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

“As-salaamu alaykum wa rahmatullah.” Ali turned his head and whispered the prayer into his left shoulder. “As-salaamu alaykum wa rahmatullah.”

He relaxed his shoulders and turned his palms upward to offer his supplications, but his mind went blank at the sight of his hands. Though his wounds were healing remarkably fast, the scars remained stubborn, fading to thin dark lines that resembled the dead Afshin’s tattoos so much it turned his stomach.

Ali heard the door open behind him but ignored it, refocusing on his prayers. He finished and turned around.

“Abba?”

The king slouched on the rug behind him. There were shadows under his eyes, and his head was bare. At first glance, he could have been a commoner, a tired old man in a plain cotton dishdasha taking a rest. Even his beard looked more silver than it had just a few days ago.

“P-peace be upon you,” Ali stammered. “I’m sorry. I did not realize …”

“I didn’t wish to disturb you.” Ghassan patted the spot on the rug next to him, and Ali sank back to the floor. His father stared at the mihrab, the small carved niche in the corner indicating the direction to which Ali, and every other believing djinn, bowed in prayer.

Ghassan’s eyes dimmed. He rubbed his beard. “I’m not much of a believer,” he finally said. “Never have been. Honestly, I always assumed our religion to be a political move on the part of our ancestors. What better way to unify the tribes and preserve the ideas of the revolution than to adopt the new human faith of our homeland?” Ghassan paused. “Of course, I know that’s utter heresy in the eyes of your kind, but think about it … did it not largely end the veneration of the Nahids? Give our rule the veneer of divine approval? A clever move. At least that’s what I’ve always thought.”

Ghassan continued to gaze at the mihrab, but his mind seemed a world away. “Then I saw that ship go up in flames with my children onboard, at the mercy of a madman I let into our city. I listened to the screams, terrified that one would sound familiar, that it would be calling my name …” Ali heard his throat catch. “I would be lying if I said my brow didn’t press a prayer mat faster than that of the most zealous sheikh.”

Ali stayed silent. Through the open balustrade, he could hear birds singing in the bright sunshine. The light filtered through the window screens, throwing elaborate designs on the patterned rug. He stared at the floor, sweat beading on his brow. He was becoming accustomed to the sensation.

“Have I ever told you why I named you Alizayd?” Ali shook his head, and his father continued. “You were born shortly after Manizheh and Rustam’s murders. Dark times for our people, probably the worst since the war. Daevabad was crowded with migrants fleeing from the ifrit in the outer provinces, there was a secession movement brewing among the Daevas, the Sahrayn were already in open revolt. Many believed we were living in the end times for our race.

“People said it was a miracle when your mother became pregnant again after Zaynab’s birth. Pureblooded women are lucky to have even one child, but two? And so close together?” Ghassan shook his head, a ghost of a smile on his face. “They said it was a blessing from the Most High, a sign of His favor over my reign.” The smile faded. “And then you were a boy. A second son with a powerful mother from a wealthy tribe. When I went to Hatset, she begged me not to kill you.” He shook his head. “That she could think such a thing of me as I counted your fingers and whispered the adhan into your ear … I knew then that surely we were strangers to each other.

“Within a day of your birth, I had two assassins from Am Gezira present themselves at court. Skilled men, the best at what they did, offering discreet ways to end my dilemma. Merciful, quick solutions that would leave no suspicion for the Ayaanle.” His father clenched his fists. “I invited them into my office. I listened to their calm and reasoned words. And then I murdered them with my own hands.”

Ali startled, but his father didn’t seem to notice.

Ghassan stared out the window, lost in his memories. “I sent their heads back to Am Gezira, and when your name day came, I called you ‘Alizayd’ as I bolted your relic to your ear. The name of our greatest hero, the progenitor of our rule, so that all would know you were my own. I gave you to Wajed to raise as Qaid and throughout the years, when I saw you grow up in the footsteps of your namesake—noble, yet kind, a zulfiqari to be reckoned with … My decision pleased me. At times, I even found myself wondering …” He paused, shaking his head slightly, and then for the first time since entering the room, turned to meet Ali’s gaze. “But I fear now that giving a second son the name of our world’s most famous rebel was not my wisest decision.”

Ali’s gaze dropped. He could not bear to look his father in the eyes. He had imagined being filled with righteous anger when they finally had this confrontation, but now he just felt sick. “Muntadhir told you.”

Ghassan nodded. “What he knew. You were careful not to give him names, but they were easy enough to ferret out. I executed Rashid ben Salkh this morning. It may be of small comfort that he took no part in the attempt on your life. Seems the shafit man acted alone in trying to avenge the riot. We’re still looking for the old woman.”

Hanno acted alone. Ali went numb as the guilt settled upon his shoulders. So Rashid was exactly what he seemed. A fellow believer, a man so dedicated to helping the shafit that he’d betrayed his tribe and risked his privileged life as a full-blooded Geziri officer. And Ali had gotten him killed.

He knew he should be apologizing—groveling at his father’s feet—but the enormity of what he’d done erased any impulse to save his own life. He thought of the little girl they’d saved. Would she be out on the streets after Sister Fatumai was caught? Would all of them?

“She’s an old woman, Abba. An old shafit woman who cares for orphans. How can you possibly think of someone like that as a threat?” Ali could hear the frustration in his voice. “How can you think of any of them as a threat? They just want a decent life.”

