Once he was prepared, he left his room and hurried through the open-air corridors until he came to the diwan, which was marked by gargantuan doors painted with extravagant depictions of Madinne’s city life: marketgoers bartering with merchants, pearl divers riding sambuks across the waves, soldiers striding through fields made green by jinn blood. The images vanished from view as guards opened the doors.
The sultan’s diwan was intimidating in its grandiosity. The walls sparkled with mosaic images that featured Madinne’s first sultan slaying jinn and befriending fantastical creatures. Elaborately painted lanterns hung above the art, illuminating the rest of the interior—the spacious mezzanines; the impressive half stage; and in the heart of the room, the dining area.
Only four people sat at the low-rising table, though asha’a had been served for at least six. At the head of the table, dressed in the finest cloaks and jewels, was the sultan. Today he wore an expensive silk shawl around his head, with a band of gold wrapped around his forehead like a circlet. His hair was a smoky gray beneath the fabric.
Sitting to his right was Omar, whose definition of dressing down was to remove some of the knives from his person. On the sultan’s left was his guest, a middle-aged man dressed in vibrant green. He looked vaguely familiar, though Mazen could not remember when and where he had seen him. Hakim sat at the guest’s left, clutching a scroll. His discomfort was clear in the tenseness of his shoulders; he looked less at home than the stranger.
But then, Hakim had always been an outsider. A prince in title but not in blood. He was a living reminder of the infidelity of the sultan’s second wife—a fact he was made aware of constantly. Mazen forced the gloomy thought away as he sat and greeted the guest.
“Mazen,” his father said as he made himself comfortable. “This is Rasul al-Jasheen, one of the merchants I do business with. You recognize him?”
Mazen smiled. “Ya sayyid, you must forgive me. Your appearance is familiar in the way a dream is. Has something about you changed?”
The merchant grinned. “Only in the face, sayyidi.”
The memory clicked. The single eye, the beautiful robes, the mouth filled with colorful teeth—yes, Mazen knew this man. He received generous compensation from the sultan for presenting his rare trinkets to him first.
“You have…” Mazen tapped his right eye.
The merchant laughed. “Yes, I am one-eyed no longer. A miracle, wouldn’t you say?”
The sultan cleared his throat. “You were about to tell us of this miracle when my son arrived, Rasul.”
“Ah yes! Allow me to enlighten you, my sultan.”
And so he told them of the elixir delivered to him by the elusive Midnight Merchant. Mazen was fascinated. He’d heard tales of the merchant and her adventures but had never gotten an account from someone who’d met her. He couldn’t help but be envious.
“I know the look in your eyes, sayyidi.” Rasul grinned at the sultan. “You want to find this Midnight Merchant, don’t you? I hope you do not plan on throwing her into the Bowels.”
Mazen shuddered. The Bowels—aptly named because they were prisons erected in holes that ran deep beneath the city—were inescapable. Anyone foolish enough to land themselves inside never saw the sun again.
“While she is engaged in many illegal dealings, no. I have a more useful purpose for her.” The sultan gestured at Hakim, who unrolled his scroll, revealing his map of the desert.
Rasul stared at it intensely, as if assessing its monetary value. The sultan seemed unimpressed; he never complimented Hakim on his skills. He simply expected him to employ them on demand. The sultan ran his finger over the carefully drawn oases, past the cities of Dhyme and Ghiban, and to an ocean of sparkling sand labeled Western Sandsea. Mazen’s eyes widened when he saw the word printed in the center of the Sandsea: Dhahab. The lost jinn city of legend.
“If the Midnight Merchant is so adept at tracking and collecting magic, then perhaps she can find what others cannot—a priceless relic from the city of Dhahab.”
Mazen paled. He knew the relic his father spoke of. The sultan had already sent dozens of men to find it. All had failed. No one ventured into the Sandsea and survived.
He would be sending the merchant to her death. He wanted to object, but to question the sultan would undermine his authority, so Mazen struggled quietly with his distress.
The room was tense after the sultan’s proclamation, their meal eaten in near silence. Mazen was relieved when his father dismissed them early, saying he wanted to speak to Rasul alone. Outside the diwan, Hakim followed his guard escorts back to his room while Omar veered in the direction of the courtyard. Mazen trailed him.