The City of Brass: Escape to a city of adventure, romance, and magic in this thrilling epic fantasy trilogy (The Daevabad Trilogy, Book 1)

It was a miserable morning in Daevabad.

Though the adhan, the call to dawn prayer, rang out across the wet air, there was no sign of the sun in the misty sky. Fog shrouded the great city of brass, obscuring its towering minarets of sandblasted glass and hammered metal and veiling its golden domes. Rain seeped off the jade roofs of marble palaces and flooded its stone streets, condensing on the placid faces of its ancient Nahid founders memorialized on the murals covering its mighty walls.

A chilly breeze swept through the winding streets, past intricately tiled bathhouses and the thick doors protecting fire temples whose altars had burned for millennia, bringing the smell of damp earth and tree sap from the thickly forested mountains that surrounded the island. It was the type of morning that sent most djinn scurrying indoors like cats fleeing rain, back to beds of smoky silk brocade and warm mates, burning away the hours until the sun reemerged hot and proper to scald the city to life.

Prince Alizayd al Qahtani was not one of them. He pulled the tail of his turban across his face and shivered, hunching his shoulders against the cold rain as he walked. His breath came in a steamy hush, the sound amplified against the damp cloth. Rain dripped from his brow, evaporating as it crossed his smoky skin.

He went over the charges again in his mind. You have to talk to him, he told himself. You have no choice. The rumors are getting out of hand.

Ali stuck to the shadows as he neared the Grand Bazaar. Even at this early hour, the bazaar would be busy: sleepy merchants undoing the curses that had protected their wares throughout the night, apothecaries brewing potions to energize their first customers, children carrying messages made of burnt glass that shattered upon revealing their words—not to mention the bodies of barely conscious addicts wasted on smuggled human intoxicants. With little desire to be seen by any of them, Ali turned down a dark lane, a detour that took him so deep into the city that he could no longer glimpse the tall brass walls that enclosed it.

The neighborhood he entered was an old one, crowded with ancient buildings mimicking human architecture lost to time: columns carved with Nabatean graffiti, friezes of Etruscan satyrs, and intricate Mauryan stupas. Civilizations long dead, their memory captured by the curious djinn who’d passed through—or by nostalgic shafit trying to re-create their lost homes.

A large stone mosque with a striking spiral minaret and black and white archways stood at the end of the street. One of the few places in Daevabad where djinn purebloods and shafit still worshipped together, the mosque’s popularity with traders and travelers from the Grand Bazaar made for an unusually transient community … and a good place to be invisible.

Ali ducked inside, eager to escape the rain. He’d no sooner slipped off his sandals than they were snatched away by a zealous ishtas, the small, scaled creatures obsessed with organization and footwear. For a bit of fruit and negotiation, Ali’s shoes would be returned to him after prayer, scrubbed and fragrant with sandalwood. He continued, passing a pair of matching marble ablution fountains, one flowing with water for the shafit while its partner swirled with the warm black sand most purebloods preferred.

One of the oldest in Daevabad, the mosque consisted of four covered halls enclosing a courtyard open to the gray sky. Worn down by the feet and brows of centuries of worshippers, its red and gold carpet was thin but immaculate—whatever self-cleaning enchantments had been woven in with its threads still held. Large, hazy glass lanterns filled with enchanted flames hung from the ceiling, and nuggets of frankincense smoldered in corner braziers.

It was mostly empty this morning, the benefits of communal prayer perhaps not outweighing the vile weather for many of its usual congregants. Ali took a deep breath of the fragrant air as he scanned the scattered worshippers, but the man he was looking for had yet to arrive.

Maybe he’s been arrested. Ali tried to dismiss the dark thought as he approached the gray marble mihrab, the niche in the wall indicating the direction of prayer. He raised his hands. Despite his nerves, as Ali began to pray, he felt a small measure of peace. He always did.

But it didn’t last long. He was finishing his second rakat of prayer when a man knelt quietly beside him. Ali stilled.

