The Forbidden Wish (11 page)

“Tell me about your master.”

I nod. “He is eighth in line to the throne, the son of—”

“No, no,” Caspida interrupts irritably. “Tell me what he is
like
.”

“He is a gambler,” I say. There is no point in lying about these things. “He is bold, but reckless. Brave, but impetuous. A man who . . . holds grudges.” Pausing, I finish in a whisper, “He would risk his life to save someone else, without even thinking twice.”

Caspida turns her head a bit, interest growing in her eyes. “And he sets out on a mad voyage and sails straight into a nest of jinn.”

“My master is noble,” I say with a smile, “but I made no suggestions as to his intelligence.”

“I have never heard of Istarya, so I did some research. You know, none of the scrolls or histories in our library mention it?”

“We're a small nation, Your Highness, and we keep to ourselves.”

She stares at me with shrewd eyes, but doesn't reply.

The elephant calf has discovered it can suck up water and spray it on the girls, and seems to find this vastly amusing. The girls shriek and try to hide, but the calf merrily lumbers after them, shooting water in glittering sprays. Caspida watches it, but does not smile.

“The calf's name is Shasi. Her mother died giving birth to her, and my uncle was going to have her killed because she was born small and sickly. But we took her and made her well again, and she would rather play with my maidens than with her own kind.” She absently runs her thumb and forefinger up the chain on her cheek, making it tinkle softly. “My great-grandmother Fahruaz was part Tytoshi. It was she who imported the first of our war elephants. She was a great strategist and commanded our army for more than thirty years. It is said that her enemies laid many traps for her but that she was too cunning for them, for she always saw the truth behind their lies. Some believe that I am very much like my grandmother.”

Caspida turns to me. “You are no servant, Zahra. You hide it well from the others, but your eyes are too proud, your glances too defiant. But if you are not a servant, what are you? Royal? Noble? A soldier in disguise, sworn to protect your master?”

Now I am the one who stares. “You do have a keen eye.”

“I grew up in court,” she replies. “Everyone I've ever known is
an expert liar. I learned long ago to see the intent behind the masks. So tell me, Zahra, what are you to this Rahzad? Are you his lover?”

“No!”

She gives me a sly look. “Do you wish that you were?”

“No.”
Perhaps I say the word with too much emphasis, because she smiles a little.

“It was an honest question. He is handsome, and you speak highly of him.”

“We are friends.” My thoughts are treasonous, insensibly conjuring up the image of Aladdin on the rooftop, his eyes deep with concern as he watches me wake after the wards knocked me out.

Caspida's full attention is now trained on me, and her eyes cut deep. “I will have to be careful with you, I think. Your lies are smooth, your tongue quick. I brought you here to learn more about your prince, but perhaps I should be paying more attention to
you
.”

Time to steer this conversation into safer waters. As much as I would love to tell her the truth—after all, she is
your
own blood, Habiba, and your spirit is strong in her—I know I can't trust her, not when she has a jinn charmer at her side. The thought refocuses me on my mission.

I stand up and walk to the statue of the winged woman and place a hand reverently on her foot. The pedestal she stands on is tall, and her knees are on a level with the top of my head.

“This is remarkable,” I comment. Caspida is watching me with interest as I circle the statue, inspecting it from all sides. “How old is it?”

“It was made for my mother, when she married my father.”

I turn to Caspida and ask in a tone deceptively neutral, “Is she an ancestress of yours?”

“Very distantly, yes.” Caspida rises and joins me in gazing up at
the stone face, which isn't a very good likeness, truth be told. Time has weathered the memory of you, or else I wouldn't be able to walk freely here, wearing your face. “This is Roshana, the last queen of the Amulen Empire, back when my people ruled all the lands from the east to the west. She is something of a legend among us. Every queen aspires to learn from her mistakes.”

“Her mistakes? Surely you mean her victories.”

“What?”

I frown at her. “Roshana was one of the greatest queens in the world. She ended the Mountain Wars, she routed Sanhezriyah the Mad, she—”

“For a foreign serving girl, you are strangely well versed in Amulen history.”

“I spent a lot of time in libraries as a girl.”

“Were you there to dust the scrolls or read them?”

“Surely Roshana's victories outweigh her errors.”

“The higher you rise, the farther you fall. For all her wisdom, Roshana was fooled by the jinni, believing it was her friend, and then it destroyed her. Ever since that day, my people have hunted the jinn. There is no creature more vicious and untrustworthy.”

“This is not the story I heard,” I say softly. “My people tell it differently. That the jinni truly was a friend to Roshana but was forced to turn against her. That she had no choice.”

