The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,23

purse concealed in his robe that contained a small fortune from his overflowing personal vault at the Treasury. “Yes. But we need to talk.”

From the corner of his eye, Ali saw his companion frown, but before he could respond, the mosque’s imam approached the mihrab.

He gave the rain-damp group of men a weary look. “Straighten your lines,” he admonished. Ali stood as the dozen or so sleepy worshippers shuffled into place. He tried to concentrate while the imam led them in prayer, but it was difficult. Rumors and accusations swirled in his mind, charges he felt ill-prepared to lay on the man whose shoulder brushed his.

When prayer was over, Ali and his companion stayed seated, silently waiting as the rest of the worshippers filed out. The imam was last. He climbed to his feet, muttering under his breath. As he glanced at the two remaining men, he froze.

Ali dropped his gaze, letting his turban shadow his face, but the imam’s attention was focused on his companion. “Sheikh Anas . . . ,” he gasped. “P-peace be upon you.”

“And upon you peace,” Anas replied calmly. He touched his heart and gestured to Ali. “Would you mind giving the brother here and me a moment alone?”

“Of course,” the imam rushed on. “Take all the time you need; I’ll make sure no one disturbs you.” He hurried out, pulling the inner door shut.

Ali waited another moment before speaking, but they were alone, the only sound the steady patter of rain in the courtyard. “Your reputation grows,” he noted, a little unnerved by the imam’s deference.

Anas shrugged and leaned back on his palms. “Or he’s off to warn the Royal Guard.”

Ali startled. His sheikh smiled. Though Anas Bhatt was in his fifties—an age at which pureblooded djinn were still considered young adults—Anas was shafit, and gray dusted his black beard, lines creasing his eyes. Though there must have been a drop or two of djinn blood in his veins—his ancestors couldn’t have crossed into Daevabad without it—Anas could have passed for human and had no magical abilities. He was dressed in a white kurta and embroidered cap and had a thick Kashmiri shawl wrapped around his shoulders.

“It was a jest, my prince,” he added when Ali didn’t return his smile. “But what’s wrong, brother? You look as though you’ve seen an ifrit.”

I’d take an ifrit over my father. Ali scanned the dark mosque, half-expecting to see spies nestled in its shadows. “Sheikh, I’m starting to hear . . . certain things about the Tanzeem again.”

Anas sighed. “What is the palace claiming we did now?”

“Tried to smuggle a cannon past the Royal Guard.”

“A cannon?” Anas gave him a skeptical look. “What would I do with a cannon, brother? I’m shafit. I know the law. Possessing even an overly large kitchen knife would get me thrown in prison. And the Tanzeem are a charitable organization; we deal in books and food, not weapons. Besides, how would you purebloods know what a cannon looks like anyway?” He scoffed. “When’s the last time someone in the Citadel visited the human world?”

He had a point there, but Ali pressed on. “There’ve been reports for months that the Tanzeem is trying to buy weapons. People say your rallies have grown violent, that some of your supporters are even calling for the Daevas to be killed.”

“Who spreads such lies?” Anas demanded. “That Daeva infidel your father calls the grand wazir?”

“It’s not just Kaveh,” Ali argued. “We arrested a shafit man just last week for stabbing two purebloods in the Grand Bazaar.”

“And I’m responsible?” Anas threw up his hands. “Am I to be called to account for the actions of every shafit man in Daevabad? You know how desperate our lives are here, Alizayd. Your people should be happy more of us haven’t resorted to violence!”

Ali recoiled. “Are you condoning such a thing?”

“Of course not,” Anas replied, sounding annoyed. “Don’t be absurd. But when our girls are snatched off the street to be used as bed slaves, when our men are blinded for looking at a pureblood the wrong way . . . is it not to be expected that some will fight back any way they can?” He gave Ali an even stare. “It’s your father’s fault things have gotten this bad—if the shafit were afforded equal protection, we wouldn’t be forced to take the law into our own hands.”

It was a low, albeit justified, blow, but Anas’s angry denial wasn’t doing much to assuage Ali’s concerns. “I was always clear