He glanced down. His sleeveless gray tunic had only a couple of gashes where he’d been slashed during practice, and his indigo waist-wrap was dark enough to hide its zulfiqar burns. It looked fine to him.
“These are clean,” he argued. “I only wore them yesterday.” He gestured to his turban; the crimson cloth indicated his new position as Qaid. “This is all that matters, no?”
“No!” Kaveh looked incredulous. “You’re a Qahtani prince—you can’t go to court looking like someone just dragged you in from a sparring match!” He threw up his hands and turned to the king. Ghassan had said nothing, simply watching them fight with a strange twinkle in his eyes. “Do you see this?” he demanded. “Now we’ll have to start late so your son can be properly—”
Ghassan laughed.
It was a full-throated, hearty laugh, one Ali hadn’t heard from his father in years. “Aye, Kaveh, let him be.” The king came from behind the desk and clapped Ali on the back. “He has Am Gezira in his blood,” he said proudly. “Back home, we never bothered with all this ceremonial nonsense.” He chuckled as he led Ali toward the door. “If he looks like he just finished thrashing someone with a zulfiqar, so be it.”
His father’s praise was not a thing doled out often, and Ali could not help but feel his spirits lift. He glanced around as a servant reached for the door leading to the audience chamber. “Abba, where’s Muntadhir?”
“With the trade minister from Tukharistan. He’s . . . negotiating a deal to reduce the debt we owe for the Royal Guard’s new uniforms.”
“Muntadhir’s negotiating our debts?” Ali asked skeptically. His brother and numbers did not go well together. “I didn’t think economics his strong suit.”
“It’s not that type of negotiation.” When Ali’s confused frown only deepened, Ghassan shook his head. “Come along, boy.”
It had been years since Ali had last been in his father’s throne room, and he paused to fully appreciate it as they entered. The chamber was enormous, taking up the entire first level of the palatial ziggurat, and held up by marble columns so tall they disappeared into the distant ceiling. Although it was covered in fading paint and broken mosaics, one could still make out the flowery vines and ancient Daevastani creatures that had once decorated its surface—as well as the pockmarks where his ancestors had pried out gems; the Geziri were not ones to waste resources on ornamentation.
The western side of the room opened onto manicured formal gardens. Enormous windows—nearly the height of the ceiling—broke up the remaining walls, shielded by intricately carved wooden screens that kept the cavernous space cool while letting in light and fresh air. Flower-filled fountains set against the wall did the same, the water enchanted to continuously flow over channels of cut ice. Bright mirrored braziers of burning cedarwood hung from silver chains over a floor of green marble swirled with white veins. The floor rose as it reached the eastern wall and separated into five tiers, each level assigned to a different branch of the government.
Ali and his father walked out onto the top level, and as they approached the throne, Ali could not help but admire it. Twice his height and carved from sky blue marble, the throne originally belonged to the Nahids and looked it, a monument to the extravagance that had gotten them overthrown. It was designed to turn its occupant into a living shedu, the legendary winged lion that had been their family symbol. Rubies, carnelians, and pink and orange topaz were inlaid above the head to represent the rising sun, while the arms of the throne were similarly jeweled to imitate wings, the legs carved into heavy clawed paws.
The jewels sparkled in the sunlight—as did the thousands of eyes he suddenly realized were upon him. Ali promptly dropped his gaze. There was nothing that united the tribes more than gossiping about their leaders, and he suspected the sight of Ghassan’s second son eying the throne on his first day in court would set every tongue wagging.
His father nodded to the jeweled cushion below the throne. “Your brother isn’t here. You might as well take his seat.”
More gossip. “I’ll stand,” Ali said quickly, edging away from Muntadhir’s cushion.