“Surely I know how my own ancestress died,” returns the princess, a bit hotly. “Anyway, it was a long time ago, but we Amulens do not forget.”

“No,” I murmur. “I suppose you don't. And you've grown into strong and clever fighters, from what I hear. That you even have those among you who can trap jinn.”

Caspida watches me closely, a small, curious smile on her lips.
“Jinn charmers have been around for centuries. We did not invent the art. Do you not have them in Istarya?”

“I'm afraid we're among those who would rather bow to the jinn than fight them.”

“But not your master,” Caspida notes. “Isn't he here to study our methods?”

“What do you do with a trapped jinni? It sounds dangerous. Surely you dispose of them.”

She watches me for a moment, then says, “Perhaps one day I will tell you. Forgive me, but my people's secrets are not mine to give.”

She is a princess apologizing to a servant. Speaking to me as if we are equals. And it strikes me then, as it had not before, that she truly is your descendant, that some part of your spirit has passed to her. I feel I know her far more intimately than the space of a few minutes of conversation would make possible. I see you in her, and for that, I cannot be angry with her.

“No,” I say softly. “Forgive me. I didn't mean to pry. Into that or . . . or Roshana. I'm sure your version is the true one.”

“Well, it
was
a long time ago,” she says graciously. “A different world altogether. And anyway, you're also right. Roshana defeated Sanhezriyah the Mad, and she stood against the armies of the jinn even when all her allies deserted her. She was a heroine, one of the greatest queens to have lived, in a time when women stood equal to men. But the world moved on, and other lands preferred kings over queens. Their ways of thinking have poisoned our own, and now when they speak of Roshana, they whisper it as if it were a joke. That foolish, capricious woman who trusted her heart, and her kingdom paid the price. They would use her example against me, forgetting all the great things she accomplished.” Caspida sighs and kneels at the edge of the pool. Her reflection shimmers back at
her. “But if I could be even half so great as she was, I would count myself fortunate.”

“In that, we agree,” I whisper.

Suddenly my stomach wrenches violently, a feeling I know all too well.
Damn it, Aladdin, what are you doing?
The lamp is moving farther away, and I am standing at the very edge of my invisible boundary. My stomach tugs again, and I gasp a little.

“Are you all right?” Caspida asks, her eyebrows lowering in concern.

“Just . . . not feeling too well,” I groan. I sidestep toward the pool, trying to alleviate the pain. The longer I resist, the more it hurts, as if someone has reached inside me and is twisting my gut. I can feel my skin getting lighter, preparing to dissolve into smoke, but I strain with everything in me not to turn.

“Zahra!” Caspida stands and puts her hand on my arm. “You're cold as ice!”

“Ah!” Doubling over, arms crossed over my stomach, I gasp out, “I should go. Something I ate, probably!”

“Of course. I will have Nessa take you to the physician.”

“No—I'll be all right. Thank you.”

I bow painfully and walk quickly across the pool, Caspida beside me. The girls have managed to calm the elephant calf by bribing it with fruit. They glance at me curiously as I rush for the door. After bidding me a brief farewell, Caspida lets me out.

A few steps, and the pain vanishes. I lean against the wall for a moment and simply breathe, stilling myself. Deep in my chest, I sense the lamp's movement. Aladdin is somewhere at the other end of the palace, and now he's standing still, thank the gods. After another moment of rest, I resume walking, wondering what Caspida and her handmaidens must think of me.

I am not far down the hall when I sense I am being followed. The passage has no windows or skylights and is quite dark save for a few smoldering braziers. I turn a corner, as if heading back to Aladdin's chambers. But then I stop and shift to smoke, rising upward.

When Ensi and Khavar creep around the corner, I shift back into a human, drop from the ceiling, and land in a crouch behind them. Ensi shrieks and Khavar whirls, batting my arm aside, her hand sliding around my throat, her other hand producing a knife. She slams me hard against the wall. Ensi, her eyes wide, holds a handful of red powder that she'd been about to throw in my face. Khavar's snake rises on her shoulder, hissing.

“Well, well.” I can't help grinning. “Caspida has a little coterie of girl assassins, just like Roshana did. Do you call yourselves the Watchmaidens too?”

Ensi, looking sheepish, pockets her poisonous powder in a concealed satchel beneath her thin silk coat. “Let her go, Khavar.”

“No,” the other girl snarls. “I don't trust her. She asks too many questions.” She presses her forearm against my throat, and I wince and suck in a thin breath. “I thought you were sick?”

“I'd listen to your friend, if I were you,” I croak, smiling still.

“How'd you get up there?” Ensi asks, studying the ceiling curiously. “You must be very nimble.”

