“So you still haven’t told me where you were last night,” Lubayd said as they made their way to the arena. “Aqisa and I were looking for you at the celebration.”
“I didn’t go,” Ali replied. “I didn’t feel up to it.”
Lubayd halted in his tracks. “Another nightmare?”
“No,” Ali said quickly, hating the fear in his friend’s expression. “No nightmares. But I was exhausted and didn’t trust myself not to say something inflammatory to my father. Or my brother.” He made a sour face as they kept walking. “To anyone really.”
“Well, then I’m glad you slept in and avoided getting arrested. Though you did miss quite the party.” He stretched, cracking his neck. “Is Aqisa meeting us at the arena?”
“Later. I asked her to guard the Banu Nahida during the parade this morning.”
“That’s the one meant to reenact Anahid’s arrival in Daevabad, right?” Lubayd snorted. “In that case, will you and your little healer be fighting to the death at some point to represent the latter half of our history?”
Ali flinched at the joke. Go back to Am Gezira, Ali. Steal some happiness for yourself. Ali had been replaying those words and the memory of Nahri’s hand cradling his jaw in his mind since last night. Which—he had to give credit to her—had rather effectively interrupted his brewing thoughts of rebellion.
He closed his eyes. God forgive him, she had looked so beautiful last night. After not seeing her for weeks, Ali had been struck speechless at the sight of her standing in the darkness of that quiet room, dressed in the finery of her ancestors. She’d looked like a legend brought to life, and for the first time, he’d been nervous—truly nervous—in her presence, struggling not to stare as she smiled her sharp smile and slid her fingers under her chador. And when she’d touched his face …
Muntadhir’s wife. She’s Muntadhir’s wife.
As if his thoughts had the power to conjure, a familiar laugh sounded ahead, one whose lightheartedness cut through Ali like a knife.
“—I’m not mocking you,” Muntadhir teased. “I think the ‘Suleiman just threw me across the world look’ has its appeal. Your rags even smell!” Muntadhir laughed again. “It’s all very authentic.”
“Oh, be quiet,” he heard Jamshid return. “There’s more where these rags came from and your steward owes me a favor. I’ll have them used to line your fancy turban.”
Ali peered around the corner. Muntadhir and Jamshid were across the corridor, framed together in a sunlit arch. He frowned, shading his eyes against the sudden brightness. For half a second, he’d swear he saw his brother’s hands on Jamshid’s collar, his face inclined toward his neck as though jokingly smelling him, but then Ali blinked, sunspots blossoming across his vision, and the two men were apart, neither looking very pleased to see him.
“Alizayd.” His brother’s disdainful gaze flickered up and down Ali’s rumpled dishdasha. “Late night?”
Muntadhir always seemed to know a new way to make him feel small. His brother was immaculately turned out as usual in his ebony robes and brilliant royal turban. He’d looked even more stylish last night, dressed in an ikat-patterned waistcloth and brilliant sapphire tunic. Ali had seen him at the party, had watched from an upper balcony after Nahri left as his brother laughed and caroused like he’d built the hospital himself.
“As always,” Ali replied acidly.
Jamshid’s eyes flashed at his tone. The Daeva man was indeed dressed in rags, his black tunic torn and smeared with ash and his pants with unfired brick dust—a nod to the human temple that Suleiman had ordered their ancestors to build.
Muntadhir cleared his throat. “Jamshid, why don’t you head to the procession? We’ll meet later.” He squeezed the other man’s shoulder. “I still want to see that saddle.”
Jamshid nodded. “Until then, Emir-joon.”
He left, and Muntadhir ignored Ali, sweeping through the entrance that led to the arena’s royal viewing platform.
Lubayd snickered. “I suppose emirs don’t like to be interrupted, same as everyone else.”
Ali was baffled by the amusement in his friend’s voice. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you know …” Lubayd stopped and studied Ali. “Oh … you don’t know.” Spots of color rose in his cheeks. “Forget it,” he said, turning to follow Muntadhir.
“What don’t I know?” Ali asked, but Lubayd ignored him, suddenly very interested in the spectacle below. To be fair, it was a sight: a half-dozen Daeva archers were competing, putting on a show to amuse the packed crowd while they waited for the procession to arrive.
