The Kingdom of Copper

by S. A. Chakraborty

  What? Ali stared in incomprehension at the sight before him.

  Aqisa was clearly not as confused. “They’re selling them,” she whispered in rising horror. “They’re selling shafit.”

  “That can’t be.” Lubayd looked sick all over again. “That . . . that is forbidden. No Geziri would ever . . .”

  Ali wordlessly pressed the reins of his camel into Lubayd’s hands.

  Lubayd grabbed his arm. Ali tried to wrench away, and Lubayd nodded at the line of men guarding the stockade. “Look, you rash fool.”

  Ali stared—but it wasn’t because of the guards. Familiar landmarks drew his eye: a pottery shop with a blue-striped door, the distinctive way two of the narrow alleys ran close but never touched, the slightly slumped minaret in the distance. Ali knew this neighborhood. He knew what had once stood here, what the building in ruins before him once was.

  It was the mosque at which Sheikh Anas, the martyred former leader of the Tanzeem, had preached.

  Ali inhaled, suddenly breathless. His father might as well have twisted a knife in his heart. But he knew the punishment hadn’t been directed at the son in faraway Am Gezira; it had been aimed at the shafit whose plight had pushed him into disloyalty . . . the ones being auctioned off before his eyes.

  The girl began to cry harder.

  “To hell with this,” Aqisa snapped, striding forward.

  Ali followed her, leaving Lubayd cursing in their wake and struggling with the camels. The Geziri trader must have noticed them because he broke off from his vile pitches, his steel eyes lighting with anticipation.

  “By the Most High, you two look like you just blew in from a sandstorm.” The trader laughed. “Certainly not my usual customers, but I suppose one can find blood kin anywhere.” He lifted a dark brow. “As long as that kin can pay.”

  Aqisa’s hand dropped to her sword. Ali swiftly stepped in front of her. “When did Daevabad start selling its shafit citizens?” he demanded.

  “Selling?” The man clucked his tongue. “We’re not selling anyone.” He sounded aghast. “That would be illegal. We are merely facilitating the search for this man’s pureblood family . . . and then taking a fee to support our work.” He touched his heart. “Easier to find relatives when he’s standing in front of them, no?”

  It was a pathetically flimsy cover, and at his side, Aqisa snarled. Ali could only imagine how awful his home must look to his friends. Like many Geziris, the djinn of Bir Nabat kept their mixed-blood relatives with them, ignoring the law that demanded they be brought to Daevabad to live out their lives. The few shafit in Bir Nabat were treated as equals, roles found for them no matter their abilities with magic.

  Ali gritted his teeth. “It doesn’t look like he desires to find any pureblooded kin,” he said. “You said he had a livelihood? Why not let him return to it?”

  The trader shrugged. “The shafit are like children. Should we let children choose their fate as well?”

  At that, Aqisa elbowed Ali hard in the stomach and then took advantage of his distraction to push him out of her way. She pulled free her khanjar, her eyes flashing. “I should cut out your tongue,” she snapped in Geziriyya. “You’re a traitor to our tribe, to everything our people stand for!”

  The trader raised his hands as several of his guards flanked him. “Nothing we’re doing here is illegal,” he said, the oily tone leaving his voice. “And I don’t need some northern garbage-picker getting everyone riled up . . .”

  “What is your price?” The question was poison in Ali’s mouth. “The price for the man and his daughter both?”

  The trader shrugged in the direction of a djinn in shocking spotted robes. “The gentleman from Agnivansha offered twelve hundred dinars for the girl alone.”

  Twelve hundred dinars. A disgustingly low amount at which to value a life and yet far more than what he and his companions could muster up. Ali was as poor as the rest of Bir Nabat, his wealth stripped away when his father banished him. The camels they towed were loaded with gifts, but all of it was carefully inventoried, a gift from the Ayaanle to the palace.

  Reaching down, Ali pulled his zulfiqar from his robes.

  Now the trader did more than flinch. He blanched and stepped back in open fear. “Now, wait a minute. I don’t know who you stole that from, but—”

  “Would this be enough?” Ali’s fingers tightened on the hilt of his beloved blade. Then he swallowed hard and offered it to the trader.

