The City of Brass

by S. A. Chakraborty

  It would not do to appear vulnerable before Ghassan al Qahtani.

  25

  Ali

  Ali dove under the canal’s choppy surface and turned in a neat somersault to kick in the opposite direction. His stitches smarted in protest, but he pushed past the pain. Just a few more laps.

  He slid through the murky water with practiced ease. Ali’s mother had taught him to swim; it was the only Ayaanle tradition she insisted he learn. She’d defied the king to do it, showing up unexpectedly at the Citadel one day when he was seven, intimidating and unfamiliar in a royal veil. She’d dragged him back to the palace while he kicked and screamed, begging her not to drown him. Once in the harem, she’d pushed him in the deepest part of the canal without a word. Only when he surfaced—limbs flailing, gasping for air through his tears—had she finally spoken his name. And then she taught him to kick and dive, to put his face in the water and breathe from the side of his mouth.

  Years later, Ali still remembered every minute of her careful instruction—and the price she’d paid for such defiance: they were never allowed to be alone again. But Ali kept swimming. He liked it, even if most djinn—especially his father’s people—looked upon swimming with utter revulsion. There were even clerics who preached that the Ayaanle’s enjoyment of water was a perversion, a relic of an ancient river cult in which they’d supposedly cavorted with marid in all sorts of sinful ways. Ali dismissed the sordid tales as gossip; the Ayaanle were a wealthy tribe from a secure and largely isolated homeland—they’d always provoked jealousy.

  He finished another lap and then drifted in the current. The air was still and thick, the buzz of insects and the twitter of birdsong the only sounds breaking the garden’s silence. It was almost peaceful.

  An ideal time to suddenly be set upon by another Tanzeem assassin. Ali tried to put the dark thought out of his mind, but it wasn’t easy. It had been four days since Hanno tried to kill him, and he’d been confined to his quarters ever since. The morning after the attack, Ali had awoken to the worst headache of his life and a furious brother demanding answers. Wracked with pain, with guilt, and his mind still in a fog, Ali had given them, bits of truth about his relationship with the Tanzeem slipping out like water through his fingers. It turned out his earlier hopes were correct: his father and brother had only known about the money.

  Muntadhir was decidedly not pleased to learn the rest.

  In the face of his brother’s growing rage, Ali had been trying to explain why he’d covered up Hanno’s death when Nahri had arrived to check on him. Muntadhir had bluntly declared him a traitor in Geziriyya and stormed out. He hadn’t been back.

  Maybe I should go talk to him. Ali climbed out of the canal, dripping on the decorative tiles bordering it. He reached for his shirt. Try to explain . . .

  He stopped, catching a glimpse of his stomach. The wound was gone.

  Stunned, Ali ran his hand over what had been a half-healed gash studded with stitches an hour earlier. It was now nothing more than a bumpy scar. The wound on his chest was still stitched, but that too looked remarkably improved. He reached for the third under his ribs and flinched. Hanno had driven the knife straight through him at that point, and it still hurt.

  Maybe the canal water had some sort of healing properties? If so, it was the first Ali had heard of it. He’d have to ask Nahri. She’d been coming by most days to check on him, seemingly unfazed that he’d been dumped in her bedroom covered in blood only a few days ago. The only allusion she’d made to saving his life had been in her gleeful sack of his small library. She’d claimed several books, an ivory inkwell, and a gold armband as “payment.”

  He shook his head. She was odd, to be sure. Not that Ali could complain. Nahri might be the only friend he had left.

  “Peace be upon you, Ali.”

  Ali startled at the sound of his sister’s voice and pulled on his shirt. “And upon you peace, Zaynab.”

  She came around the path to join him on the wet stones. “Did I catch you swimming?” She feigned shock. “And here I thought you had no interest in the Ayaanle, and our—what do you like to call it—culture of scheming indulgence?”

  “It was just a few laps,” he muttered. He wasn’t in the mood to fight with Zaynab. He sat, dropping his bare feet back into the canal. “What do you want?”

  She sat beside him, trailing her fingers through the water. “To make sure you’re still alive, for one. No one’s seen you at court in nearly a week. And to warn you. I don’t know what you think you’re doing with that Nahid girl, Ali. You’ve no skill at politics, let alone—”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Zaynab rolled her gray-gold eyes. “The marriage negotiations, you idiot.”

