Traitor to the Throne

The legend of the Blue-Eyed Bandit had grown along with the tale of Fahali, until I was a story that I didn’t wholly recognise. It claimed that the Blue-Eyed Bandit was a thief instead of a rebel. That I tricked my way into people’s beds to get information for my Prince. That I’d killed my own brother on the battlefield. I hated that one the most. Maybe because there’d been a moment, finger on the trigger, where it was almost true. And I had let him escape. Which was almost as bad. He was out there somewhere with all of that power. And, unlike me, he didn’t have any other Demdji to help him.

Sometimes, late at night, after the rest of the camp had gone to sleep, I’d say out loud that he was alive. Just to know whether it was true or not. So far I could say it without hesitation. But I was scared that there would come a day when I wouldn’t be able to any more. That would mean it was a lie, and my brother had died, alone and scared, somewhere in this merciless, war-torn desert.

‘If she’s as dangerous as they say, we ought to kill her,’ someone called from the crowd. It was a man with a bright yellow military sash across his chest that looked like it’d been stitched back together from scraps. I noticed a few were wearing those. These must be the newly appointed guard of Saramotai, since they’d gone and killed the real guard. He was holding a gun. It was pointed at my stomach. Stomach wounds were no good. They killed you slowly.

‘But if she’s the Blue-Eyed Bandit, she’s with the Rebel Prince.’ Someone else spoke up. ‘Doesn’t that mean she’s on our side?’ Now, that was the million-fouza question.

‘Funny way to treat someone on your side.’ I shifted my bound hands pointedly. A murmur went through the crowd. That was good; it meant they weren’t as united as they looked from the outside of their impenetrable wall. ‘So if we’re all friends here, how about you untie me and we can talk?’

‘Nice try, Bandit.’ Hossam gripped me tighter. ‘We’re not giving you a chance to get your hands on a gun. I’ve heard the stories of how you killed a dozen men with a single bullet.’ I was pretty sure that wasn’t possible. Besides, I didn’t need a gun to take down a dozen men.

It was almost funny. They’d used rope to tie me. Not iron. If ever there was iron touching my skin, I was as human as they were. So long as there wasn’t, I could raise the desert against them. Which meant I could do more damage with my hands tied than I ever could with a gun in them. But damage wasn’t the plan.

‘Malik should decide what we do with the Bandit anyway.’ The serious-eyed man rubbed his hand over his chin nervously as he mentioned their self-appointed leader.

‘I do have a name, you know,’ I offered.

‘Malik isn’t back yet,’ the same one who’d been pointing the gun at me snapped. He seemed like the tense sort. ‘She could do anything before he gets back.’

‘It’s Amani. My name, that is.’ No one was listening. ‘In case you were wondering.’ This arguing might go on for a while. Ruling by committee never went quick. It barely ever worked at all.

‘Then lock her away until Malik gets here,’ a voice from somewhere in the back of the crowd called.

‘He’s right,’ another voice called from the other side, another face I couldn’t see. ‘Throw her in jail where she can’t make any trouble.’

A ripple of agreement spread through the crowd. Finally the man with sad eyes jerked his head in a sharp nod.

The crowd parted hastily as Hossam started to pull me through. Only they didn’t move very far. Everyone wanted to get a look at the Blue-Eyed Bandit. They stared and jostled for space as I was pulled past them. I knew exactly what they were seeing. A girl younger than some of their daughters, with a split lip and dark hair stuck to her face by blood and sweat. Legends were never what you expected when you saw them up close. I was no exception. The only thing that made me any different from every other skinny, dark-skinned desert girl was eyes that burned a brighter blue than the midday sky. Like the hottest part of a fire.

‘Are you one of them?’ It was a new voice, rising shrill above the din of the crowd. A woman with a yellow sheema shoved to the front. The cloth was stitched with flowers that almost matched my eyes. There was a desperate urgency in her face that made me nervous. There was something about the way she said them. Like she might mean Demdji.

Even folk who knew about Demdji couldn’t usually pick me out as one. We children of Djinn and mortal women looked more human than most folk reckoned. Hell, I’d even fooled myself for near seventeen years. Mostly I didn’t look unnatural, just half-foreign.

My eyes were what gave me away, but only if you knew what you were looking for. And it seemed like this woman did.

‘Hossam.’ The woman staggered to keep up as he dragged me through the streets. ‘If she’s one of them, she’s worth just as much as my Ranaa. We could trade her instead. We could—’

But Hossam shoved her aside, letting her be swallowed back into the crowd as he dragged me deeper into the city.

The streets of Saramotai were as narrow as they were ancient, forcing the crowd to thin and then dissipate as we moved. Walls pressed close around us in the lengthening shadows, tight enough in some places that my shoulders touched on both sides. We passed between two brightly painted houses with their doors blown in. Gunpowder marks on walls. Boarded-up entryways and windows. There were more and more marks of war the further we walked. A city where the fighting had come from inside, instead of beyond the walls. I supposed that was called a rebellion.