“Come to my study. It’s time I explained to you, my treasured apprentice, just what I’ve been planning and the important role you have.”
Malik left with an abrupt turn and Tariq breathed a sigh of relief. Alone, he finished changing clothes and wondered where Ridha had been banished to. To the jar, he supposed, since he was bound to it and Malik seemed confident of still being able to… He hesitated even in his thoughts over the word use. To use him.
“Have a seat, my dear boy,” Malik said, his smile somewhat strained. “First, I find myself quite…disappointed at how easily you are swayed by the jinni’s seductions.”
Tariq felt his cheeks warm. He caught his breath as Malik’s elegant fingers stroked his chin and lifted it. “Still, you are young and inexperienced. I have my reasons for keeping you at a, shall we say, respectable distance?” He released Tariq and sat down on the small backless chair behind a desk littered with scrolls and a few flat books, quills, and pots of ink. “And of course, the jinni wasn’t cursed to the jar because he was a good and noble creature.”
Tariq started at that, shooting a glance towards the locked cabinet where he’d last seen the gleaming green glass and silver-crusted jar. He knew that the Jinn were created with free will, like humans, and came in all degrees of good and bad, like humans. It had never occurred to him that Ridha somehow deserved to be cursed to serve others.
“What do you mean?”
Malik put his hands on the desk, fingers laced together. “The Jinn have a long and storied history with the Free People. You know the story of the first Sultan of the Land of the Evening Sun?”
Tariq nodded. “I’m named after him. He freed the tribes from the harsh rule of the Easterners, with the help…of the Jinn.”
“His jinni lover,” Malik corrected blandly. “Those were the last days of the old gods, for the Free People saw the truth of the One God, although his messengers were cruel overlords.”
Tariq had heard it differently, but he nodded as if agreeing.
“One of the shaytan, or so they say, bedevilled the new sultan and his family. Some say he was sent by the sultan’s lover, when he took a human wife. Others that he just harassed them because he felt they weren’t as grateful as they should have been. Only the jinni knows the truth. Eventually, he angered someone with great sihr who punished him, binding him to serve only at a human’s command.”
Tariq sucked in a breath. “Ridha?” He found it hard to believe that Ridha could be shaytan. He was so…so what? Handsome? You think handsome cannot be evil? But it was more than that, he just knew too little of the jinni—except the feel of his mouth—to grasp the truth.
Malik tilted his head to glance up at the cabinet. “Is that what he calls himself? No matter. The Matgarhi tribe was never meant to rule in the Land of the Evening Sun. They are not fit for it.”
This was not the first time Malik had expressed dissatisfaction with the affairs of a kingdom not their own, but it had always been coached in terms of how they handled trade, which in turn affected Malik’s ability to source ingredients for some of his more complex potions and spells. Tariq did not know much of these things; for one such as he, it made very little difference who ruled in the high places. Uncertain how to respond, he settled for a short nod.
“But even the gods know it is not the natural order of things. There is a prophecy that things will change when the Morning Star goes into the Land of the Evening Sun.”
Tariq opened his mouth and shut it again. This was an old story, told in evenings around glowing braziers. The prophecy came from the old gods, and it referred to Tariq’s namesake, who had freed the Maghreb from the Easterners. It had already come to pass, or so Tariq understood. He nodded, less certainly this time.
“You, Tariq, are the one the prophecy refers to. It is you, with my guidance, who shall oust the Matgarhi from the throne of the Land of the Evening Sun. With my guidance and the help of a jinni, as your namesake before you.”
Tariq threw a startled glance towards the locked cabinet, wondering if Ridha could hear this. He quickly returned his gaze to his master and dared to protest, “I am a simple dyer’s son. You say I have the potential to be a great saahir, yet it is forbidden, by the old gods and the One God alike, that a saahir rule.”
Malik’s smile was slow and almost malevolent. “Then it shall be on the gods to stop us.”
Chapter Six
TARIQ HAD PLANNED to let Ridha out of the jar for at least a few hours, but Malik stayed up late and Tariq fell asleep in spite of everything. His dreams were confused, Malik’s thin face warping into Ridha’s broader features, both of them smiling at him with hyena grins and teeth.
