The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,70

the glittering scales and the frightened muhtasib, a hint of anger crept into his voice. “What are you doing in my quarter?”

“There’ve been several reports of fraud coming out of here,” Ali explained. “I was just examining the scales—”

“Examining the scales? Are you a wazir now?” Kaveh raised a hand to cut off Ali before he could reply. “Never mind . . . I’ve wasted enough time this morning looking for you.” He beckoned to the door. “Come in, Mir e-Parvez, and give your report to the Qaid.”

There was some inaudible muttering from the doorway.

Kaveh rolled his eyes. “I don’t care what you heard. He doesn’t have crocodile teeth, and he isn’t going to eat you.” Ali flinched, and Kaveh continued. “Forgive him, he’s had a terrible fright at the hands of the djinn.”

We are all djinn. Ali bit back the retort as the anxious merchant came forward. Mir e-Parvez was thickset and older, beardless like most Daeva. He was dressed in a gray tunic and loose dark trousers, the typical garb of Daeva men.

The merchant pressed his palms together in greeting but kept his gaze on the floor. His hands were shaking. “Forgive me, my prince. When I learned you were serving as Qaid, I-I did not want to trouble you.”

“It’s the Qaid’s job to be troubled,” Kaveh cut in, ignoring Ali’s glare. “Just tell him what happened.”

The other man nodded. “I run a shop outside the quarter selling fancy human goods,” he started. His Djinnistani was broken, colored by a thick Divasti accent.

Ali raised his eyebrows, already sensing where this was going. The only “fancy human goods” a Daeva merchant would sell outside their quarter were human-made intoxicants. Most djinn had little tolerance for human spirits, and they were banned by the Holy Book anyway, so it was illegal to sell them in the rest of the city. The Daevas had no such qualms and freely traded in the stuff, peddling it to foreign tribesmen at greatly inflated prices.

The man continued. “I’ve had some trouble in the past with djinn. My windows smashed, they protest and spit when I pass by. I say nothing. I don’t want trouble.” He shook his head. “But last night, these men break into my shop while my son is there and smash my bottles and set fire to everything. When my son tried to stop them, they hit him and cut his face. They accused him of being a ‘fire worshipper’ and said he’s leading djinn to sin!”

Not exactly false charges. Ali refrained from saying so, knowing Kaveh would go running to his father at the slightest whisper of injustice against his tribe. “Did you report this to the guard in your quarter?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the merchant said, bungling his title, his Djinnistani growing worse as he got upset. “But they do nothing. This happens all the time and always nothing. They laugh or ‘make report,’ but nothing changes.”

“There are not enough guards in the Daeva neighborhoods,” Kaveh interrupted. “And not enough . . . diversity among them. I’ve been telling Wajed this for years.”

“So you requested more soldiers from Wajed—just not ones that look like him,” Ali replied, though he knew Kaveh had a point. The soldiers patrolling the markets were often the youngest, many straight from the sands of Am Gezira. They probably feared protecting a man like Mir e-Parvez was as much a sin as drinking his wares.

But there was no easy solution; the bulk of the military was Geziri, and they were already stretched thin. “Tell me, whose district do I take these soldiers from, Kaveh?” Ali pressed on. “Should the Tukharistanis go without so the Daevas feel safer selling liquor?”

“The allocation of the guard is not my realm of responsibility, Prince Alizayd. Maybe if you took a break from terrorizing my muhtasib . . .”

Ali straightened up and came around the table, cutting off Kaveh’s sarcastic remark. Mir e-Parvez actually stepped back, giving Ali’s coppery zulfiqar a nervous look.

By the Most High, were the rumors surrounding him really that bad? Judging from the look on the merchant’s face, one would think Ali spent every other Friday slaughtering Daevas.

He sighed. “Your son is okay, I trust?”

The merchant blinked in surprise. “He . . . yes, my prince,” he stammered. “He will recover.”

“God be praised. Then I will speak to my men and see what we can do about improving security in your quarter. Go over the damages to your shop and submit the bill to my aide Rashid.