The Forbidden Wish(13)

“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.”