The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,194

didn’t go along with him.”

Muntadhir snorted. “Convenient. Tell me, Zaydi . . . did they at least hide their laughter when they acted all this out, or did they just assume you too stupid to pick up on it?”

“It’s the truth!”

“The truth.” His brother scowled, his expression darkening. “How would you even recognize such a thing?”

Ghassan frowned. “What were you doing in the infirmary in the middle of the night, Alizayd?”

“It doesn’t matter why he was there, Abba,” Muntadhir said dismissively. “I told you he’d protect her; he’s so lovestruck he doesn’t even realize it. He probably does think she’s innocent.”

“I’m not lovestruck,” Ali snapped, offended at the prospect. The rain beat harder against the roof, echoing the pounding in his heart. “I know what I saw. What I heard. And she’s innocent. I will shout it in the streets myself if you try her.”

“Go ahead!” Muntadhir shot back. “It would hardly be the first time you shamed us in the streets!”

Ghassan rose to his feet. “What in God’s name are you two going on about?”

Ali couldn’t answer. He could feel his control slipping. The rain drummed against the glass above him, the water achingly close.

Muntadhir glared at him, a warning in his gray eyes so clear he might as well have spoken it. “Twenty-one men are dead, Zaydi. Several because they fought to save my life, more because they came to rescue yours.” He blinked, tears gathering in his dark lashes. “My best friend is probably going to join them. And I will be damned if that lying Nahid whore gets away with it because your word is unreliable when it comes to the shafit.”

He let the challenge lay in the air. Ali took a deep breath, trying to quell the emotions churning inside him.

Something metallic groaned above their heads. A small leak sprang.

Ghassan glanced up, and for the first time in his life, Ali saw true fear on his father’s face.

The roof gave out.

The water smashed through the ceiling, sending twisted copper piping and shards of glass flying through the infirmary. The rain poured in, streaming down Ali’s skin and soothing his burning wounds. From the corner of his eye, he saw Muntadhir and his father duck under a remnant of ceiling. The king looked unhurt. Shocked but unhurt.

Not so his brother. Fresh black blood dripped down Muntadhir’s face—a piece of glass must have gouged his cheek.

“Akhi, I’m sorry!” Ali felt guilt twist through him, mixing with his confusion. “I didn’t mean to do that, to hurt you, I swear!”

But his brother wasn’t looking at him. Muntadhir’s blank gaze traveled the ruined infirmary, taking in the pouring rain and destroyed ceiling. He touched his bloody cheek.

“No . . . I’m sorry, Zaydi.” Muntadhir wiped the blood from his face with the tail of his turban. “Tell Abba whatever truth you want. Make it good.” He pressed his mouth in a grim line. “I’m done protecting you.”

29

Ali

“As-salaamu alaykum wa rahmatullah.” Ali turned his head and whispered the prayer into his left shoulder. “As-salaamu alaykum wa rahmatullah.”

He relaxed his shoulders and turned his palms upward to offer his supplications, but his mind went blank at the sight of his hands. Though his wounds were healing remarkably fast, the scars remained stubborn, fading to thin dark lines that resembled the dead Afshin’s tattoos so much it turned his stomach.

Ali heard the door open behind him but ignored it, refocusing on his prayers. He finished and turned around.

“Abba?”

The king slouched on the rug behind him. There were shadows under his eyes, and his head was bare. At first glance, he could have been a commoner, a tired old man in a plain cotton dishdasha taking a rest. Even his beard looked more silver than it had just a few days ago.

“P-peace be upon you,” Ali stammered. “I’m sorry. I did not realize . . .”

“I didn’t wish to disturb you.” Ghassan patted the spot on the rug next to him, and Ali sank back to the floor. His father stared at the mihrab, the small carved niche in the corner indicating the direction to which Ali, and every other believing djinn, bowed in prayer.

Ghassan’s eyes dimmed. He rubbed his beard. “I’m not much of a believer,” he finally said. “Never have been. Honestly, I always assumed our religion to be a political move on the part of our ancestors. What better way to unify the tribes and preserve the ideas of the revolution than to adopt the new human faith of our