  Ali suddenly felt light-headed. “What marriage negotiations?”

  She drew back, looking surprised. “Between Muntadhir and Nahri.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you telling me that you didn’t help her? By the Most High, she gave Abba a list of percentages and figures that looked like some report from the Treasury. He’s furious with you—he thinks you wrote it.”

  God preserve me . . . Ali knew Nahri was clever enough to come up with such a thing on her own, but suspected he was the only Qahtani who had an accurate measure of the Banu Nahida’s capabilities. He rubbed his brow. “When did all this happen?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. She showed up at Abba’s office, uninvited and unaccompanied, to say the rumors were tiring her, and she wanted to know where they stood.” Zaynab crossed her arms. “She demanded an equal cut in patient payments, a pensioned position for her Afshin, a paid training sabbatical in Zariaspa . . . and by God, the dowry . . .”

  Ali’s mouth went dry. “Did she really ask for all that? Yesterday, you are sure?”

  Zaynab nodded. “She also refuses to let Muntadhir take a second wife. Wants it written in the contract itself in recognition of the fact that the Daevas don’t permit it. More time to train, no patients for at least a year, unfettered access to Manizheh’s old notes . . .” Zaynab ticked off her fingers. “I’m sure I’m missing something. People said they were haggling past midnight.” She shook her head, seeming both impressed and indignant. “I don’t know who that girl thinks she is.”

  The last Nahid in the world. And one with some very compromising information on the youngest Qahtani. He tried to keep his voice smooth. “What did Abba think?”

  “He felt the need to check his pockets after she left but was otherwise elated.” Zaynab rolled her eyes. “He says her ambition reminds him of Manizheh.”

  Of course it would. “And Muntadhir?”

  “What do you think? He doesn’t want to marry some conniving, thin-blooded Nahid. He came straight to me to ask what it was like to be of mixed tribes, to not be able to speak Geziriyya—”

  That surprised him. Ali hadn’t realized such concerns had been among Muntadhir’s reasons for not wanting to marry Nahri. “What did you tell him?”

  She gave him an even stare. “The truth, Ali. You can pretend it doesn’t bother you, but there’s a reason so few djinn marry outside their tribe. I’ve never been able to master Geziriyya like you, and it’s completely severed me from Abba’s people. Amma’s are little better. Even when Ayaanle pay me compliments, I can hear the shock in their voice that a sand fly accomplished such sophistication.”

  That took him aback. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Why would you?” She dropped her gaze. “It’s not like you’ve ever asked. I’m sure you find harem politics frivolous and contemptible anyway.”

  “Zaynab . . .” The hurt in her voice cut him deeply. Despite the antagonism that frequently characterized their relationship, his sister had come here to warn him. His brother had covered for him time and time again. And what had Ali done? He’d dismissed Zaynab as a spoiled brat and helped his father trap Muntadhir in an engagement with a woman he didn’t want.

  Ali stood as the sun sank behind the tall palace walls, throwing the garden into shadow. “I ne
ed to find him.”

  “Good luck.” Zaynab pulled her feet from the water. “He was drinking by noon and made some comment about consoling himself with half the city’s noblewomen.”

  “I know where he’ll be.” Ali helped her to her feet. She turned to leave, and he touched her wrist. “Have tea with me tomorrow.”

  She blinked in surprise. “Surely you have more important things to do than have tea with your spoiled sister.”

  He smiled. “Not at all.”

  It was dark by the time Ali reached Khanzada’s salon. Music spilled into the street, and a few soldiers milled about outside. He nodded to them and steeled himself as he climbed the stairs leading to the rooftop garden. He could hear a man grunting; a woman’s low cry of pleasure echoed from one of the dark corridors.

  A servant moved to block the door when Ali arrived. “Peace be upon you, Sheikh . . . Prince!” the man corrected with an embarrassed flush. “Forgive me, but the lady of the house—”

  Ali pushed past him and through the door, wrinkling his nose at the overly perfumed air. The roof was packed with at least two dozen noblemen and their retainers. Quick-footed servants twined among them, bringing wine and tending to water pipes. Musicians played and two girls danced, conjuring up illuminated flowers with their hands. Muntadhir lounged on a plush couch with Khanzada next to him.

