“Another nightmare?”
“No,” Ali said quickly, hating the fear in his friend’s expression. “No nightmares. But I was exhausted and didn’t trust myself not to say something inflammatory to my father. Or my brother.” He made a sour face as they kept walking. “To anyone really.”
“Well, then I’m glad you slept in and avoided getting arrested. Though you did miss quite the party.” He stretched, cracking his neck. “Is Aqisa meeting us at the arena?”
“Later. I asked her to guard the Banu Nahida during the parade this morning.”
“That’s the one meant to reenact Anahid’s arrival in Daevabad, right?” Lubayd snorted. “In that case, will you and your little healer be fighting to the death at some point to represent the latter half of our history?”
Ali flinched at the joke. Go back to Am Gezira, Ali. Steal some happiness for yourself. Ali had been replaying those words and the memory of Nahri’s hand cradling his jaw in his mind since last night. Which—he had to give credit to her—had rather effectively interrupted his brewing thoughts of rebellion.
He closed his eyes. God forgive him, she had looked so beautiful last night. After not seeing her for weeks, Ali had been struck speechless at the sight of her standing in the darkness of that quiet room, dressed in the finery of her ancestors. She’d looked like a legend brought to life, and for the first time, he’d been nervous—truly nervous—in her presence, struggling not to stare as she smiled her sharp smile and slid her fingers under her chador. And when she’d touched his face …
Muntadhir’s wife. She’s Muntadhir’s wife.
As if his thoughts had the power to conjure, a familiar laugh sounded ahead, one whose lightheartedness cut through Ali like a knife.
“—I’m not mocking you,” Muntadhir teased. “I think the ‘Suleiman just threw me across the world look’ has its appeal. Your rags even smell!” Muntadhir laughed again. “It’s all very authentic.”
“Oh, be quiet,” he heard Jamshid return. “There’s more where these rags came from and your steward owes me a favor. I’ll have them used to line your fancy turban.”
Ali peered around the corner. Muntadhir and Jamshid were across the corridor, framed together in a sunlit arch. He frowned, shading his eyes against the sudden brightness. For half a second, he’d swear he saw his brother’s hands on Jamshid’s collar, his face inclined toward his neck as though jokingly smelling him, but then Ali blinked, sunspots blossoming across his vision, and the two men were apart, neither looking very pleased to see him.
“Alizayd.” His brother’s disdainful gaze flickered up and down Ali’s rumpled dishdasha. “Late night?”
Muntadhir always seemed to know a new way to make him feel small. His brother was immaculately turned out as usual in his ebony robes and brilliant royal turban. He’d looked even more stylish last night, dressed in an ikat-patterned waistcloth and brilliant sapphire tunic. Ali had seen him at the party, had watched from an upper balcony after Nahri left as his brother laughed and caroused like he’d built the hospital himself.
“As always,” Ali replied acidly.
Jamshid’s eyes flashed at his tone. The Daeva man was indeed dressed in rags, his black tunic torn and smeared with ash and his pants with unfired brick dust—a nod to the human temple that Suleiman had ordered their ancestors to build.
Muntadhir cleared his throat. “Jamshid, why don’t you head to the procession? We’ll meet later.” He squeezed the other man’s shoulder. “I still want to see that saddle.”
Jamshid nodded. “Until then, Emir-joon.”
He left, and Muntadhir ignored Ali, sweeping through the entrance that led to the arena’s royal viewing platform.
Lubayd snickered. “I suppose emirs don’t like to be interrupted, same as everyone else.”
Ali was baffled by the amusement in his friend’s voice. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you know …” Lubayd stopped and studied Ali. “Oh … you don’t know.” Spots of color rose in his cheeks. “Forget it,” he said, turning to follow Muntadhir.
“What don’t I know?” Ali asked, but Lubayd ignored him, suddenly very interested in the spectacle below. To be fair, it was a sight: a half-dozen Daeva archers were competing, putting on a show to amuse the packed crowd while they waited for the procession to arrive.
Lubayd whistled. “Wow,” he said, watching as a mounted Daeva archer on a silver stallion raced across the sand, aiming a flaming arrow at a hollow gourd mounted on a high pole. The gourd was stuffed with kindling and painted with pitch; it burst into flames, and the crowd cheered. “They really are