The king shrugged. “Your choice.” He settled into his throne, Ali and Kaveh flanking him. Ali forced himself to look at the crowd again. Though the throne room could fit ten thousand, Ali guessed about half that number were here now. Nobles from all the tribes—their regular presence required to prove loyalty—shared space with clerics in white turbans, while court scribes, lesser wazirs, and Treasury officials swarmed in a dizzying array of ceremonial dress.
But the majority of the crowd looked to be commoners. No shafit, of course, save servants, but plenty of mixed tribal heritage like Ali. All were dressed well—none would present themselves in court otherwise—but some were clearly from Daevabad’s lower classes, their robes clean but patched, their ornaments little more than metal bangles.
An Ayaanle woman in mustard-colored robes with a scribe’s black sash around her collar stood up.
“In the name of King Ghassan ibn Khader al Qahtani, Defender of the Faith, and on the ninety-fourth Rabi’ al Thani of the twenty-seventh generation after Suleiman’s Blessing, I call this session to order!” She lit a cylindrical glass oil lamp and placed it on the dais before her. Ali knew his father would hear petitions until the oil ran out, but as he watched court officials herd the crowd below into some semblance of order, he gaped at the sheer number. His father didn’t mean to hear all these people, did he?
The first petitioners were brought forward and introduced: a silk merchant from Tukharistan and his aggrieved Agnivanshi customer. They prostrated themselves before his father and stood when Ghassan beckoned them to rise.
The Agnivanshi man spoke first. “Peace be upon you, my king. I am humbled and honored to be in your presence.” He jerked a thumb at the silk merchant, the pearls around his neck jangling. “I only beg your forgiveness for having dragged before you an unabashed liar and unrepentant thief!”
His father sighed as the silk merchant rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you just explain the problem?”
“He agreed to sell me a half-dozen bales of silk for two barrels each of cinnamon and pepper—I even threw in three crates of mangos as a gesture of good faith.” He whirled on the other merchant. “I delivered on my end, but by the time I returned home, half your silk had turned to smoke!”
The Tukharistani man shrugged. “I am merely an intermediary. I warned you that if you had problems with the product, you’d have to take it up with the supplier.” He sniffed, unimpressed. “And your mangos of good faith were sour.”
The Agnivanshi man bristled as if the merchant had insulted his mother. “Liar!”
Ghassan raised a hand. “Calm down.” He turned his hawklike gaze on the silk merchant. “Is what he says true?”
The merchant fidgeted. “It might be.”
“Then pay him for the silk that disappeared. It’s your responsibility to recover the loss from the suppliers. The Treasury will set the price. We’ll leave the question of the mangos’ acidity to God.” He waved them away. “Next!”
The bickering merchants were replaced by a Sahrayn widow left destitute by her spendthrift husband. Ghassan immediately granted her a small pension, along with a spot for her young son in the Citadel. She was followed by a scholar requesting funds to research the incendiary properties of zahhak bladders (firmly denied), an appeal for help against a rukh savaging villages in western Daevastana, and several more accusations of fraud—one including knock-off Nahid potions with some rather embarrassing results.
Hours later, the complaints were a blur, a stream of demands—some so utterly nonsensical Ali wanted to shake the petitioner. The sun had risen past the wooden window screens, the audience chamber growing warm, and Ali swayed on his feet, staring longingly at the cushion he’d refused.
None of it seemed to bother his father. Ghassan was as calmly impassive now as he’d been when they walked in—helped, perhaps, by the goblet a wine bearer had been keeping
studiously full. Ali had never known his father to be a patient man and yet he showed no irritation toward his subjects, listening as intently to destitute widows as to wealthy nobles arguing over vast tracts of land. Truthfully . . . Ali was impressed.
But by God, did he want it to end.
When the light in the oil lamp finally snuffed out, it was all Ali could do not to drop to the floor in prostration. His father rose from his throne and was promptly swallowed by a crowd of scribes and ministers. Ali didn’t mind; he was eager to escape for a cup of tea so strong it could hold a spoon upright. He headed for the exit.
“Qaid?”
