Wajed gave him a grim nod. “It had to be. A Geziri man; we only let our own near those blades.” He crossed his arms over his massive chest. “They must have been stolen from the Citadel, but I suspect the rest were bought from smugglers.” He met Ali’s horrified gaze. “There were three other crates like this one.”
Beside him, Muntadhir exhaled. “What in God’s name were they planning to do with all this?”
“I’m not sure,” Wajed admitted. “They could have armed a few dozen shafit men at most. No real match for the Royal Guard, but—”
“They could have murdered a score of people shopping in the Grand Bazaar,” the king cut in. “They could have lain in wait outside the Daevas’ temple on one of their feast days and massacred a hundred pilgrims before help arrived. They could have started a war.”
Ali gripped the crate, though he had no memory of reaching for it. In his mind, he saw the warriors he’d grown up with—the cadets who’d fallen asleep on one another’s shoulders after long days of training, the young men who teased and insulted one another as they headed out on their first patrols. The ones Ali would soon swear to lead and protect as Qaid. They were the ones who would have likely faced these weapons.
Anger, swift and fierce, coursed through him, but Ali had no one to blame but himself. You should have known. When the first rumors of weapons reached you, you should have stopped. But Ali hadn’t stopped. Instead, he’d accompanied Anas to that tavern. He’d stood by while two men were killed.
He took a deep breath. From the corner of his eye, he saw Wajed give him a curious look. He straightened up.
“But why?” Muntadhir pressed. “What would the Tanzeem have to gain?”
“I don’t know,” Ghassan replied. “And I don’t care. It took years to bring peace to Daevabad after the deaths of the last Nahids. I don’t intend to let some dirt-blood fanatics eager for martyrdom tear us apart.” He pointed at Wajed. “The Citadel will find the men responsible and execute them. If they are Geziri, do it quietly. I don’t need the Daevas thinking our tribe supports the Tanzeem. And you will put in place the new restrictions on the shafit. Ban their gatherings. Throw them in prison if they so much as step on a pureblood’s foot. For now, at least.” He shook his head. “God willing, we’ll get through the next few months without any surprises, and we’ll be able to ease them again.”
“Yes, my king.”
Ghassan waved at the crate. “Get rid of that thing before Kaveh sniffs it out. I’ve had enough of his ranting for one day.” He rubbed his brow and sank back into his chair, his jeweled rings gleaming. He glanced up, fixing his sharp gaze on Muntadhir. “Also . . . should I need to execute another shafit traitor, my emir will watch without flinching else he’ll find himself carrying out the next sentence.”
Muntadhir crossed his arms, leaning against the desk in a familiar manner Ali never would have dared. “Ya, Abba, if I knew you were going to have his head crushed like an overripe melon, I would have skipped breakfast.”
Ghassan’s eyes flashed. “Your younger brother managed to control himself.”
Muntadhir laughed. “Yes, but Ali is Citadel trained. He’d dance in front of the karkadann if you told him to.”
Their father didn’t seem to appreciate the jest, his face growing stormy. “Or perhaps spending all your time drinking with courtesans and poets has weakened your constitution.” He glared. “You should be glad of your future Qaid’s training—God knows you’re likely to need it.” He rose from his desk. “And on that note, I would speak to your brother alone.”
What? Why? Ali was barely holding his emotions in check; he didn’t want to be alone with his father.
Wajed squeezed his shoulder and briefly leaned in toward Ali’s ear. “Breathe, boy,” he whispered as Ghassan stood and strolled toward the balcony. “He doesn’t bite.” He flashed Ali a reassuring smile and followed Muntadhir out of the office.
There was a long moment of silence. His father studied the garden, his hands clasped behind him.
His back was still to Ali when he asked, “Do you believe that?”
Ali’s voice came out in a squeak. “Believe what?”
“What you said before.” His father turned around, his dark gray eyes intent. “About God’s law applying equally— By the Most High, Alizayd, stop shaking. I need to be able to talk to my Qaid without him turning into a trembling mess.”