He had no time in the daylight hours to do anything but run Malik’s shop. When the sun finally sank beneath the walls of the city, leaving the souks in shadows, Tariq closed the windows and doors and secured the locks. He made his way across the stones, barefoot and hungry, feeling more like the dyer’s son and less like the apprentice of a saahir. To his surprise, Malik joined him in the courtyard for the evening meal.
“You have a destiny written in the stars,” Malik told him, and then he went on to speak of the so-called abominations permitted in the Land of the Evening Sun, which didn’t sound all that terrible to Tariq. He kept hearing Ridha’s words about how the rules of gods were created by men to impose their own ideas of right and wrong. What made Malik’s ideas more right than those of Zeyn ibn Safwah, rightful born Sultan of the Evening Sun? He dared not ask aloud.
Malik concluded his speech, and the silence afterwards held an expectation. Tariq, uncertain, said nothing. He wasn’t sure if he held his tongue in hopes of regaining Malik’s fingers through his hair or in fear of being struck again. Malik had always been a kind master, giving him the lowly tasks of any first-year apprentice, but never asking him to do a servant’s work. Not that Tariq was above such work, only that it was useless to have an apprentice do what one already paid another to do.
“You seem thoughtful tonight, dear boy.”
“Yes, master. You’ve given me much to think on. I’m grateful for the time you’ve granted me to do so.” Why did Malik so seldom use his name? He hadn’t realized it until Ridha—damn it, he’d known the jinni less than a day. Why did he loom so large in his thoughts?
Tariq excused himself to his room and watched through the tiny cutouts of the door to see when the movement of the oil lamps indicated Malik had retired for the night. Then he slipped out of the room and down the stairs, silent on the balls of his feet. He fumbled to light the small lamp he carried, and placed it behind the desk to minimize any light escaping the room. He’d forgotten about the magic warding the cabinet, and Malik must have unlocked it earlier for the door was cracked open.
He reverently took the jar and pulled the stopper. Ridha’s fiery appearance didn’t startle him now that he knew to expect it, though he averted his eyes to give the jinni a chance to conjure himself some clothing. So his sudden embrace by the jinni elicited a startled yelp, muffled against Ridha’s chest.
“Tariq,” he said on an exhale. “I’m glad you’re well.”
Tariq found himself returning the embrace. When their arms loosened enough he could form words, he said, “I thought it must be awfully confining in that small jar.”
“It is. Are you here to wish us away?”
Tariq shook his head, though it was still resting on the jinni’s shoulder. “I have nowhere to go, save my father’s house, and that is the first place Malik would search.”
“There is more to the world than Merzouga.”
That wasn’t what Tariq had meant. He doubted there was any place in the world for a poor man with no trade. Unused to speaking his mind, he once more said nothing.
“You need not pull the stopper with your own hand, Tariq,” Ridha finally said, startling him.
“What do you mean?”
“You are my master. You have but to speak my name and I am at your command.”
Tariq did
not feel comfortable with the idea. “It isn’t a wish?”
“How can you make a wish if I am not in your presence, able to listen to your dulcet voice?” Ridha said, his voice dropping into a seductive tone. “Call me to your room, and when we have tired of…keeping each other company, I shall return to the jar and your Malik shall be none the wiser.”
Tariq scowled, because Malik wasn’t his. But he was Malik’s. Wasn’t he? His scowl faded in the face of Ridha’s sly humour. He had no reason to feel guilty for desiring Ridha, for enjoying being desired in return. Malik had never given him a reason.
MALIK LEFT TARIQ alone for a few days with his usual daily tasks. While the boy was tending his shop in the souk, he placed the perfume jar on his desk and pulled the stopper. The jinni came out, in an impressive display of smokeless flames, as Malik suspected he would. He imagined being confined to a small glass jar must be terribly uncomfortable.
The jinni’s initial nudity raised an eyebrow—was that what had so impressed Tariq?—but the jinni was clothed almost immediately as the flames vanished. The two men stared at each other.