Ali paid no mind to the voice until the man called again, and then he realized with some embarrassment that he was now Qaid. He turned to see a short Geziri man behind him. He wore the uniform of the Royal Guard, a black-hemmed turban indicating he was a military secretary. He had a well-trimmed beard and kind gray eyes. Ali didn’t recognize him, but that wasn’t surprising. There was an entire section of the Royal Guard dedicated to the palace, and if the man was a secretary, it might have been decades since he trained in the Citadel.
The man promptly touched his heart and brow in the Geziri salute. “Peace be upon you, Qaid. I’m sorry to bother you.”
After hours of civilian complaints, a fellow Geziri warrior was a welcome sight. Ali smiled. “No bother at all. How can I help you?”
The secretary held out a thick roll of scrolls. “These are records of those suspected in manufacturing the faulty carpets that crashed in Babili.”
Ali stared at him in utter incomprehension. “What?”
The secretary narrowed his eyes. “The Babili incident . . . the one whose survivors your father just granted compensation. He ordered us to arrest their manufacturers and seize the remaining stock of carpets before they’re sold.”
Ali dimly remembered something like that being mentioned. “Oh . . . of course.” He reached for the scroll.
The other man held back. “Maybe I should give it to your secretary,” he said delicately. “Forgive me, my prince, but you look a little . . . overwhelmed.”
Ali cringed. He hadn’t realized it was that obvious. “I don’t have a secretary.”
“Then who took notes for you during today’s session?” Alarm rose in the other man’s voice. “There were at least a dozen matters that pertained to the Royal Guard.”
I was supposed to have someone take notes? Ali wracked his brain. Wajed had thoroughly explained Ali’s new responsibilities before he left for Ta Ntry, but shocked by Anas’s execution and the revelation about the weapons, Ali had struggled to pay attention.
“No one,” he confessed. Ali glanced at the sea of scribes—surely one of them would have a transcript of today’s session.
The other man cleared his throat. “If I may be so bold, Qaid . . . I typically take notes for myself regarding Citadel matters. I would gladly share them with you. And though I’m sure you would rather appoint a relative or member of the nobility as your secretary, if you need someone in the mean—”
“Yes,” Ali cut in, relieved. “Please . . . ,” he trailed off with some embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I asked your name.”
The secretary touched his heart again. “Rashid ben Salkh, my prince.” His eyes sparkled. “I look forward to working with you.”
Ali felt better as he headed back to his quarters. His attire and failure to take notes aside, he didn’t think he’d done terribly at court.
But, by God, those eyes . . . It was bad enough to stand and listen to inane petitions for hours; being examined by thousands of strangers while doing so was torture. He could hardly blame his father for drinking.
A palace guard bowed as Ali approached. “Peace be upon you, Prince Alizayd.” He opened the door for Ali, then stepped aside.
His siblings might have tried to find Ali simple accommodations, but it was still a palace apartment, twice the size of the barracks he’d once shared with two dozen junior cadets. The bedroom was plain but large, containing the overly soft bed and the single chest of belongings he’d brought from the Citadel pushed against the wall. Attached to the bedroom was an office ringed in bookshelves already half filled—improved access to the Royal Library was the one benefit of palace living Ali intended to make use of.
He entered the room and slipped off his sandals. His apartment faced the wildest corner of the harem gardens, a verdant jungle complete with hooting monkeys and shrieking mynah birds. A covered marble pavilion lined with swings overlooked the cool waters of the rushing canal.
Ali unwound his turban. The late-afternoon light filtered in through the sheer linen curtains, and it was mercifully quiet. He crossed the carpet to his desk and rifled through the stacks of paperwork: crime reports, appropriation requests, invitations to a countless number of social events he had no intention of attending, oddly personal notes requesting favors, pardons . . . Ali quickly sorted it, discarding anything that sounded unnecessary or ridiculous and putting the more important papers in order.
