It was like a curtain dropping at a show, a sea of people descending to their knees as we stayed standing. And then we moved together, Hala tipping her head back and dropping her hood even as I pulled out the knife and placed it at her collarbone. Then I let out a long whistle. Around us, all the heads that had dropped, ready for prayers, shot back up. Attendants dotted around glanced our way, ready to move to stop the disturbance. Even the Holy Father looked up, brow furrowed in annoyance. But his expression quickly changed as he caught sight of us.
No one looking at us would see two Demdji. Instead, they would see Princess Leyla with the Blue-Eyed Bandit holding a knife to her throat, though none of them would know exactly how they recognised the pair. Princess Leyla had never been seen by most of the people of Izman. And there were so many stories of the Blue-Eyed Bandit swirling around that no one was sure whether I was a girl, a man or a legend. But Hala would slip into every single one of their minds, and they would all be perfectly sure of who we were.
‘Your Highness,’ I called over the cacophony of whispers. The prince at the front in his elaborately stitched robes looked our way.
I didn’t know the name of this particular prince, who was now staring at us with guileless eyes. It didn’t much matter. There were hundreds of princes. According to Leyla, the youngest princes had been sent to safety, stored away somewhere, until the storm passed and they could be brought home. And then the Sultan could mould one of them into the heir he really wanted. One who wouldn’t disappoint him like Kadir had. Who wouldn’t rebel like Ahmed had. Who wouldn’t resent him like Rahim still did. But in the meantime, the other sons were being used. I wondered if they knew it that no matter what they did they wouldn’t be chosen as heirs.
‘I believe your father wants this back.’ I pressed the knife firmer against Hala’s throat. The young prince winced, thinking it was his sister whimpering under my blade. ‘Now, here’s what I want. Give us back Fariha Al-Ilham, the girl he currently has imprisoned in the palace. And I want her alive. Do you reckon you can get that message to your father before the sun rises?’ The young prince looked bewildered. He definitely didn’t take after his father with brains like that. ‘That means you’d better run.’
The boy took off like a hare who’d just spotted a hawk, dashing the short distance back to the palace to fetch his father and hopefully a still-living Fariha. As he disappeared, I addressed the crowd kneeling around us, turning to face them, still holding Hala. ‘The rest of you ought to get out of here if you don’t want to get caught up in this.’ My voice echoed around the high dome of the prayer house like the words of the Holy Father did when he stood here, making them sound like they were sent from a greater power.
No one moved right away, staying kneeling all around me. Staring up, at me. Drinking in my words.
‘Now,’ I barked. And they obeyed, scrambling to their feet, almost creating a stampede in their rush to get out of the line of fire. It didn’t matter what happened from here on. Or what the truth of matters was. The men and women now rushing out would tell the story of what they had seen: the Blue-Eyed Bandit returning the Sultan’s daughter. There would be no convincing the city that it hadn’t been real. Belief was a foreign language to logic. Jin had told me that long ago. And I was counting on him being right – that if the city really believed that the Sultan had his daughter back, it would be enough to stop the executions. The Sultan would have no more justification for them in the eyes of his people.
I turned my attention now towards the attendants and the Holy Father, still lingering, uncertain of what they should do. ‘“The rest of you” means everyone,’ I ordered. They almost tripped over themselves, gathering the Holy Father’s heavy robes around him, bundling him hastily out as they gratefully fled. The great golden door that led on to the square closed behind them, leaving us alone in the cavernous prayer house.
I let the knife fall away from Hala’s throat now we didn’t have an audience. I turned my attention to the ground. The riot of colours in the tiles was chaos as they spilled down from the walls. But slowly they converged and coalesced into order as they swept into the dead centre of the floor, where a huge golden sun painted into the tiles aligned perfectly with the dome above. I started counting from the centre of the sun. Five tiles towards the dais and six to the right. Hala and I moved without speaking, in careful steps, checking our path like our lives depended on it. Which they did, really.
‘It’s this one, genius.’ Hala pointed, finding the right tile a fraction of a second before I did. ‘Don’t they teach you to count at the dead end of the desert?’
‘Sometimes you have to do it on your hands,’ I deadpanned. ‘Four fingers plus one thumb makes this fist that I’m real tempted to knock you out with. How’s that?’ We took up our position carefully, making sure we were standing exactly where we were meant to on the tile.
The small side door swung open just as I settled my knife against Hala’s throat again. It led directly from the palace to the great prayer house, a passage so the Sultan and princes could attend prayers without having to pass among their people. And sure enough, the Sultan appeared through it, trailing four Abdals behind him. One of them was holding a young crying girl: Fariha.
I had to remind myself that she was not Rima or Ghada or Naima. They were hanging from the palace walls. I had failed them. But Fariha could still be saved. And a hundred other girls in this city could, too. Girls whose names I would never know, so long as we saved one last girl whose name I did.
‘Amani.’ The Sultan greeted me with a slow, luxuriant smile. I hated that voice. I hated that even now it made me want to straighten my spine and lean in to hear what he would say to me.
He’d shown me a whole lot of faces before. The benevolent arbitrator at his petitioners’ court, the concerned father, the man with the heavy weight of a whole country on his shoulders across from me at dinner. But all those masks had been discarded now. Here in front of me, the Sultan looked like what he honestly was: a ruler descended from hundreds of legendary rulers before him who had fought and clawed for that throne. And grabbed it. And then held it. He was the blood of Imtiyaz the Blessed; Mubin, the victor against the Red-Eyed Conqueror; Fihr, who built the city of Izman from the dust.
And I was just a discarded Djinni’s daughter from a dead-end desert town who was scraping tricks from the bottom of the barrel. I heard it again, that voice at the back of my head, getting louder every day that the eyes of the Rebellion turned to me for orders I didn’t want to give. And answers I didn’t have. Who did I think I was to face this man, the descendant of conquerors and legends?
‘And who’s this?’ The Sultan’s eyes skated to Hala, who was still holding the illusion of looking like Leyla in everyone’s minds. Though not doing a good enough job of it to fool the princess’s father. I hadn’t counted on it fooling him. It didn’t need to. It was enough that it had tricked the people.
‘Does it matter?’ I dropped the knife and the pretence, although Hala didn’t discard the illusion right away, still wearing Leyla’s face. ‘Everyone thinks I walked in here with your daughter. And now I reckon it would be a good idea for you if they saw Fariha walk out. Or else some folks are bound to wonder why their Sultan doesn’t seem to be a man of his word now he’s got his daughter back.’
I hated the slow, wry smile that spread over his face, the one Jin had inherited from him. I hated that as I saw it, I realised I had wanted it. That some part of me had wanted to impress him by pulling off this trick. I had cared that he understood that I knew he was toying with us by killing those girls. Some part of me even wanted praise for playing my own game right back.