“Peace be upon you, brother,” the man whispered.

Ali avoided his gaze. “And upon you peace,” he said softly.

“Were you able to get it?”

Ali hesitated. “It” was the fat purse concealed in his robe that contained a small fortune from his overflowing personal vault at the Treasury. “Yes. But we need to talk.”

From the corner of his eye, Ali saw his companion frown, but before he could respond, the mosque’s imam approached the mihrab.

He gave the rain-damp group of men a weary look. “Straighten your lines,” he admonished. Ali stood as the dozen or so sleepy worshippers shuffled into place. He tried to concentrate while the imam led them in prayer, but it was difficult. Rumors and accusations swirled in his mind, charges he felt ill-prepared to lay on the man whose shoulder brushed his.

When prayer was over, Ali and his companion stayed seated, silently waiting as the rest of the worshippers filed out. The imam was last. He climbed to his feet, muttering under his breath. As he glanced at the two remaining men, he froze.

Ali dropped his gaze, letting his turban shadow his face, but the imam’s attention was focused on his companion. “Sheikh Anas …,” he gasped. “P-peace be upon you.”

“And upon you peace,” Anas replied calmly. He touched his heart and gestured to Ali. “Would you mind giving the brother here and me a moment alone?”

“Of course,” the imam rushed on. “Take all the time you need; I’ll make sure no one disturbs you.” He hurried out, pulling the inner door shut.

Ali waited another moment before speaking, but they were alone, the only sound the steady patter of rain in the courtyard. “Your reputation grows,” he noted, a little unnerved by the imam’s deference.

Anas shrugged and leaned back on his palms. “Or he’s off to warn the Royal Guard.”

Ali startled. His sheikh smiled. Though Anas Bhatt was in his fifties—an age at which pureblooded djinn were still considered young adults—Anas was shafit, and gray dusted his black beard, lines creasing his eyes. Though there must have been a drop or two of djinn blood in his veins—his ancestors couldn’t have crossed into Daevabad without it—Anas could have passed for human and had no magical abilities. He was dressed in a white kurta and embroidered cap and had a thick Kashmiri shawl wrapped around his shoulders.

“It was a jest, my prince,” he added when Ali didn’t return his smile. “But what’s wrong, brother? You look as though you’ve seen an ifrit.”

I’d take an ifrit over my father. Ali scanned the dark mosque, half-expecting to see spies nestled in its shadows. “Sheikh, I’m starting to hear … certain things about the Tanzeem again.”

Anas sighed. “What is the palace claiming we did now?”

“Tried to smuggle a cannon past the Royal Guard.”

“A cannon?” Anas gave him a skeptical look. “What would I do with a cannon, brother? I’m shafit. I know the law. Possessing even an overly large kitchen knife would get me thrown in prison. And the Tanzeem are a charitable organization; we deal in books and food, not weapons. Besides, how would you purebloods know what a cannon looks like anyway?” He scoffed. “When’s the last time someone in the Citadel visited the human world?”

He had a point there, but Ali pressed on. “There’ve been reports for months that the Tanzeem is trying to buy weapons. People say your rallies have grown violent, that some of your supporters are even calling for the Daevas to be killed.”

“Who spreads such lies?” Anas demanded. “That Daeva infidel your father calls the grand wazir?”

“It’s not just Kaveh,” Ali argued. “We arrested a shafit man just last week for stabbing two purebloods in the Grand Bazaar.”

“And I’m responsible?” Anas threw up his hands. “Am I to be called to account for the actions of every shafit man in Daevabad? You know how desperate our lives are here, Alizayd. Your people should be happy more of us haven’t resorted to violence!”

Ali recoiled. “Are you condoning such a thing?”

“Of course not,” Anas replied, sounding annoyed. “Don’t be absurd. But when our girls are snatched off the street to be used as bed slaves, when our men are blinded for looking at a pureblood the wrong way … is it not to be expected that some will fight back any way they can?” He gave Ali an even stare. “It’s your father’s fault things have gotten this bad—if the shafit were afforded equal protection, we wouldn’t be forced to take the law into our own hands.”

