He looked up and caught the eyes of the merchant behind the stall, a middle-aged woman garbed in red-orange layers. A scrawny young man sat on a stool behind her, watching the souk with glazed, bored eyes. Her son, Mazen assumed, there for security purposes.
“Salaam, ya sayyid.” The merchant spoke in a soft voice, barely audible above the noise.
“Salaam,” Mazen said automatically. He sidestepped a pair of stumbling, singing musicians and planted himself on the other side of the stall. He gestured to the pattern that had caught his eye. “Your rugs are beautiful.”
The weaver’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “Shukran. Though I cannot take credit for the one you’re eyeing right now. That is my daughter’s handiwork. I only supervised her.” She reached out to brush her fingers against the tassels. “It was woven from the finest camel hair over many weeks, as we were traveling with our sister tribe through the cliffs overlooking Ghiban.”
Tribe. The word sparked a misplaced longing in Mazen. Though his family was descended from wanderers, they had not been nomads for a long time—not on his father’s side, at least. He wondered what it was like, to be able to call the entire desert your home.
He smiled. “The gods have blessed your daughter with natural talent. This rug reminds me of a carpet I was gifted years ago. It has a similar texture and design. Blue diamonds on white, with a crescent moon at the center. I was told it was woven by a master.”
“Ah, that is my pattern.” The weaver chuckled. “How flattering, to be called a master.”
Mazen reflected her smile back at her. “It is an honor to meet you in person.”
“You’re quite the charmer, aren’t you?”
“I speak the truth, nothing less.” He glanced at the rug again, one of many stunning designs draped across wooden display blocks. Had he been able to sneak a carpet back without anyone noticing, he might have done it. But these excursions were not shopping trips.
“You wouldn’t happen to know a storyteller named Old Rhuba, would you?”
The weaver’s eyes twinkled. “The better question is who here does not know him. I have not seen him today, but you cannot miss his golden tarp.” She raised a brow. “If it is stories you seek, these carpets tell tales of their own.”
“Ah, tales I do not have the coin for.” The lie was so outrageous it made him cringe.
“What, you’re not even going to try to haggle?”
“To pay anything less than the full price would be an insult, surely.”
“You’re lucky you have a gilded tongue.” The weaver dismissed him with a laugh and a wave of her hand. “Come back when you can praise me with gold rather than words.”
Mazen gave his promise with a nod and a smile before resuming his search for Old Rhuba. When he inquired further, he found out the ship Old Rhuba was on, the Aysham, had not yet docked. There was nothing he could do but wait, so he made business for himself at a nearby chai shop. He chose a seat at the edge of the establishment, one with a good view of the incoming ships, and ordered himself a coffee with cardamom.
While he waited, he entertained himself by making up stories about passersby. The man dressed in multicolored layers was running from his performance troupe, and the men speaking in conspiratorial whispers were illegal intoxicant dealers. The child holding tight to her father’s hand and smiling brightly was a foreigner seeing Madinne’s souk for the first time.
His coffee had just been delivered when he caught wind of a conversation from the table beside his, where five men sat hunched over their drinks, gossiping like old women.
“They say the high prince brought a jinn back with him.”
“What, for some ceremonial killing?”
Mazen stole a glance at the man speaking and immediately turned away. He recognized him; he was an off-duty palace guard. Relax! he thought. He won’t recognize you.
This was a hopeful if not entirely rational thought. The only reason the populace didn’t recognize him on these outings was because he never wore his royal ornaments. He took off the three earrings that marked him as the sultan’s third-born son and removed his mother’s scarf. He also took off all his gold and silver.
But though everything that marked him a prince was gone, he couldn’t hide his features. Not his wavy black hair nor his golden eyes. Thus, he was still very much Mazen, baggy beige clothes and all. He didn’t suppose the ghutra on his head would help much if they saw his eyes.
Relax. There’s no need to draw attention to yourself.