Ali shook his head. “You’re not that.” He grinned. “Well, perhaps a little bit of the first part.” He ducked when she tried to swat him.
“I hope you guard your tongue better when you’re in front of Amma,” Zaynab warned. “She didn’t think highly of your dashing back to the Citadel and had some rather choice words to say about the fate that befalls ungrateful sons.”
Ali cleared his throat. “Anything . . . specific?” he asked, repressing a shiver.
Zaynab smiled sweetly. “I hope you’ve been saying your prayers, little brother.”
Queen Hatset’s sprawling apartments were located on one of the highest levels of the palatial ziggurat, and Ali could not help but admire the view as they climbed the stairs. The city looked like a toy below, a sprawl of miniature buildings and scurrying ant-size inhabitants.
They ducked through the intricately carved teak door that led to his mother’s pavilion, and Ali held his breath. Designed to mimic the enchantments of her beloved homeland, the pavilion first appeared to be the ruins of a once magnificent coral castle, like the many human ones dotting the coast of Ta Ntry. But then with a teasing swirl of smoke and magic, it shimmered back to its glory before his eyes: a lush salon of gem-studded coral archways, lined with planters of rich marsh grasses, emerald palms, and Nile lilies. The pavilion had been a marriage gift from Ghassan, meant to ease the homesickness of his new Ayaanle bride—a gesture that spoke to a kinder version of his father than Ali had known. The air smelled of myrrh, and the sounds of a lute and laughter drifted from behind gently billowing purple and gold linen curtains.
Familiar laughter. Ali steeled himself as they passed the curtain. But whatever he was expecting . . . the scene before him was certainly not it.
Queen Hatset sat on a low couch, half bent over a beautifully carved lapis lazuli game board, chuckling with a shafit man and woman. A little girl sat in her lap, toying with the gold ornaments in his mother’s braids.
Ali stared in astonishment. It was the shafit girl and her father from the auction, the ones he’d feared he’d doomed. Here they were, with smiles on their faces, dressed in clothing befitting Ayaanle nobles.
Hatset glanced up. Delight, relief, and not a little bit of mischief lit her gold eyes. “Alu! How lovely to finally see you.” She patted the little girl’s cheek and then handed her to the other woman—her mother, judging from the resemblance. “I’ve been teaching your friends how to play senet.” She rose to her feet gracefully, crossing the pavilion. “It seems I had quite a bit of time on my hands, waiting for you.”
Ali was still at a loss for words when his mother reached him. “I . . .”
She pulled him into a fierce hug. “Oh, baba,” she whispered, holding him tight. Her cheeks were wet. “God be praised for letting me look upon you again.”
Ali was caught off guard by the wave of emotion that swept him upon being in his mother’s arms again for the first time in years. Hatset. The woman who’d birthed him, whose family had betrayed him and then schemed to drag him away from the life he was building in Bir Nabat. He should have been furious—and yet as she pulled back to touch his cheek, he felt some of the anger he’d been carrying evaporate. God, but how many times had he looked at her face as a child and held the edge of her shayla, followed her absentmindedly through the harem, and cried for her in Ntaran during his first lonely, frightening nights at the Citadel?
“Peace be upon you, Amma,” he managed. The curious gazes of the shafit family brought him back to the present, and Ali stepped away, trying to clamp down on his emotions. “How did you—”
“I heard about their misfortune and decided to help.” Hatset glanced back at the shafit family with a smile. “I suggested they join my service here at the palace rather than return to their home. It is safer.”
The shafit woman touched her heart. “We are much indebted to you, my queen.”
Hatset shook her head and then pulled Ali forward firmly. “Nonsense, sister. It is a crime that you were ever even briefly separated.”
The woman blushed, bowing her head. “We’ll give you some time with your son.”
“Thank you.” His mother pushed him into the couch with what seemed like unnecessary force and then glanced at the remaining attendants. “My ladies, would you mind seeing if the kitchens can prepare some proper Ntaran food for my son?” She smiled pleasantly at him. “He looks like an underfed hawk.”
