Ifrit. The word was raw with power, more ominous by far than jinn king.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the ifrit before?”
He shrugged. “We have never run into one, and no one in your land uses the word. Jinn kings may be an inaccurate title, but it does not merit a history lesson.”
It was true that all the jinn they’d come across specialized in only one type of magic. Opponents like the shadow jinn who could manipulate the world through a single element. Jinn were rare, and the so-called jinn kings were legend. It was no wonder Qadir hadn’t brought up the term before.
“Fair enough.” She sighed. “So, say we find this all-powerful ifrit. Do we simply hand it over to the sultan?”
“Who says we have to hand anything over?” Qadir angled his head toward the nearest lantern. The flame inside flickered and died, and the other lanterns dimmed shortly after. Qadir’s eyes danced with a playful fire that made his irises flash gold and red. “Think of the sultan as a customer to be scammed.”
I think it is useless to worry about a future not set in stone. Maybe Qadir had a point. She had not become so successful by overthinking.
“You’re recommending I leap before I think? How irresponsible of you.”
Qadir set his hand on the table. “I live to be a bad influence.”
Loulie set her hand atop his, savoring the warmth of his touch. It occurred to her that she was becoming drowsy and that this was only because Qadir had returned and was sitting beside her. It was difficult to let her guard down when he was absent. She had spent the last three nights worrying what would become of him on this quest.
As he always did, Qadir read the concern on her face. “I never thought I’d see the fearless Midnight Merchant look so defeated before the journey even began.”
“The ifrit in the lamp isn’t the only jinn in danger.” She gave him a pointed look.
“You ought to have more faith in me. I haven’t lived this long just to be bested by an arrogant human.” He cocked a brow. “And I have never known you to concede victory to someone either.”
Loulie bristled. Qadir was right; she may have been a citizen of Madinne, but she was no one’s servant. She refused to let the sultan destroy the life she had worked so hard to make.
“You’re right; the Midnight Merchant would never yield to some conceited noble. Not even the sultan.” She laced her fingers through Qadir’s, suddenly feeling resolute. “He’ll regret threatening us.”
Qadir smiled. “They always do, in the end.”
16
AISHA
It was a suspiciously tranquil night.
Usually, on evenings like this when the sultan had guests, the courtyard was scattered with loud and annoyingly curious nobles. Tonight, however, the area was empty, and Aisha did not hesitate to pull open her curtain. She seated herself in her window alcove, and with only the moon and stars as her audience, she put a brush to her arm and began to paint.
Most travelers had pre-journey rituals. They prayed; they kissed their loved ones. Aisha had not been able to do either of those things for a long time. So instead, she drew.
She painted henna designs atop her scars and allowed herself the brief luxury of rumination. She let herself remember the softness of her mother’s henna brush as she drew petals on her skin. Recalled her sisters’ scolding when she didn’t wait long enough for the henna to dry and accidentally smudged the ink while cooking or cleaning or digging in the fields.
I look forward to the day you learn patience, her mother had often teased her. You will be a force to be reckoned with then.
Now, as Aisha inked the tattoos across her skin, she was patient. Careful. She imagined each stroke of the brush was a memory unfurling across her skin. A thread, snapped and repurposed to create a new tapestry. One filled with determination rather than grief. She raised her arm to the moonlight and observed the painted sleeve of jagged leaves and flowers.
Her mother had been right. Patience was a hard but necessary lesson. Obtaining revenge was not a sprint; it was a journey. Aisha sighed as she lowered her arm to her lap.
An hour elapsed in peace. And then, as she was putting the finishing touches on her last tattoo, a knock came at her door. Aisha tensed, then relaxed when she heard Samar’s voice. “Permission to come in, Princess?”
The title—one of the thief’s many irritating nicknames for her—made her groan. “Call me Princess again and I’ll stab out your eye.” She reached for the featherlight shawl resting on her pillows and, carefully avoiding the fresh henna paste on her arms, draped it over her shoulders. “What do you want?”