“Who are you really?” Khavar demands. “Speak, or I'll strangle you.”

I shrug. “I gave you a fair chance.” With a twist, a spin, and a grunt, I reverse our positions, pressing Khavar's face into the wall and wrenching her arm behind her. She bares her teeth at me angrily, while Ensi gasps and covers her mouth.

“Let me make one thing clear,” I say softly into Khavar's ear.
“There will be no spying or shadowing my master and me. We mean you no ill will, I swear, but I will not tolerate being watched all the time. It's exhausting and pointless for you and me both. Khavar, I'm going to let you go now. Let's agree to talk like civilized people.”

When I release her, Khavar turns and throws up her hands defensively, but I am already standing several paces back, hands spread amenably. Ensi, her eyes darting nervously from me to her friend, steps between us.

“So. You
are
Watchmaidens, then?” I ask.

Ensi sighs and twists her hair in her hands. “We're descended from the original Watchmaidens created by Queen Roshana.”

“Your order has survived all these centuries?” I ask.

Ensi smiles proudly. “Our knowledge was passed down, mother to daughter, for generations. We've been protecting the Amulen queens and princesses for hundreds of years. Khavar here can even trace her ancestry directly to Parys zai Moura, Roshana's personal scribe.”

I glance at Khavar's sour face.
I bet she can
. Parys had never liked me, and I can see the same mistrust in Khavar's eyes. “Go back to your princess,” I tell them. “Please pass along my regards, and tell her Prince Rahzad will
not
be spied upon.”

They nod and back away, watching me warily until the corner comes between us. I stand for a minute and listen until I am certain they've gone, then let out a long sigh and run to see what my master has got himself into this time.

I
FIND
A
LADDIN IN,
of all places, the library.

For a moment I pause behind a tall case of scrolls and watch him. He stands in a beam of sunlight that pours from a high window, dust motes swirling around him, staring at an open scroll. Shelves around him overflow with parchment and papyrus, in sheets and rolls and bound stacks. Aladdin is dressed in a knee-length red waistcoat, his head bare and his hair tousled. His lips move as he reads, though I don't think he realizes it. As I watch him, I feel a subtle stirring inside, a swirling in my heart of smoke, a warming of embers. I know what it means, and I know how wrong, how dangerous it is. I almost cannot bear to smother it, it is so small and fragile and hopeful.

“What happened?” I ask, stepping from behind the case.

Aladdin starts, and his hands clamp the scroll shut. He blinks at me for a moment, until his eyes focus and his mind leaves whatever world it had been lost in.

“Zahra! Um, I thought—” His hand goes to the lamp, and his eyes dart to his right. I follow his gaze and see Jalil sitting at a low desk a short distance away, painstakingly inking a sheet of parchment with a long peacock quill. He seems lost in his work, but still, we must be careful what we say.

I walk to Aladdin and take the scroll he is holding, pretending to scan its contents.

“I nearly shifted,” I whisper. “Right in front of her. What happened? Why did you leave your rooms?”

“I'm sorry,” he whispers back. “He insisted on showing me the library and said if I was determined to learn about Parthenia this was the place to start. I couldn't think of a way out of it.”

I look back at his scroll and raise an eyebrow. “A treatise on the jinn, hmm? Very historical.”

He snatches the scroll back. “I was just—”

“Looking for information on me. Or my kind, anyway.” I frown and fold my arms. “You can read? A boy from the slums?”

“Don't look so surprised. My mother was a scribe once, and she taught me letters. And anyway, we weren't
that
bad off, not at first.” His eyes turn distant. “My father had a good business, tailoring, and my mother penned letters and ledgers for people. We did all right, until . . .” He shakes his head and furls the scroll. “What did Caspida want?”

“To talk about elephants and dead queens.”

“What? Really?”

“Oh, stop frowning. She asked about you too—what you're like, what kind of person you are. Don't worry.” I pat his hand conspiratorially and smile. “I lied.”

“Well?” Aladdin waves the scroll impatiently. “Did she seem, I don't know, interested?”

“Interested? She's barely spoken a dozen words to you. Give it time.”

He nods distractedly and scratches his ear; his earring still hangs there, a simple gold ring. I'd wanted him to take it off on the ship—any part of his old life would make it easier for someone to see through his glamoured appearance—but he'd insisted on keeping it.

“We've been here more than two weeks,” he says. “And I only see her at dinners, and we can't talk there. How am I supposed to win her over if I can't even talk to her?”

On a table nearby, someone has left out a map of the world, its corners held down by stone gryphons. I run a hand across the parchment, tracing the coastlines. Around the edge of the map, the dates of the year have been inked in tiny letters. I eye them thoughtfully, then tap one of the numbers.

