Ali grinned as he pressed the pump handle with one hand. A rush of cold water splashed to the ground. “Your son’s new specialty,” he joked to the woman across from him.
Hatset’s golden eyes traced the spray of mud across his dishdasha. “When I envisioned a brighter future for you, baba, you looked distinctly … cleaner.”
“I like getting my hands dirty.” Ali straightened up, wiping his fingers on a rag tucked into his belt. “But what do you think?” he asked, gesturing to the line of bustling workshops in front of the hospital.
“I’m impressed,” his mother replied. “Then again, considering the fortune you’ve shaken out of my tribe since you returned to Daevabad, I’d hope to be impressed.”
Ali touched his heart in mock offense. “Ah, what happened to all your words about doing good for my city?” He winked. “Did you think it would be cheap?”
She shook her head, but she was smiling, her gaze lingering on a group of children sitting in the workcamp’s school. “It is worth the cost. I’m proud of you. A little exasperated, but still proud.”
They continued toward the hospital, and Ali nodded in greeting to a pair of carpenters hammering cabinetry. “It’s the shafit doing most of the work,” he replied. “I feel more like a glorified task manager than anything; my biggest problem is finding a job for everyone who wants to join us. It’s been astonishing to see what people have done with such an opportunity. And in only a few months!”
“A nice thing to watch your beliefs about the shafit made manifest, I take it?”
Ali nodded fervently. “Nothing would make me happier than seeing this place thrive. Let everyone with pretensions of blood purity see what the shafit have accomplished here.” He clasped his hands behind his back, toying with his prayer beads. “I wish I could get Abba to see this. We’d have more security investing in the shafit than beating them into obedience.”
“Then it sounds as though you should stop pining over this Bir Nabat of yours and work on convincing your father to let you stay in Daevabad.” Hatset looked at him intently as they entered the hospital. “The kind of change you want takes time and patience, child. You consider yourself some sort of farmer now, don’t you? Do you toss seeds upon the ground only to abandon them in hopes they’ll grow untended?”
Ali held his tongue at that. And not just because of the workers bustling around them, but because in truth, with every passing day in Daevabad, he wasn’t quite sure what he wanted.
Hatset let out a surprised exclamation as they stepped into the main corridor. “Well, isn’t this lovely,” she said, admiring the vivid murals Elashia had painted on the walls: dazzling sandships darting through the dunes and the lush oases of Qart Sahar alongside images of its craggy bluffs and azure seas.
“You should see what happens when Nahri passes through,” Ali said. “The paintings come alive, the waves crashing over the beach, the trees blooming. The Nahid magic in this place is incredible.”
“Yes, it’s becoming more and more clear she’s cast quite the spell,” Hatset said lightly.
Ali leaned over one of the balustrades to check the day’s progress. At first glance, the hospital’s heart was barely recognizable from the wild, weed-strewn ruin Nahri had first shown him. The feral garden had been transformed into a small slice of paradise, along whose tiled paths visitors and patients might amble, enjoying the sweet-smelling water of the fountains and the coolness of the palms’ shade. The interior walls had been rebuilt, and woodworkers were putting together a glasswork roof that would maximize the amount of natural light allowed into the rooms. The main examination chamber was done, awaiting furnishings and cabinetry.
“Prince Alizayd!”
A voice caught his attention, and Ali glanced across the courtyard to see a group of shafit seamstresses seated among a pile of embroidered curtains. A woman who looked to be around his age had risen to her feet, a shy smile on her face.
She continued speaking when their gazes met, a blush rising in her cheeks. “I’m so sorry to bother you, Your Highness. But if you’re around later, we were thinking …” She gestured to the other women and several giggled. “We hoped you might be able to help us hang these curtains.”
“I … of course,” Ali replied, slightly puzzled by the request. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
She smiled again, and Ali could not help but note it was to a rather fetching effect. “We’ll be sure to hunt you down.” She resumed her seat, whispering to her companions.
“It’s fascinating,” his mother said dryly, “that in this entire magical complex full of building equipment, the only way to hang curtains is to rely on an unmarried, overly tall, handsome young prince.”
Ali quickly pulled his gaze from the young women. “I’m sure they meant nothing like that.”
