“Does Father know you’re sneaking out?”
Mazen froze. No, his father most certainly did not know. If he caught wind of this—of any of Mazen’s clandestine excursions—he would lock Mazen in his room forever. Being trapped in the palace was bad, but being trapped in his room? Mazen would die.
He forced himself to laugh. “I wasn’t sneaking out! I was just getting some fresh air.”
“By hanging precariously out a window.”
“Not at all. This curtain is surprisingly sturdy.”
“You must sneak out often, mm?” Omar approached, hands clasped behind his back.
Mazen glimpsed the knives at his belt and swallowed. The small child in him who still feared his brother worried that Omar might grab one of those knives and slit the curtain.
“So what is it? Are you going out to see a woman?” Omar paused at the windowsill and leaned forward, his smile inches from Mazen’s face. “Are you going sightseeing? Plotting something nefarious?”
“Nothing of the sort!” Mazen gripped his makeshift rope-curtain tighter. “It’s just—I heard rumors that Old Rhuba was returning to Madinne today.”
Omar looked at him blankly. “You’re sneaking out to listen to an old man tell stories?”
“He’s from the White Dunes, Omar. The White Dunes. You know what they say about the sand there. That it’s made from the ashes of ghouls who—”
“Fine.” Omar drew away with a sigh. “Leave. Go listen to old men wag their tongues.”
Mazen blinked. “You won’t tell Father?”
“It will be our secret.” Omar smiled. “For a price, of course.” Before Mazen could protest, Omar held up a hand and said, “You have no choice in the matter. Either you pay me for my silence or I walk out the door and tell the sultan.”
Mazen almost forgot how to breathe. A price, a price from Omar. He could not imagine what his brother might blackmail him into, but he would make a dozen deals with Omar before telling the sultan the truth: that he, despite his father’s orders, was leaving the palace without guards. That he, a prince, was walking straight into supposedly jinn-infested streets unprotected.
“Remember, Mazen. A favor for a favor. You owe me, akhi.” Omar flashed one last smile before stepping out of the room and closing the doors behind him.
The ominous smile remained etched in Mazen’s mind as he snuck through the palace courtyard. He tried to distract himself by focusing on the wonders of the garden, but their majesty was dulled by his worry. The stone pathways lined with white roses suddenly seemed colorless and mundane, and the exquisite fountain made up of dancing glass figures didn’t so much as glint in the sunlight. Even the garden topiaries, shaped like the fantastical creatures from his mother’s stories, seemed to lack their usual splendor.
Mazen passed all these sights like a ghost in his plain tunic and trousers, following the winding garden paths past streams filled with colorful fish and through empty pavilions that sported intricately patterned ceilings. Cushioned benches lay undisturbed beneath the arched roofs and would remain so until later in the day, when the sultan’s councillors took a reprieve from discussing politics to trade gossip. The thought made Mazen tense. He had purposefully planned this outing so he would not be missed by anyone at court. He was confident in his preparations—he only hoped Omar kept his word and did not tell their father.
Dread weighed his footsteps until he arrived at the servants’ entrance, at which point he perked up. The man guarding the silver gate was the one he’d been expecting, and he was able to pay his way past. He tried not to think about how anxious the guard looked when he let him through or how quickly he pocketed the coins Mazen gave him.
We all have our needs. I need to escape, and he needs gold for his soon-to-be-born child. It was, he thought, an honorable exchange.
The elevated portion of Madinne that housed the palace and noble quarter was but a small oasis on the plain that formed the city, so it was a simple thing to reach the commoners’ souk in the lower quarter. The fields of green fell away to barren dust, the wide cobblestone streets narrowed into paved dirt pathways, and shops were replaced with rickety but charming stalls sporting crudely painted signs. The peace and quiet gave way to the melodic sounds of lutes and drums, and the air filled with smells: musk and sweat, oil and bakhoor, and a tantalizing mixture of spices that made his mouth water.
Merchants marked their shops with bright colors to stand out in the market. Mazen’s search for Old Rhuba’s golden tarp took him down paths littered with all manner of stalls. But it was the artists’ goods that caught his attention. He eyed ceramic bowls, shatranj boards, glazed zodiac plates—and then he stopped, eyes snagging on a small but intricate rug that had a series of geometric patterns repeating across its surface. He recognized this design. He had a carpet with nearly the exact same shapes on the floor of his bedroom.