Hanno appeared to deliberate another moment. He glanced at the little girl still crouched in the shadows. “We’re looking for a new servant. Include that one with the boy, and I will pay your price.”
Turan scowled. “I’m not going to sell you a house slave for nothing.”
“I’ll buy her,” Ali cut in. Hanno’s eyes flashed, but Ali didn’t care. He wanted to be done with this Daeva demon, to get these innocent souls away from this hellish place where their lives were weighed solely upon their appearance. He fumbled for the clasps on his golden collar, and it landed heavily in his lap. He thrust it at Turan, the pearls glistening in the soft light. “Is this enough?”
Turan didn’t touch it. There was no greed, no anticipation in his black eyes. Instead, he glanced at the collar and then looked at Ali.
He cleared his throat. “What did you say your name was?”
Ali suspected he’d just made a terrible mistake.
But before he could stammer a response, the door leading to the tavern swung open, and one of the wine bearers hurried in. He bent to whisper in Turan’s ear. The slaver’s frown deepened.
“Problem?” Hanno prompted.
“A man whose desire to drink outweighs his ability to pay.” Turan rose to his feet, his mouth pressed in an irritated line. “If you will excuse me a moment . . .” He headed for the tavern, the wine bearer at his heels. They shut the door behind them.
Hanno whirled on Ali. “You idiot. Didn’t I tell you to keep your mouth shut?” He gestured at the collar. “That thing could buy a dozen girls like her!”
“I-I’m sorry,” Ali rushed. “I was just trying to help!”
“Forget that for now.” Anas pointed to the baby. “Does he have the mark?”
Hanno shot Ali another aggrieved look but then gently coaxed one of the baby’s arms out of his swaddling and turned his wrist to the light. A small blue birthmark—like a dashed pen stroke—marred the soft skin. “Yes. Same story as the mother’s, as well. It’s him.” He pointed to the little girl still cowering in the corner. “But she’s not staying here with that monster.”
Anas eyed the shapeshifter. “I didn’t say she was.”
Ali was thunderstruck by what he’d just witnessed. “The boy . . . is this common?”
Anas sighed, his face somber. “Quite. The shafit have always been more fertile than purebloods, a blessing and a curse from our human ancestors.” He gestured to the small fortune glittering on the rug. “It’s a lucrative business—one that’s gone on for centuries. There are probably thousands in Daevabad like this boy, raised as purebloods with no idea of their true heritage.”
“But their shafit parents . . . can’t they petition m—the king?”
“‘Petition the king’?” Hanno repeated, his voice thick with scorn. “By the Most High, is this the first time you’ve left your family’s mansion, boy? Shafit can’t petition the king. They come to us—we’re the only ones who can help.”
Ali dropped his gaze. “I had no idea.”
“Then perhaps you will think on this night should you decide to question me again about the Tanzeem,” Anas cut in, his voice colder than Ali had ever heard it. “We do what’s necessary to protect our people.”
Hanno suddenly frowned. He stared at the money on the floor, shifting the sleeping baby still nestled in his arms. “Something’s not right.” He stood. “Turan shouldn’t have left us here with the money and the boy.” He reached for the door leading to the tavern and then jumped back with a yelp, the sizzle of burned flesh scenting the air. “The bastard cursed us in!”
Awakened by Hanno’s shout, the baby started to cry. Ali shot to his feet. He joined them at the door, praying Hanno was wrong.
He let his fingertips hover just over the wooden surface, but Hanno was right: it simmered with magic. Fortunately, Ali was Citadel trained—and the Daevas were troublemakers enough that breaking through the enchantments they used to guard their homes and businesses was a skill taught to the youngest cadets. He closed his eyes, murmuring the first incantation that came to mind. The door swung open.
The tavern was empty.
It had been abandoned in a hurry. Goblets were still full, smoke curled around forgotten pipes, and scattered game pieces glittered on the table where the Daeva women had been playing. Even so, Turan had been careful to douse the lamps, throwing the tavern into darkness. The only illumination came from the moonlight piercing the tattered curtains.