Ali’s embarrassment was tempered with relief—far better for Ghassan to blame his anxiety on nerves from being made Qaid. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Ghassan leveled his gaze on him again. “Answer the question.”
Ali thought fast, but there was no way he could lie. His family knew he was devout—he had been since childhood—and their religion was clear on the issue of the shafit. “Yes,” he replied. “I believe the shafit should be treated equally. That’s why our ancestors came to Daevabad. That’s why Zaydi al Qahtani went to war with the Nahids.”
“A war that nearly destroyed our entire race. A war that ended in the sacking of Daevabad and earned us the enmity of the Daeva tribe until this day.”
Ali startled at his father’s words. “Do you not think it was worth it?”
Ghassan looked irritated. “Of course I think it was worth it. I’m simply capable of seeing both sides of an issue. It’s a skill you should try to develop.” Ali’s cheeks grew hot, and his father continued. “Besides, there weren’t this many shafit in Zaydi’s time.”
Ali frowned. “Are they that numerous now?”
“Nearly a third of the population. Yes,” he said, noticing the surprise in Ali’s face. “Their numbers have burgeoned immensely in recent decades—information you’d do best to keep to yourself.” He gestured to the weapons. “There are now almost as many shafit in Daevabad as there are Daevas, and truthfully, my son, if they went to war in the streets, I’m not sure the Royal Guard could stop them. The Daevas would win in the end, of course, but it would be bloody, and it would destroy the city’s peace for generations.”
“But that’s not going to happen, Abba,” Ali argued. “The shafit aren’t fools. They just want a better life for themselves. They want to be able to work and live in buildings that aren’t coming down around them. To take care of their families without fearing their children will be snatched away by some pure—”
Ghassan interrupted. “When you come up with a way to provide jobs and housing for thousands of people, let me know. And if their lives were made easier here, they would only reproduce faster.”
“Then let them leave. Let them try to make better lives in the human world.”
“Let them cause chaos in the human world, you mean.” His father shook his head. “Absolutely not. They may look human, but many still have magic. We’d be inviting another Suleiman to curse us.” He sighed. “There’s no easy answer, Alizayd. All we can do is strike a balance.”
“But we’re not striking a balance,” Ali argued. “We’re choosing the fire worshippers over the shafit our ancestors came here to protect.”
Ghassan whirled on him. “The fire worshippers?”
Too late Ali remembered the Daevas hated that term for their tribe. “I didn’t mean—”
“Then don’t ever repeat such a thing in my presence.” His father glared at him. “The Daevas are under my protection, same as our own tribe. I don’t care what faith they practice.” He threw up his hands. “Hell, maybe they’re right to obsess over blood purity. In all my years, I’ve never encountered a Daeva shafit.”
They probably smother them in their cradles. But Ali didn’t say that. He’d been a fool to pick this fight today.
Ghassan ran a hand along the wet windowsill and then shook off the water droplets that had gathered upon his fingertips. “It’s always wet here. Always cold. I haven’t been back to Am Gezira in a century and yet every morning, I wake up missing its hot sands.” He glanced back at Ali. “This is not our home. It never will be. It will always belong to the Daevas first.”
It’s
my home. Ali was accustomed to Daevabad’s damp chill and liked the diverse mix of peoples that filled its streets. He’d felt out of place during his rare trips to Am Gezira, always conscious of his half-Ayaanle appearance.
“It’s their home,” Ghassan continued. “And I am their king. I will not allow the shafit—a problem the Daevas had no part in creating—to threaten them in their own home.” He turned to face Ali. “If you are to be Qaid, you must respect this.”
Ali lowered his gaze. He didn’t respect it; he entirely disagreed. “Forgive my impertinence.”
He suspected that wasn’t the answer Ghassan wanted—his father’s eyes stayed sharp another moment before he abruptly crossed the room toward the wooden shelves lining the opposite wall. “Come here.”
Ali followed. Ghassan picked up a long, lacquered black case from one of the upper shelves. “I hear nothing but compliments from the Citadel about your progress, Alizayd. You’ve a keen mind for military science and you’re one of the best zulfiqari in your generation. None would dispute that. But you’re very young.”
