain. She seated herself in her window alcove, and with only the moon and stars as her audience, she put a brush to her arm and began to paint.
Most travelers had pre-journey rituals. They prayed; they kissed their loved ones. Aisha had not been able to do either of those things for a long time. So instead, she drew.
She painted henna designs atop her scars and allowed herself the brief luxury of rumination. She let herself remember the softness of her mother’s henna brush as she drew petals on her skin. Recalled her sisters’ scolding when she didn’t wait long enough for the henna to dry and accidentally smudged the ink while cooking or cleaning or digging in the fields.
I look forward to the day you learn patience, her mother had often teased her. You will be a force to be reckoned with then.
Now, as Aisha inked the tattoos across her skin, she was patient. Careful. She imagined each stroke of the brush was a memory unfurling across her skin. A thread, snapped and repurposed to create a new tapestry. One filled with determination rather than grief. She raised her arm to the moonlight and observed the painted sleeve of jagged leaves and flowers.
Her mother had been right. Patience was a hard but necessary lesson. Obtaining revenge was not a sprint; it was a journey. Aisha sighed as she lowered her arm to her lap.
An hour elapsed in peace. And then, as she was putting the finishing touches on her last tattoo, a knock came at her door. Aisha tensed, then relaxed when she heard Samar’s voice. “Permission to come in, Princess?”
The title—one of the thief’s many irritating nicknames for her—made her groan. “Call me Princess again and I’ll stab out your eye.” She reached for the featherlight shawl resting on her pillows and, carefully avoiding the fresh henna paste on her arms, draped it over her shoulders. “What do you want?”
The entrance burst open, and a rosy-cheeked man stumbled inside.
In a heartbeat, Aisha had grabbed the newly sharpened shamshir off her wall and was approaching with the blade pointed at his chest. The man looked up and stared at her owlishly.
Aisha stared at him in shock. “Prince Mazen?”
The bumbling prince was dressed in a blue-black robe that looked sizes too big for him. His golden eyes were unfocused, and he blinked at her slowly, as if coming out of a daze. Behind him, Samar inched into the room. Aisha shot him a look, but the thief just shrugged. If this was some kind of prank, she was going to kill him.
“O-oh,” the prince said softly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…” He glanced around the room, and Aisha flinched as his gaze fell on her bare-bones surroundings. There was hardly anything to take in—the place was as impersonal as an inn room, with nothing but a bed, a simple table, and a chest for her clothing. The only individual touch was the sheets of henna patterns hanging on the wall. But that didn’t matter. This was still her room. However the prince had come to be here, she refused to let him stay.
“Get out.”
The prince’s eyes widened as she stepped toward him. “I’m sorry.” He fiddled nervously with a piece of jewelry on his wrist. “Please, let me explain…”
Aisha was feet away from him when she stopped, noticing his bracelet—the jewel-studded bangle Omar had shown her days ago, when he’d come to her with his bizarre request to accompany his brother on a journey. Her eyes settled again on the prince’s face. His lips were curled in an all-too-familiar smirk that did not belong to Prince Mazen.
With an exaggerated bow, he unclasped the bangle from his arm, and between one blink and the next, he was suddenly Omar. The robe was no longer ill fitting, and his eyes were bright with amusement. “What do you think? I make a convincing Prince Mazen, no?”
Aisha returned his smile with a scowl. She had not been expecting Omar until after midnight, when his dinner was over. And she definitely hadn’t been expecting him in disguise.