Aladdin steps behind a stack of rotting crates and holds up a fist to knock on a small wooden door. We wait in the darkness, breathing in the smell of baking bread, and beneath that, the stench of piss, rat, and simmon, a drug made from corris leaf. This last scent wafts out of the door before us, and when it opens suddenly, a wave of the smell washes over us.
The man behind the door is broader than he is tall, but every inch of him is muscle. Leather straps cross over his hairy chest, while his bald head glistens with sweat in the light of the lamp he holds.
“Two coppers,” he says in a bored tone, without looking up.
Aladdin clears his throat. The man glances at him, then straightens. “Oh. It’s you. Balls, boy, what happened to you? You look terrible.”
“Been traveling. What’re you doing out of prison, Balak? Thought you got ten years for that pig you stole.”
Balak grunts. “That pig they claimed I stole. The bastards can’t prove nothing. The Phoenix sprang me.”
Aladdin tenses slightly. “What, he’s still knocking around?”
“He loosed a bunch of us from the prison, those of us he thought were unjustly condemned. Petty thieves, debtors, and the like. Guards have rounded up a few of the fools not smart enough to stay low, but they won’t catch up with me again.”
“Did you see his face?” asked Aladdin. “Has anyone figured out who he is?”
“Never saw nothing but a shadow slipping by, unlocking the cells. He’d knocked out all the guards, cleared the way out. Nobody knows who he is, but he’s got the whole city singing his praises. Look there.” Balak points to a wall across the street, where a crude red flame has been recently painted. “Sign of the Phoenix. It’s like the whole bloody Tailor’s Rebellion all over again.” The man’s eyes widen, and he drops his gaze. “Sorry, lad.”
Aladdin shrugs. “Anyway, he’s an idiot. This so-called Phoenix will end up on the gallows before long, like all the other fools who think they can make a difference in this city.”
Balak laughs and steps aside to let us pass through the little door, then shuts it behind us.
We descend steep, narrow stairs in the dark, the smell of simmon and sweat growing stronger the deeper we get. The passage grows lighter, and the swell of voices reaches our ears. Aladdin pulls the hood of his cloak low over his face.
We step abruptly into a cavernous room packed wall to wall with sweating bodies. Braziers circling the wooden pillars give off acrid smoke that obscures the ceiling. The air is so thick with simmon that it is impossible to see the other end of the room. Aladdin takes my hand so that the press of bodies doesn’t pull us apart, and together we wind our way through the crowd. There are mostly men down here, and a few night women, all of them drunk or clouded by simmon, all of them sweating. With my free hand, I wrap a strip of black silk around my face, covering my mouth and nostrils in an attempt to block out the stench.
“Welcome to the Rings!” Aladdin calls over his shoulder. “Stay close.” Though we are inches apart, it is difficult to hear him over the sudden roar of the crowd. A potbellied man jostles me as he lifts his arms to cheer, and the blast of his odor leaves me gagging.
“For once I think I prefer my lamp,” I mutter.
A harried serving girl, dressed in little more than scraps of fabric that reveal her lithe figure, steps up to ask us what we want to drink. Then she does a double take and peers closer at Aladdin.
“You!” she hisses. “You were banned for life from this place! Ugh, Balak is the most worthless doorman I ever—”
“Quiet, Dal.” He tugs his hood lower. “I’m in disguise. Bring a flagon of the strongest liquid you have, will you?”
She purses her lips. “You have some nerve, thief, asking me for anything.”
Aladdin presses a coin into her hand and gives her a cocky grin. “Oh, come on. We had some good times, didn’t we?”
“I’d have a good time breaking this flagon over your head. Who is she? I’ve never seen her around before.” Dal looks me up and down, and I return her gaze coolly.
“She’s with me. New to town. I’m showing her around a bit.”
Dal rolls her eyes. “I’ve heard that line before.” She leans closer to me. “Here’s some advice, sister: Don’t waste your time on this one. He’s more trouble than he’s worth.”
