“Take the bricks as well,” Ali said, shading his eyes against the bright sun to scan the mound of rubble that his workers had unearthed while ripping up the platform erected over Sheikh Anas’s ruined mosque. “We’ll find a way to reuse them.”
One of the men tugged a piece of rotting textile from the pile of debris. “Looks like old carpeting.” He tossed it at Ali’s feet. “Probably not worth saving, no?”
Ali’s eyes locked on the tattered fragment; what remained of the carpet’s geometric pattern was instantly familiar. Ali had prayed upon that carpet, had sat in rapturous silence as he listened to Sheikh Anas’s thunderous sermons.
“No,” he said, his throat thickening at the memory of his murdered sheikh. “Probably not.”
A heavy hand dropped on his shoulder, startling him from his thoughts. “The women and children are off with Aqisa,” Lubayd announced. “Tents are waiting for them outside the hospital and that grumpy doctor of yours is going to examine them.”
“That grumpy doctor has a name,” Ali replied wearily. “And I would recommend not getting on her bad side. But thank you.”
Lubayd squinted at him. “Everything all right, brother? You don’t look well.”
Ali sighed, turning away from the carpet. “This isn’t an easy place to be.” He glanced across the street where a few of the shafit men they’d freed were eating food his sister had sent over from the palace kitchens. Freshly arrived—or rather dragged—to Daevabad from the human world, they had no other homes to return to. “And these aren’t easy stories to hear.”
Lubayd followed his gaze. “I’d like to toss the purebloods who oversaw this place in the lake. A bunch of thieves and thugs—stealing jewelry, harassing women, beating the men who talked back.” He shook his head. “And under the guise of helping shafit newcomers find family. What a rotten scheme.”
“Not just newcomers,” Ali pointed out. “I’ve been speaking to plenty of people who were kidnapped and pressed into service, like the father and daughter we first came upon.”
“And you said it was a Geziri man at the top, correct? Tariq al whatever?” Lubayd looked disgusted. “Shameful. Such behavior goes against everything we’ve fought for.”
“Money changes people,” Ali said. “And I think quite a lot was made here.”
They started walking. “Speaking of money, are we threatening any more rich folk today?” Lubayd asked.
Ali shook his head, wiping the dust from his face with the end of his turban. “Not threatening—correcting a fiscal deficit. But no, not today. I’ve hammered out a repayment plan with Abul Dawanik,” he said, naming the Ayaanle trade envoy. “Their first payment should be in the Treasury by month’s end, and he agreed to make immediate arrangements to cover the costs of new uniforms for the Royal Guard and zulfiqars for the cadets. Their rations should be improved soon as well. Turns out the official in charge of contracting meals for the Citadel was taking a cut from the money he was granted. His secretary figured it out but was too afraid to approach my father.”
“I take it that secretary now has his job?”
Ali smiled. “And my eternal gratitude.”
Lubayd clucked his tongue. “Do you ever rest between these tasks? You do know most people sleep at night, yes? They don’t just hunch over pages of numbers and mutter to themselves.”
“I like working hard,” Ali retorted. “It keeps my mind off things.”
“This seems like the kind of place where you should probably keep your mind on things.” Lubayd gestured at a trio of djinn pulling partitions from the wreckage. “Soldiers?”
“Friends from when I was a cadet. They had the day off and wanted to help.”
“I suspect they’re not the only ones.” Lubayd lowered his voice. “I’ve been hearing whispers again, the kind you asked me to keep an ear out for.”
Ali stopped. “From the Guard?”
Lubayd nodded. “A lot of soldiers think fondly of you, Ali. Very fondly. And when those new uniforms and rations show up at the Citadel, people are going to know you’re behind them.”
Ali paused. “Good.”
Lubayd started. “Good?”
“My father spent five years making it clear he didn’t care whether I lived or died,” Ali said, defending himself. “Should I pretend I’m not pleased people like me … particularly when those people are the ones with weapons?”
His friend assessed him shrewdly. “I might not be some Daevabadi courtier, Ali, but even I know what it looks like when bitter second sons start making friends with the military.” Intent laced into his voice. “That wasn’t the plan, remember? The plan was to return to Am Gezira with your head still attached to your neck. With my head still attached to my neck.”
The sound of horses—at least a half dozen, their hooves striking the cobbled stones with speed—interrupted them. Ali glanced up, ready to chide whoever it was for riding at such a pace in the crowded plaza.
The words died on his tongue. It was Muntadhir—and he looked furious. Just behind him rode a coterie of his companions, the wealthy dilettantes who orbited him like particularly useless moons. They stood out in this neighborhood, one of Daevabad’s poorest, their jewels glinting in the sun and their vibrant silks gaudy.
