The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,57

past assorted ministers arguing in a dozen different languages. His father was at his desk, listening intently to Kaveh while one servant waved an incense burner of smoldering frankincense over his head and another adjusted the stiff collar of the white dishdasha he wore under his immaculate black robes.

No one seemed to notice Ali, and he was happy to keep it that way. Dodging a wine bearer, he pressed against the wall.

As if on some prearranged signal, the room began to disperse, the servants slinking away and the ministers and secretaries making their way toward the doors leading to the king’s massive audience hall. Ali watched as Kaveh made a notation on the paper in his hand and nodded.

“I’ll be sure to tell the High Priests that . . . ,” he trailed off and then abruptly straightened up as he noticed Ali. His face turned stormy. “Is this some sort of joke?”

Ali had no idea what he’d already done wrong. “I . . . I was supposed to come here, right?”

Kaveh gestured rudely at his clothes. “You’re supposed to be in ceremonial dress, Prince Alizayd. Robes of state. I had tailors sent to you last night.”

Ali mentally cursed himself. Two anxious Daeva men had presented themselves to him last night, stammering something about measurements, but Ali had dismissed them, not thinking much of it at the time. He neither desired nor needed new clothes.

He glanced down. His sleeveless gray tunic had only a couple of gashes where he’d been slashed during practice, and his indigo waist-wrap was dark enough to hide its zulfiqar burns. It looked fine to him.

“These are clean,” he argued. “I only wore them yesterday.” He gestured to his turban; the crimson cloth indicated his new position as Qaid. “This is all that matters, no?”

“No!” Kaveh looked incredulous. “You’re a Qahtani prince—you can’t go to court looking like someone just dragged you in from a sparring match!” He threw up his hands and turned to the king. Ghassan had said nothing, simply watching them fight with a strange twinkle in his eyes. “Do you see this?” he demanded. “Now we’ll have to start late so your son can be properly—”

Ghassan laughed.

It was a full-throated, hearty laugh, one Ali hadn’t heard from his father in years. “Aye, Kaveh, let him be.” The king came from behind the desk and clapped Ali on the back. “He has Am Gezira in his blood,” he said proudly. “Back home, we never bothered with all this ceremonial nonsense.” He chuckled as he led Ali toward the door. “If he looks like he just finished thrashing someone with a zulfiqar, so be it.”

His father’s praise was not a thing doled out often, and Ali could not help but feel his spirits lift. He glanced around as a servant reached for the door leading to the audience chamber. “Abba, where’s Muntadhir?”

“With the trade minister from Tukharistan. He’s . . . negotiating a deal to reduce the debt we owe for the Royal Guard’s new uniforms.”

“Muntadhir’s negotiating our debts?” Ali asked skeptically. His brother and numbers did not go well together. “I didn’t think economics his strong suit.”

“It’s not that type of negotiation.” When Ali’s confused frown only deepened, Ghassan shook his head. “Come along, boy.”

It had been years since Ali had last been in his father’s throne room, and he paused to fully appreciate it as they entered. The chamber was enormous, taking up the entire first level of the palatial ziggurat, and held up by marble columns so tall they disappeared into the distant ceiling. Although it was covered in fading paint and broken mosaics, one could still make out the flowery vines and ancient Daevastani creatures that had once decorated its surface—as well as the pockmarks where his ancestors had pried out gems; the Geziri were not ones to waste resources on ornamentation.

The western side of the room opened onto manicured formal gardens. Enormous windows—nearly the height of the ceiling—broke up the remaining walls, shielded by intricately carved wooden screens that kept the cavernous space cool while letting in light and fresh air. Flower-filled fountains set against the wall did the same, the water enchanted to continuously flow over channels of cut ice. Bright mirrored braziers of burning cedarwood hung from silver chains over a floor of green marble swirled with white veins. The floor rose as it reached the eastern wall and separated into five tiers, each level assigned to a different branch of the government.

Ali and his father walked