It was a low, albeit justified, blow, but Anas’s angry denial wasn’t doing much to assuage Ali’s concerns. “I was always clear with you, Sheikh. Money for books, food, medicine, anything like that … but if your people are taking up arms against my father’s citizens, I can’t be part of that. I won’t.”

Anas raised a dark eyebrow. “What are you saying?”

“I want to see how you’re spending my money. Surely you’ve kept some type of records.”

“Records?” His sheikh looked incredulous … and then offended. “Is my word not enough? I run a school, an orphanage, a medical clinic … I have widows to house and students to teach. A thousand responsibilities and now you want me to waste time on what exactly … an audit from my teenage patron who fancies himself an accountant?”

Ali’s cheeks burned, but he wasn’t backing down. “Yes.” He pulled the purse from his robe. The coins and jewels inside jingled together when they hit the ground. “Otherwise this will be the last of it.” He rose to his feet.

“Alizayd,” Anas called. “Brother.” His sheikh scrambled to his feet, putting himself between Ali and the door. “You’re acting rashly.”

No, I was acting rashly when I started funding a shafit street preacher without checking into his story, Ali wanted to say, but he held his tongue, avoiding the older man’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Sheikh.”

Anas’s hand shot out. “Just wait. Please.” There was an edge of panic in his normally calm voice. “What if I could show you?”

“Show me?”

Anas nodded. “Yes,” he said, his voice growing firm, as if he had come to a decision. “Can you get away from the Citadel again tonight?”

“I-I suppose.” Ali frowned. “But I don’t see what that has to do with—”

The sheikh cut him off. “Then meet me at Daeva Gate tonight, after isha prayer.” He glanced down Ali’s body. “Dress as a nobleman from your mother’s tribe, with all the finery you have to spare. You’ll easily pass.”

Ali flinched at the comment. “That doesn’t—”

“You will learn tonight what my organization does with your money.”

ALI FOLLOWED HIS SHEIKH’S INSTRUCTIONS EXACTLY, slipping out after isha prayer with a bundle tucked under one arm. After taking a circuitous route through the Grand Bazaar, he ducked into a dark, windowless lane. He unrolled the bundle—one of the rich teal robes the Ayaanle, his mother’s kinsmen, were fond of—and pulled it on over his uniform.

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 disposal. 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.”

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.”

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 iron. 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.

They reached the last roof, but Hanno didn’t stop, instead speeding up as he neared the edge. And then—to Ali’s horror—he launched himself over.

Ali gasped, drawing to a stop just before the edge. But the shapeshifter wasn’t dashed on the ground below; instead, he’d landed atop the copper wall separating the tribal quarters. The wall was perhaps half a body length lower than the roof and a good ten paces away. It was an impossible jump, pure fortune that Hanno had made it.

He gave the shapeshifter an incredulous look. “Are you insane?”

Hanno grinned, baring his teeth. “Come on, al Qahtani. Surely if a shafit can do it, so can you.”

Ali hissed in response. He paced the edge of the roof. Every sensible instinct he had screamed at him not to jump.

The sound of the pursuing soldiers grew louder. They’d be up on the roof any minute. Ali took a few steps back, trying to work up the courage to take a running leap.

This is madness. He shook his head. “I can’t.”

“You don’t have a choice.” The humor vanished from Hanno’s voice. “Al Qahtani … Alizayd,” he pressed when Ali didn’t respond. “Listen to me. You heard what the sheikh said. You think you can turn back now? Beg your abba for mercy?” He shook his head. “I know Geziris. Your people don’t fuck around with loyalty.” Hanno met Ali’s gaze, his eyes dark with warning. “What do you think your father will do when he learns his own blood betrayed him?”

I never meant to betray him. Ali took a deep breath.

And then he jumped.