19 - Rohan
T hough the Sultana had given them the freedom to explore the palace, Rohan knew everything came with limits, and he wasn’t going to traipse about with reckless abandon. Still, there was a benefit to being a shadow. No one noticed him. Not servants, not guards.
Baba would have liked the palace. Even when they’d been poor, he walked—or strutted, as Jafar put it—as though he had far more in his pockets than lint, as though there were jewels in his headdress and not holes. He would attempt to speak like royalty, and dress like it, too. Now that Rohan thought about it, he was somewhat happy Baba wasn’t here to make a fool out of himself, and by association, Rohan as well.
Maybe he was more like Jafar than he cared to admit. Maybe it was for the best that genies couldn’t revive the dead—if that really was a stipulation. He didn’t know if he could trust Jafar, or if he even wanted to.
This is confusing. Very, very confusing.
Rohan didn’t want to stand still and think about the fact that he’d killed his father and was now finding ways to justify the fact. Maybe he’d ask the genie to make him forget. Maybe all he needed was instruction. To be told what to do so he wouldn’t have to do anything himself. He walked on, marveling at how the palace was a small world of its own, from social structure to culture.
He passed a group of women giggling on their way to the courtyard, excitedly chatting about the prospect of watching guards remove their shirts and spar in the sun. He passed a pair of servants talking about a girl who had been staying in the palace for the past several days. He didn’t know if she had anything to do with the Sultana’s tense and frazzled state—a state that seemed unusual, if the way the rest of her escort behaved was any indication.
And then he paused, a chill creeping up his spine when he heard a tune, a lullaby Mama would hum while she coaxed him to sleep as a little boy. It was a Ghurubi classic that he hadn’t heard in years. A sign, he thought, ignoring Jafar’s warning about looking for them.
He followed the tune to an attendant carrying a tray of steaming food down a hall, her hair bound by a shawl. She struggled with the large satchel at her side until she paused near a guard at the mouth of a corridor. It was darker here, quieter, the air eerie.
The guard sighed. “Food for the prisoner?”
The girl nodded and passed him the tray and the satchel, too. “And a medical kit. They want him clean and lucid for more questioning.”
Prisoner? Questioning?
Rohan felt his pulse in his ears, panic rising. They had to be referring to the prisoner the Sultana had told them about. The one guarding the secret to papermaking. Curiosity tried to spur him forward, out of the shadows and onto the guard’s heels, through that iron door to see the prisoner for himself.
A diplomat, the Sultana had called him.
The Sultana might not have given them reasons to trust her, but she was still a queen with favors to grant, and what if Rohan could make himself useful to her? What if he could get her the information she needed? If only Jafar were here to— No, Rohan thought. He was mad at Jafar and this was his chance to do something on his own.
But then a loud clang echoed in the silence, followed by an angry hiss and several angry voices, making it clear Rohan should not be here.
Never mind, then. Rohan hurried back down the maze of halls, hiding under an archway at the sight of another approaching guard and berating himself for ever leaving Jafar and— No, no, no . He stopped those thoughts in their tracks.
He needed to formulate a plan. Together, you are both as powerful as the golden scarab. Mama had always emphasized working together, as a team. He backtracked through the hall, pausing when the weight of eyes bored into him. He glanced around, seeing nothing until a shimmer of sapphire blue caught the light. The royal vizier. He was standing at the end of the hall, silent as a pillar, watching him with an unreadable expression.
Rohan wouldn’t let the man intimidate him.
He straightened his spine and squared his shoulders, turning his back on Harun as he returned to their chambers, where he would wait for Jafar and then use him for once.
That night, Rohan waited in Jafar’s room, listening through the crack of the door while his brother tiptoed past the antechamber, both he and Iago murmuring low to avoid Rohan. When Jafar stepped inside the room, his eyes were bright and a little starry. Rohan knew his brother loved knowledge, but he didn’t think he loved it that much.
“About time,” Rohan said.
Jafar startled and Iago screeched like a ghoul. Jafar exhaled and lit more lanterns, letting the silence stretch between them, likely waiting for Rohan to speak first.
“I was lonely without you,” Jafar finally said.
Apologies were not in his nature, but Jafar could be convincing and persuasive, and Rohan was as much a victim to his powers of charisma as anyone else. Awareness was a step, he supposed.
“Did you know a new moon is sometimes called a black moon?” Jafar asked.
At least he wasn’t lecturing him for storming out.
Still, Rohan gave him a look. “Did you know that the Sultana’s royal vizier spies on us?”
“I did, and can’t imagine why he wouldn’t. They know nothing about us,” Jafar replied. Of course he knew. “Is that why you’re in my room?”
“I was waiting for you.” Rohan rose from the myriad cushions. He wanted to be angry at Jafar, but he couldn’t. He’d spent enough time away from his brother that his anger had faded like the sunlight, and now he was more relieved to see him than anything else. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
He didn’t know if Jafar had been in search of something in particular, or if he was simply in pursuit of any and all knowledge. He didn’t know his brother much at all, he realized.