Lubayd whistled. “Wow,” he said, watching as a mounted Daeva archer on a silver stallion raced across the sand, aiming a flaming arrow at a hollow gourd mounted on a high pole. The gourd was stuffed with kindling and painted with pitch; it burst into flames, and the crowd cheered. “They really are demons with those bows.”
Ali glowered. “I’m well aware.”
“Alizayd.” Ghassan’s voice rang across the pavilion just as Ali was about to take a seat with a few of the officers from the Royal Guard. His father was at the front, of course, leaning against a silk-covered bolster, a jade cup of ruby-colored wine at hand. “Come here.”
Lubayd grabbed his wrist before he could move. “Careful,” he warned. “You seem a little surlier than usual this morning.”
Ali didn’t respond. It was true he didn’t trust himself to say anything to his father, but he had no choice other than to make his way to the front. Muntadhir was already seated, flashing his charming grin at a pretty servant as she passed. She stopped with a blush and smile to pour him a cup of wine.
He makes that look so easy. Not that Ali wanted to go around enticing attractive women into pouring him wine—every part of that was forbidden. But he knew Muntadhir wouldn’t have been reduced to a stammering wreck in front of Nahri last night. And as he watched his brother, Ali was unable to deny the jealousy clawing in his chest. Muntadhir had leaned over to whisper in the cupbearer’s ear, and she giggled, playfully bumping him with her shoulder.
You have a wife. A beautiful, brilliant wife. Though Ali supposed when everything else was offered to you on a silver platter, beautiful, brilliant wives weren’t blessings to be cherished.
“Everything going well with the procession?” Ghassan asked Muntadhir, paying no attention to Ali as he sat down stiffly on a plain prayer mat, forgoing the soft cushions closer to the pair.
Muntadhir nodded, taking a sip of his wine as the cupbearer moved away. “The priests and Nahri led dawn ceremonies at the lake. Kaveh was to make sure they all boarded their chariots, and Jamshid just left to escort them here with another group of archers.” A small smile broke his face. “He’s riding today.”
“And security for the procession?” Ghassan pressed. “Did you speak with Wajed?”
“I did. He assured me he has soldiers lining the parade route and that no shafit would be permitted to join.”
Ali struggled not to roll his eyes. Of course, banning the shafit from the festivities would be the type of “security” the palace enacted. Though Ali supposed he should be happy his brother and not his father was overseeing Navasatem. Ghassan probably would have chosen to execute on sight any shafit who strayed within five blocks of the procession route.
All too aware he was in the exact mood that Lubayd had warned him to guard against, Ali tried to direct his attention to the arena. The Daeva archers were dressed in the age-old style of their ancestors, dashing about as if they were part horse themselves in wildly striped felt leggings, dazzling saffron coats, and horned silver helms. They rose to stand in painted saddles as they galloped in sweeping arcs and intricate formations, ornaments flashing in their horses’ manes as they drew back stylized silver bows.
Unease pooled in Ali’s stomach. Though not Afshins themselves—Darayavahoush’s family had been wiped out in the war—the men below were the clearest inheritors of his legacy. One of the men let a scythe-ended arrow fly at a target, and Ali could not help but cringe. He didn’t know which kind of arrows Darayavahoush had shot through his throat, but he’d bet one of them was down below.
“Not to your taste, Zaydi?” Muntadhir was watching him.
The sarcasm with which his brother spoke his nickname cut deep, and then the punch of another arrow tearing through a target made his stomach clench. “Not quite,” he said through his teeth.
“And yet to hear it, you’re the finest warrior in Daevabad.” Muntadhir’s tone was light, but malice lurked underneath it. “The great Afshin-slayer.”
“I never trained much with the bow. You know that.” Ali had learned to use one, of course, but he was meant to be Qaid, and archery took time, time Wajed had preferred Ali spend on the zulfiqar and strategy. The Daeva men before him had likely been in saddles since they were five, given toy bows at the same age.
A servant came by with coffee, and Ali gratefully took a cup.
“You look as though you need that,” Ghassan commented. “I was surprised not to see you at the hospital’s opening last night.”
Ali cleared his throat. “I wasn’t feeling well.”