“I think I’m starting to get what you mean,” I reply.
“All right, all right,” Aladdin interrupts, frowning. “We came here for drinks, not girl talk. What’s this?” He points to a red ribbon tied around her arm. “I’ve seen a couple of people wearing them since I got back.”
She puts her hand over it, her eyes flashing. “It’s a symbol, says I stand behind the Phoenix, and against injustice. You know they doubled taxes again yesterday? If you don’t pay, they either throw you in prison or take your property, if not both. They’re hanging people just for speaking out against it!”
Aladdin only grunts.
“I’d have thought you of all people would want to join up. Remember the plague in the eastern quarter? The guards quarantined it and were prepared to let all those people die? The Phoenix snuck in and gave medicine to all the sick. He saved hundreds of people. This is real, Aladdin. The Phoenix isn’t just another talker, he’s . . . well, he’s giving us hope. And it’s more than we’ve had since . . .” She gives him a long look, as if about to say more, but then she sighs and just shakes her head.
“Since my parents? You don’t have to dance around it, Dal. I know what you’re thinking, what all of you are thinking. I don’t want to talk about the damn Phoenix anymore,” Aladdin grumbles.
She snorts and turns away, pocketing the coin, then returns in moments with a bottle. “Your friend Xaxos was in here looking for you a few days back. Didn’t look too happy.”
Aladdin opens the wine. When he offers it to me I shake my head. “Old Xax?” he says casually. “I’ve got no business with him.”
“He’d disagree, I think. He said he hired you for a job—I didn’t need to ask to know what that meant. So you’re still up to your old tricks, then?” She shakes her head. “Anyway, he’s pretty angry with you. Said you pulled the job, then left town. Guards are hunting for a thief too. Offering a thousand gold crowns for his head.” She narrows her eyes. “Did you break into the palace, Aladdin?”
“A thousand crowns?” Aladdin gives a low whistle. “Nearly makes a man want to turn himself in.”
“Of all the stupid things . . .” Her eyes glowering, Dal gives us both a brief, sharp look before going to mop up someone’s spilled wine.
Aladdin finds a table near the central ring, where two men the size of bulls are grappling. One, whose neck is easily the size of my waist, is getting the upper hand. He’s stripped nearly bare, doused in oil to make him slippery. His head, bald but for a long black tail sprouting from the top, gleams like a boiled egg. His opponent, slightly smaller, is on the defensive, holding up his hands to block the bigger man’s blows.
Aladdin watches with disinterest and takes a long swig of wine.
“See that?” He runs his finger over the tabletop, where someone has carved a small symbol.
“It looks like a sewing needle,” I say.
He nods and drinks. His eyes are starting to get foggy from the wine. “Not just a needle. The Needle. The sign of a rebellion that started up years ago. This is where the leaders of the movement met. Here. At this table.”
He traces the needle with his thumbnail.
“My father was the Tailor,” he tells me. “I mean, he was just a tailor at first, but when I was a kid, he started running with these rebels. The king’s vizier was press-ganging peasants onto his warships, rowing them to their deaths in a mad attempt to rebuild the Amulen Empire of the past. My father and his friends protested by burning garrisons and guardhouses, stealing weapons, sabotaging ships.” Aladdin’s face darkens.
He leans back and pulls the coin from Neruby from his pocket. I hadn’t even noticed him pick it up. He flips it idly; on it flashes the face of a king who died so long ago, no one in this world would even know his name. “Eventually he got my mother to join in. Soon people were calling him the Tailor, and a reward was offered for his head. His needle became the rebellion’s symbol.”
I listen in silence, watching his hands. They’re clever hands, his nails neat, his fingers long and nimble. He spins the coin and catches it, over and over, as he talks.
“When I was twelve they caught him. Remember that prince in the desert, Darian? His father, our exalted Vizier Sulifer, held me and forced me to watch as my parents’ heads were cut from their shoulders. Darian was there. He laughed at me when I began to cry.” Aladdin makes the coin disappear up his sleeve, then takes a long drink of wine. “Afterward, Sulifer made me pick up their heads and hold them so he could drive stakes in them. He let them stand there in the city square for weeks.”
