Traitor to the Throne (Rebel of the Sands, #2)(35)

‘Don’t—’ he started, drawing the guard’s attention. I saw my opening.

Make the first hit count.

I slammed my head forward. My skull connected with his, sending a crack of pain through my head. ‘Son of a bitch!’ I cursed, as the soldier stumbled back, clutching his forehead. I rolled off the table and made for the door. But I was too slow – the soldier was already grabbing the front of my khalat, raising his fist, angling for my face. I turned away like Shazad had taught me, aiming to catch the fist with my shoulder.

The blow never came.

Weighty silence fell over the room.

I looked up. A man was holding back the soldier’s fist. For a sliver of a second I thought it was Ahmed. Sunlight still danced blearily across my vision after days in darkness, edging his profile with gold. Dark hair with the hint of a curl in it fell over a proud desert-dark brow. Sharp, determined dark eyes smudged with a sleepless night. Only his mouth was different. Set in a steady, sure line, it didn’t wear the soft uncertain question that sometimes hovered on Ahmed’s.

But he was cast from the same mould. Or rather, Ahmed was cast from the mould of this man. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Sons tended to take after their fathers.

‘You should know when you have been bested, soldier,’ the Sultan said, keeping hold of his fist.

The soldier’s hand unwound itself from the front of my shirt quickly. I pulled back, out of reach. And just like that, all of the Sultan’s attention turned on me.

I’d never figured the Sultan would look so much like my prince. I’d imagined him like every faded colour drawing in the storybooks about cruel rulers who were overturned by clever heroes. Fat and old and greedy, and dressed in clothes that cost enough coin to feed a family for a year. I ought to have known better. If I’d learned anything from being the Blue-Eyed Bandit, it was that stories and the truth were rarely the same thing.

The Sultan had been the same age Ahmed was now when he took the throne. Ahmed and Jin were both born barely a year into his rule. I was decent enough at arithmetic to know that meant the man in front of me now hadn’t seen four decades yet.

‘You’ve brought me a fighter.’ He wasn’t speaking to me. I noticed a fourth figure, hovering in the door. My aunt. Anger flooded out all my common sense. I moved again, lunging at her on instinct. I knew I wouldn’t make it far, but the Sultan caught me before I’d gotten a step, hands on my shoulders. ‘Stop,’ he ordered. ‘You’ll do yourself more harm than you will to her.’ He was right. The sudden motion had made my head light. My strength was draining out of me, even if the will to fight wasn’t. I sagged in his grip.

‘Good,’ the Sultan praised me gently, like I was an animal who’d done a trick. ‘Now let’s take a look at you.’ He reached for my face. I recoiled on instinct, but I had nowhere to go. I’d been here before – on a dark night in Dustwalk and with Commander Naguib, another son of the Sultan’s. I’d had the bruises he gave me across my cheek for weeks.

But the Sultan cupped my chin gently. He’d been a fighter when he’d taken the throne. They said he’d killed half his brothers that day himself. Two decades didn’t seem to have made him any weaker. His fingers were calloused from use. For hunting. For war. For killing Ahmed and Delila’s mother. But they were terribly gentle peeling my matted hair away from my face so he could see me clearer.

‘Blue eyes,’ he said, without taking his hands away. ‘Unusual for a Mirajin girl.’

My heart caught in my chest. What had my aunt and Tamid told him? That I’d come from the Rebellion? Would he believe them? Had the stories of the Blue-Eyed Bandit reached as high as the Sultan? ‘Your aunt has told me all about you, Amani.’

‘She’s a liar.’ It spilled out, fast and angry. ‘Whatever she’s told you, she can’t be trusted.’

‘So you’re saying you’re not a Demdji, as she claims? Or are you just accusing her of being faithless to her own flesh and blood?’

‘Don’t bother, Amani,’ my aunt interjected. ‘You might have everyone else in Dustwalk fooled, but your mother confided in me.’ I understood the heavy look she was giving me over the Sultan’s shoulder. She’d told him we’d come straight from Dustwalk. She was a liar. Not on my account, but she’d lied all the same. She hadn’t told him about the Rebellion. And she was warning me with those veiled words. It would be bad for both of us if the Sultan found out where I’d really come from. He’d have questions for her, no doubt. Besides, I was valuable as a Demdji, not as a rebel.

‘She wouldn’t be the first, you know,’ the Sultan said to me. ‘To bring me a false Demdji. I’ve already had plenty of fathers and mothers travel from little towns at the end of my country just like yours, bringing me daughters with their hair dipped in saffron to make it look yellow, or their skin painted blue, thinking I would not know the difference.’

He ran his hand across my cheekbone. There was a wound there; I could feel the dull throb of it under his thumb. I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten it. His eyes travelled between me and my aunt. ‘You despise this woman. And I don’t blame you. Do you go to prayers?’ I kept my eyes on him, although I could feel Tamid watching me, tucked against the wall, like he could become part of it. Last time I’d truly attended prayers had been in Dustwalk and he’d been beside me, trying to make me be quiet as I shifted restlessly. ‘The Holy Books tell us worse than traitors are those who betray their own flesh and blood. Aunts who sell their nieces. Sons who rebel against their fathers.’ I tensed. ‘So, I will strike a deal with you. The same one I have struck with all the false Demdji who’ve come before you. If you can tell me that you are not the daughter of a Djinni, I will release you, with as much gold as you can carry, and your aunt will be punished in a way of your choosing. If you need any inspiration, the girl whose father dyed her skin chose to have him strung up by his toes until all his blood rushed into his brain and killed him.’ He tapped my cheek, like we were sharing a joke. ‘All you have to do is say six little words: I am not a Djinni’s daughter, and you can have your freedom. Or stay silent and your aunt will walk away with all that gold.’