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

Wajed came for him at dawn.

“Prince Alizayd?”

Ali startled and looked up from his notes. The sight of the city’s Qaid—the commander of the Royal Guard—would have made most djinn startle, even if they weren’t expecting to be arrested for treason at any minute. He was a massively built warrior covered in two centuries’ worth of scars and welts.

But Wajed only smiled as he entered the Citadel’s library, the closest thing Ali had to his own quarters. “Already hard at work, I see,” he said, motioning to the books and scrolls scattered on the rug.

Ali nodded. “I have a lesson to prepare.”

Wajed snorted. “You and your lessons. Were you not so dangerous with that zulfiqar, one would think I’d raised an economist instead of a warrior.” His smile faded. “But I fear your students—however few they are—will have to wait. Your father’s had it with Bhatt. They can’t get any more information out of him, and the Daevas are clamoring for his blood.”

Though Ali had been expecting this moment since he’d first heard Anas had been captured alive, his stomach twisted, and he struggled to keep his voice even. “Was he—?”

“Not yet. The grand wazir wants a spectacle, says it’s the only thing that will satisfy his tribe.” Wajed rolled his eyes; he and Kaveh had never gotten along. “So we’ll both need to be there.”

A spectacle. Ali’s mouth went dry, but he rose to his feet. Anas had sacrificed himself so that Ali might escape; he deserved to have one friendly face at his execution. “Let me dress.”

Wajed ducked out, and Ali quickly changed into his uniform, a tunic the color of obsidian, a white waist-wrap, and a gray tasseled turban. He secured his zulfiqar to his waist and tucked his khanjar—the hooked dagger worn by all Geziri men—into his belt. At least he’d look the part of a loyal soldier.

He joined Wajed at the stairs, and they descended the tower into the Citadel’s heart. A large complex of sand-colored stone, the Citadel was home to the Royal Guard, housing the barracks, offices, and training ground of the djinn army. His ancestors had built it shortly after conquering Daevabad, its crenellated courtyard and stark stone tower an homage to Am Gezira, their distant homeland.

Even at this early hour, the Citadel was a hive of activity. Cadets drilled with zulfiqars in the courtyard and spearmen practiced on an elevated platform. A half-dozen young men crowded around a free-standing door, attempting to break past its locking enchantment. As Ali watched, one flew back from the door, the wood sizzling as his fellows burst into laughter. In the opposite corner, a Tukharistani warrior-scholar dressed in a long felt coat, fur hat, and heavy gloves presented an iron shield to a group of students gathered around him. He shouted an incantation, and a sheath of ice enveloped the shield. The scholar tapped it with the butt of a dagger, and the entire thing shattered.

“When’s the last time you saw your family?” Wajed asked as they reached the waiting horses at the end of the courtyard.

“A few months ago … well, more than a few, I suppose. Not since Eid,” Ali admitted. He swung into his saddle.

Wajed tsked as they passed through the gate. “You should make a greater effort, Ali. You’re blessed to have them so close.”

Ali made a face. “I’d visit more often if it didn’t involve going to that Nahid-haunted palace they call home.”

The palace came into view just then, as they rounded a bend in the road. Its golden domes gleamed bright against the rising sun, its white marble facade and walls shining pink in the rosy dawn light. The main building, an enormous ziggurat, sat heavy on the stark cliffs overlooking Daevabad’s lake. Surrounded by gardens still in shadow, it looked as if the massive step pyramid was being swallowed by the spiky tops of blackened trees.

“It’s not haunted,” Wajed countered. “It simply … misses its founding family.”

“The stairs vanished under me the last time I was there, uncle,” Ali pointed out. “The water in the fountains turns to blood so often that people don’t drink it.”

“So it misses them a lot.”

Ali shook his head but stayed quiet as they crossed the waking city. They ascended the hilly road leading to the palace and then entered the royal arena through the back. It was a place best suited for sunny days of competition, for boastful men juggling incendiaries and women racing scaled simurgh firebirds. For entertainment.

That’s exactly what this is for these people. Ali gazed at the crowd with scorn. Though it was early, many of the stone seats were already taken, filled with an assortment of nobles vying for his father’s attention, curious pureblood commoners, angry Daevas, and what looked to be the entire ulema—Ali suspected the clerics had been ordered to witness what happened when they failed to control the faithful.

He climbed up to the royal viewing platform, a tall stone terrace shaded by potted palm trees and striped linen curtains. Ali didn’t see his father but spotted Muntadhir near the front. His older half brother didn’t look any happier than Ali to be there. His curly black hair was mussed, and he seemed to be wearing the same clothes he’d probably gone out in last night, an embroidered Agnivanshi jacket heavy with pearls and a lapis-colored silk waist-wrap, both wrinkled.

