His father narrowed his eyes. “Problems at the hospital?”
“Not at all,” Ali said quickly. “Our work there continues smoothly and we should be on track, God willing, to open by Navasatem.”
“Excellent.” Ghassan clapped his back as they came around the corner. “Take care not to entirely overwork yourself. Ah . . . but speaking of someone who could stand to overwork himself—Muntadhir,” he greeted as his eldest son came into view. “I do hope you have an excuse for missing court.”
Muntadhir touched his heart and brow. “Peace be upon you, my king,” he said, ignoring Ali. “I do indeed. May we speak inside?”
Ali tried to step away, but Ghassan caught his wrist. “No. You can spare a few minutes. Don’t think I’ve not noticed the two of you avoiding each other. It is deeply childish.”
Ali flushed and Muntadhir drew up, giving Ali a short, disdainful glance as though he were some sort of irritating bug before sweeping into the office—which was good because Ali did indeed feel a sudden childish urge to coax the water fountain outside his father’s office into ruining the expensive cloak draping his brother’s shoulders.
To say things had soured between the princes since Ali visited the Daeva temple in Muntadhir’s stead was an understatement. Despite their best efforts, Ali and Zaynab hadn’t been able to sneak Muntadhir’s regalia back into his wardrobe without getting caught, and Muntadhir—sporting a freshly bruised jaw, no doubt courtesy of their father—had thoroughly upbraided them, shouting at his younger siblings until Zaynab had been on the verge of tears and Ali on the verge of making the bottles of liquid intoxicants scattered about the room explode.
He hadn’t tried approaching his brother again. It felt like Muntadhir was constantly watching him, studying him with a ruthless calm that left Ali uneasy and more than a little heartsick. Any hope he had of reconciling with the older brother he’d once adored, the brother he still loved, was beginning to fade away.
Even so, he followed, having little other choice.
“—what do you mean you’ve solved the problem of the southern Geziri sheikhs?” Ghassan was asking. He’d seated himself at his desk and Muntadhir was standing across from him. “Because unless you’ve managed to conjure up an additional caravanserai, I don’t know how we’re going to accommodate a thousand unexpected arrivals.”
“I just met with the steward in charge of the palace grounds,” Muntadhir replied. “I think we should set up a travelers’ camp in the front gardens. The Daevas will be horrified, of course, and it would take some time to restore the grounds afterward, but it could be done beautifully: conjured silk tents between the palms, a water garden and courtyard where we could have merchants selling traditional crafts and maybe a storyteller and some musicians performing the old epics.” He smiled hesitantly. “I thought it might be a nice homage to our roots—and the sheikhs could hardly claim offense if we put them next to our own palace.”
A wistful expression had drifted across his father’s face. “That is an excellent suggestion. Very good, Muntadhir. I’m impressed. You’ve been doing fine work with the Navasatem preparations.”
Muntadhir smiled fully, perhaps the most genuine smile Ali had seen cross his face in months, as though a load had been lifted from his shoulders. “Thank you, Abba,” he said sincerely. “I hope only to make you proud and honor our name.”
“I am certain you do.” Ghassan tented his hands. “However, after the holiday, Muntadhir, I expect you to turn your attention and charm back to your wife.”
The brief pleasure that had bloomed in his brother’s face vanished. “My wife and I are fine.”
Ghassan eyed him. “This is my palace, Emir. I know everything that goes on within its walls, which means I’m aware you and Nahri haven’t visited each other’s beds in over four months. I married the two of you to unify our tribes, understand? It’s been nearly five years. I had two children by Hatset in less time.”
Ali cleared his throat. “Can I . . . leave?”
Neither man looked at him. Muntadhir was staring at their father’s desk, a muscle working in his jaw. “These matters take time, Abba,” he said finally.
“They’re taking time because you spend your nights with everyone who isn’t your wife, something I’ve warned you about more than once. Should another person—another Daeva—be distracting you from your duties . . . well, that person can easily be removed.”