Hatset snorted. “Not even you’re that naive.” She wound her arm through his as they kept walking. “But you know … it wouldn’t be the worst idea for you to burn a marriage mask with a nice shafit girl. Maybe then you’d actually visit your bed instead of working yourself to death.”
Embarassed heat swept his face so fast Ali felt he might actually burst into flames. “Amma …”
“What? Am I not permitted to want some happiness for my only son?”
He was already shaking his head. “You know I’m not allowed to marry.”
“No, what you’re not allowed is a gaudy ceremony with a noblewoman who could offer you political allies and heirs that might compete with Muntadhir’s—which is why I’m not suggesting that.” She studied him, her eyes soft. “But I worry about you, baba. You seem lonely. If you would like either Zaynab or me to make inquiries—”
“No,” Ali said, trying to keep the ache from his voice. His mother’s assessment wasn’t wrong—it was simply a part of his life he tried not to dwell on. Growing up as Muntadhir’s future Qaid, Ali had attempted to steel himself for what that future would look like—a violent, lonely life in the Citadel for Ali; wealth, a family, and the throne for Muntadhir. Ali had found it easier not to think about the things he’d be denied, the luxuries reserved for his brother.
But those were oaths he’d made as a child, too young to understand their cost. Not that it mattered now. Ali would never be Qaid, and he could not pretend resentment hadn’t worked its way into his heart. But there was nothing to be done about it. He’d meant what he said to Lubayd and Aqisa when they teased him about marriage: he would not make vows to an innocent woman if he didn’t think he could live up to them, and right now, he was barely capable of protecting himself.
His mother was still looking at him expectantly. “Can we discuss this another time?” he asked. “Perhaps on a day we’re not trying to force a meeting with a temperamental scholar?”
Hatset rolled her eyes. “There’s not going to be any forcing, my dear. I’ve been dealing with Ustadh Issa for years.”
Ali was glad she was so confident. He’d been shocked to learn the Ayaanle scholar his mother hoped could tell them more about the marid and the batty old man barricaded in a room at the hospital were one and the same. Ali had yet to even set eyes on him; upon learning strangers would be entering the hospital, he’d filled the corridor outside his quarters with all manner of magical traps. Finally, after several workers had been bitten by hexed books, Nahri and Razu—the only people Issa would speak to—had been able to negotiate a compromise: no one would be permitted near his room, and in return, he’d stop cursing the corridor.
“We should have asked Nahri to come,” Ali said again. “Issa likes her, and she’s very skilled at prying information out of people.”
His mother gave him a dark look. “You best make sure she’s not prying information out of you. That woman is the kind of ally you keep at knife’s length.” They stopped outside the scholar’s locked door, and Hatset knocked. “Ustadh Is—”
She hadn’t even finished the word when Ali felt a whisper of magic. He yanked his mother back—just before a saber, made from what looked like disassembled astrolabes, sliced across the door frame.
Ali swore in Geziriyya, but Hatset merely shook her head. “Ustadh, now really,” she lectured in Ntaran. “We’ve discussed being more sociable.” A crafty note entered her voice. “Besides … I have a gift for you.”
The door abruptly cracked open, but only a handbreadth. Ali jumped as a pair of emerald-bright eyes appeared in the gloomy dark.
“Queen Hatset?” Even Issa’s voice sounded ancient.
His mother pulled a tiny ash-colored sack from her robe. “I do believe you were interested in this for your experiments when last we met?”
Ali inhaled, recognizing the sharp smell. “Gunpowder? You’re going to give him gunpowder? For his experiments?”
Hatset shushed him. “A brief chat, Issa,” she said smoothly. “A very brief, very confidential chat.”
The scholar’s luminous eyes darted between them. “There are no humans with you?”
“We have been over this a hundred times, Ustadh. There are no humans in Daevabad.”
The door swung open, the sack of gunpowder vanishing from his mother’s hand faster than Ali’s eyes could track.
“Come, come!” Issa ushered them in, slamming the door closed when they passed the threshold, whispering what sounded like an unreasonable number of locking charms under his breath.
Ali was regretting their decision to come here with each passing moment, but he followed his mother into the cavernous chamber. Books were stacked to the ceiling and scrolls stuffed into shelves Issa seemed to have magicked together from salvaged bits of the infirmary’s ruins. A long row of dusty stained-glass windows threw gloomy light onto a low table crowded with gleaming metal instruments, pieces of parchment, and burning candles. A cot lay tucked between two towering piles of books and behind a section of the floor studded with broken glass, as though the scholar feared being attacked while he slept. Only one small corner of the room was kept neat, a pair of floor cushions framing a striped ottoman that had been carefully set with a silver tray that held a teapot, glasses, and, judging from the smell, several of the cardamom-spiced sweets Nahri was fond of.
