Mazen stepped away. Omar’s gaze had become thoughtful, as if he could read all the insecurities in Mazen’s heart. “Remember, akhi, which of us has the upper hand.”
Omar smiled pleasantly, tucked his hands into his pockets, and walked away. Mazen watched him go, mute. No argument could save him from this predicament. It would not matter if he proved Omar’s incompetence as a hunter to his father. Ultimately, Omar would be scolded, and Mazen would be trapped.
It was a long time before he swallowed his dread and returned to his room.
7
AISHA
When Aisha bint Louas was given an order by her king, she obeyed.
There were fights worth picking, and then there were fights with Omar bin Malik: one-sided battles fought with gilded words and patronizing smiles. It was a battlefield Aisha avoided at all costs. She was a thief, not a politician. Her victories were claimed with blades—shamshirs lined with the silver blood of her victims.
Still, that didn’t mean she was always happy about acquiescing.
She’d been irritated when Omar asked to meet her in the courtyard after his dinner, and now, with his message beating through her head, she was even more annoyed. Her unexpected encounter with the youngest prince had only soured her mood further. She’d been looking forward to spending the night curled up in her favorite window alcove, with only her knives and whetstone for company. Yet here she was, delivering a message to one of the sultan’s most infuriating soldiers instead.
She dragged her feet through corridors glowing with moonlight and up stairwells illuminated by dusty lamplight until she came to the qaid’s room in the soldiers’ halls, unmarked except for an evil-eye charm hanging on the door. She knocked: four quick taps followed by two louder raps. The door flew open to reveal a bulky middle-aged man in a turban.
The qaid scowled when he saw her. “Thief.”
“Thief is not my name.” She crossed her arms. “Can you say ‘Aisha’？”
The qaid ignored her, stepping aside and gesturing her into the room. Aisha walked past him, eyes flicking from the weapons lining the walls to the scrolls strewn across his desk. It certainly looked like a room belonging to the sultan’s military leader.
“What do you want, bint Louas?” He eyed her warily as he closed the door.
“I have a message for you from Prince Omar.” She paused to relish the fear in his eyes before continuing. “My king brought your concerns to the sultan. Fortunately, His Majesty dismissed them. So, as per his original proposition, Prince Omar will be sending some of my comrades to fill the gaps in your security by the end of the month.”
For a few moments the qaid simply gaped at her, lips flapping uselessly as he tried to form a fruitless argument. But then he clamped his jaw shut and stepped toward her, eyes flashing. “Why does the prince not deliver this message to me himself?”
Because he’s a royal pain in the ass.
“Ask him yourself. I wasn’t sent here to answer your questions.”
She moved toward the door—and managed only a single step before the qaid blocked her way. “Tell your prince there are no holes in my security. My men are more than capable of protecting this city. We do not want your help. We do not need it.”
Aisha could have laughed in his face. All these fools ever did was throw people in the Bowels and cringe at silver blood. Even the sultan knew his men were incompetent; gods knew they’d been unable to protect his late wife.
Aisha wasn’t conceited enough to call herself a hero, but at least she had never let any of her targets escape. Not since she’d picked up a blade and promised to kill them all, anyway.
“His Majesty seems to think otherwise. Perhaps it was all your pleading. A competent leader wouldn’t need to build his case with words; his actions would speak for him.” She briskly sidestepped the qaid and headed for the door. The man was visibly shaking with rage, and when he turned toward her, it was with a speed that made her tense.
But the qaid’s only riposte was his words, which he hurled at her like throwing knives. “Do not think this scheme will give you power over us, bint Louas.” He glared at her. “You all are killers; no one could ever mistake you for soldiers.”
Aisha looked at him for a long moment. And then she snorted and turned away.
What did he think soldiers were, if not glorified murderers?
She didn’t bother with a response as she ducked outside. A cool breeze nipped at her clothing as she shut the door, ruffling her cloak and tugging at her hood. For a few moments, the world stilled, and Aisha let herself savor the tranquility of the night. It was not lost on her that this type of quiet was rare in this place, but she did not mind it. The silence was somnolent rather than tense and reminded her of the refreshing calm that rolled in after a storm. Even the weather was pleasant: not yet frigid, but cold enough to comfortably don extra layers of clothing.