Ali glanced at the Daeva man: Kaveh e-Pramukh, his father’s grand wazir. Focused on the ground below, Kaveh didn’t appear to notice Ali’s arrival. A satisfied smile played on his mouth.
Ali suspected he knew why. He took a deep breath and then stepped to the edge of the terrace.
Anas kneeled on the sand below.
His sheikh had been stripped to the waist, burned and whipped, his beard hacked off in disrespect. His head was bowed, his hands bound behind him. Though it had only been two weeks since his arrest, he’d clearly been starved, his ribs visible and his bloody limbs thin. And those were only the wounds Ali could see. There would be others, he knew. Potions that made you feel as if you were being stabbed by a thousand knives, illusionists who could make you hallucinate the deaths of your loved ones, singers who could reach a pitch high enough to drive you to your knees while your ears bled. Men didn’t survive the dungeons of Daevabad. Not with their minds intact.
Oh, Sheikh, I’m so sorry . . . The sight before him—a single shafit man with no magical abilities surrounded by hundreds of vengeful purebloods—seemed a cruel joke.
“As for the crime of religious incitement . . .”
The sheikh swayed, and one of his guards jerked him upright. Ali went cold. The entire right side of Anas’s face was smashed, his eye swollen shut, his nose broken. A line of saliva dripped from his mouth, escaping past shattered teeth and swollen lips.
Ali pressed his zulfiqar’s scabbard. Anas met his stare. His eye flashed, the briefest of warnings before he dropped his gaze again.
Earn this. Ali remembered his sheikh’s last command. He dropped his hand away from the weapon, aware of the eyes of the audience upon him. He stepped back to join Muntadhir.
The judge droned on. “The illegal possession of weapons . . .”
There was an impatient snort from the other side of the arena, his father’s karkadann, caged and hidden by a fiery gate. The ground trembled as the beast stomped its feet. A horrid cross between a horse and an elephant, the karkadann was twice the size of both, its scaly gray skin stained and matted with gore. The dust in the arena was heavy with its smell, the musk of old blood. No one bathed a karkadann; none even got near save the pair of tiny sparrows caged next to the creature. As Ali listened, they began to sing. The karkadann settled down, placated for the moment.
“And as for the charge of—”
“By the Most High . . .” A voice boomed from behind Ali as the entire crowd shot to their feet. “Is this still going on?”
His father had arrived.
King Ghassan ibn Khader al Qahtani, ruler of the realm, Defender of the Faith. His name alone made his subjects tremble and glance over their shoulders for spies. He was an imposing man, massive really, a combination of thick muscles and hearty appetite. He was built like a barrel, and at the age of two hundred, his hair had just started to go gray, silver spotting his black beard. It only made him more intimidating.
Ghassan strode to the edge of the terrace. The judge looked ready to wet himself, and Ali couldn’t blame him. His father sounded annoyed, and Ali knew the very thought of facing the king’s legendary wrath had made more than one man’s bowels give way.
Ghassan gave the bloodied sheikh a dismissive glance before turning to the grand wazir. “The Tanzeem have terrorized Daevabad long enough. We know their crimes. It’s their patron I want, along with the men who helped him murder two of my citizens.”
Kaveh shook his head. “He won’t give them up, my king. We’ve tried everything.”
“Banu Manizheh’s old serums?”
Kaveh’s pale face fell. “It killed the scholar who attempted it. The Nahids did not mean for their potions to be used by others.”
Ghassan pursed his lips. “Then he’s useless to me.” He nodded to the guards standing over Anas. “Return to your posts.”
There was a gasp from the direction of the ulema, a whispered prayer. No. Ali stepped forward, unthinking. There was punishment, and then there was that. He opened his mouth.
“Burn in hell, you wine-soaked ass.”
It was Anas. There were several shocked murmurs from the crowd, but Anas pressed on, his fierce gaze locked on the king. “Apostate,” he spat through broken teeth. “You betrayed us, the very people your family was meant to protect. You think it matters how you kill me? A hundred more will rise in my place. You will suffer . . . in this world and the next.” A savage edge entered his voice. “And God will rip away from you those you hold most dear.”