We really should have brought her, Ali thought again, guilt gnawing at him. God knew he was already keeping enough secrets from Nahri.
The scholar returned to a well-worn pillow on the floor, folding his skinny limbs beneath him like some sort of gangly bird. As a resurrected formerly enslaved djinn, Issa’s age was impossible to guess. His face was well lined and his fuzzy brows and beard were entirely snow white. And the disapproving expression on his face was … oddly familiar.
“Do I know you?” Ali asked slowly, studying the man.
Issa’s green eyes flickered over him. “Yes,” he said shortly. “I threw you out of a history lecture once for asking too many questions.” He tilted his head. “You were much smaller.”
“That was you?” The memory came to Ali immediately—not many tutors had dared treat one of Ghassan’s sons with such disrespect. Ali had been young, no older than ten, but the man he remembered tossing him out had been a forbidding, furious scholar in fine robes … nothing like the frail old man before him. “I don’t understand. If you had a position at the Royal Library, what are you doing here?”
Pain filled the scholar’s bright eyes. “I was forced to resign.”
Hatset took a seat across from Issa, motioning for Ali to do the same. “After the Afshin’s rampage, there was a lot of violence directed at the rest of city’s formerly enslaved djinn. Most fled the city, but Issa is too stubborn.” She shook her head. “I wish you would return home, my friend. You would be more comfortable in Ta Ntry.”
Issa scowled. “I am too old for journeying. And I hate boats.” He threw an irritated glance in Ali’s direction. “The hospital made for a perfectly fine home until this one’s workers arrived. They hammer constantly.” He sounded wounded. “And they scared away the chimera living in the basement.”
Ali was incredulous. “It tried to eat someone.”
“It was a rare specimen!”
Hatset quickly interjected. “Since you bring up rare specimens … we are here to speak to you about another elusive creature. The marid.”
Issa’s expression changed, alarm sweeping away his cantankerousness. “What could you possibly want to know about the marid?”
“The old tales,” Hatset replied calmly. “They’ve become little more than a legend for my generation of Ayaanle. However, I’ve heard encounters with the marid were far more common in your time.”
“Consider it a blessing they’ve all but vanished.” Issa’s expression darkened further. “It is not wise to discuss the marid with our youth, my queen. Particularly overly ambitious ones who ask too many questions.” He gave a disgruntled nod in Ali’s direction.
His mother persisted. “It’s not mere curiosity, Ustadh. We need your help.”
Issa shook his head. “I spent my career traveling the length of the Nile and saw more djinn than I care to remember destroyed by their fascination with the marid. I thanked God when I learned it was a madness your generation had forgotten, and it’s not one I’ll rekindle.”
“We’re not asking you to rekindle anything,” Hatset replied. “And we’re not the ones who reached out first—” She grabbed Ali’s wrist, swiftly undoing the button that held the sleeve of his dishdasha flush and pushed it back, revealing his scars. “It’s the marid who came to us.”
Issa’s green eyes locked on Ali’s scars. He inhaled, straightening up like a shot.
Then he slapped Ali across the face. “Fool!” he shouted. “Apostate! How dare you make a pact with them? What ghastly abomination did you commit to convince them to spare you, Alizayd al Qahtani?”
Ali reeled back, ducking a second blow. “I didn’t make a pact with anyone!”
“Liar!” Issa wagged an angry finger in his face. “Do you think I don’t know about your previous snooping?”
“My what?” Ali sputtered. “What in God’s name are you going on about?”
“I think I’d like to know as well,” Hatset said sharply. “Preferably before you start beating my son again.”
Issa stormed across the room. With a burst of fiery sparks, a locked chest popped out of the air, landing with a dusty thud. Issa threw it open and plucked out a papyrus scroll, waving it like a sword. “Remember this?”
Ali scowled. “No. Do you have any idea how many scrolls I’ve seen in my life?”
Issa unfurled it, spreading it on the table. “And how many of those were guides to summoning a marid?” he asked knowingly, as if he’d caught Ali out.