“Unfortunate,” Ghassan said. “I have to say I was pleased; it’s an impressive complex. Regardless of your recent behavior, you and Banu Nahri have done fine work.”
Ali checked the resentment growing inside him, knowing he’d be smarter to take advantage of his father’s seemingly amicable mood. “I am glad to hear that.” He took another sip of his coffee, savoring the bitter, cardamom-scented tang. “On a related note, I was wondering if you’d seen my proposal.”
“You’ll have to be more specific,” Ghassan replied. “I think I have fifty proposals from you on my desk at the moment.”
“The one giving official recognition to the shafit guilds in the workcamp. I’d like them to be able to compete for government contract—”
“My God, do you ever stop?” Muntadhir cut in rudely. “Can we not have a day’s break from your yammering about the economy and the shafit?”
Ghassan raised a hand before Ali could speak. “Let him be. As it is, he’s not wrong to be thinking about the economy.” He cleared his throat, his gaze going a little distant. “I’ve received an offer for Zaynab’s hand.”
Ali instantly tensed; there was nothing he liked in the careful way his father had delivered that news. “From who?” he demanded, not caring that he sounded curt.
“Nasir Ishak.”
Ali blinked. “Who?”
“Nasir Ishak.” Muntadhir had gone pale as he repeated the name. “He’s a spice merchant from Malacca.”
“He’s more than a spice merchant,” Ghassan corrected. “He’s king of the djinn in those islands in all but name. Daevabad’s control has always been tenuous there.”
Malacca. Ali looked between his father and brother. They couldn’t be serious. “Daevabad’s control is tenuous there because it’s across the ocean. Zaynab will be lucky to visit here once a century!”
Neither man answered him. Muntadhir looked like he was fighting to keep his composure. “You told me you had decided against his offer, Abba,” he said.
“That was before … recent events.” Ghassan’s mouth thinned in displeasure. “We need to start looking beyond Ta Ntry for allies and resources. Nasir is an opportunity we can ill afford to turn away.”
“Does Zaynab get a say in this?” Ali could hear the edge in his voice, but this was too much. Was this another reason his mother had been banished? So that she wouldn’t be able to protest her daughter being shipped across the sea to fill the Treasury’s coffers?
“I’ve spoken with Zaynab about this possibility,” Ghassan replied tersely. “I would never force her. I would never have to. She takes her loyalty and duty to our family far more seriously than you, Alizayd. And quite frankly, your stunt in the shafit camp and your mother taking half the Ayaanle delegation back to Ta Ntry has forced my hand.” He turned back to Muntadhir. “Nasir is arriving next week for the holiday. I’d like you to spend time with him and get to know what kind of man he is before I decide anything.”
His brother stared at his hands, emotions warring on his face. Ali watched him, silently begging: Say something. Anything. Give some sign that you can stand up to him, that you won’t become him.
Muntadhir cleared his throat. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Coward.” The moment the word slipped from his lips, Ali knew it wasn’t fair. But he didn’t care.
Muntadhir stared at him in shock. “What did you just say to me?”
“I said you’re a—” From below, another arrow struck the target, making a solid thunk as it tore through the flesh of the gourd. Ali instinctively flinched, the moment stealing his words.
Ghassan had drawn up, glaring at Ali with open contempt. “Have you lost all sense of honor?” he hissed under his breath. “I should have you lashed for speaking with such disrespect.”
“No,” Muntadhir said sharply. “I can handle this, Abba. I should have already.”
Without another word, his brother rose to his feet and turned to face the packed pavilion. He aimed a dazzling smile at the crowd, the change in his expression so sudden it was as though someone had snuffed out a candle.
“Friends!” he called out. The Qahtani men had been speaking quietly in Geziriyya, but Muntadhir raised his voice, switching to Djinnistani. “The great Afshin-slayer is anxious to show his skills, and I do believe you deserve a spectacle.”
An expectant hush fell across the crowd, and Ali suddenly realized just how many people were watching them: nobles always eager to witness some drama from Daevabad’s royals.
And Muntadhir knew how to draw their attention. “So I’d like to issue my little brother a challenge …” He gestured to the archers below. “Beat me.”
Ali stared at him in incomprehension. “You want to compete with me? In the arena?”
