Mazen nearly choked on his drink. It didn’t matter that the shadow jinn had nearly killed him—he still felt pity for her. It was a weakness, he knew, one he had no right to. And yet he could not stop thinking of the rage and pain that had clouded her mind.
The sultan shook his head. “This will never happen again. Once I have the lamp, I will destroy the jinn. All of them.” When Mazen said nothing, the sultan leaned forward, bushy brows drawn together. “Why are you against this search? The Midnight Merchant is a criminal. I am giving her a chance to redeem herself.”
“Not all jinn are evil, yuba. Mother used to say that in her stories—you remember?”
Mazen knew he’d said the wrong thing when the sultan’s expression went icy. “Has your memory grown so patchy you do not remember she was killed by one of those jinn?”
“But she believed—”
“Your mother, gods bless her soul, was softhearted.” His eyes sparked with some emotion Mazen could not place. “I’ll be damned if I let the jinn take you because you inherited her sentimentality. Remember, Mazen, the desert is no place for bleeding hearts.”
Mazen’s mother had once said the opposite: that in their country, a soft heart was more valuable because the desert dried out a person’s emotions. But he did not say this to his father.
The sultan drew back with a sigh. “I hope you understand I just want what’s best for you.” His gaze was thoughtful as he refilled his cup from the dallah. “That is why I have decided to have you trained in swordplay.” He didn’t even look up when Mazen cringed. “It will give you something to fill your days with. Until Omar returns, I want you to remain in the palace. It is safer here.”
Mazen set down his cup before it fell from his hands. His mother had not believed in responding to violence with violence. It was the reason he’d never been trained to use a weapon. The reason the sultan had stepped down as the King of the Forty Thieves. But that had been before her death. Mazen ought to have known it would only be a matter of time before his father put a blade in his hands.
If only he knew it was Omar who was going to wield that blade. It was almost humorous. While he would have to pretend to be adept at using a sword, Omar would have to play at being incompetent. It seemed they would both have their work cut out for them.
His father smiled. Not a crooked smile, but an earnest one. “This will be good for you. Who has ever heard of a prince who doesn’t know how to use a weapon? You hold the weight of a kingdom on your shoulders, Mazen. You cannot protect it with just good intentions.”
His father had a point. Never mind the fact that Mazen could barely pick up a blade for fear of having to plunge it into some living thing, or that he detested violence. He was glad, at least, that it would be Omar who bore the bloody weight of their kingdom in the future. Mazen had never wanted anything less than he wanted the throne.
“If it is boredom you fear, do not worry.” The sultan blew on his coffee. “We will fill your days with productive work. I have already told the councillors you will start attending our meetings. I expect to see you at our afternoon gathering tomorrow. Understood?”
Ah, so swordplay and politics were to be his routine for the foreseeable future. But Mazen would not step into that life—not yet.
“Yes, yuba,” he said softly.
That was how he said goodbye to his father—not with a hug or a kiss to the forehead, but with an admission. When he left the diwan, his heart was heavy with everything left unsaid.
It was the fifth hour of sunrise when he made it to Hakim’s study. He’d been preparing for his journey, packing clothes that were not his and conversing with Omar about things he needed to know as the King of the Forty Thieves. His brother had given him most of his possessions—everything except for his crescent earring, which he refused to part with. It was also the only thing missing from Mazen’s disguise now as he stood outside Hakim’s door.
Hesitantly, he rapped on the wood in the pattern he always used, and entered when Hakim bade him to do so.
Hakim’s room was unchanged, still full of tomes and shadows and maps. “Mazen? You’re unusually quiet today.” Hakim swiveled on his chair. The moment he saw Mazen, he tensed. “Omar?”
Mazen hated watching his normally composed brother become uncomfortable at Omar’s appearance. It was, Mazen knew, his fault. Years ago, after his mother had told him about Hakim’s existence, he had begged his father to bring him back to the palace he’d been banished from. He’d wanted someone to play with, someone who would treat him like a brother, unlike Omar. And so, begrudgingly, the sultan had tracked down Hakim’s mother’s tribe and brought him to the palace. For Mazen, he’d given Hakim the honorary title of prince, even though he was not of his blood.
Hakim, two years younger than Omar, had been closer in both age and temperament to Mazen. His arrival had marked the beginning of a more peaceful time. At least, until Mazen’s mother died and the sultan locked Hakim in his room and allowed Omar to belittle him.
My fault, my fault. Mazen felt a stab of shame, knowing he’d been the one to separate Hakim from his tribe. As a child, he’d insisted Hakim was his family. He’d realized only in retrospect, once his brother was trapped here, how selfish he’d been.
He forced the thought to the back of his mind as he pulled the bangle from his wrist, and managed a weak smile when Hakim startled. “Salaam, Hakim.”
“Mazen!” Hakim fell back against his desk. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“My apologies. I haven’t had the opportunity to take this damned thing off until now.”
“Is there a reason you’re using magic to masquerade as Omar?” Hakim eyed the bangle. “Is that… a relic?”
“Yes and yes.” Mazen’s smile fell as he drew closer. The map the sultan had presented to Rasul and Loulie lay stretched on Hakim’s desk. His brother had added more traveling routes.
He could feel Hakim scrutinizing him. He expected a gasp, a grumble, but when Hakim next spoke, his voice was calm. “You plan on taking Omar’s place today.”
Mazen swallowed. “You remember the favor I owe him? This is it. He wants me to accompany the merchant, pretend to be him.”
“And you’re going to do it?” Hakim stood abruptly. His broad shoulders and impressive height made Mazen feel small and insignificant. “You would willingly head into a desert filled with cutthroats and jinn just to keep your secret safe from the sultan?”
Mazen stepped back and out of his brother’s shadow. “But if he knew—”
“He loves you, Mazen! You are his favorite. He would never hurt you.”
Mazen almost laughed. Me? His favorite? How could Hakim think that? His father never listened to him. He did not even trust him; he gave all the important responsibilities to Omar. But Mazen knew Hakim would argue with him until the sun set, so he humored him.
“Then his love blinds him. He never sees reason with me.”
“Is it so wrong that he wants you to have an escort outside the palace?”
Mazen shook his head. “Now I am to be trapped in the palace at all times.” He paused, realizing how spoiled he sounded. Hakim wasn’t even allowed to attend palace events without the sultan’s permission. And here he was, complaining.
He wished he could take the words back, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak into the awkward quiet. He busied his hands instead, reaching into his satchel to withdraw his mother’s scarf, which was vibrant even in the gloom of Hakim’s dark study.
Hakim fell back onto his chair, shoulders slumped. “You’re not just leaving because of the sultan, are you? It’s for the Midnight Merchant. And because you want to escape the palace.”
Mazen swallowed. He did want to leave Madinne. He did want to help the Midnight Merchant, even if he wasn’t sure he was up to the task. He owed her.
Hakim chuckled, a soft sound that made Mazen’s heart sink. “I know you better than you know yourself.” He held out his hand. “I know you brought the scarf because you want me to keep it safe. And I know your mind is made up. You have the sultan’s stubbornness in you.”