A turban of the same color went on next, wrapped loosely around his neck in Ayaanle fashion, and then a deeply ostentatious collar of gold worked with corals and pearls. Ali hated jewelry—truly a more useless waste of resources had never been devised—but he knew that no Ayaanle nobleman worth his salt would dare go out unadorned. Though his vault brimmed with treasure from his mother’s wealthy homeland of Ta Ntry, the collar had already been on hand, some family heirloom his sister Zaynab had insisted he wear to an Ayaanle wedding he’d been forced to attend a few months ago.
Finally, he pulled a tiny glass vial from his pocket. A potion that looked like swirled cream churned inside, a cosmetic enchantment that would turn his eyes the bright gold of an Ayaanle man for a few hours. Ali hesitated; he didn’t want to change the color of his eyes, not for a moment.
There weren’t many people in Daevabad like Ali and his sister, pureblooded djinn nobles of mixed tribal heritage. Separated into six tribes by the human prophet-king Suleiman himself, most djinn preferred the company of their kinsmen; indeed, Suleiman had supposedly divided them with the express purpose of causing as much dissent as possible. The more time djinn spent fighting each other, the less they spent harassing humans.
But Ali’s parents’ marriage had been equally purposeful, a political match meant to strengthen the alliance between the Geziri and the Ayaanle tribes. It was a strange, often strained, alliance. The Ayaanle were a wealthy people who prized scholarship and trade, rarely leaving the fine coral palaces and sophisticated salons of Ta Ntry, their homeland on the East African coast. In contrast, Am Gezira, with its heart in the most desolate deserts of southern Arabia, must have seemed a wasteland, its forbidding sands filled with wandering poets and illiterate warriors.
And yet Am Gezira owned Ali’s heart completely. He’d always preferred the Geziri, an allegiance his appearance thoroughly mocked. Ali resembled his mother’s people so strikingly that it would have provoked gossip had his father not been king. He shared their lanky height and black skin, his stern mouth and sharp cheeks near replicas of his mother’s. All he’d inherited from his father was his dark steel eyes. And tonight, he’d have to give even those up.
Ali opened the vial and tapped a few drops into each eye. He bit back a curse. God, it burned. He’d been warned that it would, but the pain took him aback.
He made his bleary-eyed way to the midan, the central plaza at Daevabad’s heart. It was empty at this late hour; the neglected fountain in its center cast wild shadows on the ground. The midan was enclosed by a copper wall gone green with age, the wall in turn broken up by seven equally spaced gates. Each gate led to a different tribal district with the seventh opening into the Grand Bazaar and its overcrowded shafit neighborhoods.
The midan’s gates were always a sight to behold. There was the Sahrayn Gate, black-and-white-tiled pillars wrapped in grapevines heavy with purple fruit. Beside it was that of the Ayaanle, two narrow, studded pyramids crowned with a scroll and a salt tablet. The Geziri Gate was next, nothing but a perfectly cut stone archway, his father’s people preferring function over form as always. It looked even plainer beside the richly decorated Agnivanshi Gate with its rose-colored sandstone sculpted into dozens of dancing figures, their delicate hands holding flickering oil lamps so small that they resembled stars. Next to that was the Tukharistani Gate, a screen of polished jade reflecting the night sky, carved in an impossibly intricate pattern.
And yet impressive as they all were, the final gate—the gate that would catch the first rays of sunlight each morning, the gate of Daevabad’s original people—outshone them all.
The Daeva Gate.
The entrance to the Daevas’ quarter—for the fire worshippers had arrogantly taken their race’s original name as their own tribal one—sat directly across from the Grand Bazaar, its enormous paneled doors painted a pale blue that could have been plucked directly from a fresh-washed sky, and embedded with white and gold sandstone disks set in a triangular pattern. The doors were held open by two massive brass shedu, the statues all that were left of the mythical winged lions the ancient Nahids were said to have ridden into battle against the ifrit.
He made his way toward the entrance, but he’d barely gotten halfway there when two figures stepped out from beneath the gate’s shadow. Ali stopped. One of the men quickly raised his hands and moved into the moonlight. Anas.