  A shrewd look entered the man’s eyes. “No,” he said bluntly. “Not with all the soldiers trying to pawn them before they desert back to Am Gezira. I’ll give you the father, but not the girl.”

  The shafit man had been watching them haggle in what looked like numb shock. But at the trader’s offer, his daughter let out a cry, and the man clutched her close.

  “No.” The word burst from his mouth. “I won’t let you put her back in that cage. I won’t let you take her away from me!”

  The despair in his voice shoved Ali past his tipping point. “A Qahtani zulfiqar.” He threw it at the man’s feet and then pulled away the ghutra covering his face. “Surely that will pay your price?”

  The trader’s mouth fell open, the golden tone of his skin turning a green Ali hadn’t realized was possible. He dropped to his knees. “Prince Alizayd,” he gasped. “My God . . . f-forgive me,” he stammered. “I would never have spoken with such disrespect had I known it was you.”

  The crowd parted in a way that reminded Ali of how djinn in Am Gezira jumped from horned vipers. His name carried on the wind, whispers in various tongues rustling through the throng.

  Ali tried to ignore them, instead letting a little of his old arrogance leach into his voice. “Come now,” he challenged. He jutted his chin at the zulfiqar, heartsick at the thought of giving over the weapon that had kept him alive during his exile. “My personal blade. It’s been in my family for generations—certainly this will cover them both?”

  A mix of greed and fear flitted across the trader’s face. “Is this what you used to kill the Scourge?”

  Ali was repulsed by the question. But suspecting it would help sway the man, the lie came easily. “The very blade.”

  The man grinned. “Then I would say it is very good doing business with you, my prince.” He bowed and motioned for Ali to join him. “Please . . . the contracts will only take a moment . . .”

  The shafit man was looking at him in stunned disbelief. “But you . . . people say—” His eyes darted toward the crowd of purebloods, and he abruptly changed the subject. “Please don’t separate us, Your Highness.” He hugged his daughter closer. “I beg you. We’ll serve however you like, but please don’t separate us.”

  “No,” Ali said quickly. “That’s not what this is.” The trader returned with the contracts, and he read through them before adding his signature. Then he handed them to the shafit father.

  The other man looked bewildered. “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re free,” Ali said. “As you should be.” He shot the trader his coldest glare, and the man flinched away. “Those who peddle in lives will be among the first to burn in hell.”

  “And we shall leave it at that!” Lubayd had finally made his way to them, pulling both bleating camels through the crowd. He shoved the reins into Aqisa’s hands and seized the hem of Ali’s robe, dragging him off the platform.

  Ali glanced around, but the shafit father was gone, vanished into the crowd with his daughter. Ali didn’t blame him. He could feel the eyes of the bystanders boring into them as Lubayd started trying to rewrap Ali’s ghutra around his face.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” Ali demanded as his friend poked him in the eye. “Ow! Will you stop . . .” The words died in his mouth as he spotted the reason he suspected Lubayd was trying to hustle him away.

  A dozen members of the Royal Guard had joined them.

  Ali stood awkwardly, his ghutra askew, uncertain how to greet his former companions. There was a moment or two of hesitant star
ing, until one of the officers stepped forward. He brought his hand to his heart and brow in the Geziri salute. “Peace be upon you, Prince Alizayd,” he greeted him solemnly. “Your father has asked that I retrieve you.”

  “It is a very lovely place to be executed, I will grant you that,” Lubayd said conversationally as they were escorted down a deserted palace corridor. Sweet-smelling purple flowers climbed the columns, dappled sunlight playing through the wooden screens.

  “We’re not going to be executed,” Ali said, trying to keep the feeling that they were walking to their doom from his face.

  “They took our weapons,” Lubayd pointed out. “Well, they took Aqisa’s and my weapons . . . you gave yours away. Brilliant move, by the way.”

  Ali threw him a dark look.

  “In here, my prince.” The officer stopped, pulling open a blue-painted door with a pattern of leaping gazelles carved around it. It led to a small courtyard garden, enclosed by high walls of pale cream stone. In the center was a sunken pavilion shadowed by lush palms. Water bubbled merrily in a stone fountain shaped like a star and tiled with sunbursts, and across from it was a carpet laden with silver platters of rainbow-hued pastries and jewel-bright fruit.

