It must look as though we’re coming into port like any other ship, which is why I conjured it at such a distance. The story goes that Prince Rahzad rai Asnam, youngest son of the Shah of Istarya, set out to explore and make his fortune. After a terrible run-in with a tribe of vicious maarids, only he and his servant, the lowly but lovely Zahra, survived. Now we limp into the Parthenian port, seeking refuge at the king’s court.
Alas. I gaze about the beautiful ship and try to decide how best to destroy it.
“Aladdin, you may want to stay close to me.”
“Why? What are you—no! Not my ship!”
“Duck!” I send a torrent of water blasting over his head to snap the mast and rip the sails. Aladdin looks on with dismay.
A few waves thrown about, some teeth marks in the planks—maarids are particularly nasty biters—and finally a gouge in the hull finish the job. I do the work quickly, fighting nausea all the while. Aladdin looks close to tears as his beautiful vessel is blasted apart.
Suitably beaten and battered, the Artemisia now lurches across the water like a drunken duck. Aladdin and I huddle against the mast and do our best to look wretched, which really isn’t difficult at all, as the rocking waves make me ill and irritable, while Aladdin is withdrawn and pensive. As the final touch, I change our clothes to expensive but torn and dirty robes of silk and damask.
Aladdin’s appearance is a problem; the princess and her handmaidens have all seen his face, and it’s unlikely we’d be able to explain that away. So I let a bit of magic sink into his features, creating a glamoured mask. It isn’t a foolproof spell—permanently altering his appearance would call for another wish. But it’s enough to discourage recognition. When the princess looks at Aladdin, she will see only a young man who may slightly resemble the thief from the Rings.
As we wait for the tide to carry us to the harbor, I drill Aladdin on his new identity, making him repeat it over and over until he throws his hands in the air.
“I’m not saying it one more bleeding time, jinni!”
Miffed, I cross my arms and look away. “I don’t want to end up murdered by one of your jinn-killers.”
“Neither do I. Look, I’ve got this all under control.”
Unconvinced, I give him a doubtful look, and he grins. “Smoky, if there’s one thing I am, it’s adaptable.”
• • •
And so we arrive in Parthenia, the travel-weary but dashing Prince Rahzad rai Asnam of Istarya and his servant girl. Everything happens in a whirl once we are towed into the harbor. Soldiers whisk us through the city, past gaping crowds, to the palace. There we are handed over to a group of bearded ministers, who ply Aladdin with questions while escorting him through the echoing halls. Aladdin, giving them simple one-word responses, bends his head this way and that, taking in the splendor of the Parthenian court. The palace is marble and sandstone, all smooth curves and vast, empty spaces filled with whispers and roaming peacocks. Rich carpets and tapestries add color to the walls and floor, and we pass many courtyards babbling with fountains. Nobles lurk in the corners, watching and whispering, gathering in a train behind us.
Aladdin is pulled aside and dressed in fresh clothes, fine silk and cashmere in tones of rich green and gold. I, for the most part, am forgotten, left to shadow my master in silence. I don’t mind a bit. I use this time to scan the palace, searching for some sign of Zhian, but it seems my search will not be that simple. I can sense nothing of him.
“Your Highness,” says an approaching minister, his beard long and perfectly combed, his head covered with a tall cylindrical hat of purple and gold. “I am Jalil rai Feruj, the Minister of Diplomacy here in King Malek’s court. You’re from . . . where did you say? Forgive me. The name was unknown to me.”
“Istarya,” says Aladdin. “Far to the south.”
“Ah, yes, of course.” Jalil nods, but his eyes are still clouded with confusion. He beckons to a boy standing nearby with an armful of scrolls, and the boy hastens forward. Jalil selects a scroll and unfurls it, his brow knitting. “Istarya . . . Istarya . . . you must forgive me, Your Highness. My memory is so weak of late.”
I step forward and grasp the edge of the map, smiling at the minister. “If I may, my lord?”
While he is distracted, his eyes on me, the last drop of magic from Aladdin’s wish leaks from my thumb and trails across the parchment, turning to ink.
“Here it is,” I say, pointing.
Jalil looks down and blinks, his gaze settling on the tiny island at the bottom of the map. “Ah! Of course. Well, allow me to escort you to His Majesty’s throne, for he is eager to meet you.”
“Lead on, old man!” Aladdin slaps the minister on the shoulder, then, noting the stunned faces around him, coughs and attempts a bow. “I mean, um, thank you, my lord.”
The hallway to the throne room is tasteful but ornate, sculpted into a series of fantastic arches, each carved with detailed vines and leaves and supported by blood-colored marble columns. Tall windows between the arches let in sunlight that makes the stone bright with colors and patterns, revealing the delicate white veins of the deep red marble, as if the columns are made of exposed muscle.
The king’s throne room is set in the center of the palace, like the hub of an enormous wheel. We pause outside tall doors of polished teak wood carved with grapevines. On either side, stone lions as tall as three men stretch their mouths in unending silent roars, their sightless eyes glaring down at us.
The doors are opened by stoic guards with peaked helmets, and we walk into the grandest room I’ve yet seen in Parthenia. The chamber is enormous, divided into three long, narrow sections by the double rows of stone pillars that march from one end to the other, supporting a roof that vaults upward into three massive domes. Pigeons circle the space above, cutting through beams of light that pour through square holes in the ceiling, filling the air with the sounds of wings beating air, their shadows flickering across the columns. On the walls, enormous carvings depict detailed battle sequences, some of them recalling Amulen history I witnessed myself, such as the sacking of Berus and the surrender of King Madarash of the Baltoshi Islands.
My eyes fall on a bas-relief that chills me: It is of you, Habiba, standing atop Mount Tissia, Neruby burning in the background. You are on your knees, looking pious and tragic, as an ugly jinni with horns, wings, and claws crouches on your back and prepares to tear out your throat. I think that one is supposed to be me. Below the relief are carved the words “The Fall of Roshana the Wise.”
I turn my eyes away and do not look at any more of the carvings.
On a throne set on a high dais in the center of the room, flanked by tall stone gryphons painted to look startlingly real, sits the man who inherited your great legacy. Surrounded by the majesty of this grand hall and dwarfed by his stone gryphons, the king of the Amulens is small and sickly, slouched in his throne beneath heavy leopard-skin stoles. His complexion is pale, almost translucent, and his hands tremble. The yellow tinge in his eyes betrays the source of his condition: simmon smoke.