Rebel of the Sands

“What were you doing on a ship?”

“Sailing.” I could feel the restlessness building below my fingers. He let out a long breath that seemed to make the bird fly. I pulled my hand away and felt him ease.

“I don’t think the bullet tore any muscles in your shoulder,” I said, moving the knife. “Hold still.” I leaned my elbows into his sides for support. He had a tattoo of a compass across his other shoulder; it rose and fell against me as he breathed heavily. The bullet pinged to the ground and blood started to gush freely. I pressed the ruined shirt over it quickly with one hand. “You need stitches.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe, but you’ll be better with stitches.”

He laughed, but it didn’t sound easy. “You’ve had medical training, then?”

“No,” I said, pressing the rag soaked in liquor against his back harder than I needed to. I grabbed a spool of ugly yellow thread and a needle off the shelf. “But you don’t grow up round these parts without seeing a few dozen people get shot.”

“I didn’t think there were more than a few dozen people in this town.”

“Exactly,” I said, and though I couldn’t see his face, I knew he was smiling. His fingernails dug into the floor as the needle slid into his skin. A question was building like an itch, and I had to ask. “So how did you commit treason against the Sultan when you’re not even from Miraji?”

“I was born here,” he said after a moment. He knew that wasn’t what I’d been asking. What kind of treason can a mercenary possibly commit? The question was on the tip of my tongue.

“You don’t look it,” I said instead.

“Not here. In Izman.” Mention of the capital struck too close to the bone just now, when I’d been so close to getting there last night. “Though my mother was from a country called Xicha. That’s where I lived most of my life.”

“What’s it like there?”

He was silent, and I was sure he wasn’t going to tell me.

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen a rainstorm,” he said, “so you don’t know that kind of heavy air that clings to your skin and gets its fingers under your clothes.” My eyes went to my own fingers against his naked back; his shoulders rose and fell as he spoke. “The air in Xicha is like that all the time. And everything is as green and alive as this country is dry and dead. The bamboo grows so fast, it might uproot houses someday. Even in the city. Like it’s trying to take the ground we’ve built on back from us. And it’s so hot, the women walk around with paper fans colorful enough to make the spirits jealous. We used to cool off by jumping in the sea fully clothed and trying not to get hit by any ships. Ships from all over the world. Albish ones with naked sea maids carved into them, and Sves ones built against the cold. And Xichian ones that looked like dragons, carved out of a single tree. Some of the trees in Xicha are taller than the towers in Izman.”

“Don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what you’re doing here?” I asked. “If Xicha is so wonderful?”

“Don’t suppose I am,” he replied, wincing as the needle went through his skin. “Don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what made you lie to our friend Commander Naguib Al’Oman for me?”

“Don’t suppose so.” My needle paused in his skin. “Naguib Al’Oman?” They were both common names, but all the same. “He’s the Sultan’s son?”

“How is it you know that?” His head dipped a little, breath deepening as I pushed the last stitch in.

“Everybody knows the story of the Rebel Prince. And the other princes who competed in the Sultim trials.”

The story went that when Sultan Oman was still new to the throne, one of his prettiest wives gave him a son, Ahmed. A strong and clever boy, and even as the Sultan’s harem grew and more wives gave him more sons, Ahmed was much in the favor of his father. Three years later, the same wife gave birth to a daughter, but not to an infant, to a monster half human and half Djinni, with scales instead of skin and claws instead of fingers and horns growing from its purple head. Seeing that his wife had betrayed him by lying with an immortal Djinni, the Sultan beat her until she died. The same night the monster child and Ahmed disappeared.

Fourteen years later, the time for the trials came. It was the way the Sultim, the successor to the throne, had been chosen since Miraji began. As per tradition, the twelve eldest princes were to compete for the crown.

That was just over a year ago. My mother was still alive. And when news of the trials reached Dustwalk, even men who’d tell you gambling was a sin started placing bets on which of the young princes would win the throne.

On the day of the contest, the twelve sons lined up and the whole city gathered to watch. Then a thirteenth man joined the princes. When he pulled back his hood, he was the picture of Sultan Oman as a younger man and no one could deny his claim that he was Prince Ahmed, returned. No matter what suspicions surrounded the sudden return of the prince, the law of tradition was upheld. Prince Ahmed would compete, and the youngest of the twelve princes was expelled from the contest. That prince was named Naguib. I knew the name because when folks were betting on the Sultim trials, before the news about the Rebel Prince came, odds were that Naguib would get killed first in the trial. His prodigal brother might’ve saved Naguib’s life by getting him expelled.