Thoroughly confused, Ali stepped closer. A brilliant blue river had been painted on the scroll. It was a map, he realized. A map of the Nile, from what he could interpret of the roughly drawn borders. That was all he could make out; though there were notations, they were written in a script consisting of bizarre, entirely incomprehensible pictograms.
And then Ali remembered. “This is the map Nahri and I found in the catacombs of the Royal Library.”
Issa glared. “So you do admit you were trying contact the marid?”
“Of course not!” Ali was rapidly losing patience with this hot-tempered old man. “The Banu Nahida and I were looking into the story that the marid supposedly cursed her appearance and left her in Egypt. We heard this scroll was written by the last djinn to see one in the area. I couldn’t read it, so I sent it off for translation.” He narrowed his eyes on Issa. “To you, most likely.”
Hatset cut in. “Would you please tell me what it is about this map that has you so upset, Ustadh?”
“It’s not just a map,” Issa replied. “It’s an evil thing, meant to serve as a guide to the desperate.” He jabbed a gnarled finger at one set of notations. “These mark places on the river believed to be sacred to the marid, and the notes detail what was done—what was sacrificed—to call upon them at that particular spot.”
Hatset’s eyes flashed. “When you say ‘sacrifice’ … surely you don’t mean—”
“I mean exactly as I say,” Issa cut in. “Blood must be offered to call upon them.”
Ali was horrified. “Ustadh Issa, neither Nahri nor I knew anything of this. I’ve never been to the Nile. And I never desired any contact with the marid, let alone sacrificed someone to them!”
“He fell in the lake, Ustadh,” Hatset explained. “It was an accident. He said the marid tortured him into giving up his name, and then they used him to kill the Afshin.”
Ali whirled on her. “Amma—”
She waved him down. “We need to know.”
Issa was staring at Ali in shock. “A marid used you to kill another djinn? They possessed you? But that makes no sense … possession is an acolyte’s last act.”
Revulsion swept him. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s a pact,” Issa replied. “A partnership … though not a particularly balanced one. If a marid accepts your sacrifice, you’re brought under its protection. And they’ll give you almost anything you could desire during your mortal life. But in the end? The acolyte owes their lifeblood. And the marid possess them to take it.” His eyes swept over Ali. “You don’t survive such a thing.”
Ali went entirely cold. “I am no marid’s acolyte.” The word left his lips with a savage denial. “I am a believer in God. I would never commit the blasphemy you’re suggesting. And I certainly never made any sacrifice,” he added, growing heated even as his mother placed a hand on his shoulder. “Those demons tortured me and forced me to hallucinate the deaths of everyone I loved!”
Issa inclined his head, studying Ali as though he were some sort of equation. “But you did give them your name?”
Ali’s shoulders slumped. Not for the first time, he cursed the moment he’d broken under the water. “Yes.”
“Then that might have been all they needed—they’re clever creatures and God knows they’ve had centuries to learn how to twist the rules.” Issa tapped his chin, looking perplexed. “But I don’t understand why. Plotting the murder of a Daeva—a lesser being—would be risky, even if they used a fellow djinn to do it.”
Hatset frowned. “Do they have a quarrel that you know of with the Daevas?”
“It’s said the marid cursed the lake after a falling-out with the Nahid Council,” Issa replied. “But that must have been over two thousand years ago. As far as I know, they haven’t been seen in Daevabad since.”
Ali’s skin tingled. That, he knew, was not at all true. In the aftermath of his possession, Ali had said the same thing to his father and had been quietly told the marid had indeed been seen—at the side of Zaydi al Qahtani’s Ayaanle allies.
But he held his tongue. He’d sworn to his father, sworn on their tribe and his blood, not to reveal that information. Even the slightest whisper that his ancestors had conspired with the marid to overthrow the Nahids would rock the foundations of their rule. Zaydi al Qahtani had taken a throne even he believed God had originally granted to the Anahid and her descendants; his reasons and his methods for doing so had to remain above reproach. And if Hatset and Issa didn’t already know, Ali wasn’t saying anything.
“How do I get rid of it?” he asked brusquely.
Issa stared at him. “Get rid of what?”
“My connection with the marid. These … whispers in my head,” Ali rushed on, feeling his control start to fray. “My abilities. I want it all gone.”
