In moments, it is finished. The ship is made of red cedar, with three rows of oars and a tall figurehead carved in the form of a roaring lion. The sleek ram beneath it is painted black. A proper warship. A ship fit for a prince.
As the sea around the ship settles, I turn to Aladdin, who is still gaping like an open clam. “Well? Do you want to get a closer look?”
? ? ?
“This,” says Aladdin breathlessly, “is incredible.”
He is standing proudly at the bow, relishing in the beauty of my magic ship.
“I’m glad you like it,” I mutter. I lean weakly against the rail, my stomach churning. The moment I transported us onto the deck’s ship, I felt a wave of regret.
“Are you seasick?” asks Aladdin, his eyes bright with amusement.
“Shut up, human.”
After conjuring the ship and transferring the pair of us onto its decks, I enchanted the oars and set them rowing, but the wind is against us, and every wave strikes the hull like the slap of a whale’s tail. I’ve always hated the sea. So dark and deep and wet. It swallows things and never lets them go.
With a shudder, I flick my hand at the oars and speed us up a little.
It must look as though we’re coming into port like any other ship, which is why I conjured it at such a distance. The story goes that Prince Rahzad rai Asnam, youngest son of the Shah of Istarya, set out to explore and make his fortune. After a terrible run-in with a tribe of vicious maarids, only he and his servant, the lowly but lovely Zahra, survived. Now we limp into the Parthenian port, seeking refuge at the king’s court.
Alas. I gaze about the beautiful ship and try to decide how best to destroy it.
“Aladdin, you may want to stay close to me.”
“Why? What are you—no! Not my ship!”
“Duck!” I send a torrent of water blasting over his head to snap the mast and rip the sails. Aladdin looks on with dismay.
A few waves thrown about, some teeth marks in the planks—maarids are particularly nasty biters—and finally a gouge in the hull finish the job. I do the work quickly, fighting nausea all the while. Aladdin looks close to tears as his beautiful vessel is blasted apart.
Suitably beaten and battered, the Artemisia now lurches across the water like a drunken duck. Aladdin and I huddle against the mast and do our best to look wretched, which really isn’t difficult at all, as the rocking waves make me ill and irritable, while Aladdin is withdrawn and pensive. As the final touch, I change our clothes to expensive but torn and dirty robes of silk and damask.
Aladdin’s appearance is a problem; the princess and her handmaidens have all seen his face, and it’s unlikely we’d be able to explain that away. So I let a bit of magic sink into his features, creating a glamoured mask. It isn’t a foolproof spell—permanently altering his appearance would call for another wish. But it’s enough to discourage recognition. When the princess looks at Aladdin, she will see only a young man who may slightly resemble the thief from the Rings.
As we wait for the tide to carry us to the harbor, I drill Aladdin on his new identity, making him repeat it over and over until he throws his hands in the air.
“I’m not saying it one more bleeding time, jinni!”
Miffed, I cross my arms and look away. “I don’t want to end up murdered by one of your jinn-killers.”
“Neither do I. Look, I’ve got this all under control.”
Unconvinced, I give him a doubtful look, and he grins. “Smoky, if there’s one thing I am, it’s adaptable.”
? ? ?
And so we arrive in Parthenia, the travel-weary but dashing Prince Rahzad rai Asnam of Istarya and his servant girl. Everything happens in a whirl once we are towed into the harbor. Soldiers whisk us through the city, past gaping crowds, to the palace. There we are handed over to a group of bearded ministers, who ply Aladdin with questions while escorting him through the echoing halls. Aladdin, giving them simple one-word responses, bends his head this way and that, taking in the splendor of the Parthenian court. The palace is marble and sandstone, all smooth curves and vast, empty spaces filled with whispers and roaming peacocks. Rich carpets and tapestries add color to the walls and floor, and we pass many courtyards babbling with fountains. Nobles lurk in the corners, watching and whispering, gathering in a train behind us.
Aladdin is pulled aside and dressed in fresh clothes, fine silk and cashmere in tones of rich green and gold. I, for the most part, am forgotten, left to shadow my master in silence. I don’t mind a bit. I use this time to scan the palace, searching for some sign of Zhian, but it seems my search will not be that simple. I can sense nothing of him.
“Your Highness,” says an approaching minister, his beard long and perfectly combed, his head covered with a tall cylindrical hat of purple and gold. “I am Jalil rai Feruj, the Minister of Diplomacy here in King Malek’s court. You’re from . . . where did you say? Forgive me. The name was unknown to me.”