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your sons. Omirr will make a fine soldan-shah someday.” She meant it sincerely. “I want your sons, and mine, to grow up and prosper.”

4 Olabar Harbor
    Saan's little brother loved the colorful ships in the Olabar harbor, the merchants who hawked exotic items from far-off soldanates, and the fishermen who dumped their catch into marketplace tubs. As seabirds wheeled overhead, he kept a firm grip on the six-year-old's pudgy hand and led him through the bustling crowds. “Let's go sit out at the end of the docks.”
    Zarif Omirr was a scrappy boy with his playmates in the soldan-shah's palace, but he minded Saan. The boy knew full well that bad behavior would result in a day of lessons in his stuffy rooms rather than exploring the city.
    The two walked to the end of the wharf and sat on the weathered planks, letting their feet dangle above the water. The low tide had left seaweed and barnacles exposed on the pilings. The brothers wore plain clothes, since Saan did not want to draw attention to himself or to the young zarif.
    Back in the palace, advisers complained that Saan was endangering the soldan-shah's heir every time he took the boy into the city. (Naturally, the complainers weren't worried that
Saan
might encounter an accident, since they had never considered him to be Omra's real son.) For years now, however, Kel Rovic, the captain of the palace guard, had trained Saan in self-defense and a variety of fighting techniques. Saan was handy—maybe even a bit cocky—with both a curved sword and short dagger, and he could protect Omirr as well as any uniformed guard. The zarif also had basic training in simple defensive maneuvers.
    While his little brother sucked on a hard lump of date-sugar bought from a merchant stall, Saan pointed to the bright green sail of an approaching ship. “That one's a merchant vessel, probably from Kiesh. And that one”—he pointed to a blocky and much dirtier vessel that was tying up at a far pier—“an ore carrier from Gremurr, just sailed across the Middlesea.”
    “I like the red sails best,” Omirr decided.
    “Those are from Sioara.” Saan himself had traveled west to Sioara and all the way east to Kiesh, and many points in between, but never all the way to Ishalem, where the soldan-shah had been for the past month. Since he had no place in government activities, Saan wanted to be a sea captain. Someday, he was sure his father would grant him any ship he wished, and then he'd sail far from here.
    Omirr grew restless as soon as he finished his sugar lump. Saan playfully yanked the boy back to his feet and swung him by his arms. “Enough for today. Come on.” The two wound their way back through the crowded souks, heading home to the palace. In midafternoon, the crowded buildings cast lengthening shadows.
    Navigating the convoluted alleys was more of a challenge than threading the sand shoals off the coast of northern Abilan, but Saan had grown up here in Olabar. He knew the meandering spice merchants' street, the threadmaker's alley, the streets filled with goldsmiths, jewelers, woodcarvers, and potters. They passed booths with henna painters and tattoo artists, rug weavers, ceramic makers, bone carvers. Winding past the noisome tannery district, the two held sprigs of fresh mint to their noses to mask the smell, and then Saan took the boy on a zigzag course to streets filled with vendors of dates, olives, and palm wine, as well as fishmongers and men with caged pigeons or chickens. It was an endless fascinating parade of sounds, colors, and smells.
    The two men thought Saan didn't see them as they darted out from a blind alley that smelled of garbage, but he spotted the figures out of the corner of his eye. The pair tracked them with painfully obvious furtiveness, stopping at occasional intervals, pretending to peruse spices or jars of olives, then moving on, casually closing the gap.
    Saan picked up the pace, careful not to let the little zarif notice his concern. With his