“Your abilities?” the scholar repeated in astonishment. “What abilities?”
Ali abruptly let go of the magic he’d been holding back. Water burst from his hands, a fog swirling around his feet. “This,” he exhaled.
The scholar scurried back. “Oh,” he whispered. “That.” He blinked rapidly. “That is new.”
“No,” Hatset said. “It’s not.” She gave Ali an apologetic look as he whirled around. “A slight—a very slight—affinity with water magic runs in our family. It shows up occasionally in our children and usually vanishes by the time they’re in their teens. And it’s nothing like what you’ve told me you can do,” she added when Ali’s eyes went wide. “A toddler having a tantrum might upset a water pitcher from across the room. Zaynab used to spin little water spouts in drinking cups when she didn’t think I was watching her.”
Ali gasped. “Zaynab? Zaynab has these abilities?”
“Not anymore,” Hatset said firmly. “She was very young at the time. She probably doesn’t even remember them. I would punish her terribly when I caught her.” His mother shook her head, looking grim. “I was so frightened someone would see her.” She glanced back at him. “But I never considered it of you. You were so Geziri, even as child. And once you joined the Citadel, you were so loyal to their code …”
“You feared I would tell,” Ali finished when his mother trailed off. He felt sick. He couldn’t even say she was wrong. There were times when he was a child that he was so determined to prove himself true to his father and brother’s tribe, so rigid in his conception of faith, that yes, he would have let slip an Ayaanle secret, and it shamed him. He abruptly sat down, running his wet hands over his face. “But why didn’t you say anything when I first told you about the marid possession?”
Her words were gentle. “Alu, you were panicking. You’d been in Daevabad less than a week. It wasn’t the time.”
Issa was looking between them as though he were suddenly very sorry he’d let them in. “Stop that,” he warned, waving a hand at the ribbon of fog curling around Ali’s waist. “Do you have any idea what would happen if someone saw you doing that? I had a mob chase me from the palace just for these emerald eyes!”
“Then help me,” Ali begged, struggling to rein back the water. “Please. It’s getting harder to control.”
“I don’t know how to help you,” Issa replied, sounding flabbergasted. He glanced at Hatset, for the first time looking slightly chastened. “Forgive me, my queen. I don’t know what you were expecting, but I have never come across anything like this. You should take him back to Ta Ntry. He’d be safer and your family might have answers.”
“I cannot take him back to Ta Ntry,” his mother said plainly. “Things are too tense in the palace. His father and brother will think I’m preparing him for a coup, and if either of them got wind of this?” She nodded at the still lingering fog. “I do not trust them. Ghassan puts the stability of this city before everything else.”
Issa shook his head. “Queen Hatset …”
“Please.” The word cut through the air. “He is my only son, Ustadh,” she pressed. “I will get you everything that’s ever been written about the marid. I will get you copies of my family records. All I ask is that you look for a way to help us.” Her voice turned a little crafty. “And come now, it must be decades since you’ve had a good mystery on your hands.”
“You might not like the answers,” Issa pointed out.
Ill with dread, Ali’s gaze had fallen to the floor. Still, he could sense the weight of their stares, the worry radiating from his mother.
Hatset spoke again. “I don’t think we have a choice.”
THOUGH HIS MOTHER HAD ENDED THEIR MEETING with a firm order for Ali to stay calm and let her and Issa handle things, their conversation at the hospital haunted him. In response, Ali threw himself deeper into his work, trying desperately to ignore the whispers that ran through his mind when he bathed and the fact that the rain—which had not abated in days—came down more heavily each time he lost his temper. He hadn’t been sleeping much, and now when he did close his eyes, his dreams were plagued with images of a burning lake and ruined ships, of scaled limbs dragging him beneath muddy waters and cold green eyes narrowing over an arrow’s shaft. Ali would wake shivering and drenched in sweat, feeling as though someone had just been whispering a warning in his ear.
The effect it was having on his behavior did not go unnoticed.
“Alizayd.” His father snapped his fingers in front of Ali’s face as they exited the throne room after court. “Alizayd?”
Ali blinked, pulled from his daze. “Yes?”
Ghassan eyed him. “Are you all right?” he asked, a little concern in his voice. “I thought for certain you’d have sharp words for the moneychanger from Garama.”
Ali could remember neither a moneychanger nor Garama. “Sorry. I’m just tired.”
