Page 22 of The Wishless Ones
Rohan and Iago clutched what they could to ward off motion sickness, Rohan’s knuckles white against the worn wood while Iago hopped from one rolling trinket to the next. The merchant made short work of the journey that would have taken far too long on foot, and Jafar watched as the man’s silhouette lengthened with the shifting sun. When Rohan gagged for the thousandth time, Jafar pulled back the covering at the back of the cart and gazed outside. His heartbeat quickened as the donkey slogged on and their surroundings grew louder and denser. Beat by beat, the heart of Maghriz’s capital city enveloped them.
Jafar couldn’t stop the smile that curled his lips. This was the kingdom he had traversed the sands to see. This was what he’d left his father behind in a pile of ash to experience. A place worthy of Jafar’s presence. He paused at the thought. That wasn’t right. It was a place worthbeingin.
He already felt as though he belonged here. Back in their village, when he’d speak before Baba and his men, telling them of his ideas and countering theirs, he’d felt out of place. As if he spoke a different language. As if they embodied the sleepiness of the village of Ghurub.
Maghriz was the complete opposite.
The change was gradual. Smaller houses surrounded them at first, dainty and quaint, but as the merchant and his donkey began an ascent, the buildings rose, too. Taller, fancier, decked with tiles and glass and shiny stone. Outfits became more regal, mannerisms more royal. There were fewer merchant carts, and more shopfronts with beckoning doors. And there, at the very center of it all, was the Maghrizi palace, standing atop a hill, with wide domes of glittering gold and minarets rising to the dusty skies. It truly was a sight to behold.
And as they neared the palace and Jafar fell more and more in love with it, he remembered what the caravan leader had said about the missing prince.
An opportunity.
“What happens when the House of Wisdom leads us to the golden scarab?” Rohan asked loudly. Did he think the merchant’s being on the outside of the cart meant he couldn’t hear?
Jafar dropped the canvas flap and picked up a tiny brass vase etched with ornate lines. “Let’s not yell, but…supposedly, we’ll put the pieces together and it’ll lead us to the genie who will grant us three wishes.”
As simple as that.Jafar didn’t know if he believed it yet. Then again, what the rubies promised sounded just as impossible and outlandish, didn’t it?No,Jafar told himself. That was Baba getting into his head, stirring up uncertainty. The rubies were nothing like the genie lamp. They would be his to control, allowing him to control others.
Why put his faith in a genie when he could hold all the cards himself?
Rohan sighed as the cart rolled to a stop and they heard the merchant shuffling outside. “We’ll have to getintothe House of Wisdom first.”
“A pity I don’t have a scholarship,” Jafar said, watching Rohan closely, but his brother simply fiddled with one of the trinkets.
“Pity indeed,” Iago echoed, and Jafar gave him and his red feathers a look. Clearly parrots weren’t made for subtlety.
“I—” Rohan began, and stopped. His brow furrowed, but he said nothing more. Jafar waited. The remains of his scholarship were still in his pocket, crushed even further and slightly damp from their journey across the water.
He had wanted to pull them out and show them to Rohan more than once. Sometimes, he imagined his brother’s face breaking out into a wide grin, beaming and proud. Other times, he imagined a shadow crossing over it, distress and discontentment souring his features.
Jafar didn’t know why he cared for his brother’s opinion of him so deeply.
“Anyway,” he said, moving his hand from his pocket. “We’ll be fine. There’s more than one way to get into the House of Wisdom.”
Maybe. But hewascounting on being able to work with the shreds in his pocket.
“And you know this how?” Iago asked.
“He knows everything about the House of Wisdom,” Rohan replied, almost triumphantly. Oh,nowhe could speak?
It sounded as if Rohan and Iago were competing somehow—for Jafar’s attention? For his favor? Ridiculous.
Jafar liked it.
But it was a reminder, too: Rohan cared. Jafar realized just then that Iago had been an observer of their lives for months. If he wanted Jafar’s undivided attention, he very well might have been trying to sow discord between the two of them all along—like with the scholarship.
“You’re not planning on breaking into it, are you?” Rohan asked. “I doubt they have a caged tiger you can use as a distraction.”
Jafar shook his head as the cart trundled to a stop. He needed to make sure Rohan knew that Jafar cared, too—that everything he’d done, even the less than savory bit, was to help them both. He exited the cart and stretched out his legs, scanning the desert while inhaling deep. The smell of hot and tarnished trinkets was worse than he’d expected. “No, we’ll be marching straight up to the House of Wisdom itself. I applied, didn’t I? I’ll tell them as much.”
Iago pulled a face. Rohan paled. Jafar bit back a wicked grin and turned to the merchant with as warm a smile as he could muster. The man looked taken aback for a moment.
“Shukrun for the ride, sayyidi,” Jafar said, placing a palm over his heart. “Your kindness will not be forgotten.”
“Oh—” the merchant stammered out. He looked a little starstruck. “It was—it was my pleasure.”
Jafar inclined his head again and turned away. Part of him waited for a slap across the cheek or a slew of reprimands attacking everything from his physical appearance to his audacity to speak. His father didn’t like when Jafar spoke to people, for they had a tendency to listen.