“Fahradan.”

“What?” Aladdin comes to stand behind me, looking over my shoulder.

“In two weeks, the Amulens will celebrate the feast of Fahradan, in honor of the god Hamor.” The god of lovers and fools—how appropriate. “Unless the traditions have changed drastically since I last celebrated, it's the perfect time to get Caspida's attention.”

“Why?”

I turn and frown at him. “Haven't you ever celebrated Fahradan?”

“If by
celebrate
you mean pick people's pockets while they're dancing . . .”

I roll my eyes. “I should have guessed. Look, during the night of Fahradan, anyone can ask anyone to dance, and nobody's allowed to refuse.”

A slow grin dawns on his face. “I see. But . . . two weeks? That's an eternity!”

It's also one night before the moon dies and my time runs out.

“Trust me,” I say dryly, “it's hardly that. Did you think you'd walk into the palace, ask for her hand, and marry her within the week?”

“I don't know.” He picks up one of the stone gryphons and tosses it from hand to hand. “I didn't really think at all, I guess. And don't forget, this was all
your
idea.” He looks down at me, his eyes troubled. “It's killing me, Zahra. Seeing the vizier every day, passing him in the hall, pretending to bow and grovel. I hate it.”

I glance over at Jalil, who is lost in his work, then back at Aladdin. “Come on.”

“What?”

“Let's get out of here. There's too much dust. Too much . . . history.” I take the scroll of jinn lore from his hand and set it on a shelf. “I want to sit in the sun and feel the sea breeze on my face.”

“All right,” he says, a bit amused. “And you can tell me more about the jinn.”

•   •   •

We climb the tallest tower in the palace and find ourselves at last standing upon the rooftop, beneath a striped canvas awning, looking down on the city. From this height, it looks flawless, like a city in a story, stained with the golden light of midmorning. White rooftops bake in the sun, colorful awnings stretching between them, the crowns of the palms and other trees casting spiky patches of shade on the streets. And beyond the south wall, the cliffs overlook the turquoise sea. Not a cloud is to be seen, and the sun blazes like the eye of a beneficent god. Seabirds ride the warm air, drifting in the sky and turning lazy circles around the glittering minarets of the palace.

“Look at it,” breathes Aladdin, leaning over the parapet. His elbows brush the leaves of a potted lemon tree, its branches budding with tiny fruits. “Not a bad view. I could get used to this.”

“So. Becoming a prince isn't
entirely
about revenge, is it?”

He grins at me. “There are definitely other attractions.”

“Can you really see this through? Marrying the princess, banishing or imprisoning the vizier, and then ruling this city? Guiding its people? Watching your children navigate the treacherous waters of court?”

With a shrug, he lifts his face to the sun, shutting his eyes and basking in its heat. “With a view like this? I could get used to anything. Of course, it all depends on winning the princess. She might hate me.”

“She might.”

He rolls his eyes. “Not helping, Smoky.”

“My name isn't . . .” But I sigh and let it go. The nickname doesn't rankle me like it did a few weeks ago. I'm growing too used to it. Too used to
him
.

He lowers his face. “Is it true all jinn were once human?”

Caught off guard, I look up at him sharply. “Why do you want to know about that?”

“The scroll I was reading talked about it. I wondered if it was true.” He turns around, leaning against the parapet, his arms folded.

I sigh and sit on the warm stone floor, my back against the potted lemon tree. I pull a fruit that dangles at my elbow and turn it over in my hands.

“Not all of them. The oldest ones were born jinn, but most of us were . . . adopted. Long ago, there were only two realms: that of the gods—the godlands, as you call them—and that of the jinn:
Ambadya. The jinn were the gods' first creation, and they made them powerful and proud and magnificent.”

A yellow butterfly lands on my knee, and I pause a moment, watching it as it rubs its legs over its face before flitting off again.

“And?” Aladdin prods.

“For many ages the jinn lived in peace. There were the maarids, of the water, small, lovely, petty things. There were the ifreets, creatures of fire, who were few in number but great in power. There were the ghuls, creatures of earth, who even in those days were the most despised of the jinn. They lived in caves and holes, like rats, but were mostly harmless as they could never work together. There were the sila, jinn of the air, rarely seen by the others because they spent most of their lives drifting in the sky, invisible and secretive. And most powerful of all, there were the shaitan, masters of all elements, lords of all the jinn. In those days, Ambadya was much like your world: rich with color and life, beautiful and vast and wild.”

Aladdin sits beside me, his shoulder against mine. “Everything I've heard describes the jinn world as dark and wretched.”