His father narrowed his eyes. “Problems at the hospital?”
“Not at all,” Ali said quickly. “Our work there continues smoothly and we should be on track, God willing, to open by Navasatem.”
“Excellent.” Ghassan clapped his back as they came around the corner. “Take care not to entirely overwork yourself. Ah … but speaking of someone who could stand to overwork himself—Muntadhir,” he greeted as his eldest son came into view. “I do hope you have an excuse for missing court.”
Muntadhir touched his heart and brow. “Peace be upon you, my king,” he said, ignoring Ali. “I do indeed. May we speak inside?”
Ali tried to step away, but Ghassan caught his wrist. “No. You can spare a few minutes. Don’t think I’ve not noticed the two of you avoiding each other. It is deeply childish.”
Ali flushed and Muntadhir drew up, giving Ali a short, disdainful glance as though he were some sort of irritating bug before sweeping into the office—which was good because Ali did indeed feel a sudden childish urge to coax the water fountain outside his father’s office into ruining the expensive cloak draping his brother’s shoulders.
To say things had soured between the princes since Ali visited the Daeva temple in Muntadhir’s stead was an understatement. Despite their best efforts, Ali and Zaynab hadn’t been able to sneak Muntadhir’s regalia back into his wardrobe without getting caught, and Muntadhir—sporting a freshly bruised jaw, no doubt courtesy of their father—had thoroughly upbraided them, shouting at his younger siblings until Zaynab had been on the verge of tears and Ali on the verge of making the bottles of liquid intoxicants scattered about the room explode.
He hadn’t tried approaching his brother again. It felt like Muntadhir was constantly watching him, studying him with a ruthless calm that left Ali uneasy and more than a little heartsick. Any hope he had of reconciling with the older brother he’d once adored, the brother he still loved, was beginning to fade away.
Even so, he followed, having little other choice.
“—what do you mean you’ve solved the problem of the southern Geziri sheikhs?” Ghassan was asking. He’d seated himself at his desk and Muntadhir was standing across from him. “Because unless you’ve managed to conjure up an additional caravanserai, I don’t know how we’re going to accommodate a thousand unexpected arrivals.”
“I just met with the steward in charge of the palace grounds,” Muntadhir replied. “I think we should set up a travelers’ camp in the front gardens. The Daevas will be horrified, of course, and it would take some time to restore the grounds afterward, but it could be done beautifully: conjured silk tents between the palms, a water garden and courtyard where we could have merchants selling traditional crafts and maybe a storyteller and some musicians performing the old epics.” He smiled hesitantly. “I thought it might be a nice homage to our roots—and the sheikhs could hardly claim offense if we put them next to our own palace.”
A wistful expression had drifted across his father’s face. “That is an excellent suggestion. Very good, Muntadhir. I’m impressed. You’ve been doing fine work with the Navasatem preparations.”
Muntadhir smiled fully, perhaps the most genuine smile Ali had seen cross his face in months, as though a load had been lifted from his shoulders. “Thank you, Abba,” he said sincerely. “I hope only to make you proud and honor our name.”
“I am certain you do.” Ghassan tented his hands. “However, after the holiday, Muntadhir, I expect you to turn your attention and charm back to your wife.”
The brief pleasure that had bloomed in his brother’s face vanished. “My wife and I are fine.”
Ghassan eyed him. “This is my palace, Emir. I know everything that goes on within its walls, which means I’m aware you and Nahri haven’t visited each other’s beds in over four months.
I married the two of you to unify our tribes, understand? It’s been nearly five years. I had two children by Hatset in less time.”
Ali cleared his throat. “Can I … leave?”
Neither man looked at him. Muntadhir was staring at their father’s desk, a muscle working in his jaw. “These matters take time, Abba,” he said finally.
“They’re taking time because you spend your nights with everyone who isn’t your wife, something I’ve warned you about more than once. Should another person—another Daeva—be distracting you from your duties … well, that person can easily be removed.”
Muntadhir’s head jerked up, and Ali started at the barely checked fury in his brother’s face. “There’s no one distracting me,” Muntadhir snapped. He was gripping Ghassan’s desk so hard his knuckles had turned white. “And I am well aware of my duties; you’ve been beating their importance into me since I was a child.”
