The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,175

demanded. “What are you staring at?”

“I . . . nothing,” Ali stammered, surprised by the hostility in his brother’s voice. “I just didn’t realize Jamshid and Darayavahoush were so close.”

“They’re not close,” Muntadhir snapped. “He’s being polite to his father’s guest.” His eyes flashed, something dark and uncertain in their depths. “Don’t be getting any ideas, Alizayd. I don’t like that look on your face.”

“What look? What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about. You had your supposed assassin thrown in the lake and risked your life to cover up whatever the hell you were doing on the wall. It ends there. Jamshid isn’t talking. I asked him not to . . . and unlike some people here, he doesn’t lie to me.”

Ali was aghast. “You think I’m planning to hurt him?” He lowered his voice, noticing the curious gaze of a nearby servant—they might have been speaking Geziriyya, but an argument looked the same in any language. “My God, Dhiru, do you really think I’d kill the man who saved my life? Do you think me capable of that?”

“I don’t know what you’re capable of, Zaydi.” Muntadhir drained his goblet. “I’ve been telling myself for months that this is all a mistake. That you’re just some softhearted fool who threw his money around without asking questions.”

Ali’s heart skipped a beat, and Muntadhir beckoned for the wine bearer, falling silent only long enough for the man to finish pouring him more wine. He took a sip before continuing. “But you’re not a fool, Zaydi—you’re one of the brightest people I know. You didn’t just give them money, you taught them to hide it from the Treasury. And you’re far better at covering your tracks than I would have imagined. Your sheikh was crushed to death in front of you, and my God . . . you didn’t flinch. You had the damn presence of mind to dispose of a body while you were dying yourself.” Muntadhir shuddered. “That’s cold, Zaydi. That’s a coldness I didn’t know you had in you.” He shook his head, a hint of regret stealing into his voice. “I try to dismiss them, you know, the things people say. I always have.”

Nausea welled in Ali. In the depths of his heart, he suddenly suspected—and feared—where this conversation was going. He swallowed back the lump rising in his throat. “What things?”

“You know what things.” His brother’s gray eyes—the gray eyes they shared—swam with emotion, a mix of guilt and fear and suspicion. “The things people always say about princes in our situation.”

The fear in Ali’s heart unspooled. And then—with a swiftness that took him aback—it turned to anger. To a resentment that Ali hadn’t even realized, until this moment, he held tightly clamped, in a place he didn’t dare go. “Muntadhir, I’m cold because I’ve spent my entire life at the Citadel training to serve you, sleeping on floors while you slept with courtesans on silken beds. Because I was ripped from my mother’s arms when I was five so that I might learn to kill people at your command and fight the battles you’d never have to see.” Ali took a deep breath, checking the emotions swirling in his chest. “I made a mistake, Dhiru. That’s it. I was trying to help the shafit, not start some—”

Muntadhir cut in. “You and your mother’s cousin are the only known financiers of the Tanzeem. They were amassing weapons for an unknown purpose, and an unknown Geziri soldier with access to the Citadel stole them zulfiqar training blades. You’ve yet to arrest anyone, though by the sound of things, you know their leaders.” Muntadhir drained his goblet again and turned to Ali. “You tell me, akhi,” he implored. “What would you think if you were in my position?”

There was a hint of fear—true fear—in his brother’s voice, and it made Ali sick. Had they been alone, he would have thrown himself at Muntadhir’s feet. He was tempted to do so anyway, witnesses be damned.

Instead, he grabbed his hand. “Never, Dhiru. Never. I would stick a blade in my heart before I raised it to you—I swear to God . . . Akhi . . . ,” he begged as Muntadhir scoffed. “Please. Just tell me how to fix this. I’ll do anything. I’ll go to Abba. I’ll tell him everything—”

“You’re dead if you tell Abba,” Muntadhir interrupted. “Forget the assassin. If Abba learns you were at that tavern when two Daevas were murdered, that you’ve gone all