“Yes, my queen.” They vanished, leaving Ali alone with his mother and sister.
In a second, the two women whirled on him, looming over the couch into which he’d been shoved. Neither looked happy.
Ali immediately raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I was going to come see you, I swear.”
“Oh? When?” Hatset crossed her arms, her smile gone. “After you’d seen everyone else in Daevabad?”
“It’s only been two days,” he protested. “It was a long journey. I needed time to recover—”
“And yet you had time to visit your brother’s wife.”
Ali’s mouth dropped. How had his mother known that? “Do you have spies among the birds now?”
“I do not share a palace with vengeful Nahids and their apothecary of poisons without knowing what they’re up to at all times.” Her expression darkened. “And that was not a visit you should have made alone. People talk.”
He bit his lip but stayed silent. He couldn’t exactly argue with her on that point.
His mother’s gaze trailed him, lingering on the scar on his temple. “What is that?”
“Just a scar,” Ali said quickly. “I injured myself quarrying rock for Bir Nabat’s canals.”
Hatset continued studying him. “You look like you just robbed a caravan,” she assessed bluntly and then wrinkled her nose. “Smell like it too. Why have you not been to the hammam and changed into something that doesn’t have the blood of God only knows who all over it?”
Ali scowled. He had a very good reason for avoiding the hammam: he didn’t want anyone catching a glimpse of the scars covering his body. “I like this robe,” he said defensively.
Zaynab looked like she was struggling not to laugh. She fell into the seat beside him. “I’m sorry,” she rushed to say when Hatset threw her an exasperated glare. “I mean . . . did you think his personality would improve out there?”
“Yes,” Hatset replied sharply. “I’d hope after being sent to Am Gezira to die, he’d be sharper. Your appearance shapes your public image, Alizayd, and wandering around Daevabad in bloody rags looking like a lost sheep is not particularly impressive.”
A little offended, Ali retorted, “Is that what you’re doing with that poor family, then? Dressing them up, parading them around in order to shape your image?”
Hatset narrowed her eyes. “What are their names?”
“What?”
“Their names. What are the names of the people you put a target on?” She pressed on when Ali flustered. “You don’t know, do you? Then I’ll tell you. The woman is Mariam, a shafit from Sumatra. Her husband is Ashok and their daughter is Manat. Despite the city’s problems, they’ve been managing fine. So well, in fact, that Ashok’s success in running a food stall attracted the jealousy of one of their neighbors, who gave them up to that foul trader’s roaming goons. But Ashok likes cooking, so I’ve gotten him a position in the palace kitchens and rooms where he may live with his wife while she attends me in the harem and her daughter takes lessons with the other children.”
Ali was chastened, but not enough to be unsuspicious. “And why would you do such a thing?”
“Someone needed to fix my son’s mistake.” When Ali flushed, she continued, “I’m also a believer, and it is a great sin to abuse the shafit. Trust me when I say I find what’s happening in Daevabad to be as abhorrent as you do.”
“My ‘cousin’ Musa said a very similar thing before sabotaging my village’s well in an effort to force his cargo upon me,” Ali replied. “I take it you were behind that as well?�
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There was a moment of silence, the two women exchanging a look before Zaynab spoke up, her voice uncharacteristically abashed. “That . . . that might have been my idea.” When Ali spun on her, she gave him a helpless look. “I was worried you would never come back! My messengers said it seemed like you were settling in!”
“I was! It was nice.” Ali couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He pressed his hands against his knees, fighting his temper. The plot might have been Zaynab’s, but this was a game his mother had started. “But maybe if we’re going to speak so plainly we can talk about the reason I was sent to Am Gezira in the first place.”
His mother actually smiled. It was a little unnerving, seeing that sharp delighted grin he’d been told more than once that he shared. The years had not aged Hatset like they had his father. She was every inch the queen, and she straightened up as if he’d issued her a challenge, adjusting her shayla like it was battle armor.
“Zaynab, my love . . . ,” she started slowly, not taking her eyes from Ali. A prickle of fear danced over the nape of his neck. “Would you mind leaving us?”