“It is now. They ruined their world when they began warring with each other. They burned it, twisted it into a ruin. That is why the gods created men. They wanted to start over. And it is why the jinn and the humans have never got along since. The jinn were jealous, their place of privilege usurped. Many times they have tried to take over this world, and every time, the gods interceded.”

He is sitting very close. My throat goes dry, and I stop to swallow, overly conscious of his warmth and the minty smell of the soap he used to wash his face this morning.

“Finally, the gods struck them with infertility—no new jinn could be born. But Havok, the god of rebirth, took pity on the jinn and allowed them to replenish their ranks only with humans who
were given over to them. These sacrifices were meant to appease the jinn, and they were taken and turned into ifreets and sila, maarids and ghuls. A few were even made shaitan.”

“Human sacrifices?” Aladdin's voice is thick with disgust. “I'd heard that in other parts of the world, they still leave children and girls and warriors for the jinn, but I didn't want to believe it.”

“You should. It is the easiest way to ensure that the jinn won't burn your crops or sicken your livestock. After the gods abandoned the world, temples called alombs became shrines to the jinn, places where people could leave their sacrifices and buy another year of protection.”

“Zahra . . . were
you
sacrificed?”

I haven't thought about that day in a long, long time. It was a thousand and one lifetimes ago. Ignoring the question, I point to the north, to the mountain sitting in the distance behind a screen of haze. “There is one such alomb on the summit of that mountain.”

He watches me, fully aware of my evasion, but he doesn't press me further. His gaze turns north. “We don't use it. It's forbidden. That's why our city is starving. Few cities will trade with us, because they think we should make offerings to the jinn as they do.”

I nod. “Roshana was the first Amulen queen to outlaw sacrifices. It was a bold move, but it infuriated the jinn.”

He leans into me, nudging me softly with his shoulder. “So? What about
you
? What's it like being a shaitan?”

I stare at him. “What makes you think I am a shaitan?”

“I've seen you grant wishes, and the way you change your form . . . Well? You are, aren't you?”

“Yes,” I admit. I am part of a dying breed, one of only three left in existence. Of the other two, one resides in Ambadya, ruling the
jinn, and the second is likely somewhere beneath my feet, trapped in a bottle.

“Were you in Ambadya before it was destroyed?” Aladdin asks.

“Of course not. I've been a jinni for four thousand years. Ambadya was razed long, long before that.”

“Who were you? Where did you live?”

“It doesn't matter anymore.” I stand up, dropping the lemon, and turn to look down on the city. “It's too hot out here. Let's go inside. I'll teach you how to properly enter a room based on who is already there, and whether they are sitting, standing, or eating.”

Aladdin groans. “I'm sick of playing prince. Let's pick pockets.”

“No.”

“Wait a minute, Smoky . . .” He leans in close to study me, mimicking Jalil's habit of raising one eyebrow ridiculously high when suspicious. I can't help it—his expression makes me giggle—actually
giggle
, like a little girl. “Do you even know
how
to pick pockets?”

“Of course I do,” I lie. “I've picked a thousand and one—”

“Yes, yes, you've done it all a thousand times, I get it.” He raises a doubtful brow. “So prove it.”

•   •   •

“Him,” Aladdin murmurs. “The one with the feather on his hat. He's got a pipe in his left pocket.”

We're in the palace gardens, pretending to admire a massive statue of King Malek. Many nobles are out today, lounging around the pools and fountains, strolling beneath the shade of the trees. Nearly as vast as the palace itself, the gardens spread in a luxurious carpet of green, organized in perfect symmetry. One could walk for hours out here and never find the end of them.

Our target is a man a bit older than Aladdin, walking in our direction. We stand in a more secluded spot. Our back is to him, and when he passes behind us, Aladdin coughs.

I turn and run straight into the man and quickly slip my hand into his pocket, but the pipe is too deep to reach.

“You clumsy wench—Gods above! Are you trying to
rob
me, girl?” The nobleman seizes my wrist and yanks it from his pocket. My hand comes up with the pipe clenched in it. I stare at him, horrified.

“I . . .”

We're standing by a tall, neatly trimmed hedge, and without another word I grab the nobleman and drag him into the bushes with me; we burst through the other side into a private clearing populated with small, half-tame deer, which startle and flee. Surrounded by tall shrubs and trees, we're hidden from view of anyone else walking by.

“I'll have your head for this!” the man rages. “I'll have you whipped!”

Aladdin climbs through the hedge after us. I'm gripping the man by his coat, while he spits curses at me, his face turning bright red and his beard flecked with spittle.