Muntadhir’s head jerked up, and Ali started at the barely checked fury in his brother’s face. “There’s no one distracting me,” Muntadhir snapped. He was gripping Ghassan’s desk so hard his knuckles had turned white. “And I am well aware of my duties; you’ve been beating their importance into me since I was a child.”
Ghassan’s eyes blazed. “Should you find your position burdensome, Emir,” he started coldly, “I have another who can replace you, one I suspect would happily take over your marital duties and whose company your wife already prefers.”
Ali’s ears burned at the insinuation. “That’s not what—”
Disdain twisted Muntadhir’s face. “My wife prefers Queen Hatset’s endless purse and a fool she can manipulate into building her hospital.” He turned to look at Ali. “And after it’s completed, she’ll have no use for either.”
The cruel words landed, piercing something insecure and vulnerable deep in Ali’s heart. “She is worth ten of you,” he responded, hurt surging forward and crashing past his self control. “What she’s doing is brilliant and brave, and you couldn’t even pull yourself from your courtesans long enough to visit—”
The office door burst inward, slamming hard against the wall. Ali spun, unsheathing his zulfiqar as he moved between his family and the doorway. But it was only Wajed who appeared, looking stressed and alarmed.
“Abu Muntadhir,” he greeted Ghassan in Geziriyya. Somewhere behind him, Ali could hear a woman wailing, her cries echoing through the corridor. “Forgive me, there’s been a terrible crime.”
“My lady, please!” Ali stiffened at the sound of Kaveh’s voice. “You cannot go before the king like this!”
“Yes, I can!” a woman shouted. “It is my right as a citizen!” A string of Divasti followed, broken by sobbing.
Ghassan stood up as a Daeva woman in a blood-soaked chador came stumbling into sight. Kaveh was at her side, pale and tense, as were a handful of other Daevas and two members of the Royal Guard.
“What’s going on?” Ghassan demanded, switching to Djinnistani.
Kaveh stepped forward as the woman sank to her knees in front of them, crying into her hands. “Forgive my tribeswoman, my king,” he pleaded. “She lost her wits begging to come before you.”
“She is welcome to come before me,” Ghassan replied. Ali could hear true concern in his voice. “My dear woman, whatever has happened? Are you hurt? I can have the Banu Nahida summoned . . .”
The woman began to cry harder. “It is too late for that. My husband is already dead. They took him, they cut his throat.”
Wajed looked grim. “A few of my men found them. Her husband . . .” He shook his head. “It was bad.”
“Did you catch them?” Ali asked quickly.
Wajed paused. “No. It . . . we found them near the Geziri Quarter. They’d gone to shop for pearls and . . .”
“This didn’t happen in the Geziri Quarter,” Kaveh snapped. “I know where you found them, Qaid.”
Ghassan’s voice was intent. “Who attacked you, my lady?”
“Shafit,” she spat. “We wanted to see the Nahid hospital, but we didn’t get halfway through their workcamp before these filthy men were pulling at our clothes and dragging us into a back alley. They threatened . . . they threatened to dishonor me. Parvez begged them, told them he would give them everything we had . . .” She shook her head as if to dispel the image, and her veil briefly fell from her face.
Shocked recognition stole through Ali, and his gaze darted to the grand wazir. No. It wasn’t possible.
Muntadhir had
crossed the office to pour a glass of water from the pitcher on the windowsill. He returned and pressed it into the woman’s hands with a few soft words of Divasti. She took a shaky breath, wiped her eyes, and then drank.
And with that second glimpse of her face, Ali was certain. He’d seen this woman twice before. Both had been rather memorable occasions. The first time had been at the Daeva tavern he’d visited with Anas, where she’d been laughing and gambling with a group of courtesans. The second time had been at his apartment; she’d been waiting in his bed after his first morning in court, sent to “welcome” him to the palace.
A “welcome” arranged by Kaveh e-Pramukh.
It was Kaveh who spoke next. “I tried to warn the Banu Nahida about that camp,” he said, his voice rising as he wrung his hands. “The dirt-bloods are dangerous. It is unnatural to work with them, and now they have killed a Daeva man in broad daylight. The whole place should be torn down.”
Ali cleared his throat, fighting for calm. “Were there any witnesses?”
