The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,95

his father’s face darkened. “I hope you keep your sense of humor, Alizayd, when I send you to some wretched garrison in the wastes of the Sahara.” He jabbed angrily at the papers. “You were supposed to hunt down the remaining Tanzeem and teach the shafit a lesson. Yet our jail is mostly empty, and I see no evidence of increased arrests or evictions. What happened to the new ordinances on the shafit? Should not half of them be out on the street?”

So Rashid had been correct last night in saying Ghassan would soon realize Ali wasn’t putting the new laws in place. Ali fought for words. “Is it not a good thing for our jail to be empty? There has been no mass violence since Anas’s execution, no increase in crime . . . I cannot arrest people for things they don’t do.”

“Then you should have drawn them out. I told you I wanted them gone. You are Qaid. It’s your responsibility to figure out how to accomplish my orders.”

“By inventing charges?”

“Yes,” Ghassan said vehemently. “If that is what’s needed. Besides, Abu Nuwas says there have been several instances of purebloods having their foster children kidnapped in the past few weeks. Could you not have followed up on that?”

Foster children? Is that what they call them? Ali gave his father an incredulous look. “You realize the people who make those complaints are slavers, yes? They kidnap these children from their parents in order to sell them to the highest bidder!” Ali started to rise from his seat.

“Sit down,” his father snapped. “And don’t spout that shafit propaganda at me. People give up children all the time. And if these so-called slavers of yours have their paperwork in order, then as far as both you and I are concerned, they fall within the law.”

“But, Abba—”

His father slammed his fist onto the desk so hard the scrolls jumped. An inkwell fell, smashing to the floor.

“Enough. I’ve already told Abu Nuwas that such transactions can now be done in the bazaar if it will make things safer.” When Ali opened his mouth, his father held up his hand. “Don’t,” he warned. “If you say another word on the matter, I swear I’ll have you stripped of your titles and sent back to Am Gezira for the rest of your first century.” He shook his head. “I was willing to give you a chance to prove your loyalty, Alizayd, but—”

Muntadhir swept between them and spoke for the first time. “It is not yet at that point, Abba,” he said cryptically. “Let us see what the day brings—that is what we decided, yes?” He ignored Ali’s questioning look. “But perhaps when Wajed returns, Ali should go to Am Gezira. He is not even at his quarter century yet. Give him a garrison back home, and let him get seasoned for a few decades among our own people in a place where he can do less damage.”

“That’s not necessary.” Ali’s face grew hot, but his father was already nodding in agreement.

“It is something to consider, yes. But things will not continue like this until Wajed’s return. After today, you’ll have excuse enough to crack down on the shafit.”

“What?” Ali sat up straight. “Why?”

A shrill bird cry from outside the window interrupted them, and then a gray hawk neatly swept through the stone frame, tumbling to the floor in the form of a Geziri soldier, his uniform perfectly pressed. He fell into a bow as smoky feathers melted back into his skin. A scout, Ali recognized, one of the shapeshifters that regularly patrolled both the city and the surrounding lands.

“Your Majesty,” the scout started. “Forgive my intrusion, but I have news I thought urgent.”

Ghassan frowned impatiently when the scout fell silent. “Which is . . . ?”

“There’s a Daeva slave crossing the lake with an Afshin mark on his face.”

His father’s scowl deepened. “And? I have Daeva men going mad, painting themselves up in Afshin marks and running half-naked through the streets at least once a decade. That he’s a slave only explains his lunacy.”

The scout persisted. “He . . . he did not seem mad, my king. A bit haggard perhaps, but imposing. He looked like a warrior to me and wore a dagger at his waist.”

Ghassan stared. “Do you know when the last Afshin died, soldier?” When the scout flushed, Ghassan continued. “Fourteen hundred years ago. Slaves don’t last that long. The ifrit give them to the humans to cause chaos for a few