The messenger eyed the thief uncertainly. “Midnight Merchant?”
Loulie bristled. She was glad for her scarf in that moment, because it hid her severe scowl as Omar coughed into his fist and Qadir looked pointedly away.
The grimace remained fixed on Aisha’s face as she tilted her chin toward Loulie. The messenger turned, flustered. “My apologies, merchant.” He bowed again. “It is an honor to meet you both.”
She softened at the greeting. “Likewise. Would we be able to request sanctuary tonight?”
“Of course. We would be honored to host you as long as you need,” he said with a respectful nod. Loulie could tell he was a hunter—of animals, if not jinn—from the elaborate bow he wore on his back. She was still admiring it as she and the hunter traded rumors on their way to the campsite.
She and the high prince were, of course, the most highly sought-after gossip. Apparently, the whole desert knew of their journey. After she satiated the tribesman’s curiosity and alerted him to the presence of ghouls in the western plains, the man told her of other happenings: the changing weather patterns—scattered rainstorms and troublesome winds; the altered traveling routes; the appearance of hyenas by the cliffs.
“And we’ve heard rumors of a hunter,” he said. They were nearly at the campsite now, and Loulie saw curious children peeking at them through gaps in the wooden gate. “He works alone. Dresses entirely in black and blends into the night, they say.”
Loulie nearly fell off her horse. Here it was at last: the rumor she’d been seeking.
“Tell me more about this hunter.” Her heart was practically beating in her throat.
The tribesman shook his head. “He’s an enigma. They say this area is empty of jinn because he lays traps so effective none have ever escaped them.”
“Where does he live?”
“No one knows. He disappears before our hunters can approach.” He frowned. “This is just my opinion, but I would stay away from him. No nomad who travels alone is trustworthy.”
Loulie had heard that from her own mother many times. Bedouin traveled in tribes. Those who wandered alone had probably been banished, and that was never a good sign.
“Of course. I only want to know more so I can do my best to avoid him.” She caught Qadir frowning at her over the tribesman’s head. Liar, his narrowed eyes said. She ignored him.
Soon they were through the gate and in the camp, where the tribe’s sheikh greeted them with overwhelming hospitality. He had their horses led away to be cared for while they seated themselves around a large campfire located at the heart of a cluster of brown tents.
A sheep was slaughtered in their honor, and they were offered a variety of breads, meats, and vegetables. It was the kind of food one daydreamed about: fresh, appetizing, and prepared with familial warmth. It reminded Loulie of home. As a child, she had sat in a circle like this with her mother and father, scarfing down bread and pretending to listen to the adults as they spoke about traveling routes, produce, and politics. She remembered thinking it was all so mundane and that maturity sounded like a chore.
But though she had not always been invested in the fireside talks, the meals had been her favorite part of the day. They were the reprieve after a long day of work, a time to exchange not only words, but stories and rumors and confessions. For Loulie, they had also been the best time to play pranks on her long-suffering cousins. Slipping insects into their sleeves, swapping plates, hiding foods—all sleights of hand she practiced in her spare time with her father.
Though she had since outgrown the pranks, her affection for the food was undying. This was especially true for the camel milk, which had a rich and salty taste that filled her with melancholy. She was sipping on that milk now as she took in the animated chatter around her.
The sheikh sat at the head of the circle, listening attentively to the accounts from the tribe’s hunters. An elderly woman with silver threaded through her hair reprimanded a group of bickering children who were gambling their food away in an intense guessing game. A flustered-looking tribesman shot bashful looks at a woman working on a loom outside one of the nearby tents. When he wasn’t looking, she turned her head to observe him with a secretive smile.
Family. That was the word that came to mind as Loulie took in the domestic scene. It gripped her heart like a vise, made it difficult to breathe. She had become accustomed to—preferred—living a solitary life, but it was easier to forget what she had lost in the cities, where the families were scattered and hidden. Sitting around this campfire, she could see the interconnectedness of the lives around her—and she could see herself sitting in the heart of the web, adrift.