His father’s eyes flashed, but he kept calm. “Unbind his hands before you return to your posts,” he told the guards. “Let’s see him run.”
Perhaps sensing its master’s intentions, the karkadann roared, and the arena shook. Ali knew the rumbles would echo through Daevabad, a warning to any who would disobey the king.
Ghassan raised his right hand. A striking mark high on his left cheek—an eight-pointed ebony star—began to glow.
Every torch in the arena went out. The stark black banners signifying his family’s rule stopped fluttering, and Wajed’s zulfiqar lost its fiery gleam. Beside him, Muntadhir sucked in his breath, and a wave of dull weakness swept over Ali. Such was the power of Suleiman’s seal. When used, all magic, every trick and illusion of the djinn—of the peri, of the marid, of God only knew how many magical races—failed.
Including the fiery gate that kept the karkadann enclosed.
The beast stepped forward, pawing at the ground with one of its three-toed yellow feet. Despite its massive bulk, it was its horn—the length of a man and harder than steel—that was most feared. It jutted straight from its bony forehead, covered in the dried blood of hundreds of previous victims.
Anas faced the beast. He squared his shoulders.
There ended up being little amusement for the king. Anas did not run, did not try to escape or beg for mercy. And it seemed the beast was in no mood to torture its prey. It rushed out with a bellow and impaled the sheikh at his waist before raising its head and tossing the doomed man to the dust.
It was done, it was quick. Ali let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
But then Anas stirred. The karkadann noticed. The beast approached more slowly this time, sniffing and snorting at the ground. It prodded Anas with its nose.
The karkadann had just lifted one foot over Anas’s prone body when Muntadhir flinched and averted his gaze. Ali didn’t look away, didn’t budge even when Anas’s short scream was abruptly ended by a sickening crunch. From some distance away, one of the soldiers retched.
His father stared at the mangled corpse that had been the leader of the Tanzeem and then shot a long, intent look at the ulema before turning to his sons. “Come,” he said curtly.
The crowd dispersed while the karkadann pawed its bloodied prize. Ali didn’t move. His eyes were locked on Anas’s body, his sheikh’s scream ringing in his ears.
“Yalla, Zaydi.” Muntadhir, still looking sick, nudged his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
Earn this. Ali nodded. He had no tears to fight. He was too shocked to cry, too numb to do anything other than mutely follow his brother into the palace.
The king swept down the long hallway, his ebony robe kissing the ground. Two servants abruptly about-faced to hurry down an opposite corridor, and a low-ranking secretary threw himself on the floor in prostration.
“I want those fanatics gone,” Ghassan demanded, his loud voice directed at no one in particular. “For good this time. I don’t want another shafit fool declaring himself a sheikh and popping up to wreak havoc in the streets next month.” He shoved open the door to his office, sending the servant meant to do so scrambling.
Ali followed Muntadhir inside, Kaveh and Wajed close at their heels. Tucked between the gardens and the royal court, the spacious room was a deliberate blend of Daeva and Geziri design. Artists from the surrounding province of Daevastana were responsible for the delicate tapestries of languorous figures and painted floral mosaics, while the simpl
e geometric carpets and rough-hewn musical instruments were from the Qahtanis’ far more austere homeland of Am Gezira.
“There will be displeasure in the streets, my king,” Wajed warned. “Bhatt was a well-liked man, and the shafit provoke easily.”
“Good. I hope they riot,” Ghassan retorted. “It will make it easier to root out the troublemakers.”
“Unless they kill more of my tribesmen first,” Kaveh cut in, his voice shrill. “Where were your soldiers, Qaid, when two Daevas were hacked to death in their own quarter? How did the Tanzeem even pass the gate when it’s supposed to be guarded?”
Wajed grimaced. “We’re pressed thin, Grand Wazir. You know this.”
“Then let us have our own guards!” Kaveh threw up his hands. “You’ve got djinn preachers declaring Daevas to be infidels, the shafit calling for us to be burned to death in the Grand Temple—by the Creator, at least give us a chance to protect ourselves!”
