The Forbidden Wish (4 page)

I
DROP MY ARMS,
as smoke turns to flame inside me.

What?
I reply. The jinn tongue feels rusted in my thoughts, but I am too stunned for spoken words.

The ghul sniffs.
These are the terms.
Turning away, she points at the silver crescent hanging low in the sky.
The moon will die tomorrow night, and be reborn again. It will grow fat, then it will grow weak, and then it will die once more. On that moon death, if you have not freed the jinn prince, then the Shaitan shall shake the skies, and death will rain upon you and all the humans in that city. But succeed, and he will sever the bond that binds you to the lamp, and you will return to Ambadya a free jinni.

She gives me a sly smile over her shoulder.
But if you make one mistake,
he
will come, and a deserved traitor's death he will give you. Do you know what that means?

I do. I have seen jinn executions before. They last for days. When you're practically immortal, there's no end to the torture you
can endure, and the jinn are experts at wringing every last drop of pain from their victims. My chest tightens at the thought. I may be one of the strongest jinni alive, but I can feel pain, and I can be killed.

“Yes,” I whisper, then I cough a little and repeat in a louder voice, “Yes. I accept Nardukha's deal. Tell him . . . tell him he will see his wretched son within the month.”

It shall be so.

And just like that, the ghul is gone, slipping away into the shadows and rock, blending into the earth from which she was made, leaving me trembling. I lift my face and stare wonderingly at the stars above.

Freedom.

It's a dream I never dared to dream. I cannot even imagine what it would be like. Ever since I became jinn, I've been bound to my lamp. The concept is foreign, as distant and untouchable as the new moon behind its black veil. But for the first time, I feel hope. And I know I will do everything in my limited power to seize it.

The sun rises, and the Parthenian gates open. Two roads—one from the east, one from the west—lead to the city, and carts and travelers slowly make their way inside. No one sees us nestled among the rocks upriver. The sun peaks and then begins sinking again, the trees' shadows growing long, and still Aladdin sleeps as if dead.

There is no more sign of Shaza or any other jinni nearby, but I keep careful watch. I turn Nardukha's deal over in my mind, pondering how to accomplish it. It is one thing to say I will do it—another entirely to pull it off. Parthenia is a large city, and there's no telling where Zhian is being kept. It's not as if I am free to wander around looking, either. I'm bound to Aladdin as long as he has the
lamp. But I won't let that stop me. I won't let
anything
stop me—not human or jinn. Because for the first time in four thousand years,
I
, Curl-of-the-Tiger's-Tail, Smoke-on-the-Wind, Girl-Who-Gives-the-Stars-Away, have a chance at freedom.

When the sun falls behind the city and the towers deepen into silhouettes, I turn back to my master, beginning to grow concerned.

This time, his eyes are open, and he is staring at me.

“You're very pretty,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep, “for a jinni.”

“Have you met many jinn?”

“No.” His lips curl into a dazed grin. “But I've met a lot of pretty girls.”

I check his bandage; the bleeding has stopped, but he'll need a fresh dressing soon.

“Why did you help me?” he asks softly. “Back in the desert, you distracted Darian so that I could get the lamp. Why?”

“You took an arrow for me
.”
He couldn't have known it would not harm me. He acted without thinking, from some instinct deep inside himself—the same instinct that prevented him from wishing for Darian's death. “Now we are even, thief.”

“We'd better—” He cuts off with a hiss, his hand going to his shoulder. He is silent for a moment, his eyes shut, as if he is trying hard to push down the pain of his injury. Then at last he says in a tight voice, “We'd better get moving. We have to slip into the city before they shut the gates for the night. Once they close, they don't open till dawn. Not for anyone. There are jinn in these hills.” He pauses, then gives a little laugh. “Though I guess that doesn't bother you.”

The walls of Parthenia rise in the distance, and it will take a hard, fast walk to reach it by sunset. But he sets out gamely,
stopping only to strip a small fig tree of its fruit before leaving the riverbank. We follow a dusty track through low hills covered in scrubby bushes and loose stones.

We near the gates just as the guards are preparing to shut them. The doors are massive, heavy slabs of oak, and they must be drawn closed by a pair of elephants. The soldiers are busy tethering the huge animals to the doors. On either side of the gate, enormous stone gryphons glare down on us with blank eyes.

