The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,118

in the hearts of the shafit. If you did not find the courage to face the merciless water, you would slowly be burned to death by the molten bronze.

Ali snapped. No one deserved to die like this. He yanked his boots off and freed his zulfiqar, pushing the metallurgist out of the way.

“Alizayd!” Abu Nuwas shouted, but Ali was already climbing into the boat. He hissed; it burned far worse than he expected. But he was a pureblood. It would take a lot more than liquid bronze to harm him.

The shafit boy was pinned on all fours, his gaze forcibly directed on the hot metal. He wouldn’t have to see the blow. Ali raised his zulfiqar high, meaning to bring it down through the doomed boy’s heart.

But he was too late. The boy’s knees gave way, and a wave of liquid metal washed onto his back, instantly hardening. Ali’s blade thudded uselessly against it. The boy screamed louder as he jerked and twisted in a desperate attempt to see what was happening behind him. Ali reeled in horror as he raised his zulfiqar.

The boy’s neck was still bare.

He didn’t hesitate. The zulfiqar flared to life as he brought it down again, and the fiery blade sliced through the boy’s neck with an ease that twisted his stomach. His head dropped, and there was merciful silence, the only sound the thudding of Ali’s heart.

He took a ragged breath, fighting a swoon. The bloody scene before him was unbearable. God forgive me.

Ali staggered out of the boat. Not a single man met his eyes. Shafit blood drenched his uniform, the crimson stark against his white waist-wrap. The hilt of his zulfiqar was sticky in his hand.

Ignoring his men, he silently headed back toward the stairs that led to the street. He didn’t make it halfway down before his nausea got the better of him. Ali fell to his knees and vomited, the boy’s screams echoing in his head.

When he was done, he sat back against the cool stone, alone and shaking on the dark staircase. He knew he’d be shamed if someone came across him, the city’s Qaid sick and trembling simply because he’d executed a prisoner. But he didn’t care. What honor did he have left? He was a murderer.

Ali wiped his wet eyes and rubbed an itchy spot on his cheek, horrified to realize it was the boy’s blood drying on his hot skin. He rubbed his hands and wrists furiously on the rough cloth of his waist-wrap and then wiped the blood from his face with the tail of his red Qaid’s turban.

And then he stopped, staring at the cloth in his hands. He had dreamed of wearing this for years, had trained for this position his entire life.

He unwound the turban and let it drop in the dust.

Let Abba take my titles. Let him banish me to Am Gezira. It matters not.

Ali was done.

Court was long adjourned by the time Ali reached the palace, and though his father’s office was empty, he could hear music from the gardens below. He made his way down and spotted his father reclining on a cushion next to a shaded pool. A glass of wine was at hand, as was his water pipe. Two women were playing lutes, but a scribe was there as well, reading from an unfurled scroll. A scaled bird with smoking feathers—the magical cousin of the homing pigeons humans used to send messages—was perched on his shoulder.

Ghassan glanced up as Ali approached. His gray eyes swept from Ali’s uncovered head to his blood-spattered clothes and bare feet. He raised a dark eyebrow.

The scribe looked up and then jumped at the sight of the bloody prince, sending the startled pigeon into a nearby tree.

“I-I need to talk to you,” Ali stammered, his confidence vanishing in his father’s presence.

“I imagine so.” Ghassan waved off the scribe and musicians. “Leave us.”

The musicians quickly packed away their lutes, edging carefully past Alizayd. The scribe wordlessly placed the scroll back in his father’s hand. The broken wax seal was black: a royal seal.

“Is that from Muntadhir’s expedition?” Ali asked, worry for his brother outweighing anything else.

Ghassan beckoned him closer and handed him the scroll. “You’re the scholar, aren’t you?”

Ali scanned the message, both relieved and disappointed. “There’s no sign of these supposed ifrits.”

“None.”

He read further and let out a sigh of relief. “But Wajed has finally met up with them. Thank the Most High.” The grizzled old warrior was more than Darayavahoush’s match.