Finally, the jinni said, “So. You are the incomparable Malik.”
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”
The jinni smiled, sprawling comfortably across the narrow bench that served as seating for the few people invited into Malik’s sanctum. “Shockingly rude of you to banish me at the moment you did.”
“You were about to ravish my apprentice. I was merely rescuing the boy.”
“Mmm,” the jinni said, still smiling. “Are we to talk of Tariq, then? Not that I mind, he’s…delicious.”
“I can’t believe you took advantage of him like that, using his unnatural desires to manipulate him,” Malik said primly.
“Me? I’m taking advantage of him? I’m not the one toying with his affections.” The smile broadened to a grin. “Just his body. Speaking of—if you’re so keen to have him under your thumb, why don’t you give him what he so desperately wants of you?”
Malik couldn’t stop his mouth turning down in distaste. “Carnal desires make one vulnerable. As the boy clearly is because of his.”
“And what is it exactly I’m to do for you, on his orders, which he will give because you hold his heart? Does he know you’ll crush it under your heel when you’re through with him?”
“He is a means to an end. That is all. But his name is Tariq, and I’m sure you’re as aware of history as I am, of the last Tariq.”
The jinni nodded, the smile never seeming to leave his face. “Who also had a Jinn lover.”
Malik scowled. “You are not lovers, and never shall be. When I’ve had the last wish of you, you’ll still be bound to your jar and I shall make sure no one ever finds it again.”
“So you pulled the stopper just now for no more reason than to threaten me?” The jinni did not sound impressed.
Malik didn’t care. He had as little need of the jinni’s fear as he did of his approval. “I want to know if you think you can put my Tariq on the throne.”
“I don’t think my Tariq wants the throne, and frankly it wouldn’t be a great idea to put him there.”
“He belongs to me, and through your bond, so do you. But I am curious as to your reasons for not wanting the throne for my Tariq.” Malik thought the idea of repeating history would appeal to the jinni, especially if, as history stated, he was shaytan.
“First, the delectable young man is not in the least attracted to women, so that would make heirs somewhat of a problem.”
“You could surely use your magic to make a woman seem like a man,” Malik suggested in spite of himself.
The jinni snorted. “If you think any kind of magic will make a woman’s cunt feel like a man’s ass, you’ve not had either. So without heirs, any sort of gain to be had by putting the boy on the throne in the first place—and I’ve had no chance to learn whether or not Zeyn is a good sultan or not—would be undone and worse upon his death.” He examined his fingernails before meeting Malik’s eyes. “Civil war would break out as people fought over who would replace him. I can’t see that being to anyone’s benefit.”
“It’s good we are in agreement on that particular issue, then,” Malik said, pleased. “And while I’m sure Zeyn ibn Safwah is a competent sultan, it seems to me that the Free People would prosper more under a united crown. Zeyn is a descendent of the sultan responsible for you being bound to that jar in the first place.”
“You seem to know a great deal about me. I swear when Dima put the jar in the treasure room, she promised that all knowledge of my existence would be erased.”
Malik nodded. Dima was Zeyn ibn Safwah’s several times great-grandmother, he knew from his research. Money, patience, guile, and a certain willingness to overlook aspects of the king’s laws had put him in possession of some writings of hers. She had hidden away the jar to save her family from temptation. This jinni had a reputation for taking his masters’ wishes literally and, when open to interpretation, applying the worst possible one. Be careful what you wish for—it might come true was a saying one could plausibly attribute solely to him.
Malik waved in the general direction of his scrolls and books. “Stories are copied and recopied and distributed far and wide. I won’t pretend it wasn’t the work of many years.”
“I should imagine. Why Tariq? Simply because of his name?”
“His name—and because he is a child of the Morning Star,” Malik said with a shrug.
The jinni’s eyes narrowed. “That prophecy has already been fulfilled.”
“Has it? That’s the marvellous thing about prophecies. They’re so delightfully vague. We assign meaning to them after the fact, and even then, that meaning changes as time passes and other events unfold.”
“So you’ll have some small use of him after I’ve done your bidding?”