“Hurry,” says Aladdin, breaking into a run. “They won't wait for us.”

I sprint to catch up, then, just steps from the gate, I stagger as a spasm of pain twists my gut. A shudder passes through me, and I double over, unable to take another step.

Looking up, I spot them immediately: glyphs carved into the stone bases the gryphons stand upon. Symbols of Eskarr, the language of scorsmiths to bind magic to objects. These read
jinn
,
demon
,
repel
, and other similar words. They were put there to turn away any of my kind who might try to enter, and their power rakes over me like claws. It seeps through me like poison, tainting my smoke sickly green.

“Zahra, are you all right?” Aladdin asks, halting beside me.

I shake my head and struggle to stay on my feet as my head reels. It's like being caught in a landslide. Shaza said I was the only one with a chance of getting through these gates—but even I might not be strong enough. I try to force myself into motion with the thought of freedom, but all I can manage is one half step before my stomach twists violently and I drop to one knee. The sea wind batters me, and I wish I could turn to smoke and let it carry me away.

“It's warded,” I whisper. “Against the jinn. I can't . . . I can't get through.”

The doors suddenly groan, and I look up to see the elephants beginning to move, drawing them shut. Alarmed, Aladdin looks at the gate, then back to me. “Zahra, you
have
to go through. If you don't, the guards will know what you are. They'll kill us both right here. Killing jinn and anyone who sympathizes with them—that's what they
do.
They're
Eristrati.
”

He says the word as if I should know what it means, and I study the guards closer. They all carry spears of iron, their shafts carved with more Eskarr glyphs. These are no ordinary soldiers; they are armed to fight jinn, and they know what they're doing. Four thousand years may be quite a long life, but I'm not ready to be done living just yet. Not when I'm this close to breaking free of my cursed lamp.

“I can do it,” I murmur.

“Are you sure?” He's studying me as if he's worried I'll pass out. I very well may.

I nod, not entirely certain but willing to try. Not because I'm truly worried the guards will kill us—Aladdin does have two wishes left, and I'm far from unskilled in defending myself. But because I know this is it. This is the last chance I'll ever get. If I fail, I don't even think I'll protest when Nardukha strikes me down. I can't take another
year
in that lamp, much less an eternity, not when a chance at freedom is so close.

“I have an idea,” I say. “But I'll need your help.”

“Hurry,” he says, watching as the doors swing inward. Already they are half closed.

I conjure a small puff of smoke beneath my dress, letting it settle over my stomach, making me round as a melon. Add the pain in my eyes and my tight breathing and I am the perfect image of
a woman going into labor. Aladdin looks down, makes a strange noise deep in his throat, then nods.

“Right. We can do this. No problem.” His tone is a little high, but he grabs my hand. “Let's go!”

I must lean on Aladdin, and not only for show—the closer we get, the harder it is for me to hold out. The air feels like knives, the ground like burning coals. It seems all the elements bend themselves toward crushing me, repulsing me, grinding me into the earth. Somehow, his heartbeat gives me strength. Perhaps it helps to hide my jinn nature from the wards. Either way, I can feel myself gaining a little more control of my own body. I burst forward, and together we run for the gates. They're seconds away from shutting entirely.

“We won't fit,” I say.

“Yes, we
will
,” Aladdin replies through clenched teeth, as if he can will them open with sheer stubbornness.

“If you wish for it—
ugh!
” As we pass through the stone gryphons, their stare seems to hone in on me. The Eskarr glyphs seem to glow. The power behind them pushes at me with the force of a hundred horses, seeking to trample me into the earth.

“My wife!” Aladdin cries to the guards. “She's going to give birth! Stop the gates!”

The men exchange looks but remain resolute. The space between the doors shrinks until it seems not even a cat could slip through. But Aladdin remains undeterred. He sprints ahead, gasping, his shoulder crimson with blood. I don't have to fake my own pain, as if I'm being speared from the front and hooked from behind. Everything in me screams,
Turn around! Run away!
But I force myself to keep moving. Spots dance across my eyes. Every
thought I have is bent on maintaining human form. I ache to shift into smoke just to stop the pain.

And then we reach the gates. Aladdin stops, pushing me through first. I can hardly see at this point, and I realize I'm sobbing aloud. Ordinarily I'd be mortified at such a display of weakness, but I don't have a thought to spare for my pride. It hurts too much.

