The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,28

over, and Ali had to work to contain his surprise. He’d expected another shafit child, but the baby’s ears were as peaked as his own, and his brown skin gleamed with the luminescence of a pureblood. Hanno briefly opened one closed lid, revealing tin-colored eyes. The baby let out a smoky whimper of protest.

“He’ll pass,” Turan assured him. “Trust me. I’ve been in this business long enough to know. No one will ever suspect that he’s a shafit.”

Shafit? Ali looked at the boy again, taken aback. But Turan was right: he didn’t look like a mixed-blood in the slightest.

“Did you have any trouble getting him away from his parents?” Hanno asked.

“The father wasn’t an issue. Agnivanshi pureblood who just wanted the money. The mother was a maid who ran off when he got her pregnant. Took a while to track her down.”

“And she agreed to sell the child?”

Turan shrugged. “She’s shafit. Does it matter?”

“It does if she’s going to make problems for me later.”

“She threatened to go to the Tanzeem.” Turan scoffed. “But those dirt-blooded radicals are nothing to worry about, and the shafit breed like rabbits. She’ll have another baby to distract her in a year.”

Hanno smiled, but the expression didn’t meet his eyes. “Maybe another business opportunity for you.” He glanced at Ali. “And what do you think?” he asked, his voice intent. He turned the sleeping baby around to face him. “Could he pass as my own?”

Ali frowned, a little confused by the question. He glanced between the baby and Hanno, but of course Hanno didn’t look like himself. He’d shapeshifted. He’d shapeshifted into a very particular Agnivanshi visage, and it suddenly became terribly clear why.

“Y-yes,” he choked out, swallowing back the lump in his throat and trying to conceal the horror in his voice. It was the truth, after all. “Easily.”

Hanno didn’t seem as pleased. “Perhaps. But he’s older than promised—certainly not worth the ridiculous price you’re demanding,” he complained to Turan. “Is my wife to have given birth to a toddler?”

“Then go.” Turan raised his palms. “I’ll have another buyer in a week, and you’ll return to a wife waiting beside an empty crib. Spend another half century trying to conceive. It’s all the same to me.”

Hanno appeared to deliberate another moment. He glanced at the little girl still crouched in the shadows. “We’re looking for a new servant. Include that one with the boy, and I will pay your price.”

Turan scowled. “I’m not going to sell you a house slave for nothing.”

“I’ll buy her,” Ali cut in. Hanno’s eyes flashed, but Ali didn’t care. He wanted to be done with this Daeva demon, to get these innocent souls away from this hellish place where their lives were weighed solely upon their appearance. He fumbled for the clasps on his golden collar, and it landed heavily in his lap. He thrust it at Turan, the pearls glistening in the soft light. “Is this enough?”

Turan didn’t touch it. There was no greed, no anticipation in his black eyes. Instead, he glanced at the collar and then looked at Ali.

He cleared his throat. “What did you say your name was?”

Ali suspected he’d just made a terrible mistake.

But before he could stammer a response, the door leading to the tavern swung open, and one of the wine bearers hurried in. He bent to whisper in Turan’s ear. The slaver’s frown deepened.

“Problem?” Hanno prompted.

“A man whose desire to drink outweighs his ability to pay.” Turan rose to his feet, his mouth pressed in an irritated line. “If you will excuse me a moment . . .” He headed for the tavern, the wine bearer at his heels. They shut the door behind them.

Hanno whirled on Ali. “You idiot. Didn’t I tell you to keep your mouth shut?” He gestured at the collar. “That thing could buy a dozen girls like her!”

“I-I’m sorry,” Ali rushed. “I was just trying to help!”

“Forget that for now.” Anas pointed to the baby. “Does he have the mark?”

Hanno shot Ali another aggrieved look but then gently coaxed one of the baby’s arms out of his swaddling and turned his wrist to the light. A small blue birthmark—like a dashed pen stroke—marred the soft skin. “Yes. Same story as the mother’s, as well. It’s him.” He pointed to the little girl still cowering in the corner. “But she’s not staying here with that monster.”

Anas eyed the shapeshifter. “I didn’t say she was.”

Ali was thunderstruck by what he’d just witnessed. “The boy . . . is