“Why did they give you a pipe? Did they know it was magic?”
If Aladdin had known what it was capable of, he never would have given it—or As’ad—up.
“None of us knew it was magic. I think I got it because I was the only musician in the group.”
“Ah. That makes sense.”
They walked in silence for a little bit while she chewed on what he had given her. He tried to appreciate the slow cloud that drifted over the sun and provided some relief, even as his not-quite-buried anxiety that the gang would seek him out someday nibbled at his tranquility.
“Then what?”
With difficulty, As’ad escaped the memories that had been tugging him into a bleak place. “What do you mean?”
Rahma narrowed her eyes at him for a second, then clarified in a deliberately light tone, “What happened after you got the pipe?”
“Oh. Right.” He shook his head as though the physical action could loosen the pesky thoughts. Then he had to shake his curls back out of his eyes. Annoyingly, it was nearly time for a haircut.
“Um . . . I left that gang and found my own way.”
“You said something earlier about stumbling onto the magic of the pipe,” Rahma said slowly, as though working it out. “Which means you didn’t start working the rat con immediately. How did you feed yourself?”
His throat felt clogged, so he swallowed, then swallowed again when it didn’t work the first time. “Oh, you know. I, uh, ran some other—scams. That I learned. In my time with . . . them.” His halting explanation was a jumbled mess of half-connected phrases.
Rahma had pity on him and let it slide. They walked quietly for a good ten minutes. Since they were moving almost due south, the jungle of the border region was easier to see on the horizon. As’ad focused on the distant greenery.
In keeping with Rahma’s character, the peace didn’t last. She still had questions about his past, but she approached it from an angle that As’ad didn’t mind exploring.
“So you must have had rats before this set, correct?” She glanced toward the back of the handcart, even though she couldn’t see any of his pets. “Rats don’t live that long, do they?”
She asked gently, and As’ad knew that she wasn’t prying to be mean.
“That’s true,” he said. “I’ve heard they live to be about two-to-four years old, though none of mine have hit that mark yet.”
Her next question was almost tentative. “How long have you had this batch?”
“Fat Carl is the oldest. He is . . .” As’ad paused as he thought. “Eighteen months old? I think that’s right.”
“Oh.”
“Khudha, Alzali, and Qamar came from the same litter. They are right around one year old.”
“What about your brown-and-white speckled beauties?”
He smiled, thinking of his affectionate cuddlers. “Sarir and Yasruhk came to me about seven months ago. They were the only survivors of a flooded wadi.”
“From what you said earlier, it sounds like you aren’t trying to breed more—”
“You mean like an army?” he teased.
She wrinkled her nose at him. “That’s not what I was getting at. I was just wondering— Um . . .”
As’ad had pity on her. “You want to know how I find replacements when they die?”
“Well, I was trying to ask more compassionately.” She sounded frustrated with herself.
“It’s fine.” And, to his surprise, it really was fine. “My particular pets are pretty good at discovering wild rats. They stick close to me in general, but their behavior changes when others are nearby. At this time, I’m not looking for any new friends, so I ignore them. When . . . our numbers dwindle, I pay more attention and see if any of the wild rats are young enough to be trained.”
Rahma nodded thoughtfully. “Will you tell me about the ones you used to have, the ones that came before? Your past rats? I mean,” she rushed to add, “I’m not trying to bring up painful memories. I can tell you really love your furry friends, so I was trying to give you an opportunity to talk about them.”