All I can do is force myself not to shift, not to give us away. I feel Aladdin's hand in mine, his voice in my ear, but the words make no sense. There's shouting, arguing. Everything swims around me. I am a twig caught in a flood.

With a moan, I collapse, the false pregnant belly dissipating. Instead of hitting the ground, though, I drop into Aladdin's arms. He lifts me and holds me against his chest, then begins running. The scent of him overwhelms me: fresh figs from this morning, goats' milk soap he last washed his cloak with, smoke from the ruins of Neruby, wind, and sea salt. Human smells, rich and heady. I can sense his pain through his pulse, but he doesn't slow or stop. He must be hurting as much as I am. Why doesn't he let me go? Why doesn't he leave the lamp and save himself? Or make a wish—if I could even grant it in this state.

With a shudder, I feel myself slip, as if from a tall tower, and I plummet into darkness with one last thought:

But I was so close . . .

W
HEN
I
CO
ME TO,
I'm lying beneath stars, my back on a hard, cold surface. I startle awake, all at once, and bolt up into a sitting position.

“Whoa, easy there, Smoky.”

I turn and see Aladdin sitting beside me, eating roasted lamb speared on a small stick. We're sitting on top of a building, with an expansive view of the sea beyond the city walls. I turn around and study Parthenia from above. The buildings rise where the land swells to the north, a domed palace sitting at the city's highest point. Even on this nearly moonless night, it glows like a pearl in the darkness. Zhian is somewhere out there, raging unheard in a tiny bottle or jar. The thought, which amused me earlier, now only fills me with grim determination. I stretch out my sixth sense, probing the night, but it doesn't reach far, and I catch not a glimmer of him.

“What happened?” It's rare for me to black out like this, and it
frightens me more than I like to admit. I don't know how humans do it every night—falling asleep, letting darkness swallow them.

“You passed out. I had to carry you.”

“How is your shoulder?”

He's wearing a fresh bandage, but it's been sloppily applied. “Had to redo it. Tough with just one hand. And I grabbed these.” He pulls two little clay pots from his pocket. “There's an herbalist one street over, so I made a run while you were out. I hope they're for wounds and won't, you know, cause warts or something.”

I hold out a hand, and he drops the pots into my palm. I open them and sniff. “This one is for soothing women's birthing pains.”

Aladdin winces.

“But the other one should do the trick.” I hand them back. “It's a cinnamon-and-clove mixture and will stop any disease from spreading in your wound.”

He pockets that pot and leaves the other behind as he stands. “You feeling better, then? Or want to take a ride from here?” He pats his cloak, and a dull
ting
tells me the lamp is still tied to his belt.

I try not to sound too desperate when I reply, “I'd rather walk. Where are we going?”

“I've been chased, shot, cut, beaten, and dragged a hundred leagues in the blink of an eye.” He shrugs and offers me a hand. “I need a drink.”

I stare at him a moment, conflicted.
He carried me. He took an arrow for me.
I've had few kind masters in my long, strange life. Cruelty, I understand. But kindness frightens me, for my defenses are weak against it.

Warily, I take his hand and he helps me up. He leads me down a narrow stair along the outside of the building we're on top of, down to the street.

“Why did you want that prince to die?” I ask.

Aladdin halts, looking back at me with wide eyes. “Not so loud! Gods.”

“Well?”

“Are you always this nosy?”

“I am when someone asks me if I'll
kill
for them.”

He lets out a short breath. “I changed my mind about that.”

“I still want to know.”

He rubs his hand across his face. “We're here.”

Aladdin steps off the street into one of the many narrow capillaries that lead into the deeper bowels of the city. Walls close in on either side, and lines hung with worn, clean cloth crisscross over our heads. Wind rustles the fabric, so it seems as if the air is filled with whispering ghosts. Through the closed shutters that dot the walls, only the faintest lines of light can be seen.

Aladdin steps behind a stack of rotting crates and holds up a fist to knock on a small wooden door. We wait in the darkness, breathing in the smell of baking bread, and beneath that, the stench of piss, rat, and simmon, a drug made from corris leaf. This last scent wafts out of the door before us, and when it opens suddenly, a wave of the smell washes over us.

The man behind the door is broader than he is tall, but every inch of him is muscle. Leather straps cross over his hairy chest, while his bald head glistens with sweat in the light of the lamp he holds.

