that one. We got drunk together a few weeks ago. He’s an excellent poet.”
Ali gaped. “Abu Nuwas is a poet?”
“Oh, yes. Wonderfully scandalous stuff. You’d hate it.”
Aqisa shook her head. “Is there anyone in this city you haven’t befriended? Last time we were at the Citadel, there were grown warriors fighting to take you out for lunch.”
“The emir’s fancy crowd won’t have me,” Lubayd replied. “They think I’m a barbarian. But regular Geziri folk, soldiers …” He grinned. “Everyone likes a storyteller.”
Ali rubbed his temples. Most of Lubayd’s “stories” were tales meant to bolster Ali’s reputation. He hated it, but his friend only doubled his efforts when Ali asked him to stop. “Let me go see about this woman.”
The eastern wing was fairly quiet when Ali arrived, with only a pair of tile workers finishing a last stretch of wall and a small, older woman in a faded floral headscarf standing near the railing overlooking the garden, leaning heavily on a cane. Assuming she was the woman Abu Nuwas had meant, Ali crossed to her. Maybe she was someone’s grandmother; it would not be the first time an older relative had come here searching for work for a ne’er-do-well youth.
“Peace be upon you,” Ali called out as he approached. “How may I—”
She turned to face him, and Ali abruptly stopped talking. “Brother Alizayd …” Sister Fatumai, once the proud leader of the Tanzeem, stared back at him, her familiar brown eyes sharp as knives and simmering with anger. “It’s been a long time.”
“I’M SORRY TO HEAR YOU’RE HAVING TROUBLE WITH supplies,” Ali said loudly as he led Sister Fatumai away from the curious workers, ushering her toward a room packed with fresh linens. He was almost impressed he could lie considering how rattled he was, but knowing the spies his father had filled the hospital with, he had little choice. “Let’s see what we can spare …”
He ushered the Tanzeem leader into the room, and after quickly checking to make sure they were alone, shoved the door closed and whispered a locking enchantment under his breath. A half-filled oil lamp had been left on one of the shelves, and Ali quickly lit it. The conjured flame danced down the wick, throwing weak light across the small chamber.
He turned to face her, breathing hard. “S-sister Fatumai,” Ali stammered. “I … I’m so sorry. When I heard what happened to Rashid … and saw Sheikh Anas’s masjid … I assumed—”
“That I was dead?” Fatumai offered. “A fair assumption; your father certainly tried his best. And honestly, I thought the same of you when you left for Am Gezira. I figured it was a story told to hide the truth of your execution.”
“You’re not far from the truth.” He swallowed. “The orphanage?”
“It’s gone,” Fatumai replied. “We tried to evacuate when Rashid was arrested, but the Royal Guard caught up with the last group. They sold the youngest as servants and executed the rest.” Her gaze grew cold. “My niece was one of the ones they murdered. You might remember her,” she added, accusation lacing into her voice. “She made you tea when you visited.”
Ali braced himself on the wall, finding it hard to breathe. “My God … I’m so sorry, sister.”
“As am I,” she said softly. “She was a good woman. Engaged to marry Rashid,” she added, leaning against the wall as well. “Perhaps a small consolation that they entered Paradise as martyrs together.”
Ali stared at the ground, ashamed.
She must have noticed. “Does such speech bother you now? You were once one of Sheikh Anas’s most devout students, but I know faith is a garment worn carelessly by those who live in the palace.”
“I never lost my faith.” Ali said the words quietly, but there was a challenge in them. He’d only met Sister Fatumai after Rashid, another member of the Tanzeem, had tricked him into visiting their safe house, an orphanage in the Tukharistani Quarter. It was a visit designed to guilt the wealthy prince into funding them, a tour to show him sick and hungry orphans … but conveniently not the weapons he’d learned they were also purchasing with his money. Ali had never gone back; the Tanzeem’s use of violence—possibly against innocent Daevabadis—was not a line he would cross.
He changed the subject. “Would you like to sit? Can I get you something to drink?”
“I did not come here to enjoy Geziri hospitality, Prince Alizayd.” She shifted on her feet. Beneath the tired exterior and silver hair, there was steel in