Behind him, Hanno swore and Anas whispered a prayer of protection. Ali reached for his hidden zulfiqar, the forked copper scimitar he always carried, and then stopped. The famed Geziri weapon in the hands of a young Ayaanle-looking man would give him away at once. Instead, he crept through the tavern. Taking care to remain hidden, he peeked past the curtain.
The Royal Guard stood on the other side.
Ali sucked in his breath. A dozen soldiers—nearly all of whom he recognized—were quietly lining up in formation across the street from the tavern, their coppery zulfiqars and spears gleaming in the moonlight. More were coming; Ali could see shadowy movement from the direction of the midan.
He stepped back. Dread, thicker than anything he’d ever felt, ensnared him, like vines tightening around his chest. He returned to the others.
“We need to leave.” He was surprised at the calm in his voice; it certainly didn’t match the panic rising inside him. “There are soldiers outside.”
Anas paled. “Can we make it to the safe house?” he asked Hanno.
The shapeshifter bounced the squalling baby. “We’ll have to try . . . but it won’t be easy with this one carrying on.”
Ali thought fast, glancing around the room. He spotted the copper tray, abandoned by the shafit girl now clutching Anas’s hand. He crossed the room, snatching up one of the cups of apricot liquor. “Would this work?”
Anas looked aghast. “Have you lost your mind?”
But Hanno nodded. “It might.” He held the baby while Ali clumsily attempted to pour the liquor into his wailing mouth. He could feel the weight of the shapeshifter’s gaze. “What you did to the door . . .” Hanno’s voice brimmed with accusation. “You’re Royal Guard, aren’t you? One of those kids they lock up in the Citadel until their first quarter century?”
Ali hesitated. I’m more than that. “I’m here with you now, aren’t I?”
“I suppose you are.” Hanno swaddled the boy with practiced ease. The baby finally fell silent, and Hanno drew his talwar, the gleaming steel blade the length of Ali’s arm. “We’ll need to look for an exit out the back.” He jerked his head at the red curtain. “You’ll understand if I insist you go first.”
Ali nodded, his mouth dry. What choice did he have? He pushed the curtain aside and stepped into the dark corridor.
A maze of storerooms greeted him. Barrels of wine were stacked to the ceiling, and towering crates of hairy onions and overripe fruit scented the air. Broken tables, half-constructed walls, and shrouded pieces of furniture were haphazardly scattered everywhere. Ali saw no exits, only spots to hide.
A perfect place to be ambushed. He blinked; his eyes had stopped burning. The potion must have worn off. Not that it mattered—Ali had grown up with the men outside; they would recognize him either way.
There was a small tug on his robe. The little girl raised a trembling hand and pointed to a black doorway at the end of the corridor. “That goes to the alley,” she whispered, her dark eyes wide as saucers.
Ali smiled down at her. “Thank you,” he whispered back.
They headed down the corridor toward the last storeroom. In the distance, he spotted a line of moonlight near the floor: a door. Unfortunately, that was all he saw. The storeroom was blacker than pitch and, judging from the distance to the door, enormous. Ali slipped inside, his heart pounding so loudly he could hear it in his ears.
It wasn’t all he heard.
There was a hush of breath, and then something whooshed past his face, grazing his nose and smelling of i
ron. Ali whirled around as the little girl screamed, but he couldn’t see anything in the black room, his eyes not yet adjusted to the darkness.
Anas cried out. “Let her go!”
To hell with discretion. Ali drew his zulfiqar. The hilt warmed in his hands. Brighten, he commanded.
It burst into flames.
Fire licked up the copper scimitar, scorching its forked tip and throwing wild light across the room. Ali spotted two Daevas: Turan and the guard from the tavern, his massive ax in hand. Turan was trying to pull the screaming girl from Anas’s arms, but he turned at the sight of the fiery zulfiqar. His black eyes filled with fear.
The guard wasn’t as impressed. He lunged at Ali.
Ali brought the zulfiqar up in the nick of time, sparks flying from where the blade hit the ax. The ax head must have been iron, the metal one of the few substances that could weaken magic. Ali pushed hard, shoving the man off.
