The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,129

man who twisted our most sacred beliefs—can have his pride soothed?” Ali shook his head. “I will not.”

A little too late, Ali realized that much of the crowd had gone quiet and that his words had carried. More people were gathering to watch, shafit and working-class djinn locals from the surrounding neighborhoods, people who were staring at the emir and his overdressed companions with open resentment.

Muntadhir seemed to notice as well. His gray eyes flickered across the growing mob, and Ali saw his hands twitch on the reins.

Tariq pressed on, arrogant. “A very pretty speech to your supporters, Prince Alizayd. I suppose it doesn’t matter that it rests on the lies of a bunch of ungrateful dirt-bloods and will ruin one of your kinsmen, a man who escorted the emir’s own mother to Daevabad.” He stared down his nose at Ali, and when he spoke again, his words were precise. “Perhaps a rather clear lesson to us all in how little family means to you.”

Ali was biting his tongue so hard it hurt. He could only thank God it was a dry, sunny day—otherwise he was fairly certain he’d be learning new, murderous things to do with rain. “The shafit aren’t lying. I saw with my own eyes—”

“Oh?” Tariq interrupted. “Where are the whips then, Prince Alizayd? The chains and these crying children you claim I have so terribly mistreated?”

“I’ve sent them away to be cared for.” Ali motioned to the debris. “There’s no evidence because we’ve been here since dawn. But you can be damn sure I took down the name of every shafit you abused here, and I’d be happy to present their testimony.”

“After you’ve gilded their tongues, you mean,” Tariq snorted. “It is the Ayaanle way, after all.”

Ali abruptly lost the battle he’d been waging with his temper. His hand dropped to his khanjar. “Would you like to settle things our way?” he hissed in Geziriyya. “You should be fleeing to Mecca. If you had any fear of God, you would spend the rest of your days repenting for the evil you’ve done here before you burn in hellfire for all—”

“Enough.” Muntadhir’s voice cracked across the plaza. “Draw that blade, Alizayd, and I’ll have you arrested. No.” He held up a hand, cutting off Tariq when he opened his mouth. “I’ve heard enough from both of you. Return to your home, cousin. There’s obviously no negotiation to be made here. I’ll take care of you and your wife myself.” He nodded to the rest of his men. “Let’s go.”

Ali dropped his hand from his khanjar. “Dhiru, I only meant—”

“I know what you meant. And I told you not to call me that.” Muntadhir suddenly looked exhausted, fed up and disgusted with the entire situation. “My God, and to think she almost convinced me to support this madness …” He shook his head. “Perhaps I should be grateful for this, in a way.”

“Grateful for what?” Ali ventured, even as his stomach twisted in apprehension.

“Grateful for the reminder that you will always choose your beliefs over your family. Which is fine—enjoy having the shafit as your only ally.” Muntadhir touched his brow before turning his horse away. “See how far that takes you in Daevabad, little brother.”

Nahri pounded again on the door to her husband’s apartment. “Muntadhir, I don’t care who’s in there or what you’re drinking, open up. We need to go.”

There was no response.

Her frustration reached dangerous levels. She knew her husband and early mornings were no companions, but it had taken her weeks to arrange this visit to the Grand Temple, and they were already running late.

She banged on the door again. “If I have to drag you out of bed—”

The door abruptly opened. Nahri nearly tumbled in, narrowly catching herself.

“Banu Nahida …” Muntadhir leaned heavily against the door frame. “Wife,” he clarified, lifting a jade wine cup to his lips. “Always so impatient.”

Nahri stared at him, completely lost for words. Muntadhir was half dressed, wearing what appeared to be a woman’s shawl wrapped around his waist and the dramatically peaked court cap of a Tukharistani noble.

A burst of laughter behind him caught her attention, and Nahri glanced past his shoulder to see two dazzling women lounging in similar states of disarray. One was smoking from a water pipe while the second—dressed in nothing but Muntadhir’s court turban wrapped in a way it was certainly not intended—rearranged game pieces.

Nahri inhaled, fighting the sudden desire to burn the room down. “Muntadhir,” she said, her jaw clenching, “do