Ali could smell the wine on Muntadhir’s breath from three paces away and suspected his brother had probably just been dragged from a bed not his own. “Peace be upon you, Emir.”

Muntadhir jumped. “By the Most High, akhi,” he said, his hand over his heart. “Do you have to creep up on me like some sort of assassin?”

“You should work on your reflexes. Where’s Abba?”

Muntadhir nodded rudely toward a thin man in Daeva clothing at the terrace edge. “That one insisted on a public reading of all the charges.” He yawned. “Abba wasn’t wasting his time on that—not when he has me to do it for him. He’ll be here soon enough.”

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 simple 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 front 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.”

Wajed gave him a grim nod. “It had to be. A Geziri man; we only let our own near those blades.” He crossed his arms over his massive chest. “They must have been stolen from the Citadel, but I suspect the rest were bought from smugglers.” He met Ali’s horrified gaze. “There were three other crates like this one.”

Beside him, Muntadhir exhaled. “What in God’s name were they planning to do with all this?”

“I’m not sure,” Wajed admitted. “They could have armed a few dozen shafit men at most. No real match for the Royal Guard, but—”

“They could have murdered a score of people shopping in the Grand Bazaar,” the king cut in. “They could have lain in wait outside the Daevas’ temple on one of their feast days and massacred a hundred pilgrims before help arrived. They could have started a war.”

Ali gripped the crate, though he had no memory of reaching for it. In his mind, he saw the warriors he’d grown up with—the cadets who’d fallen asleep on one another’s shoulders after long days of training, the young men who teased and insulted one another as they headed out on their first patrols. The ones Ali would soon swear to lead and protect as Qaid. They were the ones who would have likely faced these weapons.

Anger, swift and fierce, coursed through him, but Ali had no one to blame but himself. You should have known. When the first rumors of weapons reached you, you should have stopped. But Ali hadn’t stopped. Instead, he’d accompanied Anas to that tavern. He’d stood by while two men were killed.

He took a deep breath. From the corner of his eye, he saw Wajed give him a curious look. He straightened up.

“But why?” Muntadhir pressed. “What would the Tanzeem have to gain?”

“I don’t know,” Ghassan replied. “And I don’t care. It took years to bring peace to Daevabad after the deaths of the last Nahids. I don’t intend to let some dirt-blood fanatics eager for martyrdom tear us apart.” He pointed at Wajed. “The Citadel will find the men responsible and execute them. If they are Geziri, do it quietly. I don’t need the Daevas thinking our tribe supports the Tanzeem. And you will put in place the new restrictions on the shafit. Ban their gatherings. Throw them in prison if they so much as step on a pureblood’s foot. For now, at least.” He shook his head. “God willing, we’ll get through the next few months without any surprises, and we’ll be able to ease them again.”

“Yes, my king.”

Ghassan waved at the crate. “Get rid of that thing before Kaveh sniffs it out. I’ve had enough of his ranting for one day.” He rubbed his brow and sank back into his chair, his jeweled rings gleaming. He glanced up, fixing his sharp gaze on Muntadhir. “Also … should I need to execute another shafit traitor, my emir will watch without flinching else he’ll find himself carrying out the next sentence.”

Muntadhir crossed his arms, leaning against the desk in a familiar manner Ali never would have dared. “Ya, Abba, if I knew you were going to have his head crushed like an overripe melon, I would have skipped breakfast.”

Ghassan’s eyes flashed. “Your younger brother managed to control himself.”

Muntadhir laughed. “Yes, but Ali is Citadel trained. He’d dance in front of the karkadann if you told him to.”

Their father didn’t seem to appreciate the jest, his face growing stormy. “Or perhaps spending all your time drinking with courtesans and poets has weakened your constitution.” He glared. “You should be glad of your future Qaid’s training—God knows you’re likely to need it.” He rose from his desk. “And on that note, I would speak to your brother alone.”

What? Why? Ali was barely holding his emotions in check; he didn’t want to be alone with his father.

Wajed squeezed his shoulder and briefly leaned in toward Ali’s ear. “Breathe, boy,” he whispered as Ghassan stood and strolled toward the balcony. “He doesn’t bite.” He flashed Ali a reassuring smile and followed Muntadhir out of the office.

There was a long moment of silence. His father studied the garden, his hands clasped behind him.

His back was still to Ali when he asked, “Do you believe that?”

Ali’s voice came out in a squeak. “Believe what?”

“What you said before.” His father turned around, his dark gray eyes intent. “About God’s law applying equally—By the Most High, Alizayd, stop shaking. I need to be able to talk to my Qaid without him turning into a trembling mess.”

