To Aisha’s skeptical look, he responded, “I have some things I need to discuss with her. Don’t worry; you’ll have the whole journey to harass her for the relic.”
And, though he was nervous to do so, he needed to check in on Ahmed again. No matter his anxiety at seeing the wali—It’s my fault he was possessed; I left the relic in his diwan—he had a responsibility as the high prince to check on him. He did not think it would absolve the guilt that clung to him like a second skin, but he did not expect it to. He did not deserve that release, not when he had been the whole cause of this disaster.
“Fine.” She tilted her head up, chin jutted defiantly. Then she slammed the door behind her, leaving him alone. Mazen sighed.
He wondered, vaguely, if he and Aisha would ever be able to trust one another.
34
AISHA
You speak as if you’re his servant, not his comrade.
The words pounded through Aisha’s mind, building into a cumbersome headache as she wove her way through Dhyme’s central souk. She edged her way past slow-moving morning crowds and sleepy-eyed merchants, all the while ignoring the rumbling of her stomach as she passed carts selling fresh breads and hummus and labneh.
Servant! She was no servant. Nine years ago, when Omar had started rebuilding his father’s decimated thief force from the ground up, he’d recruited her off the street first. They were not friends—would never be friends—but she was no mindless soldier.
Yes, she was here because of Omar. But she was one of his thieves; she had pledged herself to his service all those years ago, and she never reneged on her promises.
Aisha groaned. Prince Mazen’s ability to get under her skin was uncanny. She was tempted to blame it on her sleep deprivation, an embarrassing consequence of her overthinking.
Until last night, the jinn—the collar—had been silent since their romp through the dune. Aisha had thought herself immune to the creature’s internal mockery. The last thing she’d been expecting when she pried the collar off Ahmed bin Walid’s neck was for the jinn to speak to her in memories—reminiscences that were not even hers.
She had gotten so lost in those memories she had forgotten reality. It had not been until she saw the merchant gripping the collar that she realized she’d nearly succumbed to its power.
And as if that near failure hadn’t been humiliating enough, the bizarre memories had trailed Aisha to bed like mist and encompassed her dreams like fog. Even now, she could remember the vision that had kept her awake: the human man, bleeding crimson into the sand as his tribesmen sawed off his limbs. She remembered blood in her lungs, walls of sand, and the feeling of drowning as her lover’s tribesmen cut into her heart—
Aisha bumped headfirst into a young noble wearing a turban stuffed with peacock feathers. She waited for him to apologize. He waited for her to apologize. When she simply looked at him expectantly, he scowled and shoved her aside. “Riffraff,” he muttered.
Aisha took the opportunity to steal an apology from him in coin—three silver pieces, easily pilfered from his fine, embroidered pockets.
“Fool,” she said with a smirk as she slid the silver into her pockets.
The theft improved her mood somewhat as she passed into Dhyme’s poorest district, through streets filled with litter and sewage. She had not been lying when she told the prince she needed a new horse, but there was another, more important errand she needed to run first.
As she moved deeper into the quarter, she became aware of its pungent scents, of the odors of rotting food and manure that lingered in the air. The smell always took her by surprise, no matter how often she came to this place, and she had to remember to hold her breath as she made her way toward the abandoned neighborhood that was her destination.
She encountered a beggar as she was making her way through the run-down thoroughfares: an old man with empty eyes. Aisha slid a coin from her pocket and tossed it to him.
The beggar gasped as the silver bounced off his knee and rolled into a wall.
“Gods bless you,” he called in a raspy voice as she walked away.
A few more turns, and she found herself at the dead end she’d been looking for. There was nothing but a cracked, plastered wall in front of her. Or so it would seem to most people. There was a fissure in the wall where it met the corner, and Aisha squeezed herself through it to get to another alley. She passed through several other hidden passages known only to her and forty others, and then she finally reached the boarded-up house she’d been looking for.
Dust coated the walls and floors, rising to cloud her vision as she made her way through abandoned rooms to a creaking staircase. At the landing was a door, which she knocked on in a particular fashion. She waited one heartbeat, two, and then she entered.
The first thing she saw when she stepped inside was the shelf on the back wall: a resting place for ornaments both bizarre and mundane, shiny and dull. A handful of relics worth a small fortune, hidden in Dhyme’s poorest quarter.
Aisha’s eyes flickered to the single open window in the abandoned home. A man stood beside it with his arms crossed, watching her. He regarded her with heavy-lidded eyes. “Aisha,” he said in his usual monotone.
“Junaid.” The name came out a sigh. She had not been certain he would be here. Dhyme was Junaid’s hunting ground, but he was rarely in the city. As the thief was the fastest rider in their band, Omar often depended on him to make time-sensitive deliveries.
The scrawny, middle-aged thief settled on the floor, tucked his bony legs beneath him. “I heard of your mission by hawk.” His lips lifted in a smile. On his sunken face, it looked like the grin of a dead man. “And I heard about the slaughter in the wali’s manor. I assume you’re here to tell the story so that I may deliver it to our king?”
Aisha nodded. Omar had not asked for reports, but he expected them.
She stripped the story down to its barest facts—she was not keen on sharing the details of her defeat. The older thief listened intently, reacting only when Aisha mentioned the collar’s ability to manipulate the dead.
His eyes gleamed with wonder. “So she is still alive,” he murmured.
“The jinn?” Aisha crossed her arms. “It’s more alive than any relic I’ve seen.”
“Perhaps because it is a jinn king’s relic. I imagine those would be more powerful.” Junaid looked thoughtful. “There is a tale around these parts about an undead jinn queen, no? Perhaps the collar you found belongs to her.”
Aisha frowned. He was referring to the Queen of Dunes, a cautionary tale meant to discourage children from wandering the desert alone. She had not thought to connect the jinn in the ruins to an old campfire story, but Junaid’s theory made sense.
“So where is it?” Junaid leaned forward. “Where is this king’s relic I am to deliver?”
“With the merchant. The idiot prince gave it to her after the fight. If it disappears, they’ll know I stole it.”
Junaid blinked at her. “And?”
Aisha scowled. “And it’s already hard enough to keep their trust. The last thing I need is for them to start becoming suspicious of us. Suspicious of Prince Mazen.”
When Junaid continued to stare at her placidly, she shook her head and said, “Deliver this promise to our king: tell him I will bring him the relic at journey’s end. He trusted me to watch the prince. He can trust me to watch a relic.”
Never mind that the relic had made her forget herself. That the thing had made her look like a fool twice. She would not let it happen again. She was stronger than any jinn—king or not.
Junaid rose with a sigh. His knees cracked as he straightened. “Fine. I am but a humble messenger. I will deliver your words to Omar.” He walked past her to the door and picked up a bulky bag she had not noticed. She assumed it was filled with Dhyme-made weapons to be delivered to Omar. She was amazed Junaid’s thin body didn’t crack beneath its hefty weight.
“You must have the strength of a jinn in that puny body,” Aisha said.