Ghassan blew the dust off the case and then opened it, pulling a silver arrow from a bed of fragile tissue. “Do you know what this is?”
Ali certainly did. “It’s the last arrow shot by an Afshin.”
“Bend it.”
A little confused, Ali nonetheless took the arrow from his father. Though it was incredibly light, he couldn’t bend it in the slightest. The silver still gleamed after all these years, only the scythe-ended tip dulled by blood. The same blood that ran in Ali’s veins.
“The Afshins were good soldiers too,” Ghassan said softly. “Probably the best warriors of our race. But now they’re dead, their Nahid leaders are dead, and our people have ruled Daevabad for fourteen centuries. And do you know why?”
Because they were infidels, and God willed us to victory? Ali held his tongue; he suspected if he said that, the arrow would be getting a new coat of Qahtani blood.
Ghassan took the arrow back. “Because they were like this arrow. Like you. Unwilling to bend, unwilling to see that not everything fit into their perfectly ordered world.” He put the weapon back in the case and snapped it shut. “There is more to being Qaid than being a good soldier. God willing, Wajed and I have another century of wine and ridiculous petitioners ahead of us, but one day Muntadhir will be king. And when he needs guidance, when he needs to discuss things only his blood can hear, he’ll need you.”
“Yes, Abba.” Ali was willing to say anything at this point to leave, anything that would let him escape his father’s measured gaze.
“There’s one more thing.” His father stepped away from the shelf. “You’re moving back to the palace. Immediately.”
Ali’s mouth dropped open. “But the Citadel is my home.”
“No . . . my home is your home,” Ghassan said, looking irritated. “Your place is here. It’s time you start attending court to see how the world works outside your books. And I’ll be able to keep a better eye on you—I don’t like the way you’re talking about the Daevas.”
Dread welled up in Ali, but his father didn’t press the issue. “You can go now. I’ll expect you at court when you’re settled in.”
Ali nodded and bowed; it was all he could do not to run for the door. “Peace be upon you.”
He’d no sooner stumbled into the corridor than he ran into his grinning brother.
Muntadhir pulled him into a hug. “Congratulations, akhi. I’m sure you’re going to make a terrifying Qaid.”
“Thanks,” Ali mumbled. He’d just witnessed the brutal death of his closest friend. That he was soon to be in charge of maintaining security for a city of bickering djinn was something he’d yet to dwell on.
Muntadhir didn’t seem to pick up on his distress. “Did Abba tell you the other good news?” When Ali made a noncommittal sound, he continued. “You’re moving back to the palace!”
“Oh.” Ali frowned. “That.”
His brother’s face fell. “You don’t sound very excited.”
A fresh wave of guilt swept over Ali at the hurt in Muntadhir’s voice. “It’s not that, Dhiru. It’s . . . it’s been a long morning. Taking over for Wajed, the news about the weapons . . .” He exhaled. “Besides, I’ve never been very . . .” He searched for a way to avoid insulting his brother’s entire social circle. “. . . comfortable around people here.”
“Ah, you’ll be fine.” Muntadhir threw his arm around Ali’s shoulder, half-dragging him down the corridor. “Stick by me, and I’ll make sure you get embroiled in only the most delightful of scandals.” He laughed when Ali gave him a startled look. “Come. Zaynab and I picked you out apartments near the waterfall.” They turned the corner. “With the most boring furnishings and least comfortable amenities. You’ll be right at ho—whoa.”
The brothers drew to an immediate stop. They had to. A wall stood in their way, a jewel-colored mural splashed across the stone.
“Well . . .” Muntadhir’s voice was shaky. “That’s new.”
Ali edged closer. “No . . . it’s not,” he said softly, recognizing the scene and remembering his long-ago history lessons. “It’s one of the old Nahid murals. They used to cover the palace walls before the war.”
“It wasn’t here yesterday.” Muntadhir touched the mural’s bright sun. It flashed beneath his fingertips, and they both jumped.
Ali gave the mural an uneasy look. “And you wonder why I’m not excited about moving back to this Nahid-haunted place?”
