The barrel-chested man grumbled, then turned and walked through the entrance. Mazen waited a heartbeat. Two. Three. Then he chased him inside.
It immediately became apparent that this ruin was better maintained than the other structures, with most of its walls still holding. The corridor they passed through had a high ceiling and was lined with iron doors. Lantern-bearing ghouls stood sentinel between them, their empty eyes staring blankly ahead.
That was, until one of them turned in his direction. It sniffed at the air, took a step forward, and—
“Ss!” the man hissed. “No wandering, spawn.” The ghoul instantly retreated.
Mazen held back a sigh of relief. Whatever language Imad was using to order around the ghouls, it seemed it was unnecessary for basic commands. He was grateful for the hierarchy of human authority here, puzzling as it was.
They came to a large archway guarded by two ghouls, who froze at a word from the man. The chamber inside was massive. Save for a few torn tapestries hanging from the walls and some dusty rugs scattered across the floor, the space was mostly empty. It looked as if it had been gutted by thieves. Candelabras illuminated the room with an eerie, weak light. Beneath them, Mazen saw bare pedestals that had probably once displayed treasures.
Perhaps in the past, the room had been glorious, but now it looked like a storage room. And standing in the middle of it were men of varying shapes and bulk. Some were old, others young, and all of them wore weapons.
Mazen had just stepped inside when the chatter quieted. He heard footsteps and turned to see Imad enter the chamber. He was followed by a slow-moving man. “Where do you want her, Imad?” Imad’s companion called.
Mazen backed into the shadows as Imad brushed past him.
“Here.” Imad stopped in the center and pointed. The armed men stepped back, giving him a wider berth. “Set her at my feet,” Imad said.
The man shoved his prisoner—a woman—forward. Mazen balked at the hatred on her face. At the anger shining in her single eye, for the other was sealed shut with blood. And then he realized who she was, and he had to stop himself from running to her.
Because though he could see her, Aisha bint Louas could not see him.
She looked as if she’d been through hell and back. Her clothes were soiled, cloaked in layers of grime. Blood stained her skin, and her hair was a mess of tangled waves. Mazen had never been more terrified for her.
And terrified of her.
“So, bint Louas, are you ready to talk?” Imad raised a brow.
Aisha spat at his feet. “I have nothing to say to you, snake.”
“Mm.” Imad shifted. Mazen saw the glimmer of the bangle moments before Imad clasped it to his wrist and became Omar. “What about now? Will you speak to your prince?” His voice was soft, mocking.
Aisha trembled in her bindings but said nothing.
“You think Omar will appreciate your martyrdom? You are easily replaceable.”
“This, coming from the man who was thrown away.” Aisha’s eye swept across the room, taking in the sight of the stoic-faced ruffians who surrounded them. “I see you’ve replaced your comrades with thugs. How the mighty have fallen.”
A heavy silence followed her words. Aisha heedlessly spoke into it. “What are you but an old man who refuses to retire? An old man who was unable to steal a single relic for your prince? I owe you nothing. My king—”
Imad struck her across the face. “Your prince is a monster,” he snapped.
“You only curse his name because you were too weak to honor it. You murdered an entire tribe, and for what? You returned relic-less, with only blood on your hands!”
“Your prince never found the relic either.” Imad reached into his pocket. “But I have accomplished what he has not.” He pulled out an object. A small disc made of wood and glass.
A memory snapped into place. Mazen remembered Qadir sitting by the campfire in al-Waha al-Khadhra’a, a compass on his knee. It was the same compass. The one Loulie had used to lead them through the desert. He was sure of it.
Aisha laughed. “A compass? You’ve gone senile.”
Imad smiled. “Lead me to Jassem,” he said. Mazen could barely make out the arrow shuddering beneath the glass before Imad tossed the compass to the barrel-chested man Mazen had followed inside.
“Holy hell,” Jassem said. The other men began to mutter.
Aisha’s eye narrowed. “You stole that insignificant thing from the merchant’s bag thinking it was a king’s relic?” She scoffed. “What’s it going to do? Lead you to treasure?”
“Treasure? No, I plan on using it to locate other, more important targets. More important people.” Imad flexed his fingers, and Jassem tossed the compass back to him. He tucked the compass back into his pocket and traded it for a knife hidden in his sleeve. “Now, tell me.” He held the weapon to Aisha’s cheek. “How many other kings’ relics does the prince possess? Answer me, bint Louas, and I might spare your other eye.”
Mazen saw Aisha’s throat bob beneath the silver edge. She said nothing.
The men began to jeer. Imad just smiled as he pressed the blade into her skin and blood rose to the surface.
Mazen stepped forward—and stopped when a pair of ghouls burst into the room. Imad pulled the knife away with a hiss. “What?” A brief one-sided exchange ensued in which the ghouls screamed and gestured frantically down the corridor.
“What do you mean there’s no relic?” Imad was on his feet in seconds, rushing past a quivering Aisha. “Watch the thief,” he said, and then he left the chamber.
A fragile silence reigned for all of a few seconds before one man scoffed. “‘Watch the thief,’ he says. Like we’re his dogs!”
Another laughed. “You’d rather not be in on all this? Think of what we have to gain if Imad actually slays the legendary Stardust Thief.” A murmur of assent went up at that, but Mazen blurred out the words and focused on Aisha. This was his chance to save her, if he could find some way to get her out without dying.
“Which relic do you think’s gone missing?” one of the men was saying.
“Perhaps a relic from the merchant’s bag?”
There was more muttering. Mazen silently stalked forward. Aisha had walked here; her legs were not bound. He just had to create an opening for her to escape. But how? How…
His eyes snagged on a flimsy tapestry featuring an intricately woven face filled with so much anguish it made him shudder. It reminded him of a shabah. Of those vengeful spirits he’d been so terrified of as a child. How could he not have been wary of them when his father had murdered so many of his brides in the palace courtyard? When he’d been young, the realization had filled him with so much terror he’d imagined the executed brides stalking him through the corridors and peering at him through windows in the dead of night.
But that horror had since dampened to an overwhelming sorrow. Though it was his father’s hands that were coated in blood, Mazen was still a part of that gruesome legacy. The sultan’s victims may not have haunted the corridors as shabah, but…
Mazen paused, inhaled. He had an idea.
He glanced around the room. His eyes fell on a cracked pot displayed on one of the pedestals. He made his way over to it. Picked it up.
And threw it across the room.
No one noticed it sailing through the air. They did not notice it, in fact, until it was a shattered mess on the floor. The brutes all paused to stare at the shards.
Mazen plunged into his memories. He recalled the way the wind had murmured in his ears when he was hiding from the spirits beneath his blankets. The way the hairs on his arms had risen and his throat had gone dry as his room grew cold. He fashioned the memory into a feeling and then into a sound. A soft, eerie mumbling.
The men became restless, muttering to each other as Mazen slid silently across the room, hissing and cackling. He suppressed a grin as he brushed against banners and drummed his fingers against walls, ruffling the fabric in his wake and creating an ominous tapping sound that made his spectators shrink back in fear.