  Muntadhir didn’t seem to notice his arrival, but Khanzada jumped to her feet. Ali raised his hands, readying an apology that died on his lips when he noticed a new addition to Muntadhir’s drinking companions. He dropped his hand to his zulfiqar.

  Darayavahoush grinned. “Peace be upon you, little Zaydi.” The Afshin sat with Jamshid and a Daeva man Ali didn’t recognize. They looked like they were having a good time, their goblets full, a pretty wine bearer perched beside them on the large cushioned bench.

  Ali’s gaze slid from the Afshin to Jamshid. Now there was a situation he had little idea how to handle. He owed the Daeva man his life several times over, for interrupting Hanno and getting rid of his body, for getting him to Nahri. There was no denying it—but God, did he wish it had been someone other than Kaveh’s son. A word, an insinuation, and the grand wazir would be after Ali in a heartbeat.

  Khanzada was suddenly in front of him, waving a finger in his face. “Did my servant let you in? I told him—”

  Muntadhir finally spoke. “Let him pass, Khanzada,” he called in a weary voice.

  She scowled. “Fine. But no weapons.” She snatched his zulfiqar away. “You make my girls nervous enough.”

  Ali watched helplessly as his zulfiqar was handed off to a passing servant. Darayavahoush laughed, and Ali whirled on him, but Khanzada seized his arm and dragged him forward with a surprising amount of force for such a delicate-looking woman.

  She pushed him into a chair beside Muntadhir. “Don’t make trouble,” she warned before stalking off. Ali suspected the doorman was about to get quite the tongue-lashing.

  Muntadhir didn’t greet him, his vacant gaze focused on the dancers.

  Ali cleared his throat. “Peace be upon you, akhi.”

  “Alizayd.” His brother’s voice was cool. He took a sip from his copper goblet. “What brings a holy man to such a bastion of sin?”

  A promising start. Ali sighed. “I want to apologize, Dhiru. To talk to you about—”

  There was a burst of laughter from the Daeva men across the way. The Afshin appeared to be telling some sort of joke in Divasti, his face animated, his hands waving for emphasis. Jamshid laughed as the third man topped off his goblet. Ali frowned.

  “What?” Muntadhir demanded. “What are you staring at?”

  “I . . . nothing,” Ali stammered, surprised by the hostility in his brother’s voice. “I just didn’t realize Jamshid and Darayavahoush were so close.”

  “They’re not close,” Muntadhir snapped. “He’s being polite to his father’s guest.” His eyes flashed, something dark and uncertain in their depths. “Don’t be getting any ideas, Alizayd. I don’t like that look on your face.”

  “What look? What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. You had your supposed assassin thrown in the lake and risked your life to cover up whatever the hell you were doing on the wall. It ends there. Jamshid isn’t talking. I asked him not to . . . and unlike some people here, he doesn’t lie to me.”

  Ali was aghast. “You think I’m planning to hurt him?” He lowered his voice, noticing the curious gaze of a nearby servant—they might have been speaking Geziriyya, but an argument looked the same in any language. “My God, Dhiru, do you really think I’d kill the man who saved my life? Do you think me capable of that?”

  “I don’t know what you’re capable of, Zaydi.” Muntadhir drained his goblet. “I’ve been telling myself for months that this is all a mistake. That you’re just some softhearted fool who threw his money around without asking questions.”

  Ali’s heart skipped a beat, and Muntadhir beckoned for the wine bearer, falling silent only long enough for the man to finish pouring him more wine. He took a sip before continuing. “But you’re not a fool, Zaydi—you’re one of the brightest people I know. You didn’t just give them money, you taught them to hide it from the Treasury. And you’re far better at covering your tracks than I would have imagined. Your sheikh was crushed to death in front of you, and my God . . . you didn’t flinch. You had the damn presence of mind to dispose of a body while you were dying yourself.” Muntadhir shuddered. “That’s cold, Zaydi. That’s a coldness I didn’t know you had in you.” He shook his head, a hint of regret stealing into his voice. “I try to dismiss them, you know, the things people say. I always have.”