Malik smiled. “Perhaps.”
“And what will happen to him when all your dreams have come true?” the jinni asked with mild sarcasm.
“You need not concern yourself with my apprentice. He’ll be appropriately dealt with.”
Chapter Seven
“THE ARMY AND you will both be illusions,” Malik assured Tariq. “Zeyn ibn Safwah will capitulate. Not at once, but when he fails to raise a fighting force large enough to counter you, the illusion of you—” He paused to look at the jar, which remained stoppered on his desk. “—which will require a further wish. That’s all you need to know for now.” He grasped Tariq’s shoulder and squeezed, smiling. “This will be a bloodless coup, my dear boy.”
A coup on the throne of the Land of the Evening Sun did not seem at all as reasonable as Malik’s tone conveyed, his reasons notwithstanding. He was not as knowledgeable about politics as Malik was. Tariq was in the habit of acquiescing to whatever Malik wished, yet now he hesitated all the same. He glanced at the jar, wondering what Ridha would say if he were able. Strangely, he could almost feel the jinni, in his head. A peculiar sensation of something being there that wasn’t before, something all cinnamon and tinkling chime, a sound, a smell, a touch, and—things best not even thought about.
“And I will not, in truth, be sultan?”
“Only as long as it takes for you to cede your position to me. I have already prepared a speech for that day, when it comes. Everything will be attainable for you, then.” He stroked Tariq’s jaw with long fingers, lifting his chin so their eyes met. “Everything.”
Although the word was heavy with promise, Tariq could see no confirmation in his elegant master’s eyes. His expression lacked the passionate heat of Ridha’s gaze, which he hadn’t known to seek before. Nor did he see the warm affection of platonic love, such as shone in his father’s eyes.
Tariq’s heart did not swell quite as much as it usually did in response to his master’s touch and ambiguous words.
Ridha was not ambiguous.
“Do you remember all I’ve told you to wish for? I’ve written it down. In fact,” Malik said, as i
f offering a kindness, “just read it, word for word; spare yourself the effort.”
Tariq took both the jar and the inscribed parchment, setting the latter on his knees as he pulled out the delicate emerald-topped stopper. He kept his eyes on the parchment, though he wanted to catch a glimpse of Ridha in his natural glory. You will be with Malik for several years; Ridha will be gone when his wish-fulfilling obligations are done. He is Jinn, and his passions are of the flesh.
His lecture to himself was interrupted when Ridha said, “What is your desire, master?”
Feeling somewhat ashamed to be doing Malik’s bidding, he read from the parchment without ever meeting Ridha’s eyes, though he could feel the jinni’s gaze on him as if it were a physical thing.
“Everyone within the city must see this likeness of me, and know that Tariq of the Morning Star is come to fulfil the prophecy,” he finished. Finally, he dared to look up.
Ridha was indeed staring at him, but his dark gaze moved from him to Malik, who looked pleased, and back to Tariq. “This is what you wish, master?”
No. “It is.”
Ridha bowed impossibly low. “So shall it be done.”
Before Tariq could blink, Ridha was gone.
Three wishes remained to be granted.
AS THE SUN travelled across the hours, Tariq’s discomfort grew. A saahir was supposed to be a moral person, granted access to sihr by their virtues, and while Tariq had learned enough as a first-year apprentice to know that wasn’t entirely so—a great number of words and rituals and ingredients of magical properties enhanced talents one was born with. Learning to use it required discipline and time, neither of which were necessarily moral qualities. Still, he’d imagined Malik to be the ideal sorcerer.
This coup did not feel right, even if Malik claimed it was the ethical thing to do, to save the people from the rule of Zeyn ibn Safwah. In Tariq’s bones and blood, where his sense of right and wrong lived, it felt wrong.
Wrong to pretend to fulfil a prophecy. Wrong to use a jinni who had no choice. Surely no paradise afterlife awaited those who righted wrongs with more wrong actions. Tariq did not even feel easy in Malik’s certainty that Zeyn ibn Safwah was a wrong that needed to be fixed.
Once Upon a Rainbow, Volume One Page 3
