And I was just a discarded Djinni’s daughter from a dead-end desert town who was scraping tricks from the bottom of the barrel. I heard it again, that voice at the back of my head, getting louder every day that the eyes of the Rebellion turned to me for orders I didn’t want to give. And answers I didn’t have. Who did I think I was to face this man, the descendant of conquerors and legends?

‘And who’s this?’ The Sultan’s eyes skated to Hala, who was still holding the illusion of looking like Leyla in everyone’s minds. Though not doing a good enough job of it to fool the princess’s father. I hadn’t counted on it fooling him. It didn’t need to. It was enough that it had tricked the people.

‘Does it matter?’ I dropped the knife and the pretence, although Hala didn’t discard the illusion right away, still wearing Leyla’s face. ‘Everyone thinks I walked in here with your daughter. And now I reckon it would be a good idea for you if they saw Fariha walk out. Or else some folks are bound to wonder why their Sultan doesn’t seem to be a man of his word now he’s got his daughter back.’

I hated the slow, wry smile that spread over his face, the one Jin had inherited from him. I hated that as I saw it, I realised I had wanted it. That some part of me had wanted to impress him by pulling off this trick. I had cared that he understood that I knew he was toying with us by killing those girls. Some part of me even wanted praise for playing my own game right back.

‘There were easier ways than this, of course.’ The Sultan took a step towards us, his four Abdals following in one perfectly timed military step, forcing the crying girl forwards. I resisted the urge to take a step back. We couldn’t move from here, not if we wanted at least a chance at getting out alive. ‘Someone must have suggested returning Leyla to me dead.’ He was using that infuriatingly patient voice, like he was my father teaching me something that was very important for me to understand.

Hala helpfully raised her hand. ‘Oh, believe me, I did. So, so many times.’ The illusion changed in the blink of an eye, the way a scene changed without explanation in a nightmare. She wasn’t a living, breathing Leyla any more but Leyla’s body, hanging from the ceiling with a long red rope, just like the three girls who hung from the walls of the palace, her feet scraping along the tiles below her as she swung. But the Sultan just stared dispassionately at the illusion. It didn’t matter how real it appeared, it wasn’t enough to move him. Instead, his attention turned back to me.

‘You had good counsel. And you didn’t listen.’ He sounded like he’d expected as much. As if he’d had absolutely no fear of his daughter dying at my hands. ‘That’s why you lost, you know – trying to play at heroes.’

‘We haven’t lost yet.’ I meant to fire it back at him, but I knew I sounded like a child stomping my foot. And he was baiting me into delays. Almost baiting me into telling him our secret: that Ahmed was still alive. We were running out of time. The day was nearly finished breaking. The dawn bells would start soon – our signal for Sam to get us out of here. And we needed to get the girl out first. ‘Now, I’m going to ask you again: let Fariha go, for your own good.’

There was a long moment of silence as the Sultan considered me. I could almost hear the moments dropping away, sand running too quickly through the hourglass. Counting down the precious seconds until we would be pulled out of here, leaving Fariha behind. Then, finally, he nodded, conceding a small loss to my move. ‘Release her,’ he commanded the Abdal. Immediately its metal hands loosened. The girl stumbled out of the machine’s grasp, eyes wide and terrified. And then she ran, bolting towards the door and safety.

I’d meant to keep my eyes on the Sultan. But I couldn’t help it. I had to watch her go. I turned my head just a little, to see her step over the threshold to safety. It was a mistake. I knew it as soon as I heard the click, like a bullet slipping into place before it shoots you.

My head snapped around to see a small sphere, no bigger than a child’s ball but made of metal and gears, roll towards us, coming alive with a sickening whirring noise. It was one of Leyla’s inventions.

I was reaching for my gun when the explosion came. Not of fire and gunpowder, of dust. Suddenly a grey cloud enveloped us. I inhaled before I could think better of it and tasted the metallic tang. I realised what it was, even as I glanced over at Hala and saw her as she was, all illusions gone, just a golden-skinned girl doubled over, coughing violently.

Iron dust. It was a bomb of iron dust that the Sultan had thrown at us, draining our powers for as long as any of it clung to our skin, our tongues, our throats.

‘Hold them,’ he ordered, and I heard the whirr of the Abdals as they started to move. I yanked my sheema up quickly, shielding myself from inhaling any more and covering my eyes as best I could. I might be powerless for now, but I hadn’t come unarmed either.

I saw a glint of bronze through the cloud of dust, and I dived, knife in hand, swinging for the heel. The blade plunged through soft bronze, mangling the word below that powered the Abdal, sending it slumping over. I felt a metal hand on my shoulder. I moved like Shazad had taught me. I wasn’t nearly as good with a knife as she was, but I had the upper hand just long enough to slice the Abdal’s arm open savagely before I yanked my gun out of its holster and shot the mechanical solder in the foot. It collapsed as I rounded away from it, pushing my way out of the cloud of iron dust.