The Daeva came at him again. Ali ducked the next blow, the entire situation surreal. He’d spent half of his life sparring; the motion of his blade, his feet, it was all familiar. Too familiar; it seemed impossible to imagine that his opponent actually wanted to kill him, that a misstep wouldn’t result in trash-talking over coffee, but a bloody death on a dirty floor in a dark room where Ali had no business being in the first place.
Ali dodged another blow. He’d yet to attack the other man himself. How could he? He’d had the best martial training available, but he’d never killed anyone—he’d never even intentionally harmed another. He was underage, years from seeing combat. And he was the king’s son! He couldn’t murder one of his father’s citizens—a Daeva, of all people. He’d start a war.
The guard raised his weapon again. And then he went white. The ax stayed frozen in midair. “Suleiman’s eye,” he gasped. “You . . . you’re Ali—”
A steel blade burst through his throat.
“—al Qahtani,” Hanno finished. He twisted the blade, stealing the man’s last words as he stole his life. He pushed the dead man off the talwar with one foot, letting him slide to the floor. “Alizayd fucking al Qahtani.” He turned to Anas, his face bright with outrage. “Oh, Sheikh . . . how could you?”
Turan was still there. He glanced at Ali and then at the Tanzeem men. Horrified realization lit his face. He lunged for the door, fleeing into the corridor.
Ali didn’t move, didn’t speak. He was still staring at the dead Daeva guard.
“Hanno . . .” Anas’s voice was shaky. “The prince . . . no one can know.”
The shapeshifter let out an aggravated sigh. He handed the baby to Anas and picked up the ax. He followed Turan.
The realization came to Ali too late. “W-wait. You don’t have to—”
There was a short scream in the corridor followed by a crunching sound. Then a second. A third. Ali swayed on his feet, nausea threatening to overwhelm him. This isn’t happening.
“Alizayd.” Anas was before him. “Brother, look at me.” Ali tried to focus on the sheikh’s face. “He sold children. He would have revealed you. He needed to die.”
There was the distinct sound of the tavern door smashing open. “Anas Bhatt!” a familiar voice shouted. Wajed . . . oh, God, no . . . “We know you’re here!”
Hanno rushed back into the room. He snatched up the baby and kicked open the door. “Come on!”
The thought of Wajed—Ali’s beloved Qaid, the sly-eyed general who’d all but raised him—finding Ali standing over the bodies of two murdered purebloods snapped him to attention. He raced after Hanno, Anas at his heels.
They emerged in another trash-strewn alley. They ran until they reached its end, the towering copper wall that separated the Tukharistani and Daeva quarters. Their only escape was a narrow breach leading back to the street.
Hanno peeked out of the breach and then jerked back. “They’ve Daeva archers.”
“What?” Ali joined him, ignoring the sharp elbow to his side. At the distant end of the street was the tavern, lit up by the fiery zulfiqars of soldiers pouring through the entrance. A half-dozen Daeva archers waited on elephants, their silver bows gleaming in the starlight.
“We have a safe house in the Tukharistani Quarter,” Hanno explained. “There’s a spot we can get over the wall, but we need to cross the street first.”
Ali’s heart sank. “We’ll never make it.” The soldiers might have been focused on the tavern, but there was no way one of them wouldn’t notice three men, a girl child, and a baby dashing across the street. The fire worshippers were devilishly good archers—the Daevas as devoted to their bows as the Geziris were to their zulfiqars—and it was a wide street.
He turned to Anas. “We’ll have to find another way.”
Anas nodded. He glanced at the baby in Hanno’s arms and then at the little girl clutching his hand. “All right,” he said softly. He knelt to face the girl, untangling her fingers from his own. “My dear, I need you to go with the brother here.” He pointed at Ali. “He’s going to take you someplace safe.”
Ali stared at Anas, dumbstruck. “What? Wait . . . you don’t mean . . .”
“I’m the one they’re after.” Anas stood. “I’m not going to risk the lives of children to save my own.” He shrugged, but his voice was strained when he spoke again. “I knew this day would come . . . I-I’ll try to distract them . . . to give you as much time as possible.”
“Absolutely not,” Hanno declared. “The Tanzeem need you. I’ll go. I’ve got a better chance at taking out some of those purebloods anyway.”
Anas shook his head. “You’re better equipped than I to get the prince and the children to safety.”
