“Baba Aziz! Why are you so late?” several children cried in discordant harmony.
Tariq’s eyes narrowed.
The flap of the tent opened, and an elderly woman with a beautiful braid of muted copper strode into the moonlight. “Omar-jan, where have you been? Your grandchildren are hungry, and your daughters are irritated, as a result.”
Omar smiled indulgently. “I’ve brought a guest. Can we make room for one more?”
She shot her eyes heavenward before shifting to Tariq. “And who are you, young man?”
“He is our nameless sahib. And my curious heart longs to hear his story. I believe it is a good one, Aisha. About love and its many struggles,” Omar answered with a wink.
She shook her head. “Well, bring him inside.”
Tariq continued staring at Omar, his suspicions rapidly reaching a logical conclusion. He dismounted from his horse.
“You are not a servant,” he said.
Omar turned back to Tariq. Again, his gap-toothed grin took over his weathered face. “Did I say I was?”
Tariq held Omar’s gaze. The guise of a silly old man had vanished in the lambent torchlight. In its place was a look of wisdom and mirth.
A look of cunning intelligence.
“Forgive the misunderstanding,” Omar continued.
Tariq snorted in disbelief. “There was no misunderstanding. I saw precisely what you wanted me to see.”
Omar laughed loudly. “Or perhaps you saw exactly what you wanted to see.”
Tariq knocked back his rida’ and stepped forward. “My name is Tariq.”
Omar’s bushy eyebrows rose in approval.
“And I am Omar al-Sadiq, the sixth sheikh of my line . . .”
He put his wrinkled palm out before him, and Tariq grasped it.
“Welcome to my home.”
THE PROMISE OF TOMORROW
TWO DAYS AFTER THE CALIPH RETURNED FROM Amardha, Shahrzad was ready to put her plan to action.
Enough was enough.
It did not matter that Musa-effendi had hinted about a tragic past.
It did not matter that this world was far from as simple as she might have thought.
And it absolutely did not matter that her heart was . . . misbehaving.
She had come to the palace with a clear purpose.
The Caliph of Khorasan had to die.
And she knew just how to do it.
• • •
She sat across from him in her chamber that night, eating grapes while he drank wine.
Biding time for the moment to strike.
“You’re very quiet,” he remarked.
“And you look very tired.”
“The journey from Amardha was not an easy one.”
She peered across the table into his tiger-eyes. The hollows beneath them were pronounced, and his bladed features seemed even more severe with such clear lines of fatigue at their edges. “But you came back over two days ago.”
“I haven’t slept well since I returned.”
“Would you rather not continue Aladdin’s tale? Perhaps you should sleep,” Shahrzad suggested.
“No. That’s not what I want. At all.”
She looked away, unable to hold his piercing gaze. “May I ask you something, sayyidi?”
“You may do as you please. And I will behave in a similar fashion.”
“Why did you go to Amardha?”
His eyebrows drew together. “I heard Jalal arranged for you to meet Musa Zaragoza. Undoubtedly, you learned interesting facts about my childhood while he was here. I assume you know about my mother now?”
“He told me about her, yes.”
“The Sultan of Parthia and I have a tacit agreement. Every six months or so, I go to see him and make veiled threats, posturing like a peacock in a show of force meant to dissuade him from suggesting I am not the rightful heir to the Caliphate of Khorasan.”
“Excuse me?” Shahrzad sputtered.
The caliph continued. “It’s logical, really. He openly calls my mother a whore. And everyone questions my parentage. Then he’s able to rally support and wage war for the caliphate. Only, he lacks the strength and the numbers to take a stand. And I intend to keep it that way.”
“He—would call your mother a whore?”
“It shouldn’t shock you. My father said as much to me. Many times.”
Shahrzad took a careful breath. “Did your father also question whether or not you were his son?”
The caliph raised the cup of wine to his lips and took a long sip.
“Again, it shouldn’t shock you.”
She almost wished she had misheard his words.
What kind of loveless childhood did he have?
“And this is normal to you?”
He set his cup down on the table. “I suppose I have a skewed understanding of the word.”
“Do you want me to pity you, sayyidi?”
“Do you want to pity me, Shahrzad?”
“No. I do not.”
“Then don’t.”
Frustrated, she snatched his cup from the table and drank what remained of its contents.
A corner of his lips rose ever so slightly.
The wine burned; she cleared her throat and set the goblet before her. “By the way, I’ve decided how you can make amends. If you’re still willing, of course.”
He leaned back into the cushions, waiting.
She took a deep breath, preparing to spring her trap. “Remember last night, when Aladdin saw the princess in disguise, roaming the city streets?”