“I’m not sure I do believe him,” says Caspida slowly, running her finger thoughtfully over her dagger’s blade and looking over her shoulder at Aladdin. He stands with his hands in his pockets, trying to look harmless. “After all, where is Darian? How did the thief escape my cousin and his men and manage to make it to the city before them? Has anyone heard from Darian in the past week?”
Ensi shakes her head. “I’ve been intercepting every message sent by pigeon, and there’s been nothing from the prince.”
“What of my uncle? Has Sulifer had contact with him?”
“Not that I know of. The vizier rarely leaves the council chambers and keeps his business secret.”
“You were right in the beginning, Khavar,” sighs the princess. “We should never have hired a third party to steal the ring back. I should have done it myself.”
“Sulifer watches you too closely,” says Ensi. “You’d have never pulled it off, and if you’d been caught, the consequences would have been too great. Speaking of which, we really should be getting back to the palace.”
Khavar’s snake pulls back and hisses at me, and I hiss in return. Khavar catches its head and pushes it back into her cloak. “Is it really a bad thing, Darian missing? I’ll not shed a tear if he never shows up again. Think of that, Cas. You wouldn’t have to marry him.”
“I doubt it will be that easy,” Caspida replies. “And however much I loathe my cousin, I would not wish death on him.” She pauses, then adds, “A cell in the dungeons with rats for company, perhaps. But not death.” She sighs and rubs the bridge of her nose. “We should have destroyed the ring long ago.”
“We couldn’t have known Darian would steal it,” replies Ensi. “It’s stayed safely in that vault for hundreds of years. This isn’t your fault, Cas.”
“Roshana’s ring was mine to guard,” she replies flatly. “I don’t want comfort. I want it found and destroyed. I don’t know what it does, but I know that it’s linked to the jinn, and that’s never a good thing.”
“We really should get back to the palace,” says Nessa. “We’ve been gone too long already.”
“What about the thief?” asks Khavar. “We can’t very well drag him along.”
“Search him,” Caspida says. “Just in case he’s lying.”
Aladdin, who heard this last pronouncement, throws me a horrified look, but I am already moving. I leap out of Ensi’s arms and dash away into the shadows, turning to smoke the moment I am out of sight. I have just seconds before they search Aladdin and find the lamp. I cannot imagine the Amulen princess will be as open-minded about my presence as Aladdin has been, not when her own handmaiden is one of the jinn charmers who likely trapped Zhian.
I blow through a crack in the wall and collect outside, then waste no time in raising a terrible racket. I clang against the warehouse and shout out in a deep, male voice: “Who’s in there? Show yourself!”
Raz, keeping watch, runs inside to alert the others. I turn to wind and blast open the door to find the girls are gone, startled by the noise and vanished into the dark city with soft, hasty footsteps. Aladdin stands alone, untouched. He pats the lamp.
“Nice work,” he says. “I wouldn’t mind having you along when I pull jobs.”
“If you have me along,” I reply dryly, “you won’t need to pull jobs.”
“Fair point.”
Aladdin goes to the doorway and stands staring at the night, his frame rigid. He is a dark current beneath a still sea.
I shift back into a girl, dressed in black silk with tiny white moonflowers sprinkled in my hair. As I wait for him to speak, I idly conjure bangles on my wrists, each inscribed with a verse from the “Song of Roshana,” the poem written in honor of your nineteenth birthday by twelve of the world’s most esteemed poets.
Roshana Mithraya, Warrior Queen,
rode to war on a Jinni’s wings,
Roshana Mithraya, fair and bold,
wielded a sword of steel and gold.
Her foes who looked upon her swore
For love or fear, they’d fight no more.
The princess is heavy in my thoughts. After you died, Habiba, someone must have spirited your infant daughter out of Neruby before the jinn destroyed the city. Your line lived on, and your spirit too, it seems; this Caspida is a fiery one, just like you were. What would she think of me if she knew who I was? My old guilt lurks deep within, like a wolf in a cave, and I look up toward the palace in the north district, shining like a pearl beneath the stars.
Now she fights the jinn. She even has her own jinn charmer at her side. I don’t know if Nessa is the same charmer who bottled Zhian, but charmers are rare, and there can’t be many others in the city. So it seems the best place to start my search is the royal palace. Even if he’s not being held there, perhaps I can find a clue there as to his whereabouts.
But first, I need a way into the palace.
I study my master thoughtfully.
Aladdin stirs at last, turning to glance at me over his shoulder, his fingers dancing on the lamp.
“The Phoenix is the princess,” he murmurs. “And I’m talking to a jinni. Gods, this night just keeps getting stranger.”
He starts forward, walking down the dark street as if in a fog. We pass other storehouses and closed carpentry and shipwrights’ shops. A dog scrambles out of Aladdin’s way, raising its hackles and growling at me, not fooled by my human disguise. We pass the city gates, shut against the night. They are washed in the orange light of massive braziers suspended from above, and guards stand watch on the wall beside them. Aladdin skirts around them, staying concealed in the shadows.
Eventually we reach the center of the city, where the river runs in a channel of cut stone. The water flows deep and fast and dark, its banks edged with low walls of rectangular bricks. From grates set into the channel, runoff from the gutters and houses pours into the river, joining the mad rush to the sea.
Aladdin stops at the center of an arching bridge, its railings smooth wood supported by statues carved in the likenesses of the undergods. At the foot of each carving, little offerings have been left. Candles, flowers, dolls made of straw, each representing a prayer. At the foot of Nykora are ten times as many offerings as the others, and so many candles are lit before her that she seems to shine. The railing above her flutters with ribbons and strings of beads. Nykora is the undergoddess of the oppressed and poor, and her sigil is the phoenix.
Aladdin pauses before her statue for several long moments, his hands deep in his pockets. His face is softened by the candlelight. His cloak, tattered and patched, rustles in the breeze that sweeps upriver.