  “Your father will join you shortly. It is an honor to meet you, my prince.” The officer hesitated, then added, “My family is from Hegra. The work you did on our well last year . . . it saved them.” His eyes met Ali’s. “I hope you know how fond many of us in the Royal Guard remain of you.”

  Ali considered the carefully worded statement. “A fondness well returned,” he replied. “What is your name, brother?”

  The man bowed his head. “Daoud.”

  “A pleasure to meet you.” Ali touched his heart. “Send your people my greetings when next you meet.”

  “God willing, my prince.” He bowed again and then left, pulling the door shut behind him.

  Aqisa gave him a look. “Making friends?”

  Allies. Though Ali didn’t like how swiftly his mind settled on that word. “Something like that.”

  Ahead, Lubayd had fallen upon the food. He took a bite of a honeyed confection studded with sugared flowers, and his eyes closed in bliss. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

  “It is likely poisoned,” Aqisa said.

  “It is worth death.”

  Ali joined him, his stomach rumbling. It had been years since he’d seen such delicacies. As usual, they’d been piled to impress—an amount not even Ali and his hungry companions would be able to finish. It was a practice he hadn’t thought much about when he was younger, but recalling the visible poverty in Daevabad’s streets, he suddenly saw it as sinfully wasteful.

  The door creaked open. “Little Zaydi!”

  Ali glanced up to see a barrel-chested man in an officer’s uniform and crimson turban stride into the garden. “Wajed uncle!” he cried happily.

  The beaming Qaid pulled Ali into a crushing hug. “By God, boy, is it good to see you again!”

  Ali felt some of the tension leave him, or perhaps Wajed’s embrace was merely turning him numb. “You too, uncle.”

  Wajed pushed him back, holding him at arm’s length to look him over; there were tears in the older man’s eyes, but he laughed, clearly delighted at the sight of Ali. “Where is the gangly boy I taught to swing a zulfiqar? My soldiers were whispering that you resembled Zaydi the Great, striding up to the palace in your rags with your companions in tow.”

  That was not a comparison Ali suspected would sit well with his father. “I don’t think anyone would mistake me for Zaydi the Great,” he demurred quickly. “But meet my friends.” He took Wajed’s arm. “Aqisa, Lubayd . . . this is Wajed al Sabi, the Qaid of the Royal Guard. He all but raised me when I was sent to the Citadel.”

  Wajed touched his heart. “An honor,” he said sincerely. A little emotion crept into the Qaid’s gruff voice. “Thank you for protecting him.”

  Ali heard the creak of the door again. His heart skipping a beat, he glanced back, expecting his father.

  But it was Muntadhir who stepped into the sunlight.

  Ali froze as his brother met and then held his gaze. Muntadhir looked paler than Ali remembered, shadows dark under his eyes. Two thin scars marked his left brow—a remnant of the Afshin’s scourge. But they did little to detract from his appearance. Muntadhir had always been the dashing one, the handsome, rakish prince who won over adoring nobles as swiftly as Ali put them off. He looked striking in the Qahtani royal regalia: the gold-trimmed black robe that swirled like smoke around his feet and the brilliant turban of twisted blue, purple, and gold silk that crowned his head. A length of luminous black Geziri pearls circled his neck and a ruby winked like a drop of human blood from the gold ring on his thumb.

  Wajed bowed his head. “Emir Muntadhir,” he greeted him respectfully. “Peace be upon you.”

  “And upon you all peace,” Muntadhir returned politely. The familiar sound of his brother’s voice sent a wave of emotion crashing through Ali. “Qaid, my father requests that you escort Prince Alizayd’s companions to the Citadel’s guest quarters. Please ensure that they want for nothing.” He touched his heart and then aimed a dazzling smile at Aqisa and Lubayd. “We are forever grateful for the welcome you provided my brother in your village.”

  Ali narrowed his eyes at the pleasantly worded lie, but neither Aqisa nor Lubayd responded with their usual sarcasm. Instead, they looked rather awestruck by the sight of Daevabad’s emir.

  Yes, I suppose he makes for a more gripping image than a soaked, starving prince dying in a crevasse.