The sparkle of the canal caught his eye, tempting him. Though his mother had taught him to swim as a child, it had been years since Ali had last done so, embarrassed to take part in a hobby so strongly associated with the Ayaanle—and one that was viewed with revulsion and horror by many in his father’s tribe.
But there was no one around to see him now. He loosened his collar, reaching for the bottom of his shirt as he headed for the pavilion.
Ali stopped. He backed up to glance again through the open archway leading to the next room, but his eyes hadn’t deceived him.
There were two women waiting in his bed.
They burst into laughter. “I think he’s finally spotted us,” said one of the women with a grin. She lay on her stomach, delicate ankles crossed overhead. Ali’s eyes took in her layers of sheer skirts, soft curves, and dark hair before he quickly fixed his eyes on her face.
Not that it helped; she was beautiful. Shafit; that was clear from her rounded ears and dull brown skin. Her eyes were lined with kohl and bright with amusement. She rose from the bed, her ankle bells tinkling as she approached. She bit a painted lip, and Ali’s heart started to race.
“We were wondering how long it would take you to look past all your papers,” she teased. She was suddenly before him, her fingers trailing the inside of his wrist.
Ali swallowed. “I think there’s been some sort of mistake.”
She smiled again. “No mistake, my prince. We were sent to welcome you properly to the palace.” She reached for the knot of his waist-wrap.
Ali stepped back so fast he nearly tripped. “Please . . . that’s not necessary.”
“Oh, Leena, do stop scaring the boy.” The second woman stood, moving into the sunlight. Ali went cold, the ardor he’d been struggling to check instantly gone.
It was one of the Daeva courtesans from Turan’s tavern.
She walked forward with far more grace than the shafit girl, her liquid black eyes locked on his face. There didn’t seem to be any recognition there, but the night came flooding back to Ali: the smoky tavern, the blade bursting through the guard’s throat, Anas’s hand on his shoulder.
The way his scream had abruptly ended in the arena.
The courtesan’s gaze swept over him. “I like him,” she said to the other woman. “He looks sweeter than they say.” She gave him a gentle smile. Gone was the laughing woman enjoying a night out with friends; she was all business now.
“There’s no need to be so nervous, my prince,” she added softly. “Our master desires only your satisfaction.”
Her words cut through the fog of fear and desire clouding Ali’s mind, but before he could question her, there was another feminine laugh from the direction of the pavilion—this one all too familiar.
“Well . . . it certainly didn’t take you much time to settle in.”
Ali jerked away from the courtesan as his sister entered the room. The other women instantly fell to their knees.
“Forgive the interruption.” She sauntered farther into the room. “We came to make sure court hadn’t swallowed you alive, but clearly you need no help.” She dropped onto his bed and kicked at the blanket that was neatly folded on the floor with a roll of her eyes. “Don’t tell me you slept on the ground, Alizayd.”
“I—”
The second part of “we” entered the room before Ali could finish his protest. Muntadhir looked more rakish than usual, his dishdasha unbuttoned at the collar and his curly hair uncovered. He grinned at the sight before him. “Two? Don’t you think you ought to pace yourself, Zaydi?”
Ali was happy his siblings were enjoying themselves at his expense. “That’s not what this is,” he snapped. “I didn’t tell them to come here!”
“No?” The amusement left Muntadhir’s face, and he glanced at the courtesans kneeling on the floor. “Rise, please. There’s no need for that.”
“Peace be upon you, Emir,” the Daeva courtesan murmured as she stood.
“And upon you peace.” Muntadhir smiled, but the expression didn’t meet his eyes. “I know I resisted the urge, so tell me . . . who requested that my little brother receive such a delightful welcome home?”
The two women exchanged a look, their playful attitude gone. The Daeva courtesan finally spoke again, her voice hesitant. “The grand wazir.”
Instantly outraged, Ali opened his mouth, but Muntadhir raised his hand, cutting him off.
The City of Brass Page 15