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.
Something occurred to Mazen then. Something he hadn’t thought of before. “How did Omar locate the relic—or, ah, Qadir—in the first place? How did he know where to send his thieves?”
Aisha opened her mouth—and closed it, a quizzical look passing over her features. She doesn’t know, he thought with amazement.