I lean back, my hands in my lap. “Why are you telling me all this?”
He shrugs and sniffs. “You wanted to know why I . . . almost wished for Darian’s death.” The wine is nearly gone, as are Aladdin’s wits. “Ever since I was young, people thought I’d be the next leader of the rebellion, that I’d rise up and fight. They think I should be the one out there breaking people out of prison and stopping bloody plagues. They think I’ve wasted my life, becoming a thief and a criminal. Well, I’ve no interest in fighting for lost causes that only get people killed. All I want is to avenge my parents, not start a war we can’t win.”
I lift my face. He’s staring at me with drunken intensity, his lips a thin line. “And now,” he goes on, “I find out I don’t even have the guts to go through with it. I had Darian right in front of me! And I couldn’t even . . . I failed them.”
With a sigh, I pull the half-empty flagon from his fingers, drinking simply so that he cannot. The wine is cheap but strong, burning my throat, though it will have no effect on my senses.
A roar from the ring next to us draws Aladdin’s attention. The fight has ended, and the smaller of the two men lies unconscious on the floor in a puddle of sweat and blood. The victor raises his beefy arms and bellows in triumph.
“Who will face Ukkad the Bull?” cries a ratty man who climbs into the ring. “Twenty gold pieces to the victor! Five to the loser!”
Aladdin starts to turn away, but then the crowd on the opposite side of the ring parts, and a fighter steps out and nimbly climbs into the small arena. A murmur of laughter ripples through the audience, and Aladdin rises to his feet, his eyes widening.
It’s a slender young woman of seventeen or so. She wears a simple top cropped just above her navel and a long linen sarong held up by a leather belt. The skirt exposes one long, athletic leg, and save for a simple gold chain around her ankle, her feet are bare. She sheds her cloak and drapes it neatly over the rope surrounding the ring and then stretches her arms in front of her and tips her head to each shoulder, cracking her neck. She is pretty, her thick dark hair tied back in a simple braid and her eyes entirely smeared with kohl so it looks as if she’s wearing a mask. She smiles at the Bull and bows, spreading her leather-wrapped hands wide.
I glance up at Aladdin and see his eyes alight with interest.
Aladdin waves Dal over. “Who is she?” he asks.
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know. Some East Sider, I’d guess. She’s been out here every night for two weeks, brawling and then vanishing. Doesn’t even collect her winnings.” Her tone turns sour. “I’d keep my distance if I were you. That one’s likely to break your arm if you anger her.”
The tendons in the Bull’s neck bulge as he turns red and roars, “Who makes a mockery of me? I came here to fight men, not little girls!”
The girl spits at the ground between them, still smiling. “So did I, but it seems we must both leave disappointed.”
The crowd gasps, and the Bull’s eyes nearly pop from his skull. Aladdin pushes through to the edge of the ring, and I scramble to keep up, looking wistfully toward the door, but it seems my master is intent on watching these events unfold. Resigned, I lean on one of the wooden posts supporting the rope perimeter and turn my attention back to the girl.
They have begun circling one another, their stances wide and tense, their eyes locked, but the Bull still seems hesitant, as if he thinks this is all a prank.
“You should go back to baking bread,” he says. “Or do you make your coin by warming beds? Perhaps once I’ve broken your pretty nose, I can use my winnings to have you warm mine.”
“I don’t go in for livestock,” she returns.
With a wordless roar, the Bull charges. The audience holds its breath. Aladdin tenses, an enthralled smile tugging at his lips.
For a moment it seems she is finished, but at the last moment the girl smoothly dances aside and drives her elbow into the Bull’s temple, knocking him off balance.