Ghassan’s eyes blazed. “Should you find your position burdensome, Emir,” he started coldly, “I have another who can replace you, one I suspect would happily take over your marital duties and whose company your wife already prefers.”
Ali’s ears burned at the insinuation. “That’s not what—”
Disdain twisted Muntadhir’s face. “My wife prefers Queen Hatset’s endless purse and a fool she can manipulate into building her hospital.” He turned to look at Ali. “And after it’s completed, she’ll have no use for either.”
The cruel words landed, piercing something insecure and vulnerable deep in Ali’s heart. “She is worth ten of you,” he responded, hurt surging forward and crashing past his self control. “What she’s doing is brilliant and brave, and you couldn’t even pull yourself from your courtesans long enough to visit—”
The office door burst inward, slamming hard against the wall. Ali spun, unsheathing his zulfiqar as he moved between his family and the doorway. But it was only Wajed who appeared, looking stressed and alarmed.
“Abu Muntadhir,” he greeted Ghassan in Geziriyya. Somewhere behind him, Ali could hear a woman wailing, her cries echoing through the corridor. “Forgive me, there’s been a terrible crime.”
“My lady, please!” Ali stiffened at the sound of Kaveh’s voice. “You cannot go before the king like this!”
“Yes, I can!” a woman shouted. “It is my right as a citizen!” A string of Divasti followed, broken by sobbing.
Ghassan stood up as a Daeva woman in a blood-soaked chador came stumbling into sight. Kaveh was at her side, pale and tense, as were a handful of other Daevas and two members of the Royal Guard.
“What’s going on?” Ghassan demanded, switching to Djinnistani.
Kaveh stepped forward as the woman sank to her knees in front of them, crying into her hands. “Forgive my tribeswoman, my king,” he pleaded. “She lost her wits begging to come before you.”
“She is welcome to come before me,” Ghassan replied. Ali could hear true concern in his voice. “My dear woman, whatever has happened? Are you hurt? I can have the Banu Nahida summoned …”
The woman began to cry harder. “It is too late for that. My husband is already dead. They took him, they cut his throat.”
Wajed looked grim. “A few of my men found them. Her husband …” He shook his head. “It was bad.”
“Did you catch them?” Ali asked quickly.
Wajed paused. “No. It … we found them near the Geziri Quarter. They’d gone to shop for pearls and …”
“This didn’t happen in the Geziri Quarter,” Kaveh snapped. “I know where you found them, Qaid.”
Ghassan’s voice was intent. “Who attacked you, my lady?”
“Shafit,” she spat. “We wanted to see the Nahid hospital, but we didn’t get halfway through their workcamp before these filthy men were pulling at our clothes and dragging us into a back alley. They threatened … they threatened to dishonor me. Parvez begged them, told them he would give them everything we had …” She shook her head as if to dispel the image, and her veil briefly fell from her face.
Shocked recognition stole through Ali, and his gaze darted to the grand wazir. No. It wasn’t possible.
Muntadhir had crossed the office to pour a glass of water from the pitcher on the windowsill. He returned and pressed it into the woman’s hands with a few soft words of Divasti. She took a shaky breath, wiped her eyes, and then drank.
And with that second glimpse of her face, Ali was certain. He’d seen this woman twice before. Both had been rather memorable occasions. The first time had been at the Daeva tavern he’d visited with Anas, where she’d been laughing and gambling with a group of courtesans. The second time had been at his apartment; she’d been waiting in his bed after his first morning in court, sent to “welcome” him to the palace.
A “welcome” arranged by Kaveh e-Pramukh.
It was Kaveh who spoke next. “I tried to warn the Banu Nahida about that camp,” he said, his voice rising as he wrung his hands. “The dirt-bloods are dangerous. It is unnatural to work with them, and now they have killed a Daeva man in broad daylight. The whole place should be torn down.”
Ali cleared his throat, fighting for calm. “Were there any witnesses?”
Kaveh eyed him incredulously. “Is her word not enough?”
Not when you’re involved. But Ali didn’t say that; instead touching his heart and speaking truly, “I meant no offense toward your employee, Grand Wazir. But it could help us catch—”
“I am not his employee,” the woman declared. “What is that supposed to mean? I am a woman of noble blood! I belonged to none but my Parvez!”
Ali opened his mouth, but Ghassan held up a hand. “Were there witnesses? I do not doubt your account, my lady. But it would help us find the perpetrators.”
