“Your order has survived all these centuries?” I ask.
Ensi smiles proudly. “Our knowledge was passed down, mother to daughter, for generations. We’ve been protecting the Amulen queens and princesses for hundreds of years. Khavar here can even trace her ancestry directly to Parys zai Moura, Roshana’s personal scribe.”
I glance at Khavar’s sour face. I bet she can. Parys had never liked me, and I can see the same mistrust in Khavar’s eyes. “Go back to your princess,” I tell them. “Please pass along my regards, and tell her Prince Rahzad will not be spied upon.”
They nod and back away, watching me warily until the corner comes between us. I stand for a minute and listen until I am certain they’ve gone, then let out a long sigh and run to see what my master has got himself into this time.
Chapter Thirteen
I FIND ALADDIN IN, of all places, the library.
For a moment I pause behind a tall case of scrolls and watch him. He stands in a beam of sunlight that pours from a high window, dust motes swirling around him, staring at an open scroll. Shelves around him overflow with parchment and papyrus, in sheets and rolls and bound stacks. Aladdin is dressed in a knee-length red waistcoat, his head bare and his hair tousled. His lips move as he reads, though I don’t think he realizes it. As I watch him, I feel a subtle stirring inside, a swirling in my heart of smoke, a warming of embers. I know what it means, and I know how wrong, how dangerous it is. I almost cannot bear to smother it, it is so small and fragile and hopeful.
“What happened?” I ask, stepping from behind the case.
Aladdin starts, and his hands clamp the scroll shut. He blinks at me for a moment, until his eyes focus and his mind leaves whatever world it had been lost in.
“Zahra! Um, I thought—” His hand goes to the lamp, and his eyes dart to his right. I follow his gaze and see Jalil sitting at a low desk a short distance away, painstakingly inking a sheet of parchment with a long peacock quill. He seems lost in his work, but still, we must be careful what we say.
I walk to Aladdin and take the scroll he is holding, pretending to scan its contents.
“I nearly shifted,” I whisper. “Right in front of her. What happened? Why did you leave your rooms?”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers back. “He insisted on showing me the library and said if I was determined to learn about Parthenia this was the place to start. I couldn’t think of a way out of it.”
I look back at his scroll and raise an eyebrow. “A treatise on the jinn, hmm? Very historical.”
He snatches the scroll back. “I was just—”
“Looking for information on me. Or my kind, anyway.” I frown and fold my arms. “You can read? A boy from the slums?”
“Don’t look so surprised. My mother was a scribe once, and she taught me letters. And anyway, we weren’t that bad off, not at first.” His eyes turn distant. “My father had a good business, tailoring, and my mother penned letters and ledgers for people. We did all right, until . . .” He shakes his head and furls the scroll. “What did Caspida want?”
“To talk about elephants and dead queens.”
“What? Really?”
“Oh, stop frowning. She asked about you too—what you’re like, what kind of person you are. Don’t worry.” I pat his hand conspiratorially and smile. “I lied.”
“Well?” Aladdin waves the scroll impatiently. “Did she seem, I don’t know, interested?”
“Interested? She’s barely spoken a dozen words to you. Give it time.”
He nods distractedly and scratches his ear; his earring still hangs there, a simple gold ring. I’d wanted him to take it off on the ship—any part of his old life would make it easier for someone to see through his glamoured appearance—but he’d insisted on keeping it.
“We’ve been here more than two weeks,” he says. “And I only see her at dinners, and we can’t talk there. How am I supposed to win her over if I can’t even talk to her?”
On a table nearby, someone has left out a map of the world, its corners held down by stone gryphons. I run a hand across the parchment, tracing the coastlines. Around the edge of the map, the dates of the year have been inked in tiny letters. I eye them thoughtfully, then tap one of the numbers.
“Fahradan.”
“What?” Aladdin comes to stand behind me, looking over my shoulder.
“In two weeks, the Amulens will celebrate the feast of Fahradan, in honor of the god Hamor.” The god of lovers and fools—how appropriate. “Unless the traditions have changed drastically since I last celebrated, it’s the perfect time to get Caspida’s attention.”
“Why?”
I turn and frown at him. “Haven’t you ever celebrated Fahradan?”
“If by celebrate you mean pick people’s pockets while they’re dancing . . .”
I roll my eyes. “I should have guessed. Look, during the night of Fahradan, anyone can ask anyone to dance, and nobody’s allowed to refuse.”
A slow grin dawns on his face. “I see. But . . . two weeks? That’s an eternity!”