Ali’s embarrassment was tempered with relief—far better for Ghassan to blame his anxiety on nerves from being made Qaid. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Ghassan leveled his gaze on him again. “Answer the question.”

Ali thought fast, but there was no way he could lie. His family knew he was devout—he had been since childhood—and their religion was clear on the issue of the shafit. “Yes,” he replied. “I believe the shafit should be treated equally. That’s why our ancestors came to Daevabad. That’s why Zaydi al Qahtani went to war with the Nahids.”

“A war that nearly destroyed our entire race. A war that ended in the sacking of Daevabad and earned us the enmity of the Daeva tribe until this day.”

Ali startled at his father’s words. “Do you not think it was worth it?”

Ghassan looked irritated. “Of course I think it was worth it. I’m simply capable of seeing both sides of an issue. It’s a skill you should try to develop.” Ali’s cheeks grew hot, and his father continued. “Besides, there weren’t this many shafit in Zaydi’s time.”

Ali frowned. “Are they that numerous now?”

“Nearly a third of the population. Yes,” he said, noticing the surprise in Ali’s face. “Their numbers have burgeoned immensely in recent decades—information you’d do best to keep to yourself.” He gestured to the weapons. “There are now almost as many shafit in Daevabad as there are Daevas, and truthfully, my son, if they went to war in the streets, I’m not sure the Royal Guard could stop them. The Daevas would win in the end, of course, but it would be bloody, and it would destroy the city’s peace for generations.”

“But that’s not going to happen, Abba,” Ali argued. “The shafit aren’t fools. They just want a better life for themselves. They want to be able to work and live in buildings that aren’t coming down around them. To take care of their families without fearing their children will be snatched away by some pure—”

Ghassan interrupted. “When you come up with a way to provide jobs and housing for thousands of people, let me know. And if their lives were made easier here, they would only reproduce faster.”

“Then let them leave. Let them try to make better lives in the human world.”

“Let them cause chaos in the human world, you mean.” His father shook his head. “Absolutely not. They may look human, but many still have magic. We’d be inviting another Suleiman to curse us.” He sighed. “There’s no easy answer, Alizayd. All we can do is strike a balance.”

“But we’re not striking a balance,” Ali argued. “We’re choosing the fire worshippers over the shafit our ancestors came here to protect.”

Ghassan whirled on him. “The fire worshippers?”

Too late Ali remembered the Daevas hated that term for their tribe. “I didn’t mean—”

“Then don’t ever repeat such a thing in my presence.” His father glared at him. “The Daevas are under my protection, same as our own tribe. I don’t care what faith they practice.” He threw up his hands. “Hell, maybe they’re right to obsess over blood purity. In all my years, I’ve never encountered a Daeva shafit.”

They probably smother them in their cradles. But Ali didn’t say that. He’d been a fool to pick this fight today.

Ghassan ran a hand along the wet windowsill and then shook off the water droplets that had gathered upon his fingertips. “It’s always wet here. Always cold. I haven’t been back to Am Gezira in a century and yet every morning, I wake up missing its hot sands.” He glanced back at Ali. “This is not our home. It never will be. It will always belong to the Daevas first.”

It’s my home. Ali was accustomed to Daevabad’s damp chill and liked the diverse mix of peoples that filled its streets. He’d felt out of place during his rare trips to Am Gezira, always conscious of his half-Ayaanle appearance.

“It’s their home,” Ghassan continued. “And I am their king. I will not allow the shafit—a problem the Daevas had no part in creating—to threaten them in their own home.” He turned to face Ali. “If you are to be Qaid, you must respect this.”

Ali lowered his gaze. He didn’t respect it; he entirely disagreed. “Forgive my impertinence.”

He suspected that wasn’t the answer Ghassan wanted—his father’s eyes stayed sharp another moment before he abruptly crossed the room toward the wooden shelves lining the opposite wall. “Come here.”

Ali followed. Ghassan picked up a long, lacquered black case from one of the upper shelves. “I hear nothing but compliments from the Citadel about your progress, Alizayd. You’ve a keen mind for military science and you’re one of the best zulfiqari in your generation. None would dispute that. But you’re very young.”

Ghassan blew the dust off the case and then opened it, pulling a silver arrow from a bed of fragile tissue. “Do you know what this is?”

Ali certainly did. “It’s the last arrow shot by an Afshin.”

“Bend it.”

A little confused, Ali nonetheless took the arrow from his father. Though it was incredibly light, he couldn’t bend it in the slightest. The silver still gleamed after all these years, only the scythe-ended tip dulled by blood. The same blood that ran in Ali’s veins.