Despite the crowd, Muntadhir was across the plaza in moments; he’d always been an excellent horseman. When they reached Ali, his mount came to an effortless stop, as if it could read its rider’s thoughts. It was a beautiful animal, silver spots scattered across its ebony hide like a spray of stars in the night sky.
Ali tensed. He wasn’t expecting his brother. On the contrary, Muntadhir had been avoiding Ali’s increasingly desperate attempts to talk to him with admirable success. His brother ignored him when they were at court and had obviously enlisted his formidable—and loyal—staff in ensuring they were never alone. Ali would no sooner corner him after a meeting than a steward would magically appear to usher Muntadhir off on some “urgent” unspecified errand.
“Emir,” Ali greeted, uneasy. Every instinct was warning him to tread carefully. “Peace be upon you.”
“Peace is the last thing you’ve brought me,” Muntadhir snapped. He threw a thick scroll at Ali, which Ali instinctively caught. “Is this a joke?”
Baffled, Ali unfurled the scroll. He recognized it at once … mostly because he’d thrown it himself, hours earlier, at the men he’d found forcing a new group of stolen shafit into the foul pens Ali’s workers had just finished tearing down. It was a royal proclamation declaring the area was now the property of the king, and that any shafit in the vicinity were free to leave.
He frowned. “How did you get this?”
“Strange you should ask: it was given to my cousin this morning by one of his servants.”
A terrible chill descended over Ali. “Tariq al Ubari is your cousin? One of your relatives was responsible for this place?”
A Geziri man emerged from Muntadhir’s crowd of sparkling friends. He sat in a gilded saddle upon a beautiful red stallion, wearing a fine brocade coat woven with silver thread and jade beads. Ropes of pearls lined his neck, the largest ending in a gold brooch the size of Ali’s fist, encrusted with rubies in the shape of a zahhak.
Ali instantly disliked him. “You’re Tariq al Ubari, I take it?” he asked.
“Cousin to our emir, God preserve him,” Tariq declared coolly, matching Ali’s disdain. “Queen Saffiyeh, may her soul rest in peace, and I shared a third great-great-uncle.”
Oh. The mention of Muntadhir’s mother landed like a heavy stone between them. Ali tried to maintain his calm, and he could see Muntadhir struggling to do the same. His brother rarely spoke about his mother. Ali had never known her—she’d died before he was born, when Muntadhir himself was still a child. But he’d heard she and Muntadhir had been very close, and he’d always known his brother was deeply affected by her loss.
Looking at Tariq of the third great-great-uncle, Ali suspected he knew as well, and was only too happy to take advantage of that grief. Anger stirred in Ali’s heart. He didn’t need another reason to hate the man behind this abominable place, but the fact that he was so obviously using Muntadhir made his hatred burn a hundred times hotter.
Still, the situation before him was delicate. If Tariq had been a closer relation, Ali would have recognized the name and acted with more discretion. God knew things were already strained enough between him and Muntadhir.
He stepped closer to his brother’s horse. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
Muntadhir flushed. “I wasn’t aware. Do you know all your relatives’ personal assets?”
“I know none of them made a business of selling shafit like slaves.” Ali hissed the words under his breath, but clearly not quietly enough, for Tariq drew up.
“Slaves?” Tariq rolled his eyes, the word coming in a condescending drawl. “By the Most High, we’re all aware of how sensitive you are when it comes to the shafit, Prince Alizayd, but there were no slaves here. God forbid such a thing. There were shafit looking for work, and for their pureblooded kin.”
Ali couldn’t believe the man’s gall. “Looking for work?” he asked incredulously. “The first time I came upon this place, your men were auctioning off a child as she screamed for her father!”
Muntadhir turned toward Tariq in shock. “Is that true?”
Ali had to hand it to Tariq—the man didn’t so much as flinch. “Of course not.” He touched his heart. “Come, Emir, you know me. And you know how the shafit like to exaggerate their woes … particularly before a man known to have an open purse and susceptible heart.” He shook his head. “I have no doubt they have been filling your poor brother’s ears with all sorts of tales of beatings and abuse.”
Lubayd threw out a hand, stopping Ali before he lunged forward. But he couldn’t stop Ali’s tongue. “You lying snake—”
“Enough,” Muntadhir snapped. “Both of you.” His brother now looked more annoyed than shaken, the doubt that had flashed in his eyes when Ali mentioned the girl already gone. “We didn’t come here to fight, Alizayd. The order came from Abba, and Tariq doesn’t plan to contest it. But he wants to be properly compensated.”