Muntadhir made a face. “It’s not usually this bad.” He nodded to one of the figures on the cracked plaster facade. “Do you know who that’s supposed to be?”
Ali studied the image. The figure looked human, a man with a flowing white beard and a silver halo above his crowned head. He stood before a crimson sun, one hand resting on the back of a roaring shedu, and the other holding a staff with an eight-pointed seal. The same seal that was on Ghassan’s right temple.
“It’s Suleiman,” Ali realized. “Peace be upon him.” He gazed at the rest of the painting. “I think it depicts the ascension of Anahid when she received her abilities and Suleiman’s seal.” His eyes fell on the bent figure at Suleiman’s feet. Only her back was visible, the long taper of her ears giving away that she was a djinn. Or daeva, rather. Anahid, first of her line.
Blue paint flooded Suleiman’s robes.
“Odd,” Muntadhir remarked. “I wonder why it picked today of all days to start trying to repair fourteen centuries of damage.”
A shiver went down Ali’s spine. “I don’t know.”
7
Nahri
“Raise your arm higher.”
Nahri lifted her elbow, tightening her grip on the dagger. “Like this?”
Dara made a face. “No.” He stepped up to her, the scent of his smoky skin tickling her nose, and adjusted her arm. “Loosen up; you need to be relaxed. You’re throwing a knife, not beating someone with a stick.”
His hand lingered a moment longer than necessary on her elbow, his breath warm against her neck. Nahri shivered; relaxing was a thing easier said than done when the handsome daeva was so close. He finally stepped away, and she fixed her eyes on the scrubby tree. She threw the dagger, and it sailed past the tree to land in a patch of bushes.
Dara burst into laughter as she swore. “I’m not sure we’re going to be able to make much of a warrior out of you.” He opened his palm, and the dagger flew back to him.
Nahri gave him an envious look. “Can’t you teach me how to do that?”
He handed the knife back. “No. I’ve told you enough times . . .”
“. . . magic is unpredictable,” she finished. She threw the dagger again. She could have sworn it landed slightly closer to the tree, but that might have been her own wishful thinking. “So what if it is? Are you truly afraid of what I might do?”
“Yes,” he said bluntly. “For all I know, you’ll send fifty such knives flying back at us.”
Ah, well, perhap
s he had a point. She waved the knife away when he tried to hand it back. “No. I’ve had enough for today. Can’t we just rest? We’ve been traveling as if—”
“As if a pack of ifrit are after us?” His raised his eyebrows.
“We’ll travel faster if we’re not exhausted,” she replied, taking his arm and pulling him in the direction of their small camp. “Come on.”
“We’d travel faster if we weren’t carting around a caravan of stolen goods,” Dara retorted, snapping off a twig from a dying tree and letting it burn to cinders in his hands. “How many clothes do you truly need? And you’re not even eating the oranges . . . to say nothing of that entirely useless flute.”
“That flute is ivory, Dara. It’s worth a fortune. Besides . . .” Nahri held out her arms, briefly admiring the embroidered tunic and brown leather boots she’d snatched off a stall they passed in one of the river towns. “I’m just trying to keep our supplies well stocked.”
They reached their camp, though “camp” might have been too kind a word for the little clearing where Nahri had stomped down the grass before dropping her bags. The horses were grazing in a distant field, eating any bit of greenery down to the roots. Dara knelt and rekindled their fire with a snap of his fingers. The flames jumped, illuminating the dark tattoo on his frowning face.
“Your ancestors would be horrified to see how easily you take to stealing.”
“According to you, my ancestors would be horrified to learn of my very existence.” She pulled out a well-wrapped heel of stale bread. “And it’s the way the world works. By now, people have certainly broken into my home in Cairo and stolen my things.”
He tossed a broken branch on the fire, sending up sparks. “How does that make it better?”
“Someone steals from me, I steal from others, and I’m sure the people I stole from will eventually take something that doesn’t belong to them. It’s a circle,” she added wisely, as she gnawed on the chewy bread.
Dara stared at her for a good few heartbeats before speaking. “There is something very wrong with you.”
The City of Brass Page 13
