Rebel of the Sands (Rebel of the Sands, #1)(51)

He put his marked hand on Delila’s shoulder, leading her out as he leaned in conspiratorially, speaking in her ear. He said something that made her laugh through her worry. I wished I knew what. I could use some words that would unknot the worry in my gut. If I’d dragged Jin halfway across the desert to die, I was going to kill him.

“What happened to him?” Prince Ahmed’s accent was neater than mine, but softer than Commander Naguib’s. Naguib. He was the Sultan’s son, too. He was Jin’s brother just as much as Prince Ahmed was.

Jin had pointed his gun at Naguib’s face and hadn’t pulled the trigger. It was a sin to kill your own blood.

“Is there anyone else related to Jin I ought to know about before answering that?” If ever there was a time to watch my smart mouth. It wasn’t even them I was angry at.

But Shazad snorted a laugh. An unpolished, undignified laugh that didn’t match the rest of her, and that didn’t seem to be at me either. “Not that we’re aware of. But you can never be sure with the Sultan and his women.”

But Ahmed caught the edge in my words. “You didn’t know he was my brother.” It wasn’t a question.

“I didn't even know he was part of the rebellion.” Humiliation burned inside me. Ahmed and Shazad were both looking at me, waiting for me to say something that might explain why anyone would drag someone she didn’t even know through the desert. I wasn’t sure how to explain how the two of us got so tangled up.

“Jin blew up a factory.” That seemed like the right place to start, only it wasn’t, really. “That was after we burned down a building,” I added. “But that was sort of an accident.” Shazad’s face lit up with a smile. Like she’d just decided something about me and liked it. Then it all came tumbling out.

Shazad’s smile faded as I got to Dassama, but she didn’t interrupt as I rushed through the past few days. Fahali. Our escape. The Nightmares.

“We need to plan.” By the time I finished, Shazad was tapping the map that was spread out in front of the prince, pinpointing Fahali. “The Gallan and the Sultan are getting closer. And now they’re looking for us—with a weapon that can wipe out whole cities.” She turned to me. “What kind of range do you think this thing has?”

“Not enough to blast the whole canyon.” I looked at the jagged line of ink across the paper that showed the hugeness of the Dev’s Valley. Shazad’s finger rested on Fahali. There was a tiny x scratched at the other edge of her finger, marking the rebel camp. Less than a finger’s width apart didn’t seem far enough to be safe to me. “Enough that they don’t need to be precise. Or get through your magic door.” I hesitated. “And the thing is, there wasn’t a single bit of shrapnel in Dassama.”

“What does that mean?” Ahmed asked, looking down at the map. Surveying the country he’d already won once and was fighting for all over again.

“No shrapnel means it’s not a single-use bomb,” Shazad said, catching on quicker than the prince. “This is something new. Something they can use over and over again.”

“Which means they don’t have to know exactly where we are, because they don’t need to get us on the first try.” A look of perfect understanding passed between Ahmed and Shazad and right over me.

“We need Imin,” Ahmed said.

The girl who followed Shazad back into the tent moments later seemed completely unremarkable. She looked so average that it was hard to pick out anything to notice about her at all. Except that she had yellow eyes.

“We need a spy,” Ahmed said to the girl, Imin. “We need you to infiltrate the Gallan army in Fahali and send word if they get too close to us.”

“Fine.” The girl shrugged sullenly. Even as she did her face started shifting. Her lips narrowed, her skin paled, her shoulders widened, and her chest flatted. In a few blinks she was someone else entirely. A man with a whole new face. A Gallan face.

The only things that didn’t change were her—his—pale yellow eyes and her clothes. I thought of the red haired girl in Fahali, right before she got shot.

“I don’t like it.” Shazad surveyed their spy. “Your eyes . . .” Imin rolled them expressively at Shazad. “We ought to send Delila.”

“No.” Ahmed shook his head. “An illusion is too risky. Sending a Demdji into a Gallan camp is like sending a lamb into the lion’s den as it is. Illusions slip; shape-shifting doesn’t.”

“At least Delila can hide her mark,” Shazad muttered.

“It has to be Imin.” Ahmed’s tone didn’t leave room to argue.

Finally Shazad conceded with a nod. “There’s a dead ghoul in the canyon in Gallan uniform. Help yourself. You’re to report back by Shihabian.” She turned to go, nodding at me to follow. “And try not to get killed.”





eighteen


I followed Shazad out of the pavilion, blinded again by the golden light and bright colors. “How did she do that?” I asked as I caught up with her, glancing back at Imin. “Is she . . . That’s not a Skinwalker, is it?”

“No, amazingly we don’t all want to be murdered in our sleep. Imin is a Demdji, like Delila,” Shazad said, as if that were an answer. She tossed open the flap to a tent that was smaller than the prince’s but tall enough to stand in. It was organized with exacting precision: a neatly made bed, a stack of books, a trunk, and a line of weapons on the ground. Shazad flung open the trunk. “Here.” She pulled out a plain white shirt and a brown shalvar. “These ought to fit you. You’re covered in blood.”