Jafar removed his robes and hung them on a hook. He straightened his shirt and poured himself a glass of water. “I don’t think I’ll ever finish looking. There’s so much out there. A way to make a woman love you, a way to make you stronger, a way to find anything your heart desires, which I’m certain a hunter would find useful.”
“Or huntress,” Rohan said.
“Indeed,” Jafar said. “The House of Wisdom even has a laboratory for alchemical use. And I found several interesting scrolls, like one detailing how to rid someone of anything, which I certainly see uses for, and another that causes memory loss. If only we’d had that ridding spell when we found out you were allergic to figs and had to suffer for a month.”
Rohan made a face. “Ha, ha.”
He noticed that Jafar hadn’t collected notes or anything of the sort. He could read a page and recall it by memory—every word, every quirk of the script, every tear in the papyrus. As if his brain painted a replica in his head.
Rohan merely hmm ed at it all as Jafar continued speaking, not wanting to hear any of it but not wanting to shut Jafar down, either. He had always been a good listener. “So one can combine ideas or spells, too, then?”
Jafar’s brow furrowed. He seemed surprised at Rohan’s interest. “Which ones?”
“The first ones you mentioned.”
“The spell for memory loss and the one for ridding someone of anything? To make them vomit the memory instead of losing it? So it would make them vomit…words?” Jafar considered that as he sat at the foot of the bed across from Rohan. “I suppose it might be possible to make someone spill a secret.”
Rohan nodded as if that were what he’d been going for all along. “We could have learned how Baba really felt.”
Jafar made a face that told Rohan he knew very well how their father had felt. He touched the gossamer curtains rustling at the window and stared out in the dark gardens for a long moment. “We still know nothing about why the Sultana wants us here. I’m starting to wonder if we should leave.”
Rohan scoffed. “You decided when to come here, so you can leave whenever you want, too.”
“Don’t speak like that,” Jafar said softly, defeated. He turned back to him, his features awash in gold from the lantern light. “I apologize.”
“Apologies are for when something happens that’s out of your control, or when you make a mistake,” Rohan said. He’d come here for the genie and the lamp and the scarab beetles. He’d come because Jafar had lied. “Not when you lie for your own personal gain, Jafar. But all right; I won’t speak like that. If you want to leave, feel free. I’m staying.”
He would get his wishes, even if it was the last thing he did.
Jafar pressed his lips thin and nodded. “Then you should also know that the Sultana’s son is presumed to be dead.”
“The prince?” Rohan asked. “That makes little sense. If the prince was dead, the entire kingdom would know about it.” He laughed dryly. “Yet another thing you’ve kept from me.”
“That’s cold,” Iago said, inserting himself into their conversation.
Cold was what he’d be when Rohan inevitably locked him out of the palace in the dead of the night.
“Did you not notice the air of mourning when we arrived? I didn’t keep anything from you,” Jafar retorted with a tone of ice. “I simply learned of it ahead of time from the caravan leader.”
Rohan resisted the urge to call out the fact that he’d known for so long. At this point, he was beginning to sound as though all he did was whine.
“And it wasn’t important to impart,” Jafar continued. “We were heading for the House of Wisdom, not the palace. But think about it, Rohan. Does it not strike you as odd that the Sultana would keep that a secret?”
All Rohan heard were excuses.
“And you decided now was a good time to impart this knowledge, because I’ve decided to stay,” Rohan said.
Jafar sighed. He could be a lot like Baba when he wanted to. “I’ll leave you alone. It’s getting late and I think I’ll explore the palace a little.”
Rohan didn’t want him to leave. He didn’t want Jafar to have the satisfaction of evading Rohan’s scrutiny, nor did he want Jafar exploring the palace and acting like he was the first to make discoveries.
“I already did that,” Rohan said, following Jafar out to the antechamber. “Even found where they’re keeping that prisoner with the papermaking secret.”
Between being angry at Jafar and concurrently missing Jafar, Rohan hadn’t put much thought into it, but something about the whole ordeal with the prisoner didn’t tally. It didn’t make sense to Rohan why the prisoner was Maghrizi and held a secret of the East. It didn’t make sense that the Sultana would tell the two of them about it when she knew nothing about them. They could be spies, for all she knew.
“Oh,” Jafar said, hurt crossing over his face.
Now he knew how it felt.
“Did you…speak to the Sultana, too?” Jafar asked haltingly.
Rohan studied Jafar. It didn’t take long for him to realize: Jafar cared what the Sultana thought of him. Or rather, Jafar cared about how she might feel about Rohan .
“A little,” Rohan said. It was a bald-faced lie; he hadn’t even seen the Sultana. He could only hope he was selling his false words. “We shared honey cake. It was probably the best I’ve ever had.”
Jafar didn’t care for food as much as he once had, but honey cake was the exception—it was on Jafar’s list of beloved things, very likely right under alchemy.
“Very nice,” Jafar said softly, quiet as the serpent he wanted to be, and opened the door to the hall. “Good night, Rohan.”