  Lubayd recovered first. “Is that all right with you, brother?” he asked Ali.

  “Of course it is,” Muntadhir cut in smoothly. “You’ll understand that we’re eager to spend some time alone with Prince Alizayd.”

  Ali didn’t miss his brother’s aggressive use of “we,” a manner of speaking he associated with their father. There was a terseness lurking under Muntadhir’s charming words that Ali didn’t like. And though it probably didn’t bode well for him, he suddenly didn’t mind his friends being far away. “You’ll look after them?” he asked Wajed.

  Wajed nodded. “You have my word, my prince.”

  It would have to do. Ali trusted Wajed as much as he could trust anyone here. He glanced at Lubayd and Aqisa and attempted a smile. “I’ll see you soon, God willing.”

  “You better,” Lubayd replied, snatching another pastry before rising to his feet.

  Aqisa pulled him into a quick embrace. Ali went stiff with shock at the utter inappropriateness of it, but then something hard was sliding into the fold of his belt. “Do not die,” she hissed in his ear. “Lubayd would be inconsolable.”

  Fairly certain she’d just passed him God only knew what weapon she’d manage to smuggle into the palace, Ali nodded, silently grateful. “Take care.”

  Wajed squeezed his shoulder. “Get over to the Citadel when you have a chance. Show my Daevabadi-born brats how we fight back home.”

  As soon as they left, the temperature seemed to dip, and the politely vacant smile vanished from Muntadhir’s face. “Alizayd,” he said coolly.

  Ali flinched; his brother rarely called him by his formal name. “Dhiru.” His voice caught. “It’s really good to see you.”

  Muntadhir’s only reaction was a slight grimace, as though he’d bitten into something sour. He turned, ignoring Ali to descend into the pavilion.

  Ali tried again. “I know we didn’t part under the best circumstances. I’m sorry.” His brother said nothing, pouring a cup of wine and sipping it as though Ali wasn’t there. Ali persisted. “I hope you’ve been well. I was sorry to miss your wedding,” he added. Despite his efforts, he could hear the stiffness in his words.

  At that, Muntadhir looked up. “All the blandly diplomatic things you could blather about, and you go straight to her.”

  Ali flushed. “I only meant—”

  “How’s your cousin?”

  Ali started. “My what?”


  “Your cousin,” Muntadhir repeated. “The Ayaanle one who conveniently fell ill and needed you to continue on in his place.”

  The sarcastic implication that Ali had played a part in Musa’s plot set his teeth on edge. “I had nothing to do with that.”

  “Of course not. One Ayaanle plot gets you sent away, another one brings you back. And there remains Alizayd, innocent and oblivious to it all.”

  “Come on, Dhiru, surely—”

  “Don’t call me that,” Muntadhir interrupted. “I meant what I told you that night—you must remember, it was just before you brought the ceiling of the infirmary down on my head—I’m done protecting you.” He took another sip from his cup. His hands were shaking, and though his voice didn’t waver, Muntadhir’s gaze flickered away as though the sight of his little brother caused him pain. “I don’t trust you. I don’t trust myself with you. And that’s not a weakness I intend to let drag me down.”

  Stung, Ali struggled for a response, emotions swirling in his chest.

  Hurt responded first. “I saved your life. The Afshin . . . the boat . . .”

  “I’m well aware.” Muntadhir’s voice was curt, but this time Ali didn’t miss the flicker of emotion in his brother’s eyes. “So let me return the favor. Leave.”

  Ali stared at him. “What?”

  “Leave,” Muntadhir repeated. “Get out of Daevabad before you blunder into something else you don’t understand and get a score of innocent people killed.” A fierce protectiveness crept into his voice. “And stay away from Zaynab. I know she’s been helping you. That ends. I will kill you myself before I let you drag my little sister into one of your messes.”

  Ali recoiled, struck speechless by the open hate in his brother’s face. He hadn’t expected Muntadhir to greet him with open arms, but this . . .

  It was of course at that moment that the door opened again, and their father entered the courtyard.

  Training and a lifetime of being scolded to respect his elders had Ali bowing before he even realized what he was doing, his hand moving from his heart to his brow.