“I do.” Muntadhir put his wine cup down with a flourish, his eyes dancing as if this were all a joke. “Come on, Afshin-slayer,” he goaded when Ali didn’t move. “Surely you’re not afraid?” Without waiting for a response, Muntadhir laughed and headed for the steps.
The eyes of the rest of pavilion were on Ali, expectant. Muntadhir might have done it in jest, but he’d issued a challenge, and Ali would lose face if he didn’t address it—especially one so seemingly innocent.
Ali rose to his feet slowly.
Ghassan gave him a warning look, but Ali knew he wouldn’t interfere; Geziri men didn’t back down from such a public contest, and princes in the line of succession certainly did not. “Remember yourself,” he said simply.
Remember what? That I was always meant to be beneath him? Or that I was meant to be his weapon—one who could defeat any man?
Lubayd was at his elbow in a second. “Why do you look like you just swallowed a locust?” he whispered. “You can shoot an arrow better than that gold-draped fool, can’t you?”
Ali swallowed, not wanting to confirm his weakness. “I-I was shot, Lubayd. By the Afshin,” he stammered, the memories coming to him in a swift punch. “It was bad. I haven’t touched a bow since.”
Lubayd blanched, but there was no time for him to respond. Muntadhir was already joining the Daeva riders. They grinned as he greeted them in the Divasti that Ali couldn’t speak, gesturing back toward Ali with laughter. God only knew what Muntadhir was saying to them. They were probably his friends, the wealthy nobles with whom he liked to wine and dine in the salons of courtesans and poets. A world that didn’t look kindly upon men like Ali.
And though he knew he’d provoked his brother, a hurt Ali rarely acknowledged made itself known, the knot of resentment and jealousy he tried so hard to disavow threatening to come undone. The times he’d forced himself to smile when Muntadhir’s companions teased him growing up, asking how many men he’d killed at the Citadel and if it was really true he’d never touched a woman. The countless family celebrations that ended with Muntadhir sleeping in a silken bed at the palace and Ali on the floor of his barracks.
Stop. Because of those barracks, the arena right here is your home. Muntadhir and his friends couldn’t take that from him. Archery might not be Ali’s specialty, but surely he could beat his spoiled, soft brother.
One of the riders slipped from his saddle, and without missing a beat, Muntadhir swung into his place. His brother was the better horseman, that Ali knew. Ali could ride well enough but had never shared Muntadhir’s love for the sport. His brother kept his own stable and had probably spent countless hours racing outside the city walls, laughing and trying stunts with Jamshid—who was an even more talented rider—while Ali labored at the Citadel.
Muntadhir’s horse cantered up. “Why so glum, Zaydi?” His brother laughed, spreading his arms. “This is your thing, isn’t it? You used to talk when you were a kid about these martial competitions. How you would sweep them and earn your place as my Qaid. I’d think the greatest warrior in Daevabad would be smiling right now.” Muntadhir drew nearer, his grin fading. “Or maybe you’ve been intruding upon my world for so long—insinuating yourself with my wife, embarrassing me before Abba—that you’ve forgotten your place.” He said the final words in Geziriyya, his voice low. “Maybe you need a reminder.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Ali glared back even as the other Daeva men rode up, joking in Divasti as their horses circled him, kicking sand. “I spent my childhood training to serve you,” he shot back. “I’d say I know my place quite well; I was never permitted to have another. Something I suspect Zaynab is about to learn as well.”
He’d swear uncertainty flickered in his brother’s eyes, but then Muntadhir shrugged, looking nonchalant. “So let’s begin.” He wheeled his horse around and raised his voice so the crowd could hear him. “I was just telling my companions here that I think it is time a few sand flies tried their hand at this.” His brother winked, flashing a mesmerizing smile at the thousands of djinn arrayed in the arena seats. He was the dashing emir again, and Ali heard more than a few women sigh. “Try to contain your laughter, my people, I beg you.”
Another Daeva came riding out, carrying a long, wrapped parcel. “Here you are, Emir.”
“Excellent,” Muntadhir replied. He addressed the crowd again. “I heard the Daevas have a weapon that I thought my brother might like to see. Our dear Zaydi does love his history.” He took the parcel, pulling free the cloth and then holding it out to Ali.
