The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,59

Daevastana, and several more accusations of fraud—one including knock-off Nahid potions with some rather embarrassing results.

Hours later, the complaints were a blur, a stream of demands—some so utterly nonsensical Ali wanted to shake the petitioner. The sun had risen past the wooden window screens, the audience chamber growing warm, and Ali swayed on his feet, staring longingly at the cushion he’d refused.

None of it seemed to bother his father. Ghassan was as calmly impassive now as he’d been when they walked in—helped, perhaps, by the goblet a wine bearer had been keeping studiously full. Ali had never known his father to be a patient man and yet he showed no irritation toward his subjects, listening as intently to destitute widows as to wealthy nobles arguing over vast tracts of land. Truthfully . . . Ali was impressed.

But by God, did he want it to end.

When the light in the oil lamp finally snuffed out, it was all Ali could do not to drop to the floor in prostration. His father rose from his throne and was promptly swallowed by a crowd of scribes and ministers. Ali didn’t mind; he was eager to escape for a cup of tea so strong it could hold a spoon upright. He headed for the exit.

“Qaid?”

Ali paid no mind to the voice until the man called again, and then he realized with some embarrassment that he was now Qaid. He turned to see a short Geziri man behind him. He wore the uniform of the Royal Guard, a black-hemmed turban indicating he was a military secretary. He had a well-trimmed beard and kind gray eyes. Ali didn’t recognize him, but that wasn’t surprising. There was an entire section of the Royal Guard dedicated to the palace, and if the man was a secretary, it might have been decades since he trained in the Citadel.

The man promptly touched his heart and brow in the Geziri salute. “Peace be upon you, Qaid. I’m sorry to bother you.”

After hours of civilian complaints, a fellow Geziri warrior was a welcome sight. Ali smiled. “No bother at all. How can I help you?”

The secretary held out a thick roll of scrolls. “These are records of those suspected in manufacturing the faulty carpets that crashed in Babili.”

Ali stared at him in utter incomprehension. “What?”

The secretary narrowed his eyes. “The Babili incident . . . the one whose survivors your father just granted compensation. He ordered us to arrest their manufacturers and seize the remaining stock of carpets before they’re sold.”

Ali dimly remembered something like that being mentioned. “Oh . . . of course.” He reached for the scroll.

The other man held back. “Maybe I should give it to your secretary,” he said delicately. “Forgive me, my prince, but you look a little . . . overwhelmed.”

Ali cringed. He hadn’t realized it was that obvious. “I don’t have a secretary.”

“Then who took notes for you during today’s session?” Alarm rose in the other man’s voice. “There were at least a dozen matters that pertained to the Royal Guard.”

I was supposed to have someone take notes? Ali wracked his brain. Wajed had thoroughly explained Ali’s new responsibilities before he left for Ta Ntry, but shocked by Anas’s execution and the revelation about the weapons, Ali had struggled to pay attention.

“No one,” he confessed. Ali glanced at the sea of scribes—surely one of them would have a transcript of today’s session.

The other man cleared his throat. “If I may be so bold, Qaid . . . I typically take notes for myself regarding Citadel matters. I would gladly share them with you. And though I’m sure you would rather appoint a relative or member of the nobility as your secretary, if you need someone in the mean—”

“Yes,” Ali cut in, relieved. “Please . . . ,” he trailed off with some embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I asked your name.”

The secretary touched his heart again. “Rashid ben Salkh, my prince.” His eyes sparkled. “I look forward to working with you.”

Ali felt better as he headed back to his quarters. His attire and failure to take notes aside, he didn’t think he’d done terribly at court.

But, by God, those eyes . . . It was bad enough to stand and listen to inane petitions for hours; being examined by thousands of strangers while doing so was torture. He could hardly blame his father for drinking.

A palace guard bowed as Ali approached. “Peace be upon you, Prince Alizayd.” He opened the door for Ali, then