“Yes. A decent life with you as their king.”

Ali’s heart skipped a beat. He glanced at his father to see if he was joking, but Ghassan’s stony face indicated no jest.

“No, I don’t imagine you wanted to put it together, though your brother certainly did. Rashid ben Salkh was removed from a posting in Ta Ntry years ago under suspicion of incitement. He was burning letters from the Ayaanle when he was arrested. He confessed under torture but maintained your innocence.” The king sat back. “He did not know the identities of his Ayaanle backers, but I have no doubt his death will bring consternation to more than a few members of your mother’s household.”

Ali’s mouth went dry. “Abba … punish me for aiding the Tanzeem. I freely admit it. But … that?” He couldn’t even bring himself to say the word. “Never. How can you possibly think I would take up arms against you? Against Muntadhir?” He cleared his throat, growing emotional. “You really think me capable of—”

“Yes,” Ghassan said curtly. “I think you capable. I think you reluctant, but quite capable.” He paused to regard him. “Even now I see the anger in your eyes. You might not find the courage to defy me. But Muntadhir—”

“Is my brother,” Ali cut in. “I would never—”

Ghassan raised a hand to silence him. “And thus you know his weaknesses. As do I. His first decades as king will be tumultuous. He will mismanage the Treasury and indulge his court. He will crack down on your beloved shafit in an effort to seem tough and push aside his queen—a woman I suspect you care for a bit too much—for a bevy of concubines. And as Qaid, you will be forced to watch. With the Ayaanle whispering in your ear, with the loyalty of your fellow soldiers in hand … you will watch. And you will break.”

Ali drew up. That cold place, the knot of resentment Muntadhir had briefly touched at Khanzada’s, unspooled again. He wasn’t accustomed to challenging his father so directly, but this wasn’t a charge he would let lie. “I would never,” he repeated. “I all but gave my life to save Muntadhir’s on that boat. I would never hurt him. I want to help him.” He threw up his hands. “That’s what all this was about, Abba. I don’t want to be king! I don’t want Ayaanle gold. I wanted to help my city, to help the people we’ve left behind!”

Ghassan shook his head. He looked even more resolute. “I believe you, Alizayd. That’s the problem. Like your namesake, I think you want to help the shafit so much that you’d be willing to bring the city down just to see them rise. And I can’t risk that.”

His father said nothing else. He didn’t need to. For Ghassan had always been clear when it came to his views on kingship. Daevabad came first. Before his tribe. Before his family.

Before the life of his youngest son.

Ali felt oddly light. He cleared his throat, finding it difficult to breathe. But he wasn’t going to beg for his life. Instead, he hardened his heart, looking his father in the eye. “When do I meet the karkadann?”

Ghassan didn’t drop his gaze. “You don’t. I’m stripping you of your titles and Treasury accounts and sending you to Am Gezira. The other tribes will assume you went to lead a garrison.”

Exile? Ali frowned. That can’t be it. But as his father stayed silent, Ali realized there had been a warning in the story of his birth.

Foreigners might think it just a military assignment, but the Geziri would know better. When Alizayd al Qahtani—Alizayd the Ayaanle—showed up in Am Gezira impoverished and alone, the Geziri would know he’d lost his father’s protection. That this second son, this foreign son, had been abandoned, and his blood could be spilled without retribution. Geziri assassins were the best and readily available. Anyone hoping to curry favor with his brother, with his father, with Kaveh, with any of the enemies Ali had made over the years—it didn’t even have to be someone he’d personally angered. The Qahtanis had a thousand adversaries, even among their own tribe.

Ali was being executed. It might take a few months, but he’d end up dead. Not on a battlefield, fighting bravely in his family’s name; nor as a martyr, clear-eyed in his choice to defend the shafit. No, instead he was going to be hunted down in an unfamiliar land, murdered before his first quarter century. His last days would be spent alone and in terror, and when he inevitably fell, it would be to people who would carve him up, taking whatever bloody evidence they needed for payment.

His father climbed to his feet, his slow movements betraying his age. “There is a merchant caravan headed to Am Gezira tomorrow. You’ll leave with them.”

Ali didn’t move. He couldn’t. “Why don’t you just have me killed?” The question came out in a rush, half plea. “Throw me to the karkadann, poison my food, have someone cut my throat while I sleep.” He blinked, fighting back tears. “Would that not be easier?”

Ali could see his heartbreak mirrored in his father’s face. For all the jokes about how strongly he resembled his mother’s people, his eyes were Ghassan’s. They always had been.

“I can’t,” the king admitted. “I cannot give that order. And for that weakness, my son, I apologize.” He turned to leave.

“And Nahri?” Ali called out before his father reached the door, desperate for any bit of consolation. “You know I spoke the truth of her.”

“I don’t know that at all,” Ghassan countered. “I think Muntadhir is right; your word on that girl is unreliable. And it doesn’t change what happened.”

Ali had destroyed his future to tell the truth. It had better mean something. “Why not?”

“You slew Darayavahoush before her eyes, Alizayd. It took three men to drag her kicking and screaming from his ashes. She bit one of them so badly he needed stitches.” His father shook his head. “Whatever was between the two of you is gone. If she did not consider us enemies before, she most certainly does now.”