His sheikh smiled. “Peace be upon you, brother.” He was dressed in a homespun tunic the color of dirty wash water, his head uncharacteristically bare.
“And upon you peace.” Ali eyed the second man. He was shafit—that much was apparent from his rounded ears—but looked Sahrayn, with the North African tribe’s fiery red-black hair and copper eyes. He wore a striped galabiyya, its tasseled hood half drawn.
The man’s eyes widened at the sight of Ali. “This is your new recruit?” He laughed. “Are we so desperate for fighters that we’re taking crocodiles barely out of their shell?”
Outraged by the slur against his Ayaanle blood, Ali opened his mouth to protest, but Anas cut in. “Watch your tongue, Brother Hanno,” he warned. “We are all djinn here.”
Hanno didn’t look bothered by the admonishment. “Does he have a name?”
“Not one that concerns you,” Anas said firmly. “He’s here merely to observe.” He nodded at Hanno. “So go on. I know you like to show off.”
The other man chuckled. “Fair enough.” He clapped his hands, and a swirl of smoke shrouded his body. When it dissipated, his dirty galabiyya had been replaced by an iridescent shawl, a mustard-colored turban decorated with pheasant feathers, and a bright green dhoti, the waist cloth typically worn by Agnivanshi men. As Ali watched, his ears lengthened, and his skin brightened to a dark, luminous brown. Black braids crawled out from under his turban, stretching to sweep the hilt of the Hindustani talwar now sheathed at his waist. He blinked, his copper eyes turning the tin color of an Agnivanshi pureblood. A steel relic band clanged into place around his wrist.
Ali’s mouth fell open. “You’re a shapeshifter?” he gasped, hardly believing the sight before him. Shape-shifting was an incredibly rare ability, one which only a few families in each tribe possessed and even fewer managed to master. Talented shapeshifters were worth their weight in gold. “By the Most High . . . I didn’t think the shafit even capable of such advanced magic.”
Hanno snorted. “You purebloods always underestimate us.”
“But . . .” Ali was still stunned. “. . . if you can look pureblooded, why even live as shafit?”
The humor vanished from Hanno’s new face. “Because I am shafit. That I can wield my magic better than a pureblood, that the sheikh here could spin intellectual circles around the scholars of the Royal Library—that is proof that we’re not so different from the rest of you.” He glared at Ali. “It’s not a thing I mean to hide.”
Ali felt like a fool. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” Anas interrupted. He took Ali’s arm. “Let’s go.”
Ali drew to a halt when he realized where the sheikh was leading him. “Wait . . . you don’t mean to actually go in the Daeva Quarter, do you?” He assumed the gate had only been a meeting place.
“Afraid of a few fire worshippers?” Hanno teased. He tapped the hilt of his talwar. “Don’t worry, boy. I won’t let any Afshin ghost gobble you up.”
“I’m not afraid of the Daevas,” Ali snapped. He’d had just about enough of this man. “But I know the law. They don’t allow foreigners in their quarter after sunset.”
“Well, then I guess we’ll just have to be discreet.”
They passed under the snarling shedu statues and into the Daeva Quarter. Ali got a brief glance at the main boulevard—bustling at this time of night with shoppers browsing in the market and men playing chess over endless cups of tea—before Anas pulled him toward the back of the nearest building.
A dark alley stretched before them, lined with neatly stacked crates of garbage awaiting d
isposal. It snaked away, vanishing into the gloomy distance.
“Stay low and stay quiet,” Anas warned. It quickly became clear that the Tanzeem men had done this before; they navigated the maze of alleys with ease, darting into the shadows every time a back door banged open.
When they finally emerged, it was in a neighborhood that bore little resemblance to the gleaming central boulevard. The ancient buildings looked hewn directly from Daevabad’s rocky hills, ramshackle wooden huts squashed in every available space. A squat brick complex stood at the end of the street, firelight winking from behind its tattered curtains.
As they drew closer, Ali could hear drunken laughter and the strains of some sort of stringed instrument pouring out from the open door. The air was hazy; smoke drifted about the men lounging on stained cushions, swirling past steam pipes and dark goblets of wine. The patrons were all Daeva, many with black caste tattoos and family sigils emblazoned on their golden-brown arms.
