Page 18 of The Wishless Ones
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.
Hewas Jafar’s brother.Hewas 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, nothimself. 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.