“Two coppers,” he says in a bored tone, without looking up.

Aladdin clears his throat. The man glances at him, then straightens. “Oh. It's you. Balls, boy, what happened to you? You look terrible.”

“Been traveling. What're you doing out of prison, Balak? Thought you got ten years for that pig you stole.”

Balak grunts. “That pig they
claimed
I stole. The bastards can't prove nothing. The Phoenix sprang me.”

Aladdin tenses slightly. “What, he's still knocking around?”

“He loosed a bunch of us from the prison, those of us he thought were unjustly condemned. Petty thieves, debtors, and the like. Guards have rounded up a few of the fools not smart enough to stay low, but they won't catch up with me again.”

“Did you see his face?” asked Aladdin. “Has anyone figured out who he is?”

“Never saw nothing but a shadow slipping by, unlocking the cells. He'd knocked out all the guards, cleared the way out. Nobody knows who he is, but he's got the whole city singing his praises. Look there.” Balak points to a wall across the street, where a crude red flame has been recently painted. “Sign of the Phoenix. It's like the whole bloody Tailor's Rebellion all over again.” The man's eyes widen, and he drops his gaze. “Sorry, lad.”

Aladdin shrugs. “Anyway, he's an idiot. This so-called Phoenix will end up on the gallows before long, like all the other fools who think they can make a difference in this city.”

Balak laughs and steps aside to let us pass through the little door, then shuts it behind us.

We descend steep, narrow stairs in the dark, the smell of simmon and sweat growing stronger the deeper we get. The passage grows lighter, and the swell of voices reaches our ears. Aladdin pulls the hood of his cloak low over his face.

We step abruptly into a cavernous room packed wall to wall with sweating bodies. Braziers circling the wooden pillars give off acrid smoke that obscures the ceiling. The air is so thick with simmon that it is impossible to see the other end of the room. Aladdin takes my hand so that the press of bodies doesn't pull us apart, and
together we wind our way through the crowd. There are mostly men down here, and a few night women, all of them drunk or clouded by simmon, all of them sweating. With my free hand, I wrap a strip of black silk around my face, covering my mouth and nostrils in an attempt to block out the stench.

“Welcome to the Rings!” Aladdin calls over his shoulder. “Stay close.” Though we are inches apart, it is difficult to hear him over the sudden roar of the crowd. A potbellied man jostles me as he lifts his arms to cheer, and the blast of his odor leaves me gagging.

“For once I think I prefer my lamp,” I mutter.

A harried serving girl, dressed in little more than scraps of fabric that reveal her lithe figure, steps up to ask us what we want to drink. Then she does a double take and peers closer at Aladdin.

“You!” she hisses. “You were banned for life from this place! Ugh, Balak is the most worthless doorman I ever—”

“Quiet, Dal.” He tugs his hood lower. “I'm in disguise. Bring a flagon of the strongest liquid you have, will you?”

She purses her lips. “You have some nerve, thief, asking me for anything.”

Aladdin presses a coin into her hand and gives her a cocky grin. “Oh, come on. We had some good times, didn't we?”

“I'd have a good time breaking this flagon over your head. Who is
she
? I've never seen her around before.” Dal looks me up and down, and I return her gaze coolly.

“She's with me. New to town. I'm showing her around a bit.”

Dal rolls her eyes. “I've heard that line before.” She leans closer to me. “Here's some advice, sister: Don't waste your time on this one. He's more trouble than he's worth.”

“I think I'm starting to get what you mean,” I reply.

“All right, all right,” Aladdin interrupts, frowning. “We came
here for drinks, not girl talk. What's this?” He points to a red ribbon tied around her arm. “I've seen a couple of people wearing them since I got back.”

She puts her hand over it, her eyes flashing. “It's a symbol, says I stand behind the Phoenix, and against injustice. You know they doubled taxes
again
yesterday? If you don't pay, they either throw you in prison or take your property, if not both. They're hanging people just for speaking out against it!”

Aladdin only grunts.

“I'd have thought
you
of all people would want to join up. Remember the plague in the eastern quarter? The guards quarantined it and were prepared to let all those people die? The Phoenix snuck in and gave medicine to all the sick. He saved
hundreds
of people. This is
real
, Aladdin. The Phoenix isn't just another talker, he's . . . well, he's giving us hope. And it's more than we've had since . . .” She gives him a long look, as if about to say more, but then she sighs and just shakes her head.