His sister glanced between them, looking alarmed. “Maybe I should stay.”
“You should go.” His mother’s careful smile didn’t waver as she took a seat on the opposite couch, but her voice had an authoritative edge. “Your brother clearly has some things he’d like to say to me.”
Zaynab sighed and stood. “Good luck, akhi.” She squeezed his shoulder again and was gone.
“Alu,” Hatset said, in a tone that made Ali fairly certain he was about to be slapped again, “I know you’re not insinuating that the woman who carried and birthed you, enormous potato head and all, was involved in that idiotic conspiracy with the Tanzeem.”
Ali swallowed. “Abba said they had Ayaanle backers,” he said, defending himself. “That one of them was your cousin—”
“Indeed, one of them was. Was,” his mother repeated, the deadly intent clear in her voice. “I don’t deal lightly with those who risk the lives of the ones I love. And on some half-baked scheme at that.” She rolled her eyes. “A revolution. How unnecessarily bloody.”
“You sound more annoyed by the method than by the idea of treason.”
“And?” Hatset picked up a fragrant cup of tea from a nearby table, taking a sip. “You’re looking at the wrong person if you expect me to defend your father’s rule. He’s been going astray for years. You clearly agreed with that assessment if you were willing to join the Tanzeem.”
He winced, her words finding their mark. He had disagreed—violently—with his father’s handling of the shafit. He still very much did. “I was just trying to help the shafit,” he insisted. “There was nothing political in it.”
His mother gave him an almost pitying look. “There is nothing nonpolitical about someone named ‘Zaydi al Qahtani’ trying to help the shafit.”
At that, Ali dropped his gaze. His name didn’t feel like an inspiration these days—it felt like a burden. “He was certainly better at it than I.”
Hatset sighed and then moved to sit beside him. “You are still so much the boy I remember,” she said, her voice softer. “From the time you could walk, you’d follow me through the harem, babbling about everything you could see. The smallest things would fill you with delight, with wonder . . . The other women declared you the most curious child they’d ever encountered. The sweetest.” Her eyes flashed with old betrayal. “Then Ghassan took you from me. They locked you away in the Citadel, put a zulfiqar in your hand, and taught you to be your brother’s weapon.” Her voice hitched on the last word. “But still I see that innocence in you. That goodness.”
Ali didn’t know what to say to that. He ran his fingers over the striped blue silk of the couch. It felt soft as a rosebud, far finer than anything he’d sat on in Am Gezira, and yet that was where he ached to be, assassins be damned. A place where helping others was a simple matter of digging a well. “That goodness has gotten me nowhere in Daevabad. Everyone I try to help ends up worse off.”
“You don’t stop fighting a war just because you’re losing battles, Alizayd. You change tactics. Surely, that’s a lesson you learned in the Citadel.”
Ali shook his head. They were veering too close to a conversation he didn’t want to have. “There’s no war to be won here. Not by me. Abba wanted to teach me a lesson, and I’ve learned it. I’ll stay in the Citadel with a zulfiqar in my hand and my mouth firmly shut until Navasatem.”
“While down the street, shafit are auctioned off like cattle?” Hatset challenged. “While your brothers in the Royal Guard are reduced to training with blunt knives and eating spoiled food so nobles can feast and dance during the holiday?”
“I can’t help them. And you’re hardly innocent in this,” Ali accused. “Do you think I don’t know the games the Ayaanle are playing with Daevabad’s economy?”
Hatset returned his glare. “You are far too clever to believe the Ayaanle are the only reason for Daevabad’s financial problems. We are a scapegoat; a slight diminishment in taxes does not do the damage I know you’ve seen. Keeping a third of the population in slavery and squalor does. Oppressing another third to the point where they self-segregate does.” Her tone grew intent. “People do not thrive under tyrants, Alizayd; they do not come up with innovations when they’re busy trying to stay alive, or offer creative ideas when error is punished by the hooves of a karkadann.”
Ali rose to his feet, wishing he could refute her words. “Go tell these things to Muntadhir. He is the emir.”