The crowd erupts back into life. The fights at the other rings have suspended, and now everyone is focused on the central match. Wagers are drawn—overwhelmingly in the Bull’s favor, but a few adventurous spirits bet on the girl. Aladdin’s hand goes to his pocket, and he pulls out the Nerubyan coin, thoughtfully considering.
“You wouldn’t,” I say.
“What? I like her style.”
“That coin is quite possibly the last remnant of a once-mighty civilization that existed for hundreds of—”
“A gold on the girl!” Aladdin calls, catching a bookmaker’s attention.
I sigh and turn back to the fight.
Around and around they dance. She is a mouse desperate to avoid the stamping feet of an elephant, and the longer she evades, the more tired she gets. The crowd is frantic now as more money is thrown on the Bull. Aladdin leans in and mutters, “Come on, come on . . .”
I notice a few faces across the arena that watch with silent intensity, their eyes filled with worry. All of them are girls the age of the young warrioress in the arena, and they are all dressed similarly.
Then the Bull hesitates, stopping to catch his breath, and the girl takes the chance to rest as well. She is standing directly in front of Aladdin and me, within arm’s reach. Bent over, her hands on her thighs, she gasps for air and drips sweat onto the sand.
Aladdin leans over the rope and whispers, “His right leg is slow. There’s a hitch every other step. If you’re quick . . .”
She looks over her shoulder, through strands of sweaty hair that have escaped her braid. “You betting on me, handsome?”
Aladdin grins. “You busy later?”
She shrugs and pops her knuckles, her eyes traveling over his shoulders and torso. “I think I could spare a minute.”
His grin widens, and the girl suddenly springs forward, sprinting toward the post behind the Bull. He snorts and moves to intercept her, but she is too quick for him. With a cry she leaps into the air, plants a foot on the pole, and pushes off, vaulting through the air toward her opponent. Before he can make a move, she connects feet-first with his face, snapping his head around with an audible crunch. As he shakes his head and sways on his feet, she bats away one of his halfhearted punches and throws her bare leg up and around his neck, the other leg following. With her ankles locked behind his head, she arches and twists herself, her momentum bringing the Bull crashing facedown to the ground. Quick as a snake she rolls free and rises, then plants a foot on the back of his meaty neck.
Aladdin nearly falls into the arena as he whistles and cheers, more than a little drunk, and the rest of the crowd descends into chaos as the fight concludes. The gamblers settle their debts, and the few lucky ones who bet on the girl grab their winnings and then wisely disappear before they can be mugged. Aladdin wins back his gold piece and a pile of silver.
“I’m going in! Wish me luck!” he says breathlessly, and he climbs over the
rope and joins the small crowd gathered around the girl, cheering her on and offering her drinks. I lean on the post and watch, shaking my head. Aladdin’s sorrows seem entirely forgotten.
Dal appears at my side, her hands full of empty cups. She gives me an appraising look with one eyebrow arched. “I know that look.”
“What look?”
“Don’t sweat it, sister. We’ve all had it.” She sighs. “The girls he loved and left.”
Irritably, I look away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.” Dal smiles sadly. “You can either hate him or accept that that’s just who he is. When Aladdin sets his heart on something—or someone—nothing can stop him from getting it. And when he does have it, he realizes it’s not what he wanted after all, and then something else will catch his eye, and off he goes again. Over and over. And here we are, the casualties.”
“I’m nobody’s casualty.”
Aladdin has made his way to the girl’s side and is chatting in her ear, crossing his muscular arms for her benefit. I can’t help rolling my eyes.
“She’s pretty,” says Dal. “And she’s tough. But she’s not what he wants. Not that he’ll believe that until after he’s won her.”
“And what does he want?” I turn and face the serving girl.
“The same thing we all want. He just won’t admit it.” I see longing in her eyes, and also anger, when she looks at Aladdin. “Freedom from the past.”
I watch the thief thoughtfully, my face softening.
The girl in the ring says something, and Aladdin laughs, his smile lighting up his face. He leans over and whispers in her ear, and she nods, then takes his hand and coyly leads him from the ring, dodging admirers.