Page 3 of The Wishless Ones
Jafar, conversely, barely touched the food. He poured himself water, then tilted his glass to and fro in a ray of afternoon light, deep in thought. Some days, Rohan thought Jafar ate less than the parrot the two of them had gifted Baba months ago, the thing that did nothing but mimic anyone and anything all day long.
“Have you”—Jafar’s voice caught for the barest instant, imperceptible to anyone but Rohan—“heard from any messengers today?”
Baba finished chewing, and then put more food in his mouth, letting Jafar’s question hang in the air between them for no reason at all. Jafar pretended not to care. Rohan wished they could have a nice meal for once.
“About?” Baba asked, a notch colder, no doubt anticipating that Jafar would ask about his newest trade route or his latest agreement with yet another tribe. Once Mama died, Baba had thrown himself into his business, pushing himself to great lengths to become the merchant he was today.
Jafar had a great deal of opinionated input about every aspect of it, some of which Rohan had overheard and thought made very good sense, but Baba was, well, Baba. He was one of those people who believed wisdom only came with age, and thought being older was synonymous with being an elder.
In short, he wasn’t fond of Jafar’s ideas.
“My scholarship,” Jafar said at last, with a cautious glance at Baba.
Fortunately, it seemed Jafar wasn’t interested in discussing business—and having a fight—today.
But Baba wasn’t paying him any attention, still chewing away while eyeing the spread around them with far more interest than an ordinary lunch warranted.
He finally swallowed, his mouth dipping into a slight frown: the barest display of concern. “I don’t believe so.”
The concern was gone in an instant, leaving one to wonder if Baba had ever cared to begin with. And when Rohan looked at Jafar, he paused. Perhaps it was the glare of the sun through the window making it hard to see, but Rohan thought he saw that same darkness in his brother again. A darkness that made Jafar look cold, distant, almost evil.
That expression was partly the reason why Rohan had his own qualms about Jafar’s scholarship, but he felt for his brother just then. It was maddening to witness a fractured relationship that could so easily sing with perfection—for Jafar never asked for much, nor had Mama. Rohanhimselfnever asked for much.
“I see,” Jafar said, disappointment wrapped in the terse delivery of the words.
Baba was set in his ways, and slowly, Jafar was cementing his own. Rohan would simply do what he could before it was too late.
“I must say this lamb is perfectly”—Rohan began cheerily but faltered when Jafar set his glass down with a resounding thud—“tender.”
“Baba?” Jafar said. Rohan recognized that tone and braced himself. “Isn’t your meeting about that new deal happening today?”
The words were bait, and Rohan swallowed, knowing Baba could not resist.
“It is,” Baba replied, oozing with pride. “I’ll be securing a new trade route and a new line of coin by the next moon.”
“It’s between you and the son of the Bani Jari chief, isn’t it?” Jafar asked, a level calm settling over his voice. The Bani Jari tribe, Rohan racked his brain to remember, was as unforgiving and relentless as the desert heat.
“The son?” Baba scoffed. “Why, were you hoping to school me in the fact the son is immovable and hates every part of this? I know. Just as I know that the father is too senile and too tired to do anything but agree with our terms. It’s especially helpful, as the proposal can only be touched by the chief and me and is soon to be signed for posterity.”
“I never school you, Baba,” Jafar said softly. A stranger might have mistaken his tone for chagrin, but Rohan knew better. It was a sardonic sort of gentle. Almost pitiful.
Baba knew better, too. His nostrils flared, his right eye twitched.
Jafar’s strength lived and breathed in his brain, which was evident in the way he’d helped route trade lines, how he’d suggested a strategy cleverer than brute force during a skirmish, how he’d formulated a method to keep perishable goods cool for longer periods of time by hanging damp reeds. Baba’s business could never have grown to what it was without Jafar, and Baba’s sin was that he never once appreciated Jafar’s insight.
Jafar didn’t give Baba time to explode. “I read the proposal, Baba. I’ve never seen anything more inclined to fail.”
Baba recoiled as if Jafar had slapped him.
“It’s riddled with holes, the largest of which is the fact that the chief of the Bani Jari and his son share the same name, so the moment the elder dies, the son will renege on your deal and you’ll be left to pick up the pieces.
“Your men should have seen that,” Jafar continued, “because now you won’t be securing anything. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the son took matters into his own hands and buried his father already.” Jafar leaned back and tossed a cube of halloumi into his mouth, unfazed by Baba’s temper quickly shifting from its usual simmer well nigh to boiling. “You’ll have to be more careful, Baba. Sons can be deadly sometimes.”
Rohan didn’t think commenting on the lamb would do any good just then.
A line pulsed in Baba’s jaw, and it was unclear if he had bitten down into a bone or if the sound was the grinding of his teeth. And then he rose and settled his problems the way he did best: with violence.
The sun had barely shifted after lunch when Jafar was thrown into the broom closet under the stairs, his face stinging with the shape of an angry palm. He wasn’t surprised his moment of calm with Baba had lasted so short a while.