  Nausea welled in Ali. In the depths of his heart, he suddenly suspected—and feared—where this conversation was going. He swallowed back the lump rising in his throat. “What things?”

  “You know what things.” His brother’s gray eyes—the gray eyes they shared—swam with emotion, a mix of guilt and fear and suspicion. “The things people always say about princes in our situation.”

  The fear in Ali’s heart unspooled. And then—with a swiftness that took him aback—it turned to anger. To a resentment that Ali hadn’t even realized, until this moment, he held tightly clamped, in a place he didn’t dare go. “Muntadhir, I’m cold because I’ve spent my entire life at the Citadel training to serve you, sleeping on floors while you slept with courtesans on silken beds. Because I was ripped from my mother’s arms when I was five so that I might learn to kill people at your command and fight the battles you’d never have to see.” Ali took a deep breath, checking the emotions swirling in his chest. “I made a mistake, Dhiru. That’s it. I was trying to help the shafit, not start some—”

  Muntadhir cut in. “You and your mother’s cousin are the only known financiers of the Tanzeem. They were amassing weapons for an unknown purpose, and an unknown Geziri soldier with access to the Citadel stole them zulfiqar training blades. You’ve yet to arrest anyone, though by the sound of things, you know their leaders.” Muntadhir drained his goblet again and turned to Ali. “You tell me, akhi,” he implored. “What would you think if you were in my position?”

  There was a hint of fear—true fear—in his brother’s voice, and it made Ali sick. Had they been alone, he would have thrown himself at Muntadhir’s feet. He was tempted to do so anyway, witnesses be damned.

  Instead, he grabbed his hand. “Never, Dhiru. Never. I would stick a blade in my heart before I raised it to you—I swear to God . . . Akhi . . . ,” he begged as Muntadhir scoffed. “Please. Just tell me how to fix this. I’ll do anything. I’ll go to Abba. I’ll tell him everything—”

  “You’re dead if you tell Abba,” Muntadhir interrupted. “Forget the assassin. If Abba learns you were at that tavern when two Daevas were murdered, that you’ve gone all these months without arresting the traitor in the Royal Guard . . . he’ll throw you to the karkadann.”

  “So?” Ali didn’t bother to hide the bitterness i
n his voice. “If you think I’m plotting to betray you all, why not tell him yourself?”

  Muntadhir gave him a sharp look. “Do you think I want your death on my conscience? You’re still my little brother.”

  Ali immediately backed down. “Let me talk to Nahri,” he offered, remembering the reason he’d originally come here. “Maybe I can convince her to lessen some of her demands.”

  Muntadhir laughed, a drunken, derisive sound. “I think you and my conniving fiancée have done enough talking—that’s one thing I do intend to stop.”

  The music ended. The Daeva men started to clap, and Darayavahoush said something that made the dancers giggle.

  Muntadhir’s gaze locked on the Afshin like a cat after a mouse. He cleared his throat, and Ali saw something very dangerous—and very stupid—settle in his face. “You know, I think I’ll deal with one of her demands right now.” He raised his voice. “Jamshid! Darayavahoush!” he called. “Come. Take some wine with me.”

  “Dhiru, I don’t think this is a good—” Ali abruptly shut up as the Daeva men came within earshot.

  “Emir Muntadhir. Prince Alizayd.” Darayavahoush inclined his head, bringing his fingers together in the Daeva salute. “May the fires burn brightly for you both on this beautiful evening.”

  Jamshid looked nervous, and Ali guessed that he’d been around a drunken Muntadhir enough to know when things were about to go very badly. “Greetings, my lords,” he said hesitantly.

  Muntadhir must have noticed his distress. He snapped his fingers and nodded to the floor cushion at his left. “Be at peace, my friend.”

  Jamshid sat. Darayavahoush grinned and snapped his fingers. “Just like that?” he asked, adding something in Divasti. Jamshid blushed.

  Unlike Ali, however, Muntadhir was fluent in the Daeva language. “I assure you he is no trained dog,” Muntadhir said coolly in Djinnistani, “. . . but my dearest friend. Please, Afshin,” he said, indicating the spot next to Jamshid. “If you would sit.” He beckoned for the wine bearer again. “Wine for my guests. And Prince Alizayd will take whatever you serve children who cannot yet handle drink.”