Ali felt a catch in his throat. It was the bow from the Afshin’s shrine. The exact replica of the weapon with which Darayavahoush had shot him.
“Do you like it, akhi?” Muntadhir asked, a soft edge of cruelty in his voice. “Takes a little getting used to but …” He abruptly raised it, drawing the string back in Ali’s direction.
Ali jerked, the motion throwing him back into that night. The silver bow glittering in the light of the burning ship, Darayavahoush’s cold green eyes locked on him. The searing pain, the blood in his mouth choking his scream as he tried to grab Muntadhir’s hand.
He stared at Muntadhir now, seeing a stranger instead of his brother. “May I borrow a horse?” he asked coldly.
The Daevas brought him one at once, and Ali pulled himself into the saddle. The animal danced nervously beneath him, and he tightened his legs as it reared. They’d probably given him the worst-tempered one they had.
“I think maybe he does not like crocodiles,” one of the Daevas mocked.
Another time Muntadhir would have harshly rebuked the man for such words, Ali knew. Now his brother just chuckled along.
“Ah, let us give Zaydi a minute to get used to riding a horse again. A bit different from the oryxes in his village.” Muntadhir pulled free an arrow. “I should like to try this bow out.”
His brother was off like a shot, the sand churning in his wake. As he neared the target, he raised the bow, leaning slightly sideways to aim an arrow upward.
It hit the exact center of the target, the enchanted pitch bursting into a sparkle of blue flames.
Ali’s mouth fell open. That had been no lucky shot. The audience’s applause was thunderous, their surprised delight clear. Where in God’s name had Muntadhir learned to do that?
The answer came to him just as quickly. Jamshid. Ali swore under his breath. Of course Muntadhir knew how to shoot; his best friend had been one of the best archers in Daevabad—he’d trained with the Afshin himself.
Muntadhir must have seen the shock in Ali’s face, for triumph blossomed in his own. “I suppose you don’t know everything, after all.” He tossed Ali the bow. “Your turn, little brother.”
Ali caught the bow, his sandals slipping in the stirrups. But as the horse stepped nervously, Ali realized it wasn’t just his sandals slipping, it was the entire saddle. It hadn’t been tightened enough.
He bit his lip. If he dismounted to check it, he was going to look either paranoid or as if he didn’t trust the Daevas who’d saddled the horse in the first place.
Just get this over with. Ali pressed his heels to the horse ever so slightly. It seemed to work for a moment, the horse moving at a slow canter. But then it picked up speed, galloping madly toward the target.
You can do this, he told himself desperately. He could ride and fight with a sword; a bow was only a bit more complicated.
He tightened his legs again. Ali’s hands were steady as he nocked an arrow and raised the bow. But he’d never been taught how to adjust for the movement of the horse, and the arrow went embarrassingly off target.
Ali’s cheeks burned as the Daeva men laughed. The mood was openly hostile now; they were clearly enjoying the spectacle of the sand fly who’d murdered their beloved Afshin being humiliated by his own kin with a weapon they cherished.
Muntadhir took the bow from him. “It was a good attempt, Zaydi,” he offered with mocking sincerity. His eyes glittered. “Shall we try it backward?”
“Whatever you wish, Emir,” Ali hissed.
Muntadhir rode off yet again. Even Ali had to admit his brother cut a striking figure, his black robe billowing behind him like smoky wings, the brilliant colors of the royal turban glimmering in the sunlight. He executed the move with the same ease, rising in his saddle as if he were the damned Afshin himself, turning backward and again striking the target. The arena burst into more applause, a few ululations coming from a knot of Geziris close to the ground. Ali recognized Muntadhir’s cousin, Tariq, among them.
Ali glanced at the screened balcony above the royal platform. Was Zaynab there? His heart twisted. He could only imagine how his sister felt watching this after trying so hard to make peace between her brothers.
Muntadhir tossed the bow at him with more force than necessary. “Good luck.”
“Fuck you.” The crude words slipped from Ali’s mouth in a flash of anger, and he saw Muntadhir startle.
And then smile yet again, a glimmer of spite in his brother’s eyes. “Oh, do you not enjoy being embarrassed, Zaydi? That’s odd, as you don’t seem to mind doing it to me.”
