The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,159

in the morning, Abba is going to have you drowned in wine.”

Muntadhir touched his heart with an exaggerated motion. “Thoroughly warned.”

Zaynab left. His brother stood, shaking his head as he joined Ali at the parapet’s edge. “You two fight like children.”

“She is spoiled and vain.”

“Yes, and you’re self-righteous and insufferable.” His brother shrugged. “I’ve heard it enough times from both of you.” He leaned against the wall. “But forget that. What’s going on with this?” he asked, sweeping his hand over the telescope.

“I told you before . . .” Ali toyed with the telescope’s dial, trying to sharpen the image. “You fix the location of a star and then—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Zaydi, I’m not talking about the telescope. I’m talking about this new Banu Nahida. Why are the two of you whispering like girlhood friends?”

Ali glanced up, surprised by the question. “Did Abba not tell you?”

“He told me you were spying on her and trying to turn her to our side.” Ali frowned, disliking the baldness of the statement, and Muntadhir gave him a shrewd look. “But I know you, Zaydi. You like this girl.”

“So what if I do?” He was enjoying his time with Nahri, he couldn’t help it. She was as intellectually curious as he was, and her life in the human world made for fascinating conversation. “My earlier suspicions about her were wrong.”

His brother let out an exaggerated gasp. “Were you replaced with a shapeshifter while I was gone?”

“What do you mean?”

Muntadhir pushed up to sit on the wide edge of the stone parapet separating them from the distant lake. “You’ve befriended a Daeva and admitted to being wrong about something?” Muntadhir tapped his foot against the telescope. “Give me that, I want to make sure the world has not turned upside down.”

“Don’t do that,” Ali said, quickly stepping back with the delicate instrument. “And I’m not that bad.”

“No, but you trust far too easily, Zaydi. You always have.” His brother gave him a meaningful look. “Especially the people who look human.”

Ali put the telescope back on its stand and turned his full attention to Muntadhir. “I take it Abba told you the entirety of our conversation?”

“He said he thought you were going to throw yourself off the wall.”

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t consider it.” Ali shuddered, recalling the confrontation with his father. “Abba told me what you did,” he said softly. “That you defended me. That you were the one who convinced him to give me another chance.” He glanced at his brother. “If you hadn’t talked to me in the tomb . . .” Ali trailed off. He knew he’d have done something reckless if Muntadhir hadn’t stopped him. “Thank you, akhi. Truly. If there’s any way I can ever repay you . . .”

Muntadhir waved him off. “You don’t have to thank me, Zaydi.” He scoffed. “I knew you weren’t Tanzeem. You’ve just got more money than sense when it comes to shafit. Let me guess, that fanatic gave you some wretched story about hungry orphans?”

Ali grimaced, a thread of old loyalty to Anas pulling at him. “Something like that.”

Muntadhir laughed. “Do you remember when you gave your grandfather’s ring to the old crone who used to pace the palace gates? By the Most High, you had shafit beggars trailing you for months.” He shook his head, giving Ali an affectionate smile. “You barely came up to my shoulder back then. I was convinced your mother would throw you in the lake.”

“I think I still have scars from the beating she gave me.”

Muntadhir’s face turned serious, his gray eyes briefly unreadable. “You’re lucky you’re the favorite, you know.”

“Whose favorite? My mother’s?” Ali shook his head. “Hardly. The last thing she said to me was that I spoke her language like a savage, and even that was years ago.”

“Not your mother’s,” Muntadhir pressed. “Abba’s.”

“Abba’s?” Ali laughed. “You’ve had too much wine if you think that. You’re his emir, his firstborn. I’m just the idiot second son he doesn’t trust.”

Muntadhir shook his head. “Not at all . . . well, all right, you are that, but you’re also the devout zulfiqari a Geziri son is supposed to be, uncorrupted by Daevabad’s delicious delights.” His brother smiled, but this time the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “By the Most High, if I’d given money to the Tanzeem, they’d still be picking smoldering bits of me out of the carpets.”

There was an edge to Muntadhir’s voice that made Ali uncomfortable. And even though he