“Muntadhir doesn’t have it in him to act.” Hatset’s voice was surprisingly kind. “I like your brother. He is the most charming man I know, and he too has a good heart. But your father has carved his beliefs into Muntadhir deeper than you realize. He will reign as Ghassan does: so afraid of his people that he crushes them.”
Ali paced, fighting the water that wanted to burst from his hands. “And what would you have me do, Amma?”
“Help him,” Hatset insisted. “You don’t need to be a weapon to be an asset.”
He was already shaking his head. “Muntadhir hates me,” he said bitterly, the blunt statement salting the wound his brother had inflicted when Ali first returned. “He’s not going to listen to anything I say.”
“He doesn’t hate you. He’s hurt, he’s lost, and he’s lashing out. But those are dangerous impulses when a man has as much power as your brother, and he’s going down a path from which he might not be able to return.” Her voice darkened. “And that path, Alu? It might present you with choices far worse than talking to him.”
Ali was suddenly conscious of the water in the pitcher on the table next to him, in the fountains lining the pavilion, and in the pipes under the floor. It pulled on him, feeding off his mounting agitation.
“I can’t talk about this right now, Amma.” He ran his hands over his face, pulling at his beard.
Hatset stilled. “What is that on your wrist?”
Ali glanced down, his heart skipping as he realized the sleeve of his damn robe had fallen back once more. He kicked himself. After his encounter with Nahri, he’d sworn he’d find something new to wear. But uniforms at the Citadel had been scarce, and he hated to inconvenience the already struggling men.
Hatset was on her feet and at his side before Ali could respond; he hadn’t actually realized his mother could move so quickly. She grabbed his arm. Ali tried to pull back, but not wanting to hurt her—and underestimating her strength—he was not fast enough to block her before she’d shoved the sleeve back to his shoulder.
She gasped, pressing the bumpy edge of the scar that wrapped his wrist. “Where did you get this?” she asked, alarm rising in her voice.
Ali panicked. “Am-Am Gezira,” he stammered. “It’s nothing. An old injury.”
Her gaze trailed his body again. “You haven’t been to the hammam . . . ,” she said, echoing her earlier words. “Nor taken off this filthy robe.” Her eyes darted to his. “Alu . . . are there
more of these scars on your body?”
Ali’s stomach dropped. She’d asked the question far too knowingly.
“Take it off.” His mother was pulling the robe from his shoulders before he could move. Underneath, he wore a sleeveless tunic and a waist-wrap that came to his calves.
Hatset inhaled. She grabbed his arms, examining the scars that crossed his skin. Her fingers lingered at the ragged line crocodile teeth had torn just below his collarbone, and then she picked up his hand, touching the seared impression of a large fishing hook. Horror filled her eyes. “Alizayd, how did you get these?”
Ali trembled, torn between the promise he’d made to his father not to speak of that night and his desperate desire to know what had happened to him beneath the lake’s dark water. Ghassan had implied that the Ayaanle had an ancient tie to the marid—that they’d used them to aid in the conquest of Daevabad—and during his darkest days, Ali had been terribly tempted to find someone from his mother’s homeland and beg for information.
He said no one could know. Abba said no one could ever know.
Hatset must have seen the indecision warring in his expression. “Alu, look at me.” She took his face between her hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. “I know you don’t trust me. I know we have our differences. But this? This goes beyond all that. I need you to tell me the truth. Where did you get these scars?”
He stared into her warm gold eyes—the eyes that had comforted Ali since he was a child skinning his elbows while climbing trees in the harem—and the truth tumbled out. “The lake,” he said, his voice the barest of whispers. “I fell in the lake.”
“The lake?” she repeated. “Daevabad’s lake?” Her eyes went wide. “Your fight with the Afshin. I heard he knocked you overboard, but that you caught yourself before you reached the water.”
Ali shook his head. “Not quite,” he replied, his throat catching.
She took a deep breath. “Oh, baba . . . here I am discussing politics . . .” She held on to his hands. “Tell me what happened.”
The Kingdom of Copper Page 20