8 - Rohan
R ohan tamped down his relief as best he could when Jafar told him to stand guard instead of following him to the tiger’s cage. He leaned back against one of the date palms, and when the leaves rustled with an errant desert breeze, he thought they were speaking to him.
Gaze to the oasis, Rohan.
Jafar said the phrase to him often, when panic was scrambling up Rohan’s throat and threatening to drown him. The words calmed him, slowly bringing him back to the present.
As the studded front door swung open, he saw Iago’s red plumage disappear from view and a maid’s head poke out. Seconds later, from the side of the house, he heard the telltale screech of the tiger’s cage swinging open. He hadn’t thought he’d be able to hear the sound all the way here and wondered if he should be fearing for his life just now.
He peered through the trees, catching a glimpse inside one of the windows to a lavishly furnished majlis. The plush, legless sofa beckoned with jewel-toned cushions, and after a night of sleeping on the stone floor of a storeroom, he was almost willing to leap through the window and curl up on it.
No. Jafar was risking his life for them, for something Rohan wanted. And quickly—when Jafar had a goal in mind, he moved without hesitation and with precision. Still, despite all of Jafar’s reasoning, these trickster ways bothered Rohan. He didn’t want Jafar following in Baba’s footsteps, behaving in accordance with the conniving merchants abundant across the desert.
He caught a glimpse of someone running, the figure appearing and disappearing through the windows. Someone was sounding the alarm. A short yelp made its way to Rohan’s ears, followed by a feline yowl. Trepidation began creeping up his veins.
Then he heard the front door slam shut, and Iago swooped back down toward the ledge.
Rohan supposed that was Jafar’s signal. Maybe. It didn’t matter. He didn’t plan on being a tiger’s snack. He whirled and ran back for the ledge, which was almost invisible amidst the houses and sand dunes spreading out before him except for the red speck where Iago was already waiting.
Rohan dropped beside him, panting and panicked, trying not to feel bad about the mess the tiger was inevitably creating in the caliph’s house.
“You’re dreadfully out of breath for someone who ran downhill,” Iago snarked, hopping on Rohan’s bent-over back.
Rohan was hot and sweaty and agitated, and Iago’s words and talons stabbing needles into his spine weren’t helping. “Keep at it, and I’ll—I’ll—”
“Oh? You’ll what?” Iago taunted. “You can barely stand on your own two feet, and I don’t mean that literally.”
Rohan knew exactly what he meant. “I’ll kill you.”
He couldn’t fully control what jumped out of his mouth sometimes.
“Those are some real bold words to say right after your father died in a mysterious fire,” Iago said ominously.
Rohan froze and then desperately tried to unfreeze so that Iago wouldn’t feel the muscles in his back tense. How did Iago know of Rohan’s terrible deed? Rohan thought back to a time several years ago when he’d bribed a servant boy to keep quiet about the pony who had died of a fever brought on by Rohan’s lack of care. What kind of bribe would Iago require?
Before Rohan could craft a response, Jafar materialized beside him, not a hair out of place. He hadn’t even broken a sweat.
“Everything all right over here?” Jafar asked, narrowing his eyes. He had a cloak slung over his arm. “I expected a little more excitement due to the fact that I was not eaten by the tiger.”
“Just making conversation,” Iago said cavalierly, hopping off and squinting at the cloak. “Glad you weren’t eaten alive. Are we off to phase two now?”
The fact that Iago could switch emotions so quickly was not lost on Rohan. He eyed the parrot but said nothing, following Jafar as he took the lead. Rohan decided then and there that he hated Iago. He hated that the parrot had survived the fire, and he hated that he’d ever bought it in the first place.
“Yes,” Jafar said, and began walking down the ledge as the alarmed shouts of the caliph’s staff carried on behind them.
“And what’s phase two?” Iago asked, flapping along beside Jafar.
“Impersonating the caliph,” Jafar answered, detouring through an alley to avoid the hubbub of the bazaar. Rohan hated how cheerful the people seemed, how no one seemed to be mourning Baba.
“Hey!” Iago protested. “You said no imitating! No confuddling!”
Jafar nodded. “During phase one. For phase two, we’ll be getting aboard that caravan by impersonating the caliph.”
Iago harrumphed. “Which means you two would fail without me.”
