When Aladdin is awake, I drill him on court etiquette, making him a prince in manner as well as in name. Servants bring us meals twice a day, and Aladdin is well supplied with clothing and other necessities, as well as invitations to dine with various curious nobles and merchant lords in the evening, which gives me a little time to search other parts of the palace, still to no avail.
Aladdin is impatient to meet Caspida—as Prince Rahzad this time, instead of as a kidnapped thief—but she is elusive, and no one, not even a prince, may call on a princess uninvited. And so we are both frustrated and edgy, and the lessons aren’t helping.
As he states several times, rather strongly, “I can figure it out as I go.”
“You’re more stubborn than a stinking camel!” I protest.
He only shrugs and grins in that maddening way he has. “I’ve been called worse.”
Sometimes, I think he makes mistakes just to infuriate me. Like today. We’ve been over these bows a thousand and one times, but he keeps bungling them.
Someone raps on the door just as Aladdin begins to doze off in the grass, ignoring my protests that he’ll stain his clothes. He squints at me.
“Get that, will you?”
I glare at him. “I’m not actually your servant.”
“I know,” he says, with a wicked half smile. “I just like it when you get angry with me. Smoke comes out of your ears.”
“It certainly does not.”
I open the door to reveal two young nobles. One I recognize: Raz, the tall archer who was there the night the princess kidnapped Aladdin.
The other noble is a handsome young man with a Tytoshi complexion and dreadlocks tipped with silver. I can tell at once that he is brother, likely even twin to Nessa, the princess’s jinn charmer and handmaiden. Does he too carry a jinn-charming flute?
I bow to Raz and greet the Tytoshi in his native fashion: by pulling my hair over my shoulder and tugging the ends, displaying my untipped locks and thus my inferior status. A look of surprise and then appreciation flits across his features. Then he turns and bows to Aladdin, and I step aside.
“Greetings, Prince Rahzad, and welcome to Parthenia. I am Vigo, son of Vigor. This is Lady Razpur nez Miran. We’ve come to escort you to dinner.”
Aladdin bows stiffly—unfortunately, it is the one that ought to be used only for naval officers—and steps through the door. Raz and Vigo flank him, trying to look indifferent but exchanging looks of curiosity behind his back. I trail behind, head bowed demurely, eyes and senses straining to pick up every detail.
“We heard about your journey here,” says Raz. “You must tell us more sometime. To survive an attack by maarids on the open sea—that’s remarkable!”
“Yes,” adds Vigo. “It’s remarkable, isn’t it? Almost too remarkable.”
Raz shoots him a cross look, and the Tytoshi shrugs.
We are led through a tiled courtyard and then down a long walkway framed by a series of elegant white arches, through which the sky can be seen deepening into twilight. A servant girl in a gray robe flits from arch to arch, lighting cleverly concealed candles that, when lit, make the arches seem to glow as if enchanted. On either side of us, cypress trees pruned into perfect spheres give off an earthy, rich scent.
Raz shoos away a white peacock that lands on the walk in front of us, then extends an arm toward a low building with a graceful minaret roof. Though covered, the walls are open to the outside, and I can spy the court seated on cushions within.
“This way, Your Highness. Your servant, of course, may join the others in the kitchens.” Though this last remark is directed at me, Raz does not make eye contact. She waves dismissively in the other direction, at a plainer stone building with several smoking chimneys.
I nod and walk toward it, but once I am out of sight, I duck behind the cypresses and shift into a peacock. Not my favorite form. My legs are spindly, and bobbing my head will leave my neck sore later, but it is the safest way to get into the dining hall. Several other peacocks wander in and out of the building freely. No one will notice one more.
Thus disguised, I strut into the open, my long tail feathers dragging behind me, and boldly enter the dining hall.
The court dines in two groups: men and women. They are separated by lattice screens, symbolically more than anything else, for it is easy to spy one another through the screens, which many of the young men and women do. Their flirtation is ignored by the older nobles. In the back of the room, a musician strums a gentle melody on a tall harp, and I recognize in the tune hints of the songs once sung in your court, Habiba. The men are seated in a large circle around an array of dishes that are continually replenished by gray-robed servants. They carry in bowls of rice, steaming flatbread, kebabs of lamb, beef, and chicken. Even to my peacock form, the smells of cinnamon and saffron are delicious.