Raz shoos away a white peacock that lands on the walk in front of us, then extends an arm toward a low building with a graceful minaret roof. Though covered, the walls are open to the outside, and I can spy the court seated on cushions within.
“This way, Your Highness. Your servant, of course, may join the others in the kitchens.” Though this last remark is directed at me, Raz does not make eye contact. She waves dismissively in the other direction, at a plainer stone building with several smoking chimneys.
I nod and walk toward it, but once I am out of sight, I duck behind the cypresses and shift into a peacock. Not my favorite form. My legs are spindly, and bobbing my head will leave my neck sore later, but it is the safest way to get into the dining hall. Several other peacocks wander in and out of the building freely. No one will notice one more.
Thus disguised, I strut into the open, my long tail feathers dragging behind me, and boldly enter the dining hall.
The court dines in two groups: men and women. They are separated by lattice screens, symbolically more than anything else, for it is easy to spy one another through the screens, which many of the young men and women do. Their flirtation is ignored by the older nobles. In the back of the room, a musician strums a gentle melody on a tall harp, and I recognize in the tune hints of the songs once sung in your court, Habiba. The men are seated in a large circle around an array of dishes that are continually replenished by gray-robed servants. They carry in bowls of rice, steaming flatbread, kebabs of lamb, beef, and chicken. Even to my peacock form, the smells of cinnamon and saffron are delicious.
I find Aladdin seated between Vigo and an old, hairy nobleman who reeks of garlic. My master nods eagerly as Vigo points out which dishes he should try. I note with chagrin that he’s already drunk half a glass of wine. Not a good sign, with the evening still young and the Amulens watching him like hungry leopards looking for a sign of weakness. Not openly, of course. Their glances are sly, but the suspicion is there, burning behind their pleasant expressions.
I scan the room for any sign of the king or his brother, but neither seems to be present. We haven’t seen either since our first day in the palace.
Tonight’s dinner features nobles of middling to high rank, judging by their clothes and manners. But on the women’s side of the room, I spot Caspida surrounded by her handmaidens. They whisper and laugh and sip wine, casting curious looks through the screen. To see them now, they look innocent and harmless as doves, nothing like the little fighting unit that kidnapped Aladdin.
I strut around the perimeter of the room, listening in on conversations, hoping for mention of any jinn prisoners. But the talk is disappointingly mundane. I edge in to Vigo and peck at his coat, searching for a hidden flute, until he swats at me and I am forced to flee.
Suddenly the room falls silent and everyone stands. Aladdin scrambles to imitate them, bowing low as a small group enters from the courtyard. When I see who it is, I ruffle my feathers.
It is Darian and three of his friends. The prince is wearing a tight-fitting black kurta hemmed with elaborate embroidery over black trousers and a gold sash. He nods to the room, and everyone sits again, with several nobles shifting aside to give him room.
“Prince Darian!” A nobleman raises his wine cup. “Good to see you back! How was your hunt?”
“Rotten,” says Darian. “There’s not an antelope left for a hundred leagues around that isn’t smaller than a dog. The damn ghuls have eaten all the good game.”
The others greet him warmly, drinking to his health. Darian greets them all by name, but his eyes keep flickering to Aladdin. He gestures for the others to sit, then nods to my master.
“I do not believe we have met,” he murmurs.
Aladdin bows, remarkably composed. “I’m Prince Rahzad rai Asnam of Istarya.”
“I know your name. I would be a poor host if I did not know everything about my guests, don’t you agree? Though apparently on the topic of Rahzad of Istarya, there is remarkably little to know. It almost makes one wonder if he wasn’t conjured from a story.” Darian flicks his wrists and holds his hands out for two servants to quickly wipe them with warm, moist cloths. Then he sits, and Aladdin mirrors him. The prince breaks off a piece of bread and dips it in oil and spices. “I hear you ran into trouble with the jinn.”
“Just some maarids,” Aladdin replies. “But they put up a nasty fight. My crew was lost, and me nearly with them.”
“And yet here you are. Imohel favors you.” Darian takes a cup of a tea from a servant.
“Imohel, destiny, dumb luck . . . Something’s looking out for me, I suppose,” Aladdin returns coolly.
Darian’s eyes glitter over the rim of his cup. “How fortunate you should find our port just when your ship was on the verge of sinking entirely. The timing can be nothing but divine, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’ll leave the divine to the priests.” Aladdin laughs. “Give me solid ground beneath my feet and a cup of this wine and I’ll pray to a fig on a stick if you like.”
“Hear, hear!” says a young nobleman, lifting his glass. The others join in the toast, and Aladdin grins.
Darian glances around at the men, drinks deeply, then sets his cup down with a loud clink.
“You must be quite the voyager, Prince Rahzad, to survive an attack by the maarids. Well . . . if you can count it survival when your entire crew is killed. Tell us, how did you manage to stay alive? You must have killed dozens of the creatures.”
The men fall quiet, looking expectantly to Aladdin. The thief holds Darian’s gaze, a taut smile at his lips.
“Not all my men were lost,” Aladdin says softly.
“Ah, yes. There was a girl, wasn’t there? A servant? Pretty too, from what I hear.” Suddenly Darian gives a little gasp and snaps his fingers. “Ah . . . so that’s it.” He leans forward, grinning. “Don’t worry—I completely understand. I’ve known a few girls who could make me miss an entire battle too. I’m sure your men didn’t blame you for staying belowdecks.” He winks conspiratorially and holds up his cup for a servant to refill.
Aladdin’s hand clenches his wine cup, his face paling dangerously.
Don’t speak, I beg him silently. Don’t let him bait you.
The other men, sensing the spiking tension between the two princes, suddenly seem extremely interested in the food on their plates, but their eyes dart up furtively from Aladdin to Darian.
“Dear cousin, back at last?” says a voice, neatly severing the tension between the two boys.
The men all turn to Caspida, who steps around the screen dividing the room. Darian rises to meet her, taking her hand and bowing over it.
“Prince Rahzad, have you met my betrothed?” Darian pulls her close, his fingers playing with the ends of her hair.