Wajed shook his head. “No witnesses, my king. None who would speak to us anyway, though it was fairly chaotic when we arrived.” He hesitated and then added, “A rather large number of Daevas were gathering to demand whoever did this be found and held accountable.”
Alarm sparked in Ali. “The shafit in that camp are under our protection. There are hundreds of women and children there.”
“They have no business being there,” Kaveh retorted. “This is your fault. You whispered your poisonous opinions into my Banu Nahida’s ear, and now a Daeva man is dead.”
Suspicion gripped Ali. Kaveh had made his opposition to Nahri working with the shafit clear at the Grand Temple. But surely he couldn’t be so hateful as to plot something like this …
Aware of how tenuous the situation was, Ali switched to Geziriyya so that the Daevas couldn’t understand him. “Abba, I know that woman,” he said softly. “Kaveh knows that woman. He arranged for her to come visit my bedroom when I first moved back into the palace.” Ghassan’s eyes flickered to his, his face not betraying a hint of emotion, and Ali pressed on. “Muntadhir, surely you recognize her. You were there too. If she were to remove her veil, I know you would remember her.”
Muntadhir stared at him, seeming to contemplate the situation.
And then a ruthless calm swept his face. “I have made very clear how I feel about your judgment regarding the shafit.” He abruptly squared his shoulders, calculated outrage twisting his face. “And I am not going to ask this poor woman to disrobe because you think she’s a prostitute!”
His final words—uttered in Djinnistani rather than Geziriyya—cracked across the room. Kaveh gasped, and the woman let out a shrill cry.
Ali whirled around, seeing horror in the faces of the growing number of people who’d been drawn by the woman’s wails. “I-I didn’t say that,” he stammered, stunned by Muntadhir’s betrayal. “I only meant—”
“How dare you?” Kaveh accused. “Have you no shame, Prince Alizayd? Do you hate the Daevas so much that you’d dishonor a weeping woman while her husband’s blood still stains her hands?”
“That’s not what I meant!”
Muntadhir deftly brushed past him to kneel at the woman’s side. “We will find and punish whoever did this,” he promised, sincerity in every line of his handsome face. He glanced back at Ghassan. “Kaveh is right, Abba. I have tried to warn you and Nahri both. The shafit are dangerous, and something like this was bound to happen. Ali is delusional. His fanaticism has been infecting everyone around him.”
Ali gaped at him. “Dhiru …”
“Alizayd, leave us,” Ghassan said curtly. “You and your companions are confined to the palace until I say otherwise.” His eyes flashed. “Understand? Directly to your apartment; I will not have you further enflame this situation.”
Before Ali could protest, his brother grabbed him, dragging him toward the doors. “Abba, don’t!” he cried. “You heard Wajed, there’s a mob growing. Those people are innocent!”
Ghassan didn’t even look at him. “It will be handled.”
Muntadhir shoved him out, pushing Ali hard enough to knock him off balance. “Is there any situation you can’t make worse?” he snapped in Geziriyya.
“You lied,” Ali accused, shaking with emotion. “I know you—”
“You know nothing about me.” Muntadhir’s voice was low and venomous. “You have no idea what this position has cost me. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose it to some shafit-obsessed zealot who can’t hold his tongue.”
He slammed the door in Ali’s face.
Ali staggered back, fury in his heart. He wanted to rip open the door and drag his brother through it. He had never before felt such a physical need to hit someone.
The delicate water table—a new, rather lovely addition to the corridor, a beautifully conjured construct featuring painted crystal birds that appeared to f lit as they bathed in the still waters of a mosaic pool—promptly exploded, the water sizzling into mist.
Ali barely noticed. It will be handled, his father had said. What did that mean? Ali thought of his workers and their families facing a Daeva mob, of Subha and her little daughter. He wasn’t supposed to be reckless, not anymore. But how could he let violence befall the people he’d sworn to protect? He knew his father’s politics; Ghassan wasn’t going to risk the fallout of letting the Royal Guard loose on mourning Daevas just to protect the shafit.
But there was someone else those Daevas might listen to. Nerves fluttered in Ali’s chest. Muntadhir would kill him, if Ghassan didn’t first.
It doesn’t matter. Not now. Ali jumped to his feet and ran for the infirmary.