“Not for healing. For information.” He brandished a single golden ruble. The coin had been sitting by his head when he woke from his brief respite, and Joaidane had taken it as a sign that his intended work was approved and applauded.
Fine then, Yasmina. If this is what you want, who am I to deny you the entertainment?
“Where did you get that?” the healer asked.
“Do you really care? It’s yours if you answer my queries.” Joaidane pulled the coin out of reach when the healer made a grab for it. “Answers first.”
“What do you wish to know?”
“A man came here yesterday afternoon with a wound in his leg. A shard of pottery.”
The healer’s eyes narrowed, and he licked his dry lips. “What of it?”
“I wish to know who he is and where he went.”
“And why would I tell you that?”
He flashed the coin again, sunlight glinting against the shiny edge. “Because if you give me the truth you will be one golden ruble richer. How long does it take you to make as much here? Weeks?”
“I shouldn’t—”
“I won’t breathe a word to anyone. So, do we have a deal?”
After that, the healer couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He cheerfully shared everything he knew about his thieving patient. Joaidane left the promised coin in his care and hobbled back out into the sweltering heat.
* * *
Zarina pressed her lips together and refused to budge from the door despite Kazim’s attempts to slip past her. “No.”
“I’m well, little sister. While it may warm my heart that you would prefer for me to remain home while you toil behind the counter, a warm heart won’t place gold in our coffers, and it won’t protect you if those bastards return.” The amused twinkle faded from his eyes.
“No. I’ve made up my mind, and I—”
Kazim lifted her by the waist, pivoted, and placed her aside. He unlocked the door and marched inside despite her flustered arguments for him to continue recuperating in bed. He wouldn’t consider it.
The useless city guardsmen hadn’t offered any explanation for their failure to answer her calls. They’d cited they couldn’t police the entire market, but if it had been any other store on the square, a dozen would have stormed the shop. Maybe even more.
“Kazim, this is foolish. We should at least hire a man to perform a thorough sweep for magic. Someone to—” Zarina fell short of reaching the counter and stared. Every surface within the shop gleamed, while the sweet smell of orange oils permeated the wooden shelves instead of the chaotic blend of a dozen spices.
“What is this?” Kazim breathed.
“I… I don’t know.”
He whirled to face her. “You didn’t pay someone to do this? You didn’t buy these things?”
“No. With what money?” Every step throughout the shop revealed a new wonder to her. Every glass bottle and container broken during her brother’s scuffle with the nameless thief had been restored.
The siblings sprinted into the rear stockroom at the same time, Zarina with the broom clutched in her white-knuckled grip, her brother armed with a long knife he’d kept in his room.
“Who’s here?” Her brother’s voice echoed off the walls. When no one replied, they moved forward into a space cramped with knee-high casks and barrels. Enormous vases and metal tins filled the shelves.
These weren’t here yesterday. None of this was here yesterday. We broke most of it. We had lost everything. With a trembling hand, Zarina reached out to caress the gilded edge of a pot decorated with a copper plate. Dragonthorn.
“Kazim, look. Read this. Djinni chilies. This thing claims to be djinni chilies.”
The brother and sister exchanged glances, gray eyes fixed on each other and filled with growing excitement. He pried open a glass-lined cask, only for the overwhelming, eye-watering aroma of peppers to force them both back. Kazim turned his head and coughed into his elbow while Zarina shielded her face with her sari.
“Close it, close it!”
After he restored the lid, her brother rushed to the window and breathed in the fresh air. “Potent.” The word left him in a breathless exhale. He blinked rapidly and fanned his face with one hand, but the tears streamed down his cheeks. He’d gotten the brunt of it.
“It must be genuine. But how? Why? Who would do such a thing for us?”
A pregnant pause hung between them before he asked in a gentle voice, “Could it be Father?” He wiped his face with his sleeve and glanced toward the expensive stock with red-rimmed gray eyes.
