The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,127

has his job?”

Ali smiled. “And my eternal gratitude.”

Lubayd clucked his tongue. “Do you ever rest between these tasks? You do know most people sleep at night, yes? They don’t just hunch over pages of numbers and mutter to themselves.”

“I like working hard,” Ali retorted. “It keeps my mind off things.”

“This seems like the kind of place where you should probably keep your mind on things.” Lubayd gestured at a trio of djinn pulling partitions from the wreckage. “Soldiers?”

“Friends from when I was a cadet. They had the day off and wanted to help.”

“I suspect they’re not the only ones.” Lubayd lowered his voice. “I’ve been hearing whispers again, the kind you asked me to keep an ear out for.”

Ali stopped. “From the Guard?”

Lubayd nodded. “A lot of soldiers think fondly of you, Ali. Very fondly. And when those new uniforms and rations show up at the Citadel, people are going to know you’re behind them.”

Ali paused. “Good.”

Lubayd started. “Good?”

“My father spent five years making it clear he didn’t care whether I lived or died,” Ali said, defending himself. “Should I pretend I’m not pleased people like me … particularly when those people are the ones with weapons?”

His friend assessed him shrewdly. “I might not be some Daevabadi courtier, Ali, but even I know what it looks like when bitter second sons start making friends with the military.” Intent laced into his voice. “That wasn’t the plan, remember? The plan was to return to Am Gezira with your head still attached to your neck. With my head still attached to my neck.”

The sound of horses—at least a half dozen, their hooves striking the cobbled stones with speed—interrupted them. Ali glanced up, ready to chide whoever it was for riding at such a pace in the crowded plaza.

The words died on his tongue. It was Muntadhir—and he looked furious. Just behind him rode a coterie of his companions, the wealthy dilettantes who orbited him like particularly useless moons. They stood out in this neighborhood, one of Daevabad’s poorest, their jewels glinting in the sun and their vibrant silks gaudy.

Despite the crowd, Muntadhir was across the plaza in moments; he’d always been an excellent horseman. When they reached Ali, his mount came to an effortless stop, as if it could read its rider’s thoughts. It was a beautiful animal, silver spots scattered across its ebony hide like a spray of stars in the night sky.

Ali tensed. He wasn’t expecting his brother. On the contrary, Muntadhir had been avoiding Ali’s increasingly desperate attempts to talk to him with admirable success. His brother ignored him when they were at court and had obviously enlisted his formidable—and loyal—staff in ensuring they were never alone. Ali would no sooner corner him after a meeting than a steward would magically appear to usher Muntadhir off on some “urgent” unspecified errand.

“Emir,” Ali greeted, uneasy. Every instinct was warning him to tread carefully. “Peace be upon you.”

“Peace is the last thing you’ve brought me,” Muntadhir snapped. He threw a thick scroll at Ali, which Ali instinctively caught. “Is this a joke?”

Baffled, Ali unfurled the scroll. He recognized it at once … mostly because he’d thrown it himself, hours earlier, at the men he’d found forcing a new group of stolen shafit into the foul pens Ali’s workers had just finished tearing down. It was a royal proclamation declaring the area was now the property of the king, and that any shafit in the vicinity were free to leave.

He frowned. “How did you get this?”

“Strange you should ask: it was given to my cousin this morning by one of his servants.”

A terrible chill descended over Ali. “Tariq al Ubari is your cousin? One of your relatives was responsible for this place?”

A Geziri man emerged from Muntadhir’s crowd of sparkling friends. He sat in a gilded saddle upon a beautiful red stallion, wearing a fine brocade coat woven with silver thread and jade beads. Ropes of pearls lined his neck, the largest ending in a gold brooch the size of Ali’s fist, encrusted with rubies in the shape of a zahhak.

Ali instantly disliked him. “You’re Tariq al Ubari, I take it?” he asked.

“Cousin to our emir, God preserve him,” Tariq declared coolly, matching Ali’s disdain. “Queen Saffiyeh, may her soul rest in peace, and I shared a third great-great-uncle.”

Oh. The mention of Muntadhir’s mother landed like a heavy stone between them. Ali tried to maintain his calm, and he could see Muntadhir struggling to do the same. His brother rarely spoke about