At some point, Qadir stepped away from the merchandise to stand behind her and look intimidating. His stare was both focused and all-encompassing; no one ever dared purloin a relic beneath his watchful gaze.
Finally, when all the objects were placed, Loulie announced the opening of her business. The crowds flocked to her stall like hungry pigeons, prodding and testing the magic with greedy hands. The young merchant watched from his stall with a mixture of awe and envy.
Loulie raised her hands and wiggled her fingers at him. “Magic,” she whispered.
9
MAZEN
The night after the run-in with the jinn, the sultan hosted an impromptu feast to which he invited various court politicians. The palace diwan was decorated in rich reds and golds and made ready for fifty guests. The best dancers and musicians were called to perform, and delicacies from all over the sultanate were prepared. It was an extravagant celebration. All the guests were clearly enjoying themselves.
Except for Mazen, who was miserable.
He’d promised to be at Dahlia bint Adnan’s tavern tonight, and yet here he was, mingling with people wearing fake smiles. It was an effort to keep his own false smile affixed when, on the inside, he was screaming.
Gatherings in the diwan were always a grand affair, but tonight’s celebration was even more of a show. Because no royal gathering was complete without gifts, some of the invited politicians had decided to compete with each other by bringing expensive offerings. The sultan, naturally, had displayed them to show his appreciation. The cluster of flower-shaped lanterns hanging above Mazen’s head was new, as were the gem-embedded brocade curtains framing the windows. An enormous glass plaque featuring spiraling golden lines—the guest had claimed it was a depiction of the royal courtyard—hung behind the half stage, and small but intricate tapestries with the sultan’s legacy written on them had been hung on the walls.
Even just gazing upon the lavish gifts made Mazen tired. He glanced sullenly down at his plate, which was piled high with lamb and fattoush and tabbouleh. He had barely touched his food; he was too busy mulling over the engagement he was missing. Restless, he looked past the crowds gathered at the low-rising table and to the windows. The courtyard seemed to glow, the white roses sparkling beneath the moonlight. Like jinn blood, he thought dully. But of course the courtyard would sparkle like jinn blood; it had sprung from it.
He turned away, nauseated. How many jinn had been bled out on that once-barren soil so that they could live this life of luxury? Though Mazen did not have any memories of his father’s victims, he was still overwhelmed with guilt when he took part in indulgent celebrations like this. It was hard not to think of all the lives lost in that garden. Of the jinn that had been slaughtered by his brother, and of the women his father had killed.
Murderers, both of them. And family, he reminded himself dutifully, with a heavy heart.
He realized Hakim was staring at him from the other side of the table, brows lowered. Are you all right? the look said. Mazen responded with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Hakim did not look convinced. But before he could voice his concerns, he was pulled into conversation by one of the sultan’s councillors, a kindly man who always complimented Hakim on his maps. He was one of the only court officials who treated Hakim with respect.
Only a few spaces down, the head of the council—the sultan’s ancient-looking wazir—sat watching the conversation with blatant displeasure. Mazen did not like the man, but then, he did not like many of the councillors. He was glad his interactions with them were mostly limited to these gatherings.
He was uninterested in eavesdropping on Hakim’s conversation and was relieved when a distraction presented itself. The lanterns above them dimmed, and he turned his attention to a pair of performers mounting the stage with flaming swords. Golden coins and trinkets hung from their silk clothing, winking like stars as they ascended the darkened stairs. They were a captivating sight, and yet—Mazen found his eyes wandering, unbidden, to the jagged shadows they cast.
His stomach knotted with nerves. You are safe. The jinn would never come here.
He had tried to reassure himself of this last night as well, but to no avail. He’d barely slept for fear that the shadows in his room would choke him when he closed his eyes.
“Why the long face, akhi? I thought you enjoyed decadent celebrations.” Mazen startled as Omar slid onto the recently vacated cushion beside him. “Could you perhaps have had other plans?” He leaned forward. “Maybe you were thinking of going to a certain tavern to see a certain storyteller?”