And then, abruptly, he remembered.
“Hakim, the jinn was real. It ensnared me with magic! It was a woman, you see, and she put me under some kind of spell with her beauty.”
“That’s nice, Mazen.”
“She took me into an abandoned building and nearly suffocated me to death!”
“I must say, this story lacks the suspense of your usual tales.”
“It’s not a story!” Mazen gripped his brother’s shoulder. “This is the truth, Hakim.”
Hakim carefully set down his paintbrush and looked up. In this lighting, he could have passed as the sultan’s son, even with his hazel eyes. “You seem in one piece to me,” he said.
“Thanks to a random passerby.”
Hakim regarded him quietly for a few moments, brows scrunched. Then, slowly, he laid his hand over Mazen’s. “Peace, Mazen. I believe you.” His eyes flitted to the hourglass on his desk. “We must meet with the sultan’s guest soon, but we have time for you to tell me more of the story.”
Mazen was more than happy to oblige. After he had finished, Hakim eyed Mazen’s hands and said, “You aren’t wearing the rings.”
Mazen glanced down at his bare fingers. “Why would I walk around in disguise with the royal rings? The guards would come running if I so much as raised my hand.”
Hakim sighed. “Melodramatic as always.” He raised his own hand, revealing five elaborately designed iron rings nearly identical to the ones the sultan had gifted Mazen. “We have these rings for a reason. Wear gloves if you must, but don’t put yourself in danger for the sake of making a disguise more convincing.”
Mazen had nothing to say to that. Hakim was right; a disguise was not armor if it had such exploitable weaknesses.
“I am glad you are safe.” Hakim leaned forward in his chair. “I know you do not wish to tell Omar about this, but have you considered—”
“Omar knows.”
Hakim pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ah.”
“He caught me sneaking out and said he would keep it a secret so long as I did him a favor.” Mazen could only pray Omar honored their deal.
Hakim looked like he was on the verge of scolding Mazen when he paused, glancing at the depleted sand in the hourglass. He stood. “We must go meet with the sultan.” He eyed Mazen’s baggy attire. “You might want to change into something more appropriate. Go, quickly. I will tell the sultan you were helping me with the map.”
Mazen sighed with relief. “Bless you, Hakim.”
Hakim simply smiled as he waved him outside. “Yalla, you don’t have all night.”
Knowing that his father did indeed despise tardiness, Mazen hurried to his rooms to prepare. The servants inside said nothing upon his return—they never did, when he paid them to keep his secrets—and left the chamber without comment when he dismissed them.
Without them, the space felt enormous. Mazen had spent years trying to fill it, but to little avail. Because he was, on occasion, obligated to entertain esteemed guests here, his father had forced him to dispose of anything “too personal.” So Mazen kept his most treasured possessions out of sight. The two mother-of-pearl chests on either side of his canopied bed contained city maps Hakim had drawn for him over the years, and he had stored the commemorative coins he’d stolen from the treasury in an extravagant wooden cupboard by the window. The only sentimental collection he had on display was the dozens of miniature clay creatures he and his mother had purchased in the souk when he was a child. The collection was showcased in the alcove where he entertained his guests, on the shelves surrounding the perimeter.
And then there was the blue-and-white carpet beneath his feet—the one that was nearly identical to the rug in the souk. He’d told the weaver it was a gift when, in truth, he had taken it from his mother’s rooms knowing it was one of her favorite possessions. He could still remember the way her eyes had lit up when the sultan gave it to her. Before she’d married him, she had been a wanderer; no doubt the carpet had reminded her of her own tribe and travels.
Mazen had never met the family on his mother’s side, had never even seen another city outside of Madinne, but he was plagued by that same wanderlust.
He sighed as he threw off his nondescript robe and donned a rich-red tunic and sirwal trousers. He pinned his mother’s red-gold scarf—the only heirloom he possessed from her tribe—around his neck and slipped his ten rings onto his fingers. Last came the three royal earrings: a small crescent, a star, and a sun.