Zarina pursed her lips. Darrius hadn’t returned the previous night or that morning, and as much as she wanted to credit him with the discovery, she’d long ago given up hope. “I don’t think this was Father’s doing, because if it was, he would have found us to brag by now about his good deed. Besides, where would he acquire the money to fund a purchase this expensive? This must be… this was hundreds of rubles, Kazim. Hundreds.”
He shook his head. “Thousands. For a cask of dragonthorn this weight alone,” he said, patting the lid of the dried petals, “we would pay no less than eight hundred rubles. More money than I have ever seen.”
“We can’t tell him.”
“Agreed. As he never visits the shop, he’ll never discover the treasure we have here.”
“But if we begin to sell them, word will eventually reach him.”
A low exhale preceded the drop of Kazim’s shoulders. “Damn.”
“We will need locks and a secure place. Does your friend Maffoud still toil in locks and vaults?”
The light returned to her brother’s gray eyes. He wiped his face and grinned. “He does. In fact, Maffoud ended his apprenticeship with honors over a year ago and is well on his way to becoming a master locksmith. His mentor called him a prodigy.”
“While I oversee the shop, find and bring him right away. We need a hidden vault better than our hole in the floor if we’re to keep our money and our most expensive goods safe. We don’t want thieves to return for this, and we don’t want to open shop to find Father has bartered or gambled the entire barrel away. Tell him we’ll pay whatever value he asks.”
“But how will we pay it?”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll find the money.”
For the first time since they’d awakened that morning, Kazim obeyed her instructions. He shot from the shop as if a dozen ifrit chased his heels, and once he was gone, a fit of giddy laughter came over Zarina.
How had such valuable items fallen into their laps? She didn’t dare to add their new inventory to the board displayed behind their shop counter for fear of inviting the thieves to return. Instead, she removed a sheet of parchment from a drawer and scribbled out a letter to Amira. If they wanted to pay their taxes and the locksmith, they’d need a loan, but with their newfound wealth, they’d be able to pay every silver solterra back with interest to spare.
* * *
Joaidane knew where to go when the rising moon restored his gifts. Since the healer occasionally made house calls and knew the most popular locations frequented by the city’s criminal element, he mentioned an empty dockside warehouse.
And he also warned the beggar that he wasn’t responsible if the information got him garroted and killed.
That’s fine, Joaidane thought. I won’t be killed tonight. Or any night.
A building constructed from dark stone loomed above him, with rotted boards nailed across the broken windows. The two-story structure reeked of old fish, strong alcohol, and other unpleasant aromas Joaidane didn’t want to name. The rear doors were locked tight with shiny chains contrasting the building’s unkempt state.
Magic repelled him and a buzz jolted through his fingers. He flinched back and swore. Similar wards weren’t uncommon in Samahara, created to keep out supernatural entities like the unpredictable and often uncontrollable djinn. Thankfully, Joaidane was only half-ifrit, and the human part of him neutralized the defensive specific terms engraved in
the ward. Not that such a trivial enchantment would have barred a powerful, full-blooded ifrit such as Yasmina either. A novice had cast the spell.
He chuckled as he imagined the spiteful queen setting the entire structure ablaze and burning even the stone into molten slag.
After shaking out his hand and waiting for the discomfort to fade, Joaidane held his fingers over the chains again and channeled his power into the enchanted padlock until heat surged through the metal and spread through the chains. He dismantled the protections one after the other, and then the door opened without sending pins and needles up his arm when he touched it.
They must have had another way inside, underground entrances through the cisterns favored by thieves and their ilk who traveled through the shadows. Faint voices echoed from deeper within the large structure. He followed them to their source, a closed room with a warped door and no lock. Light leaked out through several cracks in the wood. Joaidane moved up closer and put his eye to one chink, peering inside. Two figures sat around a lantern in a dusty room.
