Though Loulie was accustomed to crowds, this was the most people she had seen together in one place, and the sight nearly made her freeze up. But then she remembered Dahlia’s words: A person’s reputation is determined by how they interact with others.
Loulie’s identity was a thing crafted from mystery, and she intended to keep it that way. She forced herself to straighten in her saddle and lift her head. She’d nearly made it to the souk entrance when a familiar voice called her name, and she turned before she could help it. Rasul al-Jasheen was pushing past people as he waved at her.
He drew close enough to touch her. “I had no choice,” he said. Loulie said nothing, though her hands trembled on the reins. Rasul’s eyes darted back and forth, seeking guards who were already approaching. “It was my tribe. I could not—could not risk them.”
Her heart beat so wildly she could barely hear herself think. Tribe. The word sounded like home and heartbreak. If she had been able to save her tribe all those years ago by destroying the lives of others, would she have done what Rasul had?
“Do not disobey him,” Rasul murmured as he stepped away. His green robes blended into the vibrant hustle and bustle of the souk, and between one blink and the next, he was gone.
Loulie was shaken when she turned to the gate. Her gaze wavered again, without her permission, and she saw Dahlia standing at the outskirts of the crowd, bulky arms crossed as if in defiance, amber eyes narrowed against the sun. The minute their gazes caught, Dahlia placed a hand over her heart and bowed.
Loulie loosed a soft breath and nodded back.
Goodbye, Dahlia.
“You’re sure about this?” the tavernkeeper said.
Layla grinned. “Completely. You told me I had to earn my keep somehow.”
Dahlia scoffed. “What I said is that I don’t take in freeloading orphans. Your errand running is more than enough payment. I never suggested you wander the desert looking for relics that may or may not exist. How do you even plan on finding these things?”
Layla glanced at Qadir, who was spooning sugar into his cup. Without batting a lash, he raised the cup and drank. Layla had to bite down on her lip to keep from laughing. She doubted Qadir knew she’d discovered his secret—that he was only pretending to spoon sugar into his chai. His cup was empty. Qadir drank the sugar plain.
She waited patiently for him to finish, then held out her hand for the compass, which she presented to Dahlia. The tavernkeeper eyed it skeptically. “An ancient compass?”
Layla tapped the glass surface. The red arrow shuddered. “A magic compass.”
Dahlia looked unimpressed. “Come back in thirty days with these relics and I’ll believe you. One day longer and I’ll send out a search party.”
Layla raised her brows. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were worried about me, Dahlia bint Adnan. And here I thought you had no heart.”
“I’m worried about you as an investment, girl. You’re worth more to me alive than dead.” Her gaze softened. “You’ll be careful, won’t you? The desert is dangerous.”
“I know.” Layla passed a cup back and forth between her hands. “I miss it.”
“You Bedouin and your wanderlust.” Dahlia sighed, but she was smiling. “Well, make sure you return. You still owe me gold for rent.”
“I’ll do better than that.” Layla leaned forward, held up her cup. “I’ll bring back enough relics to sell for a small fortune. And then I’ll split it with you.”
Dahlia laughed as she raised her cup. “To small fortunes, then.”
They clinked their cups together. “To small fortunes,” Layla echoed.
19
MAZEN
The first time Mazen had ventured into the desert, he’d been learning how to ride a horse. Though there were fields in the noble quarter that had been cleared for such practices, the sultan insisted the best place for him to learn was in the terrain where he would be doing most of his riding. Mazen could still remember his wonder then, when he’d stepped beyond the city gate for the first time and witnessed the majesty of the desert up close.
He remembered the air shimmering with particles of dust so fine they looked like twinkling stars. He remembered the landscape—a tide of sand that shone gold beneath the setting sun—and the wind, which tugged playfully at his clothing.
The lessons had been difficult, but Mazen had nonetheless enjoyed them. Back then, things had been simpler. He’d been just a child, looking forward to the important business trips he would one day accompany his father on. He had imagined adventures where he rode across dunes and ran into legendary creatures he would brag to his mother about.
And then his mother had died, and those days had never come.
A strange nostalgia swept over him now as they followed the travelers’ path out Madinne’s front gate. He was struck with the peculiar feeling that he was riding into the past rather than the future; there was that same sunset painting the distant dunes a golden red, and there was the dust that glittered faintly in the air, carried on a gentle breeze. He looked down, noticing yellow wildflowers shooting out from the sand, and wondered if someone had planted them there or if even this small offshoot of greenery had sprung from jinn blood.
He would have asked the question aloud if he had been himself.
He shifted, hopefully discreetly, in his saddle. It had been a long while since he’d been on a horse; he was still remembering how to relax his body. No, how to relax Omar’s body, which was much heavier—sturdier—than his. Thankfully, none of his traveling companions paid his restless movements any mind. In fact, none of them spoke at all. Mazen tried to be optimistic about the silence. At the very least, it gave him time to appreciate the journey.
The remarkably short journey.
When the rock-lined path quickly disappeared, the merchant took out a compass and used it to guide them in the right direction. From there, they had only to follow the tracks of other travelers for a couple of hours until they came to the first stop on their map: an outpost not far from the city, a spot visitors called al-Waha al-Khadhra’a, the Green Oasis. It was more a retreat than a stopover, a miniature town made up of clay buildings and colorful stalls. At the heart of the outpost was the oasis, a large body of water surrounded by yellow grasses, sloping date trees, and tents. Mazen could not help but wonder how many jinn had died to create it.
The morose thought hung above him like a dark cloud as they entered the outpost and Loulie al-Nazari turned to address them. “We camp here tonight,” she said stiffly, and then she rode on ahead without waiting for a response. Mazen watched her stifle a yawn as she and her bodyguard headed for the space by the water reserved for overnight camping.
He wondered briefly at her exhaustion before turning his attention to the new and unfamiliar sights around him. He took in the women walking with woven baskets on their heads; the men leaning against trees, munching on skewers of lamb; and the children darting behind stalls, giggling as they hid from each other.
The scene brought the briefest of smiles to his face before he realized he was meant to be Omar, and Omar would not gawk at such things. He pushed his horse forward, beating dust from his clothing as he followed after Aisha bint Louas, who had paused a short distance away. She had not said anything on the journey. In fact, she had not spoken to him at all, except to tell him to stand taller at the procession.