“Calm down, Kaveh,” Ghassan cut in. He collapsed into a low chair behind his desk and knocked aside an unopened scroll. It went rolling away, but Ali doubted his father cared. Like many high-born djinn, the king was illiterate, believing reading was useless if you had scribes who could do it for you. “Let’s see if the Daevas themselves can go a half century without rebelling. I know how easily your people get misty eyed about the past.”
Kaveh shut his mouth, and Ghassan continued. “But I agree: it’s time the mixed-bloods were reminded of their place.” He pointed at Wajed. “I want you to start enforcing the ban on more than ten shafit gathering in a private residence. I know it’s fallen into disuse.”
Wajed looked reluctant. “It seemed cruel, my lord. The mixed-bloods are poor . . . they live as many to a room as possible.”
“Then they shouldn’t rebel. I want anyone with even the slightest of sympathies to Bhatt gone. Let it be known that if they have children, I’ll sell them. If they have women, I’ll give them over to my soldiers.”
Horrified, Ali opened his mouth to protest, but Muntadhir beat him to it. “Abba, you can’t really—”
Ghassan turned his fierce gaze on his eldest son. “Should I let these fanatics run free then? Wait until they’ve stirred the whole city into flames?” The king shook his head. “These are the same men who claim we could free up jobs and homes for the shafit by burning the Daevas to death in the Grand Temple.”
Ali’s head snapped up. He had dismissed the charge when Kaveh said it, but his father was not prone to exaggeration. Ali knew Anas, like most shafit, had a lot of grievances when it came to the Daevas—it was their faith that called for the shafit to be segregated, their Nahids who’d once routinely ordered the deaths of mixed-bloods with the same emotion one would rid a home of rats. But Anas wouldn’t really have called for the annihilation of the Daevas . . . would he?
His father’s next comment pulled Ali from his thoughts. “We need to cut off their funding. Take that away, and the Tanzeem are little more than puritanical beggars.” He fixed his gray eyes on Kaveh. “Have you made any further progress in uncovering their sources?”
The grand wazir raised his hands. “Still no proof. All I have are suspicions.”
Ghassan scoffed. “Weapons, Kaveh. A clinic on Maadi. Breadlines. That’s the work of the rich. High-caste, pureblooded wealth. How are you not able to find their patrons?”
Ali tensed, but it was clear from Kaveh’s frustration that he held no further answers. “Their finances are sophisticated, my king; their collection system may have even been designed by someone in the Treasury. They rotate the different tribal currencies, trade supplies with some ridiculous paper money used among the humans . . .”
Ali felt the blood drain from his face as Kaveh listed just a few of the many loopholes in Daevabad’s economy that Ali had complained about—with thorough explanations—to Anas throughout the years.
Wajed’s face perked up. “Human money?” He jerked a thumb at Ali. “You’re always harping about that currency nonsense. Have you taken a look at Kaveh’s evidence?”
Ali’s heart raced. Not for the first time, he thanked the Most High that the Nahids were dead. Even one of their half-trained children would be able to tell he was lying. “I . . . no. The grand wazir did not consult with me.” He thought fast, knowing that Kaveh believed him a zealous idiot. He looked down at the Daeva man. “I suppose if you’re having trouble . . .”
Kaveh bristled. “I’ve had the sharpest minds in the scholar’s guild assisting me; I doubt the prince could offer more.” He gave Ali a withering look. “I am hearing a number of Ayaanle names among their rumored patrons,” he added coolly before turning back to the king. “Including one that might concern you. Ta Musta Ras.”
Wajed blinked in surprise. “Ta Musta Ras? Isn’t he one of the queen’s cousins?”
Ali cringed at the mention of his mother, and his father scowled. “He is, and one I could easily see supporting a bunch of dirt-blooded terrorists. The Ayaanle have always been fond of treating Daevabad’s politics as a chessboard set for their amusement . . . especially when they’re safely ensconced in Ta Ntry.” He fixed his gaze on Kaveh. “But no proof, you say?”
The grand wazir shook his head. “None, my king. But plenty of rumors.”
“I can’t arrest my wife’s cousin over rumors. Especially not with Ayaanle gold and salt making up a third of my treasury.”
“Queen Hatset is in Ta Ntry now,” Wajed pointed out. “Do you think he would listen to her?”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Ghassan said darkly. “He might already be.”
