Nine years ago, Qadir had lost a compass in the desert. A compass that had been found by her father. A group of thieves had tracked down the jinn searching for that compass and had killed her tribe to protect the secret of that quest. The jinn—ifrit—had killed them and taken her under his wing. For redemption, he’d told her, but how was she to know that was the full truth, when he’d kept so many things from her?
But what was most painful to her was not the lies. It was the truth.
That her tribe had been nothing but collateral damage. That all these years, the person who had ordered her parents dead had been hiding behind gilded doors. And now she was traveling with his brother and working for his father.
She was trapped, and there wasn’t a godsdamned thing she could do about it.
She did not realize there were tears rolling down her cheeks until ripples spread on the surface of the bathwater. She let herself cry without reservation. Because she was alone, and there was no one there to see her shatter.
It was a testament to the extremity of her grief, she thought, that her mind wandered to Ahmed bin Walid. What she wouldn’t give to be in his company now. Dancing in his diwan, conversing in his courtyard—it didn’t matter. When she was with Ahmed, she was able to forget her reputation and insecurities. At least, for a time.
That was the problem with respites; they were temporary. Flimsy dreams at best.
And yet Loulie still found herself yearning for the quiet comfort that washed over her when she sat with Ahmed in his diwan. She wished, in that moment, that she lived a simpler life. One where she was not so scared of losing other people.
It was unfortunate that wishes, like dreams, were imaginary.
Later, when Loulie dried her tears and returned to the inn, her and Qadir’s room was empty. Save for the few relics she had on her, along with Qadir’s shamshir, which was leaning against the wall by the bed, they had no belongings left. There was, however, a lone lantern sitting atop the desk, flickering with a soft blue light.
Loulie fell onto her bed without acknowledging it. The fire was unoffended. It never wavered, never burned out, and never stopped watching over her.
52
MAZEN
Mazen was blinking sleep out of his eyes when Aisha threw a bundle of garments at him. “You look like you’ve been rolling in the dirt,” she said by way of greeting.
“Sabah al-khair to you too,” he mumbled as he looked at the clothing: a pair of cheap trousers and a shirt. There was even cloth for him to fashion into a ghutra. He looked up at Aisha, who had already washed and changed. He was surprised to see she had not covered her arms; both her scars and the faded henna overlaying them were visible. A scarf was wrapped loosely around her head, draping her features in shadow. Mazen could barely tell her eyes were different colors.
“Let me guess.” He held up the tunic. “Thieving?”
She shrugged. “The merchants won’t miss them. Now yalla, go wash up. We don’t have all day.”
Mazen stared at her. “We’re not leaving already, are we? We just got here.”
“What, you think we can continue our journey without horses and equipment?” She snorted. “I’ll be sure to tell your brother it was your own stupidity that killed you.”
“Is it necessary to always throw my words back at me?”
She leaned against the wall, crossed her arms. “It is when you say foolish things.”
She didn’t tail him when he left in search of the men’s hammam. Mazen found it not far from the inn, in a simple building tucked into a corner of the cliffs. Bathing there was… strange.
This was mostly because, having his own personal bathing chamber in the palace, he’d never bathed in the company of other men. It was a profoundly peculiar experience, one that made him acutely aware of how unmuscular he was. And yet it was a relief not being in his brother’s body. Being himself. It was only as he was dressing that he remembered what that meant.
He had lost the bangle. An ancient, priceless artifact enchanted by an ifrit.
A sudden, terrible weight crashed down on him, making him stumble in place. He had felt the loss of it before but had not realized how monumental it was until now, standing there half naked in his own body. Omar’s body had been armor. Even though he was certain he didn’t have to worry about being recognized in Ghiban, he still felt vulnerable.
But maybe I do not need to be myself. Without her merchant robes, Loulie was Layla. And without his royal ornaments, he’d been Yousef.
Yousef. The name tasted like harmless escapades and lofty dreams. This identity, at least, was a character he felt comfortable playing. He decided he would use it here. He returned to the inn, found Aisha in the tavern, and told her this.
She snorted. “Amazing how even now you have your head in the clouds.” She stood and walked toward the door. “Come, let’s find a chai shop.”
He followed after her. “What about the merchant?”
As if he’d summoned her, Loulie al-Nazari stepped out from the crowds, dressed in simple attire. She had draped a shawl loosely over her unruly curls, which were a fuzzy halo around her face.
“I’m coming with you.” Her voice, hard like steel, brooked no argument. She strode ahead of them, Qadir nowhere to be seen.
They followed her past tiered wooden houses and quaint shops, through patches of flower-strewn greenery populated by citizens enjoying the cool, crisp weather. Mazen was envious of their nonchalance, of their bright smiles and carefree laughter.
He glanced at the burbling streams running past them and thought of silver blood. Of Qadir, run through with a dozen knives. Of Aisha, bleeding to death in ancient ruins. Dead, both of them. Or so he’d thought. But here they both stood, revived with magic he didn’t understand. What would his father say if he knew he was traveling with ifrit?
He would have tried to kill them long ago.
Mazen suppressed a sigh as they reached the souk outskirts, where early-rising workers huddled in groups, venting about their mundane problems beneath shaded canopies and inside small shops. Mazen noted the shops’ impressive outdoor displays: tables showcasing everything from vibrant fabrics to glazed plates to rows of spice-filled tins. Because it was still early in the day and many of the displays were yet unsupervised, the city guard was out patrolling the square, on the lookout for overeager customers with slippery fingers.
The three of them passed by the still-quiet shops and made their way toward a chai shop with an outdoor patio. There, they settled at a table and ordered pita, hummus, and a platter of olives with their remaining pilfered gold.
“I want to be clear about something,” the merchant said after their server delivered the plates. She ripped off a piece of steaming bread and tossed it into her mouth with a grimace. “I may be obligated to go on this journey, but I refuse to finish it blindly.” Her bright eyes, so much like shards of fire, darted between them. “I want answers.” It was an effort not to balk beneath her gaze. “I’ll start with you, Prince. Tell me what happened nine years ago with Imad.”
She was glaring at him, and yet—surely this was a step toward forgiveness, if she trusted him to provide truthful answers? Though there was not much to tell, Mazen eagerly shared what he knew. Nine years ago, he’d been only thirteen, and he could not remember Omar’s orders. Nor could he remember the supposed sparring match between Imad and Omar. But he knew what Aisha had told him and what his father had said.
“My father always claimed his thieves died in a freak accident,” Mazen said. “That they fought a terrible jinn and did not survive. I never knew about Imad. And…” He hesitated. “I never knew there had been so many casualties. Not until Aisha told me.”
They both glanced at Aisha, who shrugged. “All I know about the incident is that Omar was desperate to get his hands on a jinn king’s relic, and he was willing to do whatever it took to obtain it. As you can see, the thieves he sent to kill the ifrit failed. He has not gone to such extremes again.” She raised a brow. “I doubt he knows you survived, al-Nazari.”
If he did, you would not be here were the unspoken words.