“It’s probably been tried,” Fiza replied. “The Ayaanle always have to overdo it. Back in Qart Sahar, we just go camp out in ruins once a century and scream and bang drums all night. Keeps the humans away for decades.”
“Lovely,” Nahri commented. “You know there’s a human tale about a fisherman who traps a djinn in a bottle and tosses it out to sea? With every day I spend in the magical world, I like that story more.”
They left the creek and kept walking, the forest closing in around them until Ali glanced back and could no longer see the sea. Its loss left him feeling unmoored, like he’d been cut off from a vital link. Ali had not dared use his marid magic since his near miss with a midnight ocean plunge, but he longed for it with a craving he couldn’t explain. Every night since, he’d dreamed of the wondrous Nile path he’d walked with Sobek and the silky voice that had urged him to join with the sea. More than once, he’d woken up pressed against the ship’s railing, reaching for the ocean.
His hand brushed his belt. The place where Muntadhir’s khanjar should have hung was empty. Fiza hadn’t been able to steal it before they’d left, and the thought of his brother’s dagger, the one Muntadhir had put into his hands, in the possession of the filthy slaver made Ali want to drown the whole world.
Stop. Focus on Ta Ntry. Not the marid, not Muntadhir. Ali forced himself to look upon the sun-dappled jungle. His mother’s stories came to mind, the nostalgic tales she told of playing by a creek under banyan trees. In another life, Ali might have grown up here, this land as familiar to him as Daevabad.
“You okay?” Nahri asked.
Ali glanced down in surprise, catching her studying him. “Just pondering our reception,” he muttered, switching to Arabic. “I hope my mother is here.”
“Even if she isn’t, won’t you have your grandfather? Cousins and the like?”
“I’ve never met my grandfather, and last I heard, he hasn’t been well. As for the rest, I’ve kept my mother’s family at a distance. To come to them for help now, as a prince on the run …” Ali fingered the torn, stained tunic he was wearing, loaned from one of the crew. “It feels deceptive and humiliating.”
Nahri reached out to squeeze his hand, and the press of her fingers made him warm all over. “I believe deceptive and humiliating are the norm for our families. Besides, you’re arriving with a bunch of shafit pirates and a scheming Banu Nahida. You’ll be the most welcome face in the bunch.”
Ali started to smile, but then movement between the trees caught his eye—the glimmer of metal, not anything natural.
He pulled his hand from Nahri’s, edging between her and their unseen arrival. “Fiza,” he called in a low voice. “We have company.”
The pirate immediately halted, reaching for the pistol Ali had been unable to convince her to leave back at the ship.
“Touch the gun and die,” a man, still hidden, warned in Ntaran-accented Djinnistani. “Drop your weapons, all of you.”
Ali paused. Dressed in borrowed clothes, his hair and beard overgrown, he knew he looked more pirate than prince, but there would be no hiding his identity once he drew his zulfiqar.
“We come in peace,” he greeted the man, saying the Ntaran words as clearly as he could and praying his accent wasn’t too childish. “We’re here to see Queen Hatset.”
“The queen has little time for the scum raiding our coasts and even less for those who can’t follow orders. Your weapons. Now.”
Fiza muttered something in Sahrayn that Ali suspected was a return insult, but the man’s warning had filled him with relief. His mother was here.
So Ali drew his zulfiqar, letting the sun glint on the copper blade before laying it on the ground, then motioning for Fiza and her men to follow suit. “I guarantee you she’ll want to see us.”
Ali’s hand had barely left the hilt when an Ayaanle warrior emerged from the trees as though stepping through a slit in the air. His golden gaze went wide as it traced Ali from his zulfiqar to his gray eyes to Suleiman’s mark on his cheek. He looked at Nahri, and he swore, calling back to the trees.
“It’s the prince,” he declared. “And if I’m not mistaken, the Nahid girl.”
His words were followed by three more Ayaanle warriors stepping out from the forest in unison. Each was taller than the next, dressed in softly shimmering cloth rippling with the exact colors of the greenery around them. They were ridiculously well armed, with throwing knives and sickle-swords, crossbows and slender axes.
Fiza made a small sound between appreciation and alarm. “Well, if they don’t kill us, maybe a couple will join my crew.”
One of the warriors stepped closer, a woman—no less muscled than the men and wearing even more knives. “They could be imposters,” she suggested. “Spies or assassins sent by Manizheh and her Afshin.”
“I can probably tell if the prince is an imposter.”
The voice was familiar, coming from behind them, and Ali spun to face the man who emerged from the trees.
“Musa?” He gaped, recognizing the distant cousin he’d met in Am Gezira—the one who’d played a part in his sister’s scheme to return Ali to Daevabad. His cousin was armed far more lightly than the soldiers, his sickle-sword looking more like an accessory.
“Ah, you remember me. I should hope so, considering the fighters you sent from your village chased me all the way to the Sea of Reeds.”
“You sabotaged our well. You’re lucky they didn’t drag you back and force you to eat the salt you dumped upon us.”
Musa smirked. “Oh, good, you’re just as charming as I remember.” He glanced at the soldiers. “You can lower your weapons. This is definitely my
