Page 25 of The Wishless Ones
The three of them turned to the shopkeeper, a tall and slender woman, her lips bright as Iago’s feathers. She seemed unbothered by the heat in the tight space, but Jafar was starting to grow a little faint.
“We are only looking,” Jafar said.
“Our mother might need help, though,” Rohan said, and pointed to where the crowds were the thickest. “She’s over there.”
The moment she turned away, Rohan began rolling up the ink-black robes.
“What are you doing?” Jafar asked.
“Hurrying up,” Rohan said, shoving the bundle against Jafar.
Jafar glanced at the shopkeeper in alarm, but she was pressing deeper into the crowd, her voice rising above the din. He couldn’t protest now that their countdown had begun, and besides, the robeswereexquisite. If he pilfered a new headdress in a deep shade of crimson while he was at it, oh, it was only because he was passing time until Rohan picked out his own clothes.
“Uh, boys?” Iago asked from atop Jafar’s shoulder. “We have a bit of a problem.”
Jafar followed Iago’s line of sight. The shopkeeper was coming their way, and she didn’t look too happy. Jafar slipped his hands and the robes behind him, pressing back against the shelves with various decorations for sale.
“I didn’t see your mother,” the woman said, a little suspicious.
Rohan fumbled. “Are you—”
“She might have left without us, then,” Jafar replied, oozing dismay. “I told her we needed new clothes for my brother’s betrothal, but she rarely takes him seriously. We’ll go find her, though.”
Jafar was proud of himself when sympathy softened the woman’s features. Another beat more, and they would have been free.
If Rohan hadn’t failed.
He dropped the robes he’d chosen for himself.
The shopkeeper looked at the pile of clothes at his feet and then behind him, where the robes had been hanging neatly, realization slowly dawning on her face. Jafar met her eyes with a guilty laugh.
She didn’t waste a beat. “Guards!”
Of course a store like this would have its own guards.
“Run!” Jafar shouted. He tossed the dropped robes at Rohan and darted for the exit, squeezing between two burly men who had just stepped inside. He shoved the door open with his shoulder and leaped into the street, sinking into the sand before he found the paved road. Rohan was on his heels. Iago took to the skies. Shouts rang out behind them. Jafar ducked past a sweep of fabric draped over a stall and glanced back, heart dropping to his feet.
An entireplatoonof guards was on their tail.
While Rohan bounded after Jafar, he thought about those qatayef again, mostly to keep his mind preoccupied, but also because he truly couldn’t stop thinking about them. The pistachios were crunchy, the ashta cream thick and dreamy with just the right sweetness, the coned pancakes soft and fluffy. Food had a way of settling his nerves. This place did, too.
The beauty and wonder and magnitude of this kingdom had given him the confidence to act like his brother, to be more brazen and bold. But he’d still gone and ruined it.
“This is going great, isn’t it?” Iago simply could not let Rohan linger in his own thoughts. It was impossible enough that he was a talking parrot, but to talk more than the average human? Sorcery, really.
They ran, boots beating the sandy ground. The people meandering through the bazaar fled, dispersing like a bag of marbles as Rohan and Jafar neared. A spear slammed into the bench beside them. Rohan yelped.
“What are they, clothes made of gold?” Iago exclaimed.
“This is all your fault, Rohan,” Jafar yelled back, but he was laughing. They wrenched to a halt when they came to a crossroads where throngs of people were pulling carts or children, carrying produce or their own purses.
“Which way do we go?” Rohan asked.
“You were the one studying that map,” Jafar sputtered.
“I—I did,” Rohan stammered out. He shoved the robes under his arm and pulled the map out of his pocket, trying to make sense of it. But his hands were shaking too hard and his brain was in a frenzy as the guards clamored behind them. “Let’s go—”
“Right,” Iago squawked.