“No.” The word tore from Ali’s throat, more prayer than plea. He could not lose his sheikh, not like this. “I’ll go. Surely I can negotiate some sort of—”
“You’ll negotiate nothing,” Anas cut in, his voice severe. “If you tell your father about tonight, you’re dead, do you understand? The Daevas would riot if they learned of your involvement. Your father won’t risk that.” He placed a hand on Ali’s shoulder. “And you’re too valuable to lose.”
“The hell he is,” Hanno retorted. “You’re going to get yourself killed just so some Qahtani brat can—”
Anas cut him off with a sharp motion of his hand. “Alizayd al Qahtani can do more for the shafit than a thousand groups like the Tanzeem. And he will,” he added, giving Ali an intent look. “Earn this. I don’t care if you have to dance on my grave. Save yourself, brother. Live to fight again.” He pushed the little girl toward him. “Get them out of here, Hanno.” Without another word, he turned back, heading for the tavern.
The shafit girl looked up at Ali, her brown eyes enormous with fear. He blinked back tears. Anas had sealed his fate; the least Ali could do was follow his last order. He picked up the girl, and she clung to his neck, her heart thudding against his chest.
Hanno shot him a look of pure venom. “You and I, al Qahtani, are going to have a long chat when this is over.” He snatched the turban from Ali’s head, quickly fashioning it into a sling for the baby.
Ali immediately felt more exposed. “Was there something wrong with yours?”
“You’ll run faster if you’re worried about being recognized.” He nodded at Ali’s zulfiqar. “Put that away.”
Ali shoved the zulfiqar under his robe, shifting the girl to his back as they waited. There was a shout from the tavern, followed by a second, more exultant cry. God protect you, Anas.
The archers turned toward the tavern. One drew back his silver bow, aiming an arrow at the entrance.
“Go!” Hanno said and shot out, Ali at his heels. Ali didn’t look at the soldiers, his world reduced to sprinting across the cracked paving stones as fast as his legs would take him.
One of the archers shouted a warning.
Ali was halfway across when the first arrow whizzed over his head. It burst into fiery fragments, and the little girl screamed. The second tore through his robe, grazing his calf. He kept running.
They were across. Ali threw himself behind a stone balustrade, but his refuge was short-lived. Hanno lunged for an intricate wooden trellis attached to the building. It was covered with sprawling roses in a rainbow of colors, stretching three stories to reach the distant roof.
“Climb!”
Climb? Ali’s eyes went wide as he stared at the delicate trellis. The thing barely looked strong enough to hold its flowers, let alone the weight of two grown men.
An arrow doused in blazing pitch hit the ground near his feet. Ali jumped back, and the sound of trumpeting elephants filled the air.
The trellis it was.
The wooden frame shook violently as he climbed, the thorny vines shredding his hands. The little girl clung to his back, half-choking Ali as she buried her face in his neck, her cheeks wet with tears. Another arrow whizzed past their heads, and she shrieked—in pain this time.
Ali had no way to check on her. He kept climbing, trying to stay as flat as possible against the building. Please, God, please, he begged; he was far too terrified to come up with a more coherent prayer.
He was nearly at the roof, Hanno already clear, when the trellis began to peel away from the wall.
For one heart-stopping moment, Ali was falling backward. The wooden frame came apart in his hands. A scream bubbled up in his throat.
Hanno grabbed his wrist.
The shafit shapeshifter dragged him onto the roof, and Ali promptly collapsed. “The g-girl . . . ,” he breathed. “An arrow . . .”
Hanno pulled her from his back and quickly examined the back of her head. “It’s all right, little one,” he assured her. “You’ll be okay.” He glanced at Ali. “She’ll need a few stitches, but the wound doesn’t look deep.” He undid the sling. “Let’s switch.”
Ali took the baby, slipping into the sling.
There was a shout from below. “They’re on the roof!”
Hanno yanked him to his feet. “Go!”
He dashed away, and Ali followed. They ran across the roof, leaping over the narrow space to the next building and then doing it again, racing past lines of drying laundry and potted fruit trees. Ali tried not to look at the ground as they jumped, his heart in his throat.
The City of Brass Page 8