The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,46

the direction of the ulema, a whispered prayer. No. Ali stepped forward, unthinking. There was punishment, and then there was that. He opened his mouth.

“Burn in hell, you wine-soaked ass.”

It was Anas. There were several shocked murmurs from the crowd, but Anas pressed on, his fierce gaze locked on the king. “Apostate,” he spat through broken teeth. “You betrayed us, the very people your family was meant to protect. You think it matters how you kill me? A hundred more will rise in my place. You will suffer . . . in this world and the next.” A savage edge entered his voice. “And God will rip away from you those you hold most dear.”

His father’s eyes flashed, but he kept calm. “Unbind his hands before you return to your posts,” he told the guards. “Let’s see him run.”

Perhaps sensing its master’s intentions, the karkadann roared, and the arena shook. Ali knew the rumbles would echo through Daevabad, a warning to any who would disobey the king.

Ghassan raised his right hand. A striking mark high on his left cheek—an eight-pointed ebony star—began to glow.

Every torch in the arena went out. The stark black banners signifying his family’s rule stopped fluttering, and Wajed’s zulfiqar lost its fiery gleam. Beside him, Muntadhir sucked in his breath, and a wave of dull weakness swept over Ali. Such was the power of Suleiman’s seal. When used, all magic, every trick and illusion of the djinn—of the peri, of the marid, of God only knew how many magical races—failed.

Including the fiery gate that kept the karkadann enclosed.

The beast stepped forward, pawing at the ground with one of its three-toed yellow feet. Despite its massive bulk, it was its horn—the length of a man and harder than steel—that was most feared. It jutted straight from its bony forehead, covered in the dried blood of hundreds of previous victims.

Anas faced the beast. He squared his shoulders.

There ended up being little amusement for the king. Anas did not run, did not try to escape or beg for mercy. And it seemed the beast was in no mood to torture its prey. It rushed out with a bellow and impaled the sheikh at his waist before raising its head and tossing the doomed man to the dust.

It was done, it was quick. Ali let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

But then Anas stirred. The karkadann noticed. The beast approached more slowly this time, sniffing and snorting at the ground. It prodded Anas with its nose.

The karkadann had just lifted one foot over Anas’s prone body when Muntadhir flinched and averted his gaze. Ali didn’t look away, didn’t budge even when Anas’s short scream was abruptly ended by a sickening crunch. From some distance away, one of the soldiers retched.

His father stared at the mangled corpse that had been the leader of the Tanzeem and then shot a long, intent look at the ulema before turning to his sons. “Come,” he said curtly.

The crowd dispersed while the karkadann pawed its bloodied prize. Ali didn’t move. His eyes were locked on Anas’s body, his sheikh’s scream ringing in his ears.

“Yalla, Zaydi.” Muntadhir, still looking sick, nudged his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Earn this. Ali nodded. He had no tears to fight. He was too shocked to cry, too numb to do anything other than mutely follow his brother into the palace.

The king swept down the long hallway, his ebony robe kissing the ground. Two servants abruptly about-faced to hurry down an opposite corridor, and a low-ranking secretary threw himself on the floor in prostration.

“I want those fanatics gone,” Ghassan demanded, his loud voice directed at no one in particular. “For good this time. I don’t want another shafit fool declaring himself a sheikh and popping up to wreak havoc in the streets next month.” He shoved open the door to his office, sending the servant meant to do so scrambling.

Ali followed Muntadhir inside, Kaveh and Wajed close at their heels. Tucked between the gardens and the royal court, the spacious room was a deliberate blend of Daeva and Geziri design. Artists from the surrounding province of Daevastana were responsible for the delicate tapestries of languorous figures and painted floral mosaics, while the simple geometric carpets and rough-hewn musical instruments were from the Qahtanis’ far more austere homeland of Am Gezira.

“There will be displeasure in the streets, my king,” Wajed warned. “Bhatt was a well-liked man, and the shafit provoke easily.”

“Good. I hope they riot,” Ghassan retorted. “It will make it