Ali didn’t take the bait, riding off without another word. He couldn’t ride as well as Muntadhir, he knew that. But he could turn around and aim a damn arrow. Drawing back on the bow, he whirled to face the target.
He did so too fast … and his saddle slid free.
Ali fell with it, dropping the bow and pulling his feet from the stirrups. The spookish horse reacted the exact way he imagined the Daevas had hoped for, putting on a burst of speed as the saddle slipped further. He saw a blur of hooves, the ground too close to his face. Several people screamed.
And then it was over. Ali landed hard on his back, rolling to narrowly avoid being trampled as the horse bolted away. He gasped, the air knocked clear from his lungs.
Muntadhir leaped lightly from his horse to retrieve the bow from where Ali had dropped it. “Are you all right?” he drawled.
Ali climbed to his feet, biting back a hiss of pain. He could taste blood in his mouth from where he’d bitten his tongue.
He spat it at the ground. “I’m fine.” He wrenched the bow from his brother’s hands, picking up the arrow from where it had fallen in the dust. He marched toward the target.
Muntadhir followed, staying at his shoulders. “I am surprised you haven’t trained more on the bow. You know how your Banu Nahida loves her archers.”
The pointed words struck much deeper than they should have. “That has nothing to do with me,” he said heatedly.
“No?” Muntadhir retorted softly in Geziriyya. “Because I can give you some pointers. Brother to brother.”
“I don’t need your advice on how to shoot an arrow.”
“Who says I was talking about archery?” Muntadhir continued as Ali drew back the bowstring. His voice was deadly quiet, his words again for Ali alone. “I was talking about Nahri.”
Ali sent the arrow hurtling into the wall. A wave of laughter greeted his blunder, but Ali barely noticed. His face burning at the insinuation, he whirled on his brother. But Muntadhir was already there, taking the bow back.
He hit the target dead center, barely taking his gaze from Ali’s. “I do believe I win.” He shrugged. “I suppose it’s fortuitous you’re not going to be my Qaid after all.”
Ali had no words. He was more hurt than he thought he could ever be, feeling younger and more naive than he had in years.
Muntadhir was already turning away, as if to return to the platform.
Ali stalked after him, keeping his gaze down and defeated though rage burned in his heart. Muntadhir wanted to see the Citadel-trained part of him?
Very well.
The two of them were only out of eyesight for a second, in the shadow of the stairwell, but it was enough. Ali lunged at his brother, shoving a hand against his mouth before he could scream and kicking open the door to a weapons’ closet he knew was located under the stairs. He pushed Muntadhir inside, pulling the door closed behind them.
Muntadhir stumbled back, glaring. “Oh, have you something to say to me, hypocrite? Going to give me a lecture on righteousness while you—”
Ali punched him in the face.
His heart wasn’t entirely in it, but the blow was enough to make Muntadhir reel. His brother swore, reaching for his khanjar.
Ali knocked it out of his hands but made no move to take it. Instead, he shoved Muntadhir hard into the opposite wall. “What, isn’t this what I’m supposed to be?” he hissed. “Your weapon?”
But he’d underestimated his brother’s own anger. Muntadhir wrenched free and threw himself on Ali.
They fell to the dirt, and Ali’s fighter instincts swept over him; he’d spent too many years battling for his life in Am Gezira to not immediately react. He rolled, snatching up the khanjar and pinning Muntadhir to the ground.
He had the blade at his brother’s throat before he realized what he was doing.
Muntadhir seized his wrist when Ali moved to jerk back. His gray eyes were wild. “Go on,” he goaded, bringing the blade closer to his neck. “Do it. Abba will be so proud.” His voice broke. “He’ll make you emir, he’ll give you Nahri. All the things you pretend you don’t want.”
Shaking, Ali fought for a response. “I … I don’t—”
The door burst open, Lubayd and Zaynab framed in the dusty light. Ali immediately dropped the khanjar, but it was too late. His sister took one look at them sprawled on the floor, and her eyes flashed in a mix of fury and disappointment that would have made their mother proud. “Thank you for helping me find my brothers,” she said flatly to Lubayd. “If you wouldn’t mind permitting us a moment …”
Lubayd was already backing through the door. “Happily!” He pulled it closed behind him.
