That stung.

‘The Tailor Abdul’ was a story about a man who was too picky with his wives. He married his first wife because her face was so lovely. He married his second because her body was desirable; and the third because she had such a good heart. But he bemoaned that his first wife was cruel, that his second wife had an unsightly face, and that his third wife had an ugly body.

And so he hired the tailor Abdul to make him the perfect wife. The skilled tailor did as he was told without objection. He sewed the first wife’s head onto the body of the second wife, and then he sewed the good heart of the third wife into the body so neatly that he didn’t even scar her perfect chest. What was left of the women was tossed out into the desert. In the end the wives got their revenge, as the husband was eaten alive by a Skinwalker who wore all the discarded pieces of his wives.

I stopped my hand from drifting to the marks on my arms. I was a Demdji, a soldier of the Rebellion, the Blue-Eyed Bandit. I’d faced a whole lot worse than bratty harem girls.

But Kadir only smiled. ‘In that case, she was tailored for me.’

‘It looks more like he made her for the menagerie,’ another girl started, failing to read her Sultim’s mood. ‘Or he mixed her arms up with a monkey’s.’ The girls’ titters burst into laughter. But they had lost the Sultim’s attention. He pushed himself to his feet, almost spilling the girl in his lap off him.

‘You look Mirajin.’ The spark of interest in his voice was dangerous as he closed the short distance between us. ‘It’s so rare they’re able to bring me Mirajin girls. Your kind are my favourites, though. You’re western Mirajin, I suppose.’ I didn’t answer. He didn’t seem to need me to. He grabbed my chin, tilting my face to catch the light and looking me over like a merchant might look at a horse. I would’ve hit him but the Sultan’s orders kept my hands at my sides. ‘At least my brother’s rebellion is good for something. Wars mean more prisoners.’

It had long been known that the harem was a dangerous place to be. I’d heard in the days of Sultan Oman’s father some women did come to him by choice. But more were prisoners of war. Slaves bought from foreign shores. Women captured off ships like Jin’s mother. Now we had a war in Miraji. That would mean more slavers taking advantage of the chaos to take Mirajin women.

‘Has the blessed Sultima even seen you yet?’ the girl who’d been displaced from her Sultim’s lap called out, trying to regain his attention.

‘All the new girls for the Sultim are meant to be seen by the Sultima,’ the petite cohort agreed, like she was parroting something someone else had said.

‘Yes, she needs to deem you worthy.’ The girl who’d been at his feet butted in, too, eager to please.

‘Or not worthy.’ The pout-lipped girl smirked.

‘Be quiet, Ayet, there’s no need to disturb the Sultima.’ The Sultim’s hand left my face, travelling down my neck, across my collarbone, making my skin crawl.

‘She is off-limits.’ The servant with me spoke up just as Kadir’s hand reached the border of the white linen sheet that covered me. She had the clipped, matronly tone of a mother without much patience. The Sultim opened his mouth with a dismissal that never came as she cut across him. ‘Your father’s orders.’

Mention of the Sultan drew Kadir’s hand up short. For a second he seemed to blaze with defiance. And then it was gone, covered as he dropped his arm and shrugged, brushing past me instead, like that was what he’d intended to do all along. His wives gathered themselves up, following him. Ayet’s eyes dropped to Shazad’s discarded khalat as she passed. So fine a few days ago at the wedding. Before we were attacked. Before I was kissed and kidnapped and cut into. But still beautiful. Her left foot caught the fabric, flicking it and sending it flying into one of the pools, soaking the fabric through.

‘Oops.’ Ayet flashed me her teeth. ‘Sorry.’ She flicked one last droplet off her hair at me as she left, followed by a burst of giggles and whispers that bounced off the walls of the baths.

I felt the back of my neck go hot.

When Ahmed took this palace, I was going to burn the harem to the ground.

Chapter 17

The harem stripped me of the desert.

The attendants dumped water over my head and scrubbed at my skin until it was screaming and raw. Until they’d robbed me of the skin that’d been caked with sand and blood and sweat and gunpowder and fire and Jin’s hands.

They pulled me out of the steaming water. I let one of the girls wrap me in a big, dry linen sheet and lay me down gently next to the bath. Something warm dripped across my skin, like oil. It smelled of flowers I didn’t know. The other girl ran a comb through my hair, scraping gently at my scalp.

I’d spent my whole life fighting. Fighting to stay alive in Dustwalk as the girl with the gun. Fighting to escape death in that dead-end desert town. Fighting to get across the desert. The Blue-Eyed Bandit. Fighting for Ahmed. For the Rebellion. A new dawn. A new desert.

But as the comb scraped through my hair over and over again, I wasn’t sure I had any fight left in me.

I let sleep claim me.

Tomorrow. I’d fight tomorrow.

*

It didn’t take a whole lot of time for me to figure out that the harem was full of invisible chains and walls meant to look like they weren’t there.

It felt like a maze, designed to turn me around, over and over, until I wasn’t sure how I’d come in or if there was a way out any more. There were dozens of gardens, which fit together like honeycombs. Some of them were plain stretches of grass, with a single fountain gushing endless water and pillows scattered throughout. Others were so thick with flowers and vines and sculptures I couldn’t even see the walls any more. But the walls were always there.