Ali stared at his feet, his cheeks growing warm as they discussed his mother. He and Hatset weren’t close. Ali had been taken from the harem when he was five and given to Wajed to be groomed as Muntadhir’s future Qaid.
His father sighed. “You’ll have to go there yourself, Wajed. I trust no one else to speak to her. Let her and her entire damned family know she doesn’t return to Daevabad until the money stops. Should she wish to see her children again, the choice is hers.”
Ali could feel Wajed’s eyes upon him. “Yes, my king,” Wajed said softly.
Kaveh looked alarmed. “Who will serve as Qaid while he’s gone?”
“Alizayd. It’s only for a few months and will be good practice for when I’m dead and this one”—Ghassan jerked his head in Muntadhir’s direction—“is too occupied with dancing girls to rule the realm.”
Ali’s mouth dropped open, and Muntadhir burst into laughter.
“Well, that should cut down on theft.” His brother made a chopping motion across his wrist. “Quite literally.”
Kaveh went pale. “My king, Prince Alizayd is a child. He’s not even close to his first quarter century. You cannot possibly entrust the city’s security to a sixteen—”
“Eighteen,” Muntadhir corrected with a wicked grin. “Come now, Grand Wazir, there’s an enormous difference.”
Kaveh clearly didn’t share the emir’s amusement. His voice grew more pitched. “Eighteen-year-old boy. A boy who—might I remind you—once had a Daeva nobleman whipped in the street like a common shafit thief!”
“He was a thief,” Ali defended. He remembered the incident, but was surprised Kaveh did; it was years ago, the first—and last—time Ali had been allowed to patrol the Daeva Quarter. “God’s law applies equally to all.”
The grand wazir took a breath. “Trust me, Prince Alizayd, it is to my deep disappointment that you are not in Paradise where we all follow God’s law . . .” He didn’t pause long enough for the double meaning of his words to land, but Ali picked it up well enough. “But under Daevabad’s law, the shafit are not equal to purebloods.” He looked imploringly to the king. “Did you not just have someone executed for saying much the same thing?”
“I did,” Ghassan agreed. “A lesson you would do well to remember, Alizayd. The Qaid enforces my law, not his own beliefs.”
“Of course, Abba,” Ali said quickly, knowing he’d been foolish to speak so plainly in fr
ont of them. “I will do as you command.”
“See, Kaveh? Nothing to fear.” Ghassan nodded in the direction of the door. “You may leave. Court will be held after the noon prayer. Let word get out about this morning; perhaps that will cut down on the number of petitioners harassing me.”
The Daeva minister looked like he had more to say, but he merely nodded, throwing Ali a vicious look as he left.
Wajed slammed the door shut behind him. “That snake has a twisted tongue, Abu Muntadhir,” he said to the king, switching to Geziriyya. “I’d like to make him wriggle like one.” He caressed his zulfiqar. “Just once.”
“Don’t give your protégé any ideas.” Ghassan unwound his turban, leaving the brilliant silk in a heap on the desk. “Kaveh is not wrong to be upset, and he doesn’t even know the half of things.” He nodded to a large crate sitting next to the balcony. Ali hadn’t noticed it earlier. “Show them.”
The Qaid sighed but crossed to the crate. “An imam who runs a mosque near the Grand Bazaar contacted the Royal Guard a few weeks ago and said he suspected Bhatt of recruiting one of his congregants.” Wajed pulled free his khanjar and pried open the crate’s wooden slats. “My soldiers followed that man to one of his hideouts.” He beckoned for Ali and Muntadhir. “We found this there.”
Ali took a step closer, already sick. In his heart, he knew what was in that crate.
The weapons Anas swore he didn’t have were packed in tight. Crude iron cudgels and battered steel daggers, studded maces and a couple of crossbows. A half-dozen swords and a few of the long incendiary devices—rifles?—humans had invented, along with a box of ammunition. Ali’s disbelieving eyes scanned the crate and then his heart skipped a beat.
Zulfiqar training blades.
The words were out of Ali’s mouth before he could stop himself. “Someone in the Royal Guard stole these.”
The City of Brass Page 12