Kaveh eyed him incredulously. “Is her word not enough?”
Not when you’re involved. But Ali didn’t say that; instead touching his heart and speaking truly, “I meant no offense toward your employee, Grand Wazir. But it could help us catch—”
“I am not his employee,” the woman declared. “What is that supposed to mean? I am a woman of noble blood! I belonged to none but my Parvez!”
Ali opened his mouth, but Ghassan held up a hand. “Were there witnesses? I do not doubt your account, my lady. But it would help us find the perpetrators.”
Wajed shook his head. “No witnesses, my king. None who would speak to us anyway, though it was fairly chaotic when we arrived.” He hesitated and then added, “A rather large number of Daevas were gathering to demand whoever did this be found and held accountable.”
Alarm sparked in Ali. “The shafit in that camp are under our protection. There are hundreds of women and children there.”
“They have no business being there,” Kaveh retorted. “This is your fault. You whispered your poisonous opinions into my Banu Nahida’s ear, and now a Daeva man is dead.”
Suspicion gripped Ali. Kaveh had made his opposition to Nahri working with the shafit clear at the Grand Temple. But surely he couldn’t be so hateful as to plot something like this. . . .
Aware of how tenuous the situation was, Ali switched to Geziriyya so that the Daevas couldn’t understand him. “Abba, I know that woman,” he said softly. “Kaveh knows that woman. He arranged for her to come visit my bedroom when I first moved back into the palace.” Ghassan’s eyes flickered to his, his face not betraying a hint of emotion, and Ali pressed on. “Muntadhir, surely you recognize her. You were there too. If she were to remove her veil, I know you would remember her.”
Muntadhir stared at him, seeming to contemplate the situation.
And then a ruthless calm swept his face. “I have made very clear how I feel about your judgment regarding the shafit.” He abruptly squared his shoulders, calculated outrage twisting his face. “And I am not going to ask this poor woman to disrobe because you think she’s a prostitute!”
His final words—uttered in Djinnistani rather than Geziriyya—cracked across the room. Kaveh gasped, and the woman let out a shrill cry.
Ali whirled around, seeing horror in the faces of the growing number of people who’d been drawn by the woman’s wails. “I-I didn’t say that,” he stammered, stunned by Muntadhir’s betrayal. “I only meant—”
“How dare you?” Kaveh accused. “Have you no shame, Prince Alizayd? Do you hate the Daevas so much that you’d dishonor a weeping woman while her husband’s blood still stains her hands?”
“That’s not what I meant!”
Muntadhir deftly brushed past him to kneel at the woman’s side. “We will find and punish whoever did this,” he promised, sincerity in every line of his handsome face. He glanced back at Ghassan. “Kaveh is right, Abba. I have tried to warn you and Nahri both. The shafit are dangerous, and something like this was bound to happen. Ali is delusional. His fanaticism has been infecting everyone around him.”
Ali gaped at him. “Dhiru . . .”
“Alizayd, leave us,” Ghassan said curtly. “You and your companions are confined to the palace until I say otherwise.” His eyes flashed. “Understand? Directly to your apartment; I will not have you further enflame this situation.”
Before Ali could protest, his brother grabbed him, dragging him toward the doors. “Abba, don’t!” he cried. “You heard Wajed, there’s a mob growing. Those people are innocent!”
Ghassan didn’t even look at him. “It will be handled.”
Muntadhir shoved him out, pushing Ali hard enough to knock him off balance. “Is there any situation you can’t make worse?” he snapped in Geziriyya.
“You lied,” Ali accused, shaking with emotion. “I know you—”
“You know nothing about me.” Muntadhir’s voice was low and venomous. “You have no idea what this position has cost me. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose it to some shafit-obsessed zealot who can’t hold his tongue.”
He slammed the door in Ali’s face.
Ali staggered back, fury in his heart. He wanted to rip open the door and drag his brother through it. He had never before felt such a physical need to hit someone.
The delicate water table—a new, rather lovely addition to the corridor, a beautifully conjured construct featuring painted crystal birds that appeared to flit as they bathed in the still waters of a mosaic pool—promptly exploded, the water sizzling into mist.