“The Afshins were good soldiers too,” Ghassan said softly. “Probably the best warriors of our race. But now they’re dead, their Nahid leaders are dead, and our people have ruled Daevabad for fourteen centuries. And do you know why?”

Because they were infidels, and God willed us to victory? Ali held his tongue; he suspected if he said that, the arrow would be getting a new coat of Qahtani blood.

Ghassan took the arrow back. “Because they were like this arrow. Like you. Unwilling to bend, unwilling to see that not everything fit into their perfectly ordered world.” He put the weapon back in the case and snapped it shut. “There is more to being Qaid than being a good soldier. God willing, Wajed and I have another century of wine and ridiculous petitioners ahead of us, but one day Muntadhir will be king. And when he needs guidance, when he needs to discuss things only his blood can hear, he’ll need you.”

“Yes, Abba.” Ali was willing to say anything at this point to leave, anything that would let him escape his father’s measured gaze.

“There’s one more thing.” His father stepped away from the shelf. “You’re moving back to the palace. Immediately.”

Ali’s mouth dropped open. “But the Citadel is my home.”

“No … my home is your home,” Ghassan said, looking irritated. “Your place is here. It’s time you start attending court to see how the world works outside your books. And I’ll be able to keep a better eye on you—I don’t like the way you’re talking about the Daevas.”

Dread welled up in Ali, but his father didn’t press the issue. “You can go now. I’ll expect you at court when you’re settled in.”

Ali nodded and bowed; it was all he could do not to run for the door. “Peace be upon you.”

He’d no sooner stumbled into the corridor than he ran into his grinning brother.

Muntadhir pulled him into a hug. “Congratulations, akhi. I’m sure you’re going to make a terrifying Qaid.”

“Thanks,” Ali mumbled. He’d just witnessed the brutal death of his closest friend. That he was soon to be in charge of maintaining security for a city of bickering djinn was something he’d yet to dwell on.

Muntadhir didn’t seem to pick up on his distress. “Did Abba tell you the other good news?” When Ali made a noncommittal sound, he continued. “You’re moving back to the palace!”

“Oh.” Ali frowned. “That.”

His brother’s face fell. “You don’t sound very excited.”

A fresh wave of guilt swept over Ali at the hurt in Muntadhir’s voice. “It’s not that, Dhiru. It’s … it’s been a long morning. Taking over for Wajed, the news about the weapons …” He exhaled. “Besides, I’ve never been very …” He searched for a way to avoid insulting his brother’s entire social circle. “… comfortable around people here.”

“Ah, you’ll be fine.” Muntadhir threw his arm around Ali’s shoulder, half-dragging him down the corridor. “Stick by me, and I’ll make sure you get embroiled in only the most delightful of scandals.” He laughed when Ali gave him a startled look. “Come. Zaynab and I picked you out apartments near the waterfall.” They turned the corner. “With the most boring furnishings and least comfortable amenities. You’ll be right at ho—whoa.”

The brothers drew to an immediate stop. They had to. A wall stood in their way, a jewel-colored mural splashed across the stone.

“Well …” Muntadhir’s voice was shaky. “That’s new.”

Ali edged closer. “No … it’s not,” he said softly, recognizing the scene and remembering his long-ago history lessons. “It’s one of the old Nahid murals. They used to cover the palace walls before the war.”

“It wasn’t here yesterday.” Muntadhir touched the mural’s bright sun. It flashed beneath his fingertips, and they both jumped.

Ali gave the mural an uneasy look. “And you wonder why I’m not excited about moving back to this Nahid-haunted place?”

Muntadhir made a face. “It’s not usually this bad.” He nodded to one of the figures on the cracked plaster facade. “Do you know who that’s supposed to be?”

Ali studied the image. The figure looked human, a man with a flowing white beard and a silver halo above his crowned head. He stood before a crimson sun, one hand resting on the back of a roaring shedu, and the other holding a staff with an eight-pointed seal. The same seal that was on Ghassan’s right temple.

“It’s Suleiman,” Ali realized. “Peace be upon him.” He gazed at the rest of the painting. “I think it depicts the ascension of Anahid when she received her abilities and Suleiman’s seal.” His eyes fell on the bent figure at Suleiman’s feet. Only her back was visible, the long taper of her ears giving away that she was a djinn. Or daeva, rather. Anahid, first of her line.

Blue paint flooded Suleiman’s robes.

“Odd,” Muntadhir remarked. “I wonder why it picked today of all days to start trying to repair fourteen centuries of damage.”

A shiver went down Ali’s spine. “I don’t know.”