“Which means you two would fail without me,” Rohan mimicked in exactly the same cadence and tone.
Iago’s wings stopped working for a beat, sending him plummeting. As Jafar laughed, the bird righted himself and gaped at Rohan in surprise.
“Exactly, parrot,” Rohan said, finding himself growing more and more bitter with every passing second.
They passed through an empty plaza, where a water fountain gurgled forlornly, the stone crumbling, the few decorative tiles dull and chipped. Baba had been trying to change that. To improve their tiny village.
“This way,” Jafar said, squeezing into a gap between two large buildings to a clearing where people had gathered, camels idling and cart coverings flapping. The caravan. Rohan, Jafar, and Iago ducked behind the cover of a few overgrown shrubs.
“We don’t need you at all,” Rohan added. “I have more abilities than you can dream of.”
“Ability,” Jafar said, correcting him. He turned and readjusted Rohan’s keffiyeh, tightening it against his protest. “Not plural. And the ability to mimic someone is hardly uncanny. That goes for both of you.”
Voices stirred with the breeze. The camels grunted, stomping their feet, their backs piled high with parcels and packages or fitted with little tents over cushioned seats. One of them spat and another snorted. Most of the travelers were already settled. Some clutched bags, others held children tight. Rohan spotted someone with a goat, and another with a bird in a cage.
“We should get Iago one of those,” Rohan said, gesturing to the cage.
“Focus,” Jafar said, draping the caliph’s cloak over Rohan’s shoulders. “Ready?”
The cloak stank of old closets and tickled his nose, but he held back a sneeze.
“Ready,” Rohan said, and marched toward the caravan leader while Jafar and Iago remained at a distance.
The leader held up a hand. “Passage isn’t open to all.”
Rohan was melting under this thing, and the sooner he was out of it, the sooner he would stop wanting to lie down in the sand and drown in his own sweat.
The camel train was more lavish than most that traveled through their village, the animals draped in jewel tones and beaded reins.
“I should”—Rohan paused to make his voice a tad more gummy, waiting for the rumble of a fruit cart to get closer and help his facade—“hope not.”
The caravan leader stiffened. “Caliph Cassim! Oh, I—I did not know it was you! You’ve lost weight, my friend.” He bowed and gestured to the nearest camel. “Please! Have your servant let you atop my finest.”
Servant? Rohan followed the man’s gaze to…Jafar, who looked more dejected than a monkey who’d just had his banana stolen. Oh. Even with the sorrow and grief weighing heavier than this cloak, Rohan had to bite back a laugh.
“You heard him!” Rohan called.
Jafar’s glare was priceless, but he didn’t waste any time. Though they’d caused enough of a ruckus in the real Caliph Cassim’s house, they could not risk the caliph’s showing up regardless. Jafar bent near the camel and interlocked his fingers for Rohan to use as a step.
“Oh, brother, if only you could see the look on your face,” Rohan whispered when he got close.
Jafar gritted his teeth. “You’re not going to be seeing much longer if you keep this up.”
“Want me to bite him?” Iago asked, clacking his beak together.
“My servant has teeth!” Rohan said with a laugh that died as quickly as it had come.
For a moment, impersonating this esteemed and respected caliph, he felt as powerful as his father. His father, who was now in a grave identical to every other. Rohan put a cork in his thoughts. He didn’t want to think about his dead father. He didn’t want to think about him burning to death, suffering in those last, helpless moments. He didn’t want to think about how they had nothing left to their names—and no one but each other left to speak them.
“Rohan,” Jafar said from the ground. His expression was hard to make out under the harsh glare of the sun, but his tone was soft. He knew what Rohan was thinking, and here, amongst all these people, Rohan was selfishly happy he wasn’t alone.
If only Jafar knew it was Rohan’s fault they were in this predicament to begin with. That he had killed Baba and, more than a decade before, Mama.
“Rohan,” Jafar said again.
Numbly, Rohan reached down and helped Jafar atop the camel behind him.
“Tell him to hurry up, or at this rate, we may never leave this place,” Jafar whispered as Iago settled on his shoulder.
“Yalla!” Rohan called to the caravan leader. The rest of the camels carried wares and other passengers. He saw a group of uniformed girls his age, students, he presumed, piling into a covered cart, too. The caravan leader had just been waiting for Rohan and Jafar.
