The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,29

this common?”

Anas sighed, his face somber. “Quite. The shafit have always been more fertile than purebloods, a blessing and a curse from our human ancestors.” He gestured to the small fortune glittering on the rug. “It’s a lucrative business—one that’s gone on for centuries. There are probably thousands in Daevabad like this boy, raised as purebloods with no idea of their true heritage.”

“But their shafit parents . . . can’t they petition m—the king?”

“‘Petition the king’?” Hanno repeated, his voice thick with scorn. “By the Most High, is this the first time you’ve left your family’s mansion, boy? Shafit can’t petition the king. They come to us—we’re the only ones who can help.”

Ali dropped his gaze. “I had no idea.”

“Then perhaps you will think on this night should you decide to question me again about the Tanzeem,” Anas cut in, his voice colder than Ali had ever heard it. “We do what’s necessary to protect our people.”

Hanno suddenly frowned. He stared at the money on the floor, shifting the sleeping baby still nestled in his arms. “Something’s not right.” He stood. “Turan shouldn’t have left us here with the money and the boy.” He reached for the door leading to the tavern and then jumped back with a yelp, the sizzle of burned flesh scenting the air. “The bastard cursed us in!”

Awakened by Hanno’s shout, the baby started to cry. Ali shot to his feet. He joined them at the door, praying Hanno was wrong.

He let his fingertips hover just over the wooden surface, but Hanno was right: it simmered with magic. Fortunately, Ali was Citadel trained—and the Daevas were troublemakers enough that breaking through the enchantments they used to guard their homes and businesses was a skill taught to the youngest cadets. He closed his eyes, murmuring the first incantation that came to mind. The door swung open.

The tavern was empty.

It had been abandoned in a hurry. Goblets were still full, smoke curled around forgotten pipes, and scattered game pieces glittered on the table where the Daeva women had been playing. Even so, Turan had been careful to douse the lamps, throwing the tavern into darkness. The only illumination came from the moonlight piercing the tattered curtains.

Behind him, Hanno swore and Anas whispered a prayer of protection. Ali reached for his hidden zulfiqar, the forked copper scimitar he always carried, and then stopped. The famed Geziri weapon in the hands of a young Ayaanle-looking man would give him away at once. Instead, he crept through the tavern. Taking care to remain hidden, he peeked past the curtain.

The Royal Guard stood on the other side.

Ali sucked in his breath. A dozen soldiers—nearly all of whom he recognized—were quietly lining up in formation across the street from the tavern, their coppery zulfiqars and spears gleaming in the moonlight. More were coming; Ali could see shadowy movement from the direction of the midan.

He stepped back. Dread, thicker than anything he’d ever felt, ensnared him, like vines tightening around his chest. He returned to the others.

“We need to leave.” He was surprised at the calm in his voice; it certainly didn’t match the panic rising inside him. “There are soldiers outside.”

Anas paled. “Can we make it to the safe house?” he asked Hanno.

The shapeshifter bounced the squalling baby. “We’ll have to try . . . but it won’t be easy with this one carrying on.”

Ali thought fast, glancing around the room. He spotted the copper tray, abandoned by the shafit girl now clutching Anas’s hand. He crossed the room, snatching up one of the cups of apricot liquor. “Would this work?”

Anas looked aghast. “Have you lost your mind?”

But Hanno nodded. “It might.” He held the baby while Ali clumsily attempted to pour the liquor into his wailing mouth. He could feel the weight of the shapeshifter’s gaze. “What you did to the door . . .” Hanno’s voice brimmed with accusation. “You’re Royal Guard, aren’t you? One of those kids they lock up in the Citadel until their first quarter century?”

Ali hesitated. I’m more than that. “I’m here with you now, aren’t I?”

“I suppose you are.” Hanno swaddled the boy with practiced ease. The baby finally fell silent, and Hanno drew his talwar, the gleaming steel blade the length of Ali’s arm. “We’ll need to look for an exit out the back.” He jerked his head at the red curtain. “You’ll understand if I insist you go first.”

Ali nodded, his mouth dry. What choice did he have? He pushed the curtain aside and