We Hunt the Flame (Sands of Arawiya #1)(22)

“It’s bad manners to stare at a woman when you’re with a man,” Altair drawled.

Nasir gave him a disgusted look. “Whoever told you that is—”

“I made it up myself, actually,” he said.

Nasir saw the flash of something cream-colored pass between the girl and the soldier. The scrap of papyrus.

“Don’t be nosy, Prince.”

Nasir scoffed and looked again, but only the soldier stood there now, staring back at him with cool indifference. Was he part of the contingent tasked with gassing Demenhur? Nasir didn’t know.

“Anything I do is for the good of our kingdom,” Altair went on. “Isn’t that what our duty dictates? There has to be some reason why you skulk around killing innocent people.” He poured a stream of the dark coffee into his cup, out of place in the tent full of drink and rowdy men. He caught Nasir watching his cup. “I’d think you of all people would have noticed me to be above this human tendency to muddle the mind.”

Nasir was half safin, and not even he referred to himself as anything other than human. Altair was right, though. Nasir had noticed the startling clarity in his gaze whenever he returned from his nights out. He simply hadn’t expected the man to drink bitter coffee at a tavern.

“Where were we? Ah yes, the mission.” Altair stretched his legs to either side of the table, not bothering to lower his voice.

Nasir opened his mouth to ask about the girl and the papyrus, but the Sarasin soldier had disappeared.

“I’m surprised your bleeding father didn’t tell you yet. Him and his grand plans.”

Nasir held still. Altair never spoke ill of the sultan.

“The Silver Witch has sent out an invitation. Irresistible. Tailored,” Altair began, downing a cup of qahwa. It was always a rueful day when the sultan took counsel from the Silver Witch. She was familiar around Sultan’s Keep, but Nasir kept his distance from the fair woman who always watched him too closely. “A glamorous way to get something from Sharr—”

“Sharr?” Nasir repeated before he could stop himself. The island of—kharra. Every thought in his mind scattered like sand in a gust of wind.

“Don’t interrupt.” Altair scowled. “Whatever this thing is, it will supposedly restore magic to Arawiya’s minarets. And you’re a big part of the plan.”

“Me. And this prize is—” Nasir broke off as someone kicked him, but when he flicked his gaze up, the degenerate had already swayed past. Another dry breeze slipped into the tent, ruffling Nasir’s hair and stirring the cacophony of odors.

“I don’t know what it is except that the Silver Witch is behind it and only the pure of heart can find it.”

“Right. And that means I have to go?” Nasir mocked.

A brawl started not three tables from them, between a mouthy Zaramese and a massive man with streaks of sweat staining his qamis. Nasir rubbed his temples as grunts and crashes and swears rose in the already unbearable din.

“Did you have a moment, thinking you were pure of heart?” Altair said, unperturbed. “Ghameq doesn’t trust the Silver Witch—for reasons I can’t fathom. Your job is to kill the person who finds the prize and bring whatever it is back to your father.”

Ah. Now that was a task befitting Nasir.

“See? As much as he hates you, you’re the only one Ghameq trusts,” Altair explained.

But Ghameq didn’t trust anyone. Not even his own son, let alone the witch he sought counsel from.

Altair croaked a mirthless laugh, coming to the same conclusion. “Laa, that’s not it. You’re simply the only one he can force and the only one who won’t break while doing his bidding.”

The words were a slap. An accusation Nasir had grown accustomed to, but not the overwhelming sense of cowardice that came with it. He snapped his gaze to the general with a clench of his jaw. Self-pity could wait.

“And I fear whatever you’ll retrieve will be the last thing he needs,” Altair concluded.

For what? Nasir almost asked.

But trepidation crossed Altair’s proud features and wavered at his proud mouth. Emotion that Altair, in his collected mind, would never betray.

Something worse than Nasir could imagine was at work.

On the daama island of Sharr, no less.





CHAPTER 7


Zafira’s umm always knew her daughter didn’t fear the Arz the way other children did. She would usher her to bed with whispers of the Sultana’s Guard instead, and Zafira would dream of them chasing after her with their silver hoods and stern faces. Umm was no storyspinner like Baba was, but mothers were always good at spinning fears.

Now the sultana was dead, and Zafira glimpsed a different kind of silver in every slant of shadow.

The letter, and the silver-cloaked woman.

She lay in bed, her skin sore from the tight fit of that infernal dress she had worn at the wedding, just hours before. Yasmine was one house away, as always, but her friend felt somewhere far off and unreachable. You’re selfish, that’s all.

She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them with a groan, clearing her head of Yasmine and Misk. And Deen, carrying his bulky satchel as he disappeared down the street with a bittersweet smile, off to stay with a friend for the next few nights until Yasmine moved to Misk’s house.