The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,122

bedeviling my cleverest accountants. They declared their funds impossible to trace, their financial system a cunningly convoluted mess designed by someone with a detailed understanding of human banking . . . and far too much time on his hands.

“I hated to even suspect such a thing. Surely my son—my own blood—would never betray me. But I knew I had to at least audit your accounts. And the amount you withdraw regularly, Alizayd? I’d like to say you’re either supporting a particularly cunning concubine or a strong addiction to human intoxicants . . . but you’ve always been obnoxiously vocal about your abhorrence of both.”

Ali said nothing. He was caught.

A small, humorless smile played on his father’s face. “Praise be to God, have I actually silenced you for once? I should have accused you of treason earlier in our conversation and saved myself your insufferable comments.”

Ali swallowed and pressed his palms harder against the wall to hide their trembling. Apologize. Not that it would make a difference. Had his father really known for all these months that he’d funded the Tanzeem? What about the murder of the Daeva men?

The money, God, please let it just be the money. Ali couldn’t imagine he’d still be alive if his father knew the rest. “But-but you made me Qaid,” he stammered.

“A test,” Ghassan answered. “Which you were failing miserably until the Afshin’s arrival apparently reset your loyalties.” He crossed his arms. “You owe a sincere debt to your brother. Muntadhir has been your most adamant defender. Says you tend to throw money at every sad-eyed shafit who comes crying your way. As he knows you best, I was persuaded to give you a second chance.”

That’s why he took me to the tomb, Ali realized, remembering how Muntadhir begged him to stay away from the shafit. His brother hadn’t directly interfered with their father’s test—that would have been his own treason—but he’d come close. Ali was struck by his devotion. All this time he’d been judging his brother’s drinking, his shallow behavior . . . yet Muntadhir was probably the only reason Ali was still alive.

“Abba,” he started again. “I . . .”

“Save your apology,” Ghassan snapped. “The blood on your clothes, and the fact that you came to me with your grief this time instead of turning to some filthy shafit street preacher is enough to allay my doubts.” He finally met Ali’s terrified gaze, and his expression was so fierce that Ali flinched. “But you will win me this girl.”

Ali swallowed and nodded. He said nothing. It was all he could do to remain upright.

“I would like to think that I don’t need to waste my time detailing the various punishments that will befall you if you deceive me again,” Ghassan continued. “But knowing how your type feels about martyrdom, let me make this clear. It will not be you alone who suffers. If you even think of betraying me again, I will make you lead a hundred such innocent shafit boys to that damned boat, understand?”

Ali nodded again, but his father didn’t look convinced. “Say it, Alizayd. Tell me you understand.”

His voice was hollow. “I understand, Abba.”

“Good.” His father clapped his shoulder so hard that Ali jumped and then motioned to his ruined uniform. “Now you should go wash up, my son.” He let go of Ali’s arm. “There’s a lot of blood on your hands.”

18

Nahri

Nahri woke with the sun.

The dawn call to prayer whispered in her ear, drifting from the mouths of a dozen different muezzins high atop Daevabad’s minarets. Oddly enough, the call never woke her in Cairo, but here, the cadence—so close but not quite the same—did every day. She stirred in her sleep, momentarily confused by the feel of the silken sheets, and then opened her eyes.

It usually took a few minutes for her to remember where she was, to recognize that the luxurious apartment surrounding her was not a dream and that the big bed, crowded with soft brocaded cushions and held off the richly carpeted floor with bowed mahogany legs, was hers alone. It was no different this morning. Nahri studied the enormous bedchamber, taking in the beautifully woven rugs and delicately painted silk wall coverings. A massive landscape of the Daevastana countryside, painted by Rustam—her uncle, she reminded herself, the idea of having relatives still surreal—dominated one wall, and a carved wooden door led to her own private bath.

Another door opened onto a chamber for her wardrobe. For a girl who’d spent years sleeping on