“Still can’t believe you got bested by a girl, Chanut.” The larger of the two men laughed and tossed a bread hunk at his wounded companion.
“Yeah, well, at least I got what we went for. What’d you get? A black eye is all I can see.”
The two continued to tease and banter until Joaidane blew the storeroom doors open. Wood splinters shot through the air, pelting the thieves. One stumbled back and hit the wall, but the man with the bandage around his leg—Chanut—drew Joaidane’s immediate and focused attention. This was the man who had hurt Zarina. Who had dared to strike her and draw her blood. To bruise her beautiful face. Fury rose within him and fueled his magic with newfound strength.
Scorched flesh scented the room as Chanut’s sword flared red-hot. He dropped the weapon while crying out in pain and backpedaling away. “Shamir, help me!” he cried. The man fumbled with several chains around his neck and drew out a beaten coin, which he thrust out toward Joaidane.
Joaidane paused, momentarily halted by the swirling runes carved into the dull metal. The ward token, like the spells on the warehouse, wasn’t uncommon in Samahara. Except thugs like these rarely could afford such talismans.
“You think your paltry trinket will save you?” Joaidane asked. He took another step and pushed past the protective magic.
“Begone, demon!” Chanut yelled.
Cold, hard laughter spilled from Joaidane’s lips. “You’d be lucky to face a demon. They could at least be bartered with. I cannot.”
The thief charged forward, drawing a hidden dagger from his tunic. Joaidane twisted at the waist and stepped aside, but not before the blade drew a burning line across his shoulder. Sharim, recovered from his daze, rushed in from the side and caught him around the middle. They fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs.
In his beggar’s body, the fall would have been enough to break him. In his true shape, the fall barely blew the breath from his lungs. Joaidane drove his elbow back into Sharim’s nose and swept his feet out at Chanut’s legs. The man hit the ground and rolled away before Joaidane’s boot could strike his face.
With magic restored to him in the name of justice, Joaidane thrust Sharim against the wall hard enough to sprawl him on the floor. Dazed, the thug writhed on his stomach, winded and with blood pouring from his nose.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Chanut demanded.
“You hurt someone precious to me. I’ve come to make amends on her behalf.”
Chanut rushed for his sword, but Joaidane’s magic beat him to it. Flames burst from his palms in tall plumes and streamed toward the weapon. The man leapt back in time to save himself a burning, but the respite was brief. The flames turned on him next.
A shimmering shield sprang to life around Chanut’s trembling body, and the pendant around his neck shone with power.
Gritting his teeth against the pulsing stab at the back of his brain, Joaidane continued the spell. Despite the long years of neglect and his rusty spellcraft, the heat intensified and flooded over his enemy like liquid flame. It shattered the protective spell and scorched through the ward, obliterating it with a pop and a hiss of escaping magic.
“Gods,” the remaining thief said. The daggers slipped from his hands, and then he spun on heel and dashed to the door. He beat against it fruitlessly as the corpse of his immolated conspirator fell motionless to the ground.
The odor of cooking flesh and boiling fat filled the air, and tendrils of black smoke churned toward the storeroom’s high ceiling. Joaidane contained the fire with a wave of his hand.
Sharim scrambled along the wall in search of an escape route. He tried to leap for the high window, but Joaidane jerked him away with another spell and flung him to the floor at his feet.
“Please! Please don’t kill me.”
Joaidane used his boot to keep the man’s head on the floor while Chanut burned to ashes a foot away. Sharim wept and struggled, forced to watch until nothing but glowing embers remained.
“This is what will happen to those who harm innocents in Naruk,” Joaidane whispered. “Remember that. Take from another person, steal from anyone else, and I will come back for you.”
He left the trembling man on the floor, swept up the stolen items stored against the wall, and left the way he had come. He had the money from the spice shop to return, and perhaps he could find the owners of the other possessions as well.