Zaynab took a deep breath. “Get off of each other this instant.” When both princes promptly separated, she continued, her voice seething, “Now would one of you please explain what in God’s name just happened in the arena?”
Muntadhir glared at him. “Zaydi found out about Nasir and lost his mind.”
“Someone had to,” Ali snapped back. “And don’t you act all innocent! Do you think I don’t know my saddle was loosened? You could have killed me!”
“I didn’t touch your damned saddle!” Muntadhir shot back, climbing to his feet. “Don’t make an enemy of half the city and then be surprised when people try to sabotage you.” Fresh outrage crossed his face. “And you have some nerve accusing me of anything. I’ve tried to tell you a dozen times to back off and then you go and call me a coward to Abba’s face when all I’m doing is trying to clean up your mess!”
“I was trying to stand up for Zaynab, and for that, you embarrassed me in front of the entire arena!” Hurt rose in Ali’s voice. “You insulted Nahri, you let your friends call me a crocodile …” Even saying it stung. “My God, is this what Abba has turned you into? Have you been imitating him so long that cruelty is now your first instinct?”
“Alizayd, enough,” Zaynab said when Muntadhir jerked back as though Ali had slapped him. “Can Zaynab get a word in edgewise, since apparently my future is the one that sparked this latest fight?”
“Sorry,” Ali muttered, falling silent.
“Many thanks,” she said acidly. She sighed, peeling back the veil she’d worn in front of Lubayd. Guilt rose in Ali’s chest. His sister looked exhausted, more than he’d ever seen before. “I know about Nasir, Ali. I don’t like it, but I don’t need you running your mouth about it before even speaking with me.” She glanced at Muntadhir. “What did Abba say?”
“That he’s arriving this week,” Muntadhir replied glumly. “He told me to spend time with him and find out what sort of man he is.”
A muscle worked in Zaynab’s cheek. “Maybe you can let me know as well.”
“And that’s it?” Ali asked. “That’s all either of you are prepared to do?”
Muntadhir glared at him. “You’ll forgive me for not taking political advice from someone who’s been living in a village for five years and whose foot is all but attached to his mouth.” His expression twisted. “Do you think I want to become like him, Zaydi? Do you have any idea of what I’ve had to give up?” He laced his hands behind his head, pacing. “Daevabad is a tinderbox, and the only way Abba keeps it from exploding is by holding it tight. By making sure everyone knows that if they risk its safety, they risk the lives of everyone they love.”
“But that’s not who you are, Dhiru,” Ali protested. “And that’s not the only way to rule.”
“No? Maybe we should try it your way, then?” Muntadhir turned back, his gaze cutting through Ali. “Because I think you’re more like Abba than you want to admit. But where Abba wants stability, you want justice. Your version of justice—even if you have to drag us there kicking and screaming. And let me tell you, little brother … I’m getting pretty damn clear eyed where you’re concerned. You’re enjoying the favor of a lot of angry people with weapons and grievances in this city … and how convenient, then, that you have the Ayaanle ready and willing to financially support you.”
“The Ayaanle,” Zaynab said, her voice biting, “are a great deal more nuanced than you give us credit for, and this one in particular has been scrambling to make peace between you two idiots for months.” She closed her eyes, rubbing her temples. “But things were getting worse in Daevabad before Ali came back, Dhiru. I know you don’t want to see it, but they were.”
Muntadhir threw up his hands. “And what would you have me do? Ruin a financial alliance we need because my sister will be lonely? Make Alizayd my Qaid again and rightfully lose all my supporters for handing my army to a fanatic?” His words rang with true desperation. “Tell me how to fix this between us because I don’t see a way.”
Ali cleared the lump growing in his throat. “We’re not the problem.” He hesitated, his mind racing. The cold realization he’d had with Fatumai after learning what his father had done to the Tanzeem children. His conversation with Nahri last night. All the charges Muntadhir had neatly laid out. There was really only one thing it led to, a conclusion clear as glass.
He met his brother’s and sister’s expectant eyes. “Abba needs to be replaced.”
There was a moment of silent shock and then Zaynab let out a choked, aghast sound he’d never before heard from his ever-refined sister.