Ali gritted his teeth. “He was. I outlined terms in the scroll.”
“A hundred dinars?” Tariq mocked. “That’s nothing. Oh, wait, forgive me … and passage to Mecca,” he added sarcastically. “Clearly more an order than an offer.”
It was costing every bit of self-control Ali had not to drag this man from his horse. Had Muntadhir not been there, he probably would have. Feeling water begin to pool in his hands, he quickly clenched his fists; he dared not lose control here. “It is a great honor to be allowed to retire to Mecca,” he said in an even voice. “We only allow a handful of new djinn to enter the holy city each year; there are those who would weep for such a prize.”
“Well, I’m not one of them,” Tariq retorted. “My life and my business are in Daevabad. I’m not leaving, and I insist you properly compensate me.”
“I can leave you to the shafit you claim to have been assisting in ‘finding jobs and kin,’” Ali suggested coldly. “Would that be proper compensation?”
“No,” Muntadhir said flatly, his eyes flashing as his cousin paled. “Though if you threaten him again, we’re going to be having a very different conversation.” He stared at Ali. “This man is my kin,” he said, his voice low and laced with purpose. “He’s under my protection. Do not dishonor me by treating him so disdainfully. There must be some sort of compromise we can agree to.”
Ali met his gaze. He understood quite well the Geziri notions of pride and honor his brother was attempting to appeal to.
But that wasn’t the only code their tribe held dear.
“There’s no compromise to be made here, Dhiru,” Ali replied. “I’m not giving this man another coin. We cannot spare them. You are asking me to take bread out of the mouths of the soldiers who guard your life and bricks from the hospital intended to treat your citizens so an already rich man—a man who twisted our most sacred beliefs—can have his pride soothed?” Ali shook his head. “I will not.”
A little too late, Ali realized that much of the crowd had gone quiet and that his words had carried. More people were gathering to watch, shafit and working-class djinn locals from the surrounding neighborhoods, people who were staring at the emir and his overdressed companions with open resentment.
Muntadhir seemed to notice as well. His gray eyes flickered across the growing mob, and Ali saw his hands twitch on the reins.
Tariq pressed on, arrogant. “A very pretty speech to your supporters, Prince Alizayd. I suppose it doesn’t matter that it rests on the lies of a bunch of ungrateful dirt-bloods and will ruin one of your kinsmen, a man who escorted the emir’s own mother to Daevabad.” He stared down his nose at Ali, and when he spoke again, his words were precise. “Perhaps a rather clear lesson to us all in how little family means to you.”
Ali was biting his tongue so hard it hurt. He could only thank God it was a dry, sunny day—otherwise he was fairly certain he’d be learning new, murderous things to do with rain. “The shafit aren’t lying. I saw with my own eyes—”
“Oh?” Tariq interrupted. “Where are the whips then, Prince Alizayd? The chains and these crying children you claim I have so terribly mistreated?”
“I’ve sent them away to be cared for.” Ali motioned to the debris. “There’s no evidence because we’ve been here since dawn. But you can be damn sure I took down the name of every shafit you abused here, and I’d be happy to present their testimony.”
“After you’ve gilded their tongues, you mean,” Tariq snorted. “It is the Ayaanle way, after all.”
Ali abruptly lost the battle he’d been waging with his temper. His hand dropped to his khanjar. “Would you like to settle things our way?” he hissed in Geziriyya. “You should be fleeing to Mecca. If you had any fear of God, you would spend the rest of your days repenting for the evil you’ve done here before you burn in hellfire for all—”
“Enough.” Muntadhir’s voice cracked across the plaza. “Draw that blade, Alizayd, and I’ll have you arrested. No.” He held up a hand, cutting off Tariq when he opened his mouth. “I’ve heard enough from both of you. Return to your home, cousin. There’s obviously no negotiation to be made here. I’ll take care of you and your wife myself.” He nodded to the rest of his men. “Let’s go.”
Ali dropped his hand from his khanjar. “Dhiru, I only meant—”
“I know what you meant. And I told you not to call me that.” Muntadhir suddenly looked exhausted, fed up and disgusted with the entire situation. “My God, and to think she almost convinced me to support this madness …” He shook his head. “Perhaps I should be grateful for this, in a way.”
“Grateful for what?” Ali ventured, even as his stomach twisted in apprehension.
“Grateful for the reminder that you will always choose your beliefs over your family. Which is fine—enjoy having the shafit as your only ally.” Muntadhir touched his brow before turning his horse away. “See how far that takes you in Daevabad, little brother.”