The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,119

He frowned when he reached the end. “They’re headed to Babili?” he asked in surprise. Babili was near the border with Am Gezira, and the idea of the Afshin Scourge so close to their homeland was unsettling.

Ghassan nodded. “Ifrit have been spotted there in the past. It’s worth exploring.”

Ali scoffed and tossed the scroll on a small side table. Ghassan leaned back on his cushion. “You disagree?”

“Yes,” Ali said vehemently, too upset to keep his temper in check. “The only ifrit they’re going to find are figments of the Afshin’s imagination. You should never have sent Muntadhir off with him on this useless campaign.”

The king patted the seat next to him. “Sit, Alizayd. You look ready to collapse.” He poured a small ceramic cup of water from a nearby pitcher. “Drink.”

“I’m fine.”

“Your appearance would beg to differ.” He pushed the cup into Ali’s hand.

Ali took a sip but remained stubbornly on his feet.

“Muntadhir is perfectly safe,” Ghassan assured him. “I sent two dozen of my best soldiers with them. Wajed’s there now. Besides, Darayavahoush would not dare harm him while the Banu Nahida is under my protection. He wouldn’t risk her.”

Ali shook his head. “Muntadhir is no warrior. You should have sent me instead.”

His father laughed. “Absolutely not. The Afshin would have strangled you by day’s end, and I’d be obliged to go to war, no matter what you said to deserve it. Muntadhir is charming. And he’s going to be king. He needs to spend more time leading men and less time leading drinking songs.” He shrugged. “Truthfully, what I wanted most was Darayavahoush away from the girl, and if he was willing to run off on his own accord?” He shrugged. “All the better.”

“Ah, yes. Manizheh’s long-lost daughter,” Ali said acidly. “Who has yet to heal a single person—”

“On the contrary, Alizayd,” Ghassan interrupted. “You should stay more ahead of palace gossip. Banu Nahri had a nasty fall when exiting the bath this morning. A careless servant must have left some soap on the floor. She cracked her head open in full view of at least a half-dozen women. An injury like that would have proven fatal to a normal girl.” Ghassan paused, letting his words sink in. “She healed in moments.”

The intent in the king’s voice was chilling. “I see.” Ali swallowed, but the idea of his father planning accidents for young women in the bathhouse was enough to remind him of his original purpose. “When do you think Wajed and Muntadhir will return?”

“A few months, God willing.”

Ali took another sip of water and then set the glass down, working up his nerve. “You’re going to need someone else to take over as Qaid then.”

His father gave him a look that was almost amused. “I am?”

Ali gestured at the blood on his uniform. “A boy begged me for his life. Said he sold flowers in the midan.” His voice broke as he continued. “He could not make it out of the boat. I had to cut off his head.”

“He was guilty,” his father said coldly. “They all were.”

“Of what, being in the midan when your rumor started a riot? This is wrong, Abba. What you’re doing to the shafit is wrong.”

The king stared at him for a few long moments, the expression in his eyes unreadable. Then he stood. “Walk with me, Alizayd.”

Ali hesitated; between the surprise Tanzeem orphanage and the secret Nahid crypt, he was beginning to hate being led places. But he followed his father as he headed toward the wide marble steps to the upper platforms of the ziggurat.

Ghassan nodded at a pair of guards on the second level. “Have you been to see the Banu Nahida?”

The Banu Nahida? What did the girl have to do with his being Qaid? Ali shook his head. “No. Why would I?”

“I hoped you would strike up a friendship. You are the one fascinated by the human world.”

Ali paused. He hadn’t spoken to Nahri since escorting her to the garden, and he doubted his father would be pleased to learn of his rudeness during that encounter. He settled for another truth. “I am not given to pursuing friendships with unmarried women.”

The king scoffed. “Of course. My son the sheikh . . . always so dutiful to the holy books.” There was uncharacteristic hostility in his voice, and Ali was startled when he saw how icy his father’s eyes were. “Tell me, Alizayd, what does our religion say about obeying your parents?”

A chill went through him. “That we should