Muntadhir stared at him before dropping his head into his hands. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you actually found a way to make this conversation worse.” His voice was muffled through his fingers.
“Just listen to me,” Ali rushed on. “He’s been going astray for years. I understand his concerns about Daevabad’s stability, but there is only so long this tactic of trampling anything that opposes him can work. You can’t build anything on a cracked foundation.”
“And now you’re talking like a poet,” Muntadhir moaned. “You really have lost your mind.”
“I’m tired of watching innocent people die,” Ali said bluntly. “I’m tired of being complicit in such suffering. The Daevas, the shafit … do you know he had a boat full of refugee children burned merely to execute a few Tanzeem fighters? That he ignored a threat I passed on regarding Nahri’s safety because he said she was growing arrogant?” He glanced at Zaynab, knowing his sister shared at least a few of his views. “He’s crossed too many lines. He shouldn’t be king.”
Zaynab’s face was conflicted, but she took a deep breath. “Ali’s not entirely wrong, Dhiru.”
Muntadhir groaned. “Oh, Zaynab, not you too.” He crossed the floor to start rifling through one of the supply chests, pulling free a small silver bottle and ripping open the top. “Is this liquor? Because I want to be completely intoxicated when Abba gets wind that his children are plotting a coup in a fucking closet.”
“That’s weapons polish,” Ali said quickly.
Zaynab crossed to Muntadhir’s side, knocking the bottle out of his hands when he seemed to still be evaluating it. “Stop. Just listen for a moment,” she insisted. “Between the three of us, we might have the support. If we presented a united front, Abba would be hard-pressed to oppose us. We’d need to get the majority of the nobles and the bulk of the Citadel on our side, but I suspect those whose hearts aren’t amenable might find their purses are.”
“Do you think we could do that?” Ali asked. “We’ve already spent a fair bit on the hospital.”
“Little brother, you’d be surprised how far the illusion of wealth will take you even if the deliverance of such promise takes longer,” Zaynab said archly.
“Ayaanle gold,” Muntadhir cut in sarcastically. “Well, I suppose I know which way the throne will be swinging.”
“It won’t.” Ideas were coming together in Ali’s head as he spoke. “I don’t know who should rule or how, but there have to be voices besides ours shaping Daevabad’s future. Maybe more than one voice.” He paused, thinking fast. “The Nahids … they had a council. Perhaps we could try something like that.”
Zaynab’s response was sharp. “There are a lot of voices in Daevabad who don’t think very fondly of us, Ali. You start giving power away and we could end up getting chased back to Am Gezira.”
“Enough.” Muntadhir shushed them, darting a glance around. “Stop scheming. You’re going to get yourselves killed, and for nothing. There’s no overthrowing Abba unless you can take Suleiman’s seal ring from him. Do you have any idea how to do that?”
“No?” Ali confessed. He hadn’t thought of the seal ring. “I mean, he doesn’t wear it on his hand. I figured he kept it in a vault or …”
“It’s in his heart,” Muntadhir said bluntly.
Ali’s mouth fell open. That was not a possibility that had occurred to him.
Zaynab recovered first. “His heart? The seal is in his heart?”
“Yes.” Muntadhir looked between them, his expression grave. “Do you understand? There’s no taking Suleiman’s seal unless you’re willing to kill our father for it. Is that a price you’d pay?”
Ali struggled to push that shocking information aside. “Suleiman’s seal shouldn’t matter. Not for this. Stripping your citizens of their magic isn’t a power a political leader should have. The seal was meant to help the Nahids heal their people and fight the ifrit. And when it comes time for it to be passed again … the person that ring belongs to isn’t in this room, and you both know it.”
It was Zaynab’s turn to groan. She pinched the bridge of her nose, looking exasperated. “Ali …”
Muntadhir gestured rudely between them. “Now do you believe me?” he asked Zaynab. “I told you he was smitten with her.”
“I’m not smitten with her!”
There was a pounding on the door and then it abruptly opened, revealing Lubayd again.
“Ali, Emir Muntadhir!” he gasped, leaning on his knees and fighting for breath. “You need to come quickly.”
Ali shot to his feet. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s been an attack on the Daeva procession.”