The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,30

stepped into the dark corridor.

A maze of storerooms greeted him. Barrels of wine were stacked to the ceiling, and towering crates of hairy onions and overripe fruit scented the air. Broken tables, half-constructed walls, and shrouded pieces of furniture were haphazardly scattered everywhere. Ali saw no exits, only spots to hide.

A perfect place to be ambushed. He blinked; his eyes had stopped burning. The potion must have worn off. Not that it mattered—Ali had grown up with the men outside; they would recognize him either way.

There was a small tug on his robe. The little girl raised a trembling hand and pointed to a black doorway at the end of the corridor. “That goes to the alley,” she whispered, her dark eyes wide as saucers.

Ali smiled down at her. “Thank you,” he whispered back.

They headed down the corridor toward the last storeroom. In the distance, he spotted a line of moonlight near the floor: a door. Unfortunately, that was all he saw. The storeroom was blacker than pitch and, judging from the distance to the door, enormous. Ali slipped inside, his heart pounding so loudly he could hear it in his ears.

It wasn’t all he heard.

There was a hush of breath, and then something whooshed past his face, grazing his nose and smelling of iron. Ali whirled around as the little girl screamed, but he couldn’t see anything in the black room, his eyes not yet adjusted to the darkness.

Anas cried out. “Let her go!”

To hell with discretion. Ali drew his zulfiqar. The hilt warmed in his hands. Brighten, he commanded.

It burst into flames.

Fire licked up the copper scimitar, scorching its forked tip and throwing wild light across the room. Ali spotted two Daevas: Turan and the guard from the tavern, his massive ax in hand. Turan was trying to pull the screaming girl from Anas’s arms, but he turned at the sight of the fiery zulfiqar. His black eyes filled with fear.

The guard wasn’t as impressed. He lunged at Ali.

Ali brought the zulfiqar up in the nick of time, sparks flying from where the blade hit the ax. The ax head must have been iron, the metal one of the few substances that could weaken magic. Ali pushed hard, shoving the man off.

The Daeva came at him again. Ali ducked the next blow, the entire situation surreal. He’d spent half of his life sparring; the motion of his blade, his feet, it was all familiar. Too familiar; it seemed impossible to imagine that his opponent actually wanted to kill him, that a misstep wouldn’t result in trash-talking over coffee, but a bloody death on a dirty floor in a dark room where Ali had no business being in the first place.

Ali dodged another blow. He’d yet to attack the other man himself. How could he? He’d had the best martial training available, but he’d never killed anyone—he’d never even intentionally harmed another. He was underage, years from seeing combat. And he was the king’s son! He couldn’t murder one of his father’s citizens—a Daeva, of all people. He’d start a war.

The guard raised his weapon again. And then he went white. The ax stayed frozen in midair. “Suleiman’s eye,” he gasped. “You . . . you’re Ali—”

A steel blade burst through his throat.

“—al Qahtani,” Hanno finished. He twisted the blade, stealing the man’s last words as he stole his life. He pushed the dead man off the talwar with one foot, letting him slide to the floor. “Alizayd fucking al Qahtani.” He turned to Anas, his face bright with outrage. “Oh, Sheikh . . . how could you?”

Turan was still there. He glanced at Ali and then at the Tanzeem men. Horrified realization lit his face. He lunged for the door, fleeing into the corridor.

Ali didn’t move, didn’t speak. He was still staring at the dead Daeva guard.

“Hanno . . .” Anas’s voice was shaky. “The prince . . . no one can know.”

The shapeshifter let out an aggravated sigh. He handed the baby to Anas and picked up the ax. He followed Turan.

The realization came to Ali too late. “W-wait. You don’t have to—”

There was a short scream in the corridor followed by a crunching sound. Then a second. A third. Ali swayed on his feet, nausea threatening to overwhelm him. This isn’t happening.

“Alizayd.” Anas was before him. “Brother, look at me.” Ali tried to focus on the sheikh’s face. “He sold children. He would have revealed you. He needed to die.”

There was the distinct sound of the