Ali barely noticed. It will be handled, his father had said. What did that mean? Ali thought of his workers and their families facing a Daeva mob, of Subha and her little daughter. He wasn’t supposed to be reckless, not anymore. But how could he let violence befall the people he’d sworn to protect? He knew his father’s politics; Ghassan wasn’t going to risk the fallout of letting the Royal Guard loose on mourning Daevas just to protect the shafit.
But there was someone else those Daevas might listen to. Nerves fluttered in Ali’s chest. Muntadhir would kill him, if Ghassan didn’t first.
It doesn’t matter. Not now. Ali jumped to his feet and ran for the infirmary.
23
Nahri
Daeva or not, Nahri was fairly certain she was never going to like horses.
As if hearing her thoughts, their mount put on a burst of speed, dashing around the next corner at a breakneck pace. Squeezing her eyes shut, Nahri tightened her grip around Ali’s waist.
He let out a choked sound of protest. “I don’t understand why you couldn’t take your own horse,” he said for what seemed like the tenth time. “It would have been more appropriate.”
“This is faster,” she said defensively, not wanting to admit her shortcomings as a rider. It was a skill other Daevas prided themselves on. “Muntadhir’s always going on about how much he loves this horse. He says it’s the fastest in Daevabad.”
Ali groaned. “You might have told me it was his favorite before we stole it.”
Her temper flared. “Maybe you should have worried about that before bursting into my infirmary ranting about conspiracies.”
“But you believe me?” Ali asked, hoping rising in his voice.
I believe Kaveh is up to no good. The grand wazir had made his hostility to the shafit clear, though Nahri wasn’t sure she believed he could have plotted such a vile act. There had always been something she hadn’t quite trusted about him, but he didn’t seem to be a cruel man.
She settled for a different answer. “It’s such a monumentally absurd story—even for you—to concoct that I’m assuming there’s a chance it’s the truth.”
“How gracious of you,” Ali muttered.
They ducked to avoid a low-hanging line of laundry. They were taking a back passage through the Geziri Quarter that Ali believed was faster, and the windowless expanses of the broad stone mansions loomed up around them, the faint scent of
refuse clinging to the air. The horse jumped a wide drainage canal, and Nahri swore, hugging Ali tighter to hook her fingers around his weapons belt. That was an item she knew he’d keep secure.
She heard him murmur a prayer under his breath. “Do you have to do that?” she hissed into his ear, fighting embarrassment. Nahri was not going to pretend the prince was the most . . . objectionable person to hold tight. She was a grown woman; she could quietly note the positive effects daily sparring might have on a man without getting worked up about it. Ali was the one making this unnecessarily awkward. “You know, for someone with such a clear recollection of one of Kaveh’s courtesans, you’re acting pretty prim.”
Ali sputtered. “I didn’t do anything with his courtesans!” he said, defending himself. “I would never. Forgive me for remembering a face!”
She felt mildly insulted at the heat in his voice. “Do you have something against Daeva women?”
“I . . . no, of course not,” he stammered back. Ali shifted as if to put space between their bodies, but another lunge of the horse sent them hard against each other. “Can we . . . can we not talk about this right now?”
Nahri rolled her eyes but let it go. Fighting with Ali wasn’t going to help her face down a Daeva mob.
Nerves fluttered in her stomach. Nahri knew the Daevas listened to her—and she had a fair amount of confidence in her ability to persuade—but the prospect of confronting an angry crowd scared even her.
It won’t be like that, she tried to assure herself. You’ll swear on your family’s name to see justice done and then order them to go home. The most important thing was to prevent this from spiraling out of control.
It wasn’t long before the alley began to widen. They turned another corner, and Ali slowed the horse. Just past an open archway, Nahri caught a glimpse of the street. The horse’s clattering hooves softened.
The sound was immediately replaced by wailing. Nahri inhaled sharply, smelling blood and smoke on the warm air. Ali spurred the horse out of the alley, a choked cry of denial on his lips . . .
The Kingdom of Copper Page 36