Hesitantly, he rapped on the wood in the pattern he always used, and entered when Hakim bade him to do so.
Hakim’s room was unchanged, still full of tomes and shadows and maps. “Mazen? You’re unusually quiet today.” Hakim swiveled on his chair. The moment he saw Mazen, he tensed. “Omar?”
Mazen hated watching his normally composed brother become uncomfortable at Omar’s appearance. It was, Mazen knew, his fault. Years ago, after his mother had told him about Hakim’s existence, he had begged his father to bring him back to the palace he’d been banished from. He’d wanted someone to play with, someone who would treat him like a brother, unlike Omar. And so, begrudgingly, the sultan had tracked down Hakim’s mother’s tribe and brought him to the palace. For Mazen, he’d given Hakim the honorary title of prince, even though he was not of his blood.
Hakim, two years younger than Omar, had been closer in both age and temperament to Mazen. His arrival had marked the beginning of a more peaceful time. At least, until Mazen’s mother died and the sultan locked Hakim in his room and allowed Omar to belittle him.
My fault, my fault. Mazen felt a stab of shame, knowing he’d been the one to separate Hakim from his tribe. As a child, he’d insisted Hakim was his family. He’d realized only in retrospect, once his brother was trapped here, how selfish he’d been.
He forced the thought to the back of his mind as he pulled the bangle from his wrist, and managed a weak smile when Hakim startled. “Salaam, Hakim.”
“Mazen!” Hakim fell back against his desk. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“My apologies. I haven’t had the opportunity to take this damned thing off until now.”
“Is there a reason you’re using magic to masquerade as Omar?” Hakim eyed the bangle. “Is that… a relic?”
“Yes and yes.” Mazen’s smile fell as he drew closer. The map the sultan had presented to Rasul and Loulie lay stretched on Hakim’s desk. His brother had added more traveling routes.
He could feel Hakim scrutinizing him. He expected a gasp, a grumble, but when Hakim next spoke, his voice was calm. “You plan on taking Omar’s place today.”
Mazen swallowed. “You remember the favor I owe him? This is it. He wants me to accompany the merchant, pretend to be him.”
“And you’re going to do it?” Hakim stood abruptly. His broad shoulders and impressive height made Mazen feel small and insignificant. “You would willingly head into a desert filled with cutthroats and jinn just to keep your secret safe from the sultan?”
Mazen stepped back and out of his brother’s shadow. “But if he knew—”
“He loves you, Mazen! You are his favorite. He would never hurt you.”
Mazen almost laughed. Me? His favorite? How could Hakim think that? His father never listened to him. He did not even trust him; he gave all the important responsibilities to Omar. But Mazen knew Hakim would argue with him until the sun set, so he humored him.
“Then his love blinds him. He never sees reason with me.”
“Is it so wrong that he wants you to have an escort outside the palace?”
Mazen shook his head. “Now I am to be trapped in the palace at all times.” He paused, realizing how spoiled he sounded. Hakim wasn’t even allowed to attend palace events without the sultan’s permission. And here he was, complaining.
He wished he could take the words back, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak into the awkward quiet. He busied his hands instead, reaching into his satchel to withdraw his mother’s scarf, which was vibrant even in the gloom of Hakim’s dark study.
Hakim fell back onto his chair, shoulders slumped. “You’re not just leaving because of the sultan, are you? It’s for the Midnight Merchant. And because you want to escape the palace.”
Mazen swallowed. He did want to leave Madinne. He did want to help the Midnight Merchant, even if he wasn’t sure he was up to the task. He owed her.
Hakim chuckled, a soft sound that made Mazen’s heart sink. “I know you better than you know yourself.” He held out his hand. “I know you brought the scarf because you want me to keep it safe. And I know your mind is made up. You have the sultan’s stubbornness in you.”
Mazen wanted to object, but Hakim had a point. “As always, you see right through me.”
“You wear your heart on your sleeve.” Hakim took the scarf from him and began to roll up his map. “Who else knows of this switch? Your servants? Karima?”