* * *
When Zarina met him at the village well on the third night, Joaidane struggled to retain his composure. A month-long sentence as the beggar had tested his patience, but two nights without holding her in his arms drove him insane with desire to bask in her newfound happiness.
From the moment she flung herself into his arms, his hardships ceased to matter. She melted against him, and a passing bystander lingered long enough to smile. Joaidane buried his face against her dark hair and breathed her in. Sandalwood and jasmine had become infused in her silky brunette waves.
“Is your brother well now?”
Zarina nodded. “He is, although I believe his recovery was hastened by our recent bout of good fortune.”
Joaidane played dumb. “Good fortune?”
“Our shop is Naruk’s sole purveyor of dragonthorn, vanilla, and djinn chilies. The palace cooks have been in and out all day, as well as the wealthier nobles and merchants.”
“I’m glad to hear it. And your thieves?”
“No sign of them, thank the spirits.”
“That is good to hear. After what happened, I feared for you and your family.”
“We’ll be safe. It took a moment to convince Kazim it was for the best, but we’ve hired a swordsman to stand watch outside of the shop during the day. Our own personal guard.”
“That is wise, but it will not protect your wares after hours.”
“I realized that and commissioned a vault as well,” Zarina said, gray eyes lively and filled with hope. “We’ll keep a portion of our goods available for sale each day and the bulk of them locked away with our gold. No one will ever know. It’s completely hidden from view. How can they steal what they don’t know is there?”
“Excellent idea,” Joaidane said as he stroked the back of her hand with his thumb.
“I know this may sound silly, but…” The edge of her white teeth skated her lower lip. She glanced up at him and held his gaze. “Did you have something to do with this?”
Tension twisted in Joaidane’s stomach. Part of him had feared Zarina would be too bright to overlook the coincidence. “With what?”
“Did you have something to do with the return of our stolen silver?”
“Why would you ask that?”
Sidestepping around the question didn’t work. Zarina refused to look away. “Joaidane, these gifts merely appeared in the middle of our locked building. When we arrived in the morning, the doors and windows hadn’t been disturbed, and yet twice we’ve found gifts. First barrels of rare spices, and then money appeared t
oday. Those thieves stole over a hundred solterras from us, but Kazim says every last coin was present this morning.”
“So you suspect it was me.”
“You are the only magician I know. The only sorcerer I’ve ever met. Making things disappear and appear again are acts of sorcery.”
He hesitated a moment and swallowed the dry lump in his throat. How much could he say before Yasmina’s kindness reached its limit? “Would you be opposed if I had?” he asked in a gentle voice, barely over a whisper.
Her eyes widened. “You are one of the sultan’s men, aren’t you?”
Joaidane raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “No. As I said to you before, I am not in the employ of the sultan, or anyone for that matter.”
“But… how? How did you do it?”
“Ah, but I cannot share all my secrets,” he replied, smiling.
“It’s too costly a gift.”
“Who can place a value on a gift given with an open heart?” he countered. “Keep the spices, Zarina. Keep what you make from selling them. They will do me little good.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. Tears shimmered against her lashes, and once they began their course down her cheeks, he wiped each one away. “I… mere words of gratitude seem inadequate.”
“Thank me by prospering. By not allowing thieves, no matter their guise, to bring you down.” He thought of her father as well as the men who had broken into her shop. “Flourish, my desert rose. That is all I ask in return.”
Chapter
Vizier Bijam watched the gambling floor below from his private balcony and grinned. The betting house had been one of many gifts from his uncle, as Sultan Kaspar had too much money to reasonably spend and enjoyed bestowing countless gifts upon his relatives and dearest sycophants.
In the years since Bijam acquired the gambling den, he’d built three more in Naruk and turned his attention to the other great cities of Samahara. Recently, with the installation of a new port in Ankirith, the border city had become as prosperous as Naruk. And rumor from his spies told him the Grand Enchantress had abandoned her tower years ago, leaving it uninhabited.
Zarina and the Djinn Page 9
