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“How do you know we have the right timing?”
He straightened the knives along his belt. “That’s why I said ‘should.’”
Zafira cast him a look as a rumbling filled the air. With a wink, Nasir pulled her deeper into the shadows.
Three carts clattered down the stone road and halted before the black gates. The guards lazily sheathed their swords and strolled to them. Those locks could undo themselves quicker than the dastards were working them. The cart drivers echoed Zafira’s impatience, noisily rifling through sheaves of papyrus, ready for their coin.
Nasir nudged her down the thin line of cover to the last cart, and Zafira didn’t breathe as they darted across the road in broad daylight—Sarasin’s definition of it, gray and murky. All the driver needed to do was glance behind him. All the guards needed to do was look a little farther down the road.
She sent Nasir a look of alarm that he studiously ignored as he loosened the rope holding down the cart’s covering. While Zafira stared at the back of the driver’s head, Nasir peeled up the burlap and gestured for her to climb inside. She kept her footing light and winced as she slid between the sacks of flour and nestled into the far corner. The head of a nail dug into her shoulder, just above her wound. The horse shuffled, and the cart rocked with it. Skies, this was nowhere near a foolproof plan. She’d be safer if she tore open a bag of flour and doused herself in it.
Nasir pursed his lips, clearly thinking the same, but there wasn’t time. The guards would turn toward the second cart soon enough. They’d be seen in a heartbeat. He gripped the edge of the cart to heft himself up and follow her inside—and froze.
The guards were drifting their way.
Khara. Voices rose. Someone shouted—one of the cart drivers, arguing over his payment. Zafira heard next to nothing over her pounding pulse.
I like the sound of your heart.
She did not like this newfound fear, the way it paralyzed her senses and slowed her blood. The Jawarat, which thrived on chaos, had no tumultuous words of advice. Nasir met her eyes, panic flitting across the gray.
And then everything went dark as he dropped the burlap over her and the cart began to move.
CHAPTER 85
As they journeyed for Sultan’s Keep, Altair saw the results of his actions throughout the decades. The villages he had destroyed in Demenhur. The shops he had burned to soot in Sarasin. He had sacrificed much to garner the sultan’s favor. If only he had known it was his daama father he was slaving for.
“At last,” Kifah shouted as they raced across the final stretch of Sarasin’s darkness, the morning light of Sultan’s Keep brightening with each heave of their horses.
Arawiyans waded the sandy streets and loitered in the shadows. Date palms swayed in the idle breeze as children ran around their thick trunks. Women hoisted baskets of clothes and fruit, and merchants carted wares. To them, the new king was not an affliction; he was no calamity.
Not yet.
Altair noted the sun’s position. By now, the imposter of a caliph should be lying in a pool of his own black blood.
There was a time when he envied hashashins. He’d seen Nasir meander through a crowd and casually perch atop a roof before his marks fell one after the other. There was grace to a hashashin’s movements, but an extra level of it when it came to the prince.
It was strange, how differently they viewed death. Nasir saw the many pieces that made one person. Altair saw the many people that made a contingent, and it was a contrast he could appreciate.
His palms slickened with anticipation. “Do you remember the way?”
“You didn’t even see Aya’s house,” Kifah said, casting him a look. “What if I take you to a morgue?”
“Always so morbid,” he said. “The house belongs to me.”
“I didn’t know it was your house.”
“Akhh, One of Nine. There is much about me you’ve yet to uncover,” Altair crowed. “I can recount every room, and every bed, and every time—”
Kifah cleared her throat. “You know, I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
The streets were tame, people going about as if nothing were amiss, swarming stalls of fresh vegetables and fruits, and even if the city had been as dark as Sarasin, the smell of baked goods would have been a clear enough indicator that it was just after dawn.
Altair paid a boy for a fold of pita lathered with labneh, passing half to Kifah.
“You don’t seem anxious,” Kifah said.
He cut his gaze to her. “I thought we already had this discussion.”
