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“Are you always this insufferable?” she fumed, straightening her scarf.
“He’s twice as bad when hungry,” Altair offered.
Zafira bit back a snarl. They were both insufferable children. With death counts.
CHAPTER 36
Murder burned in the Huntress’s gaze, but she turned and continued with graceful prowess, allowing Nasir to breathe. It was proving difficult to think when she looked at him.
Laa, more of him decided to think.
She was right to be confused. The sultan had sent him and Altair because he didn’t trust the Silver Witch, but then the witch herself had turned and aided them. Not only with the Arz and the ship, but with the compass in his pocket. Those parting words.
He was missing something. Something important.
When they left the confines of the minaret, the Huntress rounded the tower and slipped past the ruined quarters surrounding it. Her movements were always precise, calculated without calculations. Her entire form knew where to move before she did, and she waded the sands as if she had lived her entire life within them.
“If you stare too hard, she might disappear,” Altair mock-whispered in his ear.
“If you talk too much, you might disappear, too,” Nasir retorted, pleased with how quickly he thought of that one, and he left Altair behind to catch up to her.
She pursed her lips when he neared, and he didn’t know why he opened his mouth.
“Being an eminent killer doesn’t make me the only one.”
“You’re the worst there is,” she said with a wheeze.
Nasir felt the sting of something he didn’t welcome.
“You killed Deen.”
He didn’t deny it. Intentions are akin to action.
“You led those Sarasins to their deaths,” he countered. Surprise widened her eyes. “Not even one week past.”
“That was an act of defense, not deliberation.” Ah, there it is. The fissure he expected, the break in her voice before she collected herself. “I don’t go murdering people on a whim.”
“Neither do I. Hashashins don’t uphold the brutality of murder. We are poets of the kill, working from the shadows. A mark rarely knows his fate until he falls.” There had once been respect in the hashashin’s creed. A level of esteem.
Unlike the Zaramese, who reveled in torture and torment. In their caliphate, they hosted tournaments where contestants were pitted in an arena, the crowds full of cheering people, even young children.
Still, he supposed he deserved the disgust she directed at him and the detest in her voice when she said, “No. Death is death, Sultani.”
Never had he loathed princedom more.
“Do you hear that?” Altair called before the wind rose to a sudden howl.
Sand whipped across Nasir’s vision, and he rewrapped his turban cowl-like around his neck and head. He would have thought it odd that a storm had appeared without warning, but this was Sharr. And then, through the rain of umber, he saw them.
Five silhouettes prowled with the calculation of men. Nasir squinted. No, worse than men—gold rings glinted from their elongated ears. Safin.
“What happened to their shirts?” the Huntress asked, shrinking back.
“They aren’t wearing any,” Altair explained candidly.
“I can see that,” she sputtered, and threw Nasir a sharp glance when he drew his sword. “What are you doing? They’re human.”
“Safin,” Nasir corrected with a cant of his head. “And I can assure you, they are not the friendly type.”