A burly man in a stained vest with a scar splitting one cheek guarded the entrance. He climbed to his feet as they approached, blocking the door with an enormous ax.
“You lost?” he growled.
“We’re here to see Turan,” Hanno said.
The guard’s black eyes shifted to Anas. He sneered. “You and your crocodile friend can come in, but the dirt-blood stays out here.”
Hanno stepped up to him, his hand on his talwar. “For what I’m paying your boss, my servant stays with me.” He jerked his head at the ax. “Mind?”
The other man didn’t look happy, but he stepped away and Hanno entered the tavern, Anas and Ali following.
Besides a few hostile glances—mostly aimed at Anas—the patrons ignored them. It looked like the type of place people came to be forgotten, but Ali struggled not to stare. He’d never been to a tavern—he’d never even spent much time around the fire worshippers. Few Daevas were permitted to serve in the Royal Guard, and of those who did, Ali suspected none were interested in befriending the youngest Qahtani.
He dodged out of the way as a drunk man fell from his ottoman with a smoky snort. The sound of feminine laughter caught his attention, and Ali glanced over to find a trio of Daeva women conversing in rapid-fire Divasti over a mirrored table covered in brass game pieces, half-empty goblets, and glittering coins. Though their conversation was gibberish—Ali had never bothered to learn Divasti—each woman was more stunning than the last, their black eyes sparkling as they laughed. They wore embroidered blouses that were cut low and tight across their breasts, their slender golden waists wrapped in jeweled chains.
Ali abruptly lost the battle he’d been waging against staring. He’d never seen an adult Daeva woman uncovered, let alone one displaying the charms of these three. The most conservative of the tribes, Daeva women veiled themselves when leaving their homes, with many—especially from highborn families—refusing to speak to foreign men at all.
Not these three. Noticing Ali, one of the women straightened up, boldly meeting his eyes with a wicked grin. “Aye, darling, do you like what you see?” she asked in accented Djinnistani. She licked her lips, causing his heart to skip several beats, and nodded to the jeweled collar around his neck. “You look like you could afford me.”
Anas stepped between them. “Lower your eyes, brother,” he chided gently.
Embarrassed, Ali dropped his gaze. Hanno snickered, but Ali didn’t look up until they were led into a small back room. It was better adorned than the tavern; intricately woven rugs depicting fruit trees and dancers covered the floor while chandeliers of cut glass hung from the ceiling.
Hanno pushed Ali onto one of the plush cushions lining the wall. “Keep quiet,” he warned as he took a seat beside him. “It took me a long time to set this up.” Anas stayed standing, his head bowed in an uncharacteristically subservient manner.
A thick felt curtain in the center of the room swept away to reveal a Daeva man in a crimson coat standing at the entrance to a dark corridor.
Hanno beamed. “Greetings, sahib,” he boomed in an Agnivanshi accent. “You must be Turan. May the fires burn brightly for you.”
Turan didn’t return the smile or the blessing. “You’re late.”
The shapeshifter lifted his dark brows in surprise. “Is the market for stolen children a punctual one?”
Ali startled, but before he could open his mouth, Anas caught his eye from across the room and gave a slight shake of his head. Ali stayed quiet.
Turan crossed his arms, looking irritated. “I can find another buyer if your conscience bothers you.”
“And disappoint my wife?” Hanno shook his head. “Absolutely not. She’s already set up the nursery.”
Turan’s eyes slid to Ali. “Who’s your friend?”
“Two friends,” Hanno corrected, tapping the sword at his waist. “Do you expect me to wander about the Daeva Quarter with the ridiculous amount of money you’re demanding and not bring protection?”
Turan’s cold gaze stayed fixed upon Ali’s face. His heart raced; Ali could think of few places worse to be recognized as a Qahtani prince than a Daeva tavern filled with drunk men of various criminal persuasions.
Anas spoke for the first time. “He is delaying, master,” he warned. “He probably already sold the boy.”
“Shut your mouth, shafit,” Turan snapped. “No one gave you permission to speak.”
