The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,72

rest of the city. Ali frowned. He’d have to see what was going on with Daevabad’s sanitation. He turned toward Rashid. “Make me an appointment with—”

Something whizzed past Ali’s right ear leaving a sharp sting. He let out a startled cry, instinctively reaching for his zulfiqar as he whirled around.

Standing on the edge of the fountain was one of the little boys he’d seen playing, the toy bow still in his grasp. Ali immediately dropped his hand. The boy looked at Ali with innocent black eyes; Ali saw he had used charcoal to draw a crooked black arrow on his cheek.

An Afshin arrow. Ali scowled. It was just like the fire worshippers to let their children run around pretending to be war criminals. He touched his ear, and came away with a smear of blood on his fingers.

Abu Nuwas pulled free his zulfiqar and stepped forward with a snarl, but Ali held him back. “Don’t. He’s just a boy.”

Seeing that he wasn’t going to be punished, the boy gave them a wicked grin and jumped off the fountain to flee down a twisting alley.

Kaveh’s eyes were bright with mirth. Across the plaza, a veiled woman held a hand across her hidden mouth, though Ali could hear her giggle. The old men playing chatrang had their eyes fixed on their game pieces, but their mouths twitched in amusement. Ali’s cheeks grew warm with embarrassment.

Rashid stepped up to him. “You should have the boy arrested, Qaid,” he said quietly in Geziriyya. “He’s young. Give him to the Citadel to be raised properly as one of us. Your ancestors used to do so all the time.”

Ali paused, nearly taken in by Rashid’s reasonable tone. And then he stopped. How is that any different from purebloods stealing shafit children? And the fact that he could do it, that Ali could snap his fingers and have a boy kidnapped from the only home he’d ever know, wrested from his parents and his people . . . ?

Well, it suddenly explained why someone like Kaveh might look upon him with such hostility.

Ali shook his head, uneasy. “No. Let’s just go back to the Citadel.”

“Oh, my love, my light, how you have stolen my happiness!”

Ali let out a grumpy sigh. It was a beautiful night. A thin moon hung over Daevabad’s dark lake, and stars twinkled in the cloudless sky. The air was fragrant with frankincense and jasmine. Before him played the city’s finest musicians, at hand was a platter of food from the king’s favored chef, and the dark eyes of the singer would have driven a dozen human men to their knees.

Ali was miserable. He fidgeted in his seat, keeping his gaze on the floor and trying to ignore the jingle of ankle bells and the girl’s smooth voice singing of things that made his blood rise. He tugged at the stiff collar of the new silver dishdasha Muntadhir had forced him to wear. Embroidered with a dozen rows of seed pearls, it was tight on his throat.

His behavior didn’t go unnoticed. “Your little brother doesn’t appear to be having a good time, my emir.” An even silkier female voice interrupted the singer, and Ali glanced up to meet Khanzada’s coy smile. “Are my girls not to your liking, Prince Alizayd?”

“Don’t take it personally, my light,” Muntadhir interrupted, kissing the hennaed hand of the courtesan curled at his side. “He got shot in the face this morning by a child.”

Ali threw his brother an annoyed look. “Do you have to keep bringing it up?”

“It’s very funny.”

Ali scowled, and Muntadhir lightly smacked his shoulder. “Ya, akhi, can you at least try to look less murderous? I invited you here so we could celebrate your promotion, not so you could terrify my friends.” He gestured at the dozen or so men arrayed around them, a handpicked group of the wealthiest and most influential nobles in the city.

“You didn’t invite me.” Ali sulked. “You ordered me.”

Muntadhir rolled his eyes. “You’re part of Abba’s court now, Zaydi.” He switched to Geziriyya and lowered his voice. “Socializing with these people is part of it . . . hell, it’s supposed to be a perk.”

“You know how I feel about these”—Ali waved his hand at a nobleman giggling like a little girl, and the man abruptly shut up—“debaucheries.”

Muntadhir sighed. “You need to stop talking like that, akhi.” He nodded at the platter. “Why don’t you eat something? Maybe the weight of some food in your stomach will drag you off your