The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,86

working class.

“You can call him Qaid, actually,” Rashid corrected. “At least for now.” Amusement simmered in his voice. “May we come in, sister?”

“Of course.” She held open the door. “I’ll prepare some tea.”

“Thank you. And please tell Sister Fatumai that we’re here. I’ll be in the back. There’s something I want to show the Qaid.”

There is? Curious, Ali wordlessly followed Rashid down a dark corridor. The orphanage looked clean—its floors were worn but well-scrubbed—but in terrible disrepair. Water dripped into pans from the broken roof, and mildew covered the books that were neatly stacked in a small classroom. The few toys he saw were sad things: animal bones carved into game pieces, patched dolls, and a ball made of rags.

As they turned the corner, he heard a terrible hacking cough. Ali glanced down the corridor. It was dim, but he spotted the shadowy form of an older woman supporting a skinny young boy upon a faded cushion. The boy started to cough again, the hacking sound interspaced by choked sobs.

The woman rubbed the boy’s back as he fought for air. “It’s okay, dear one,” Ali heard her say softly, bringing a cloth to his mouth as he coughed again. She pressed a steaming cup to his lips. “Have some of this. You’ll feel better.”

Ali’s eyes locked on the cloth she’d held to the boy’s mouth. It glistened with blood.

“Qaid?”

Ali glanced up, realizing Rashid was halfway down the corridor. He quickly caught up. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean to stare.”

“It’s all right. These are things I’m sure you’re usually kept from seeing.”

It was a strangely worded response, delivered with a hint of chiding that Ali had never heard from his mild-mannered secretary. But before he could dwell on it, they reached a large room fronting an uncovered courtyard. Tattered curtains, patched where possible, were all that separated it from the chilly rain falling in the yard.

Rashid pressed a finger to his lips and pulled back one of the curtains. The floor was crowded with sleeping children, dozens of boys and girls wrapped in blankets and bedrolls, packed close for both warmth and lack of space, Ali imagined. He took a step closer.

They were shafit children. And curled under a quilt, her hair already starting to grow out, was the girl from Turan’s tavern.

Ali stepped back so quickly he stumbled. We have a safe house in the Tukharistani Quarter . . . Horrified realization swept over him.

Rashid’s hand landed heavy on his shoulder. Ali jumped, half-expecting a blade.

“Easy, brother,” Rashid said softly. “You wouldn’t want to startle the children . . .” He clapped his other hand over Ali’s as Ali reached for his zulfiqar. “. . . nor run from this place covered in another’s blood. Not when you’re so easily recognized.”

“You bastard,” Ali whispered, stunned by how easily he’d walked into a trap so obvious in hindsight. He wasn’t usually one for swearing, but the words tumbled out. “You fucking trait—”

Rashid’s fingers dug a little deeper. “That’s enough.” He pushed Ali down the hall, gesturing to the next room. “We just want to talk.”

Ali hesitated. He could take Rashid in a fight, of that he was certain. But it would be bloody, and it would be loud. Their location was intentional. A single shout, and he’d awaken dozens of innocent witnesses. He had no good options, and so Ali steeled himself and walked through the door. His heart immediately sank.

“If it isn’t the new Qaid,” Hanno said, greeting him coolly. The shapeshifter’s hand dropped to the long knife tucked in his belt, and his copper eyes flashed. “I hope that red turban of yours was worth Anas’s life.”

Ali tensed, but before he could reply, a fourth person—the older woman from the corridor—joined them at the door.

She waved Hanno off. “Now, brother, surely that’s no way to treat our guest.” Despite the circumstances, her voice was oddly cheerful. “Make some use of yourself, you old pirate, and pull me up a seat.”

The shapeshifter grumbled, but did as he was told, laying a cushion upon a wooden crate. The woman made her way in, helped by a black wooden cane.

Rashid touched his brow. “Peace be upon you, Sister Fatumai.”

“And upon you, Brother Rashid.” She settled onto the cushion. She was shafit, that much Ali could tell from her dark brown eyes and rounded ears. Her hair was gray, half-covered by a white cotton shawl. She looked up at him. “My, you are tall. You must be Alizayd al Qahtani then.” The