“Enough.” Hanno cut in. “But come, man, do you have the boy or not? All this complaining about my tardiness and now you’re wasting time leering at my companion.”
Turan’s eyes flashed, but he disappeared behind the felt curtain.
Hanno rolled his eyes. “And the Daevas wonder why nobody likes them.”
There was an angry burst of Divasti from behind the curtain, and then a dirty little girl carrying a large copper tray was pushed into the room. She looked as human as Anas. Her skin was dull, and she was dressed in a linen shift wholly inadequate for the night’s chill, her hair shaved so roughly there were scarred nicks on her bare scalp. Keeping her gaze down, she approached on bare feet, mutely offering the tray upon which sat two steaming cups of apricot liquor. She couldn’t have been any older than ten.
Ali spotted the bruises on the girl’s wrist at the same time as Hanno, but the shapeshifter straightened up first.
He hissed. “I’ll kill that man.”
The little girl scrambled back, and Anas hurried to her side. “It’s okay, little one, he didn’t mean to scare you . . . Hanno, put your weapon away,” he warned as the shapeshifter drew his talwar. “Don’t be a fool.”
Hanno snarled but sheathed the blade as Turan reentered.
The Daeva man took one look at the scene before him and then glared at Anas. “Get away from my servant.” The girl retreated to a dark corner, cowering behind her tray.
Ali’s temper flashed. He’d heard Anas speak for years about the plight of the shafit, but to actually witness it, to hear how the Daevas spoke to Anas, to see the bruises on the terrified little girl . . . Maybe Ali had been wrong to question him earlier.
Turan approached. A baby—well-swaddled and fast asleep—was nestled in his arms. Hanno immediately reached for him.
Turan held back. “The money first.”
Hanno nodded at Anas, and the sheikh stepped forward with the purse Ali had given him earlier. He spilled the contents on the rug, a mix of currencies including human dinars, Tukharistani jade tablets, salt nuggets, and a single small ruby.
“Count it yourself,” Hanno said curtly. “But let me see the boy.”
Turan passed him over, and Ali had to work to contain his surprise. He’d expected another shafit child, but the baby’s ears were as peaked as his own, and his brown skin gleamed with the luminescence of a pureblood. Hanno briefly opened one closed lid, revealing tin-colored eyes. The baby let out a smoky whimper of protest.
“He’ll pass,” Turan assured him. “Trust me. I’ve been in this business long enough to know. No one will ever suspect that he’s a shafit.”<
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Shafit? Ali looked at the boy again, taken aback. But Turan was right: he didn’t look like a mixed-blood in the slightest.
“Did you have any trouble getting him away from his parents?” Hanno asked.
“The father wasn’t an issue. Agnivanshi pureblood who just wanted the money. The mother was a maid who ran off when he got her pregnant. Took a while to track her down.”
“And she agreed to sell the child?”
Turan shrugged. “She’s shafit. Does it matter?”
“It does if she’s going to make problems for me later.”
“She threatened to go to the Tanzeem.” Turan scoffed. “But those dirt-blooded radicals are nothing to worry about, and the shafit breed like rabbits. She’ll have another baby to distract her in a year.”
Hanno smiled, but the expression didn’t meet his eyes. “Maybe another business opportunity for you.” He glanced at Ali. “And what do you think?” he asked, his voice intent. He turned the sleeping baby around to face him. “Could he pass as my own?”
Ali frowned, a little confused by the question. He glanced between the baby and Hanno, but of course Hanno didn’t look like himself. He’d shapeshifted. He’d shapeshifted into a very particular Agnivanshi visage, and it suddenly became terribly clear why.
“Y-yes,” he choked out, swallowing back the lump in his throat and trying to conceal the horror in his voice. It was the truth, after all. “Easily.”
Hanno didn’t seem as pleased. “Perhaps. But he’s older than promised—certainly not worth the ridiculous price you’re demanding,” he complained to Turan. “Is my wife to have given birth to a toddler?”
“Then go.” Turan raised his palms. “I’ll have another buyer in a week, and you’ll return to a wife waiting beside an empty crib. Spend another half century trying to conceive. It’s all the same to me.”
The City of Brass Page 7