“Since my parents? You don't have to dance around it, Dal. I know what you're thinking, what all of you are thinking. I don't want to talk about the damn Phoenix anymore,” Aladdin grumbles.

She snorts and turns away, pocketing the coin, then returns in moments with a bottle. “Your friend Xaxos was in here looking for you a few days back. Didn't look too happy.”

Aladdin opens the wine. When he offers it to me I shake my head. “Old Xax?” he says casually. “I've got no business with him.”

“He'd disagree, I think. He said he hired you for a job—I didn't need to ask to know what
that
meant. So you're still up to your old tricks, then?” She shakes her head. “Anyway, he's pretty angry with you. Said you pulled the job, then left town. Guards are hunting for
a thief too. Offering a thousand gold crowns for his head.” She narrows her eyes. “Did you break into the
palace
, Aladdin?”

“A thousand crowns?” Aladdin gives a low whistle. “Nearly makes a man want to turn him
self
in.”

“Of all the stupid things . . .” Her eyes glowering, Dal gives us both a brief, sharp look before going to mop up someone's spilled wine.

Aladdin finds a table near the central ring, where two men the size of bulls are grappling. One, whose neck is easily the size of my waist, is getting the upper hand. He's stripped nearly bare, doused in oil to make him slippery. His head, bald but for a long black tail sprouting from the top, gleams like a boiled egg. His opponent, slightly smaller, is on the defensive, holding up his hands to block the bigger man's blows.

Aladdin watches with disinterest and takes a long swig of wine.

“See that?” He runs his finger over the tabletop, where someone has carved a small symbol.

“It looks like a sewing needle,” I say.

He nods and drinks. His eyes are starting to get foggy from the wine. “Not just
a
needle.
The
Needle. The sign of a rebellion that started up years ago. This is where the leaders of the movement met. Here. At this table.”

He traces the needle with his thumbnail.

“My father was the Tailor,” he tells me. “I mean, he was just
a
tailor at first, but when I was a kid, he started running with these rebels. The king's vizier was press-ganging peasants onto his warships, rowing them to their deaths in a mad attempt to rebuild the Amulen Empire of the past. My father and his friends protested by burning garrisons and guardhouses, stealing weapons, sabotaging
ships.” Aladdin's face darkens. He leans back and pulls the coin from Neruby from his pocket. I hadn't even noticed him pick it up. He flips it idly; on it flashes the face of a king who died so long ago, no one in this world would even know his name. “Eventually he got my mother to join in. Soon people were calling him
the
Tailor, and a reward was offered for his head. His needle became the rebellion's symbol.”

I listen in silence, watching his hands. They're clever hands, his nails neat, his fingers long and nimble. He spins the coin and catches it, over and over, as he talks.

“When I was twelve they caught him. Remember that prince in the desert, Darian? His father, our
exalted
Vizier Sulifer, held me and forced me to watch as my parents' heads were cut from their shoulders. Darian was there. He laughed at me when I began to cry.” Aladdin makes the coin disappear up his sleeve, then takes a long drink of wine. “Afterward, Sulifer made me pick up their heads and hold them so he could drive stakes in them. He let them stand there in the city square for weeks.”

I lean back, my hands in my lap. “Why are you telling me all this?”

He shrugs and sniffs. “You wanted to know why I . . . almost wished for Darian's death.” The wine is nearly gone, as are Aladdin's wits. “Ever since I was young, people thought I'd be the next leader of the rebellion, that I'd rise up and fight. They think
I
should be the one out there breaking people out of prison and stopping bloody plagues. They think I've wasted my life, becoming a thief and a criminal. Well, I've no interest in fighting for lost causes that only get people killed. All I want is to avenge my parents, not start a war we can't win.”

I lift my face. He's staring at me with drunken intensity, his lips
a thin line. “And now,” he goes on, “I find out I don't even have the guts to go through with it. I had Darian right in front of me! And I couldn't even . . . I failed them.”

With a sigh, I pull the half-empty flagon from his fingers, drinking simply so that he cannot. The wine is cheap but strong, burning my throat, though it will have no effect on my senses.

A roar from the ring next to us draws Aladdin's attention. The fight has ended, and the smaller of the two men lies unconscious on the floor in a puddle of sweat and blood. The victor raises his beefy arms and bellows in triumph.