They were already off to an excellent start.
The caravan leader liked to talk. He transported a great deal of people in a short amount of time regularly, so he was privy to gossip. He had once helped the son of a sheikh escape an overbearing family. Another time, he’d carried a woman who was married to caliphs in two different kingdoms back and forth between her spouses, and neither caliph knew it.
Rohan could tell that Jafar listened to every little bit intently, and because he was a “servant,” his keen interest was easy to explain away. Sometimes Rohan wondered if coincidences ever really occurred when Jafar was involved. With every new story Jafar guzzled, he whispered something to Iago. Rohan couldn’t always hear what was said, but he would notice Iago leaning toward Jafar or the other way around, and it irked him.
He was Jafar’s brother. He was the one with whom Jafar shared blood and history.
Iago was just a talking bird only someone who loved garish color and constant companionship would want.
And Rohan wanted Jafar to know that. If he could get his brother alone, that was. It was a struggle, but he finally got his chance when the caravan stopped for a break and Iago disappeared into a grove of date palms. Rohan hurried to Jafar.
“I don’t trust him,” Rohan said.
“The caravan leader?” Jafar asked, scrunching his brow.
“No, Iago,” Rohan gritted out.
“Is this because he’s been making fun of you?” Jafar asked.
Rohan glared at him. In most cases, Jafar had trouble trusting anyone, even his own parents. Why did that not extend to the wretched bird?
“How did he escape the fire?” Rohan asked. Jafar paused, something flitting over his features—that darkness Rohan didn’t like. He didn’t like how it matched Jafar’s clothes so well, too: he always wore some variation of crimson and black, as dark as the facial hair slowly shading the planes of his face.
Rohan wished he could take the words back. Were they too bold? Too out of character? He was trying to make Jafar suspicious of Iago, not himself . That was the last thing he needed at the moment.
Jafar’s brow furrowed, and Rohan braced himself. He supposed this had been inevitable.
“Are you saying he might have caused Baba’s death?” Jafar asked with care, as if he were treading dangerous ground.
Yes! Rohan felt lightheaded with relief. He didn’t like lying to Jafar, but he had to do what was best for the ones he loved.
Home for Rohan was wherever Jafar was. He had never faced the same torment Jafar had, for Baba always directed his ire at Jafar. Or Baba would compare the two of them and declare Rohan superior, when he really wasn’t. He was quiet, compared to Jafar. He had no opinions or objections. Baba didn’t care. He loved making Jafar feel inferior.
It all served to make Rohan feel terrible, which in turn made him wallow in guilt for feeling bad when his brother had it worse. Sometimes, when Rohan was feeling especially helpless, he would blame Mama for the way Baba was. If only she’d been better about putting Baba in his place. If only she’d lived longer so she could be there to counter him.
Rohan didn’t think parents understood how deeply their children were affected by their actions.
“It’s very likely,” Rohan said.
Jafar closed his eyes for a brief moment—the shortest of moments, and yet long enough to flood Rohan with guilt.
“At the very least, we should be more wary of him,” Rohan added.
Jafar took a deep breath and released it. Rohan thought it was in relief, that somewhere in his mask of emotions, he was trying to stifle a smile, but he had no reason to be relieved. Did he?
“Agreed,” Jafar said at last. “He’s a tool, nothing more.”
Rohan smiled, victory flooding through him. He’d successfully planted the seed of suspicion against Iago, and Rohan was free. For now. He vowed then and there to do better. To be more like Jafar, to do more for him as his brother deserved.
He froze at the sound of sand dipping under footfalls. Someone was approaching from behind him.
“The caravan leader,” Jafar whispered.
Rohan quickly tugged his keffiyeh back over his face.
Jafar lowered his head, the picture of an obedient servant. His voice was a low murmur when he said, “Get back to the camel.”
“And leave you here? What are you going to do?” Rohan asked under his breath, turning around.
The caravan leader sauntered over with a bright smile and eyes that were eager for news to spread. His dark hair was dusted in sand, much of it covered by the green headdress wrapped around his head.
“I’m going to get answers,” Jafar hissed. “He won’t talk with you here, and nor can I. Now get back on your camel before your servant causes a scene.”