cruel plans revealed to the entire Geziri Quarter: sung by its muezzins and cried out by every imam and sheikh who knew him—respected clerics whose word would be trusted. The plans were followed by a far simpler call:
Ghassan al Qahtani asks that you abide the slaughter of our shafit kin.
Zaydi al Qahtani asks you to stop it.
His plan very much had the desired effect … more than even Ali had anticipated. Whether his people were feeling nostalgic for the proud cause that had brought them to Daevabad, fed up with corruption, or simply believed the Afshin-slayer who’d wandered their land digging wells and breaking bread with their relatives was the right man to follow, Ali couldn’t say. But they had revolted, Geziri men and women spilling into the streets and seizing any soldiers who tried to stop them from going to the shafit district. Both neighborhoods were now under his control, a mix of soldiers loyal to Ali and well-armed civilians taking up positions throughout.
“The hospital?” he asked, disquiet rising in his heart. “Was the Banu Nahida …”
“She had just left,” Daoud replied. “With the grand wazir and his son. They apparently went rushing out in some haste. We have soldiers positioned outside the hospital, but per your orders, none will go inside. The freed slave Razu is guarding the entrance and threatening to turn anyone who crosses her into a spider.” The man said these words with a nervous glance, as if expecting Razu to pop out and transform him into an insect right then and there.
“Good. Make it known that if a single Daeva is harmed tonight by one of our men, I’ll execute the perpetrator myself.” The thought of the wounded Daevas still inside the hospital made Ali sick. He couldn’t imagine how terrified they must have been to learn they were trapped in the building while the surrounding neighborhoods rebelled under the leadership of the “Afshin-slayer.”
Ali’s gaze fell on Wajed’s desk. Needing access to its wealth of city maps, Ali had taken over the Qaid’s office, but doing so felt like carving out a piece of his heart. He could not stand in this room without recalling the hours he’d spent staging battles with rocks and sticks as a young child while the Qaid worked above him. He’d read every book in here and examined every battle diagram, Wajed quizzing him with a far gentler affection than his own father ever had.
He will never forgive me for this, Ali knew. Wajed was loyal to the end, his father’s closest companion since their shared childhood.
He turned to Lubayd. “Do you really think Aqisa can sneak into the harem?”
“I think Aqisa can do pretty much anything she sets her mind to,” Lubayd replied. “Probably better than you or I.”
Good. Ali needed Aqisa to get his letter to Zaynab; his sister would at least try to help him, this he knew. “God willing, my sister can convince Muntadhir to support us.”
“And then?” Lubayd crossed his arms. “You’ve taken the Citadel. Why are you going to hand it back to anyone, let alone the brother you’ve been fighting with for months?” His gaze grew pointed. “People aren’t taking to the street to make Muntadhir king, Ali.”
“And I’m not doing this to be king. I want my brother and sister on my side. I need them on my side.” For Ali was fairly certain his father had a plan in place on the chance Ali rebelled and took the Citadel. He’d made his opposition to the king quite clear and it was no secret he was well liked by the soldiers with whom he’d grown up. He knew his father; there was no way Ghassan hadn’t come up with a strategy to defuse him.
But for Muntadhir, his devoutly loyal emir? For the Princess Zaynab, the proclaimed light of his eyes? Ali suspected his father’s reaction would be murkier, slower, and emotional. Ali might have taken the Citadel, but success lay with his siblings. His life lay with his siblings. He’d offered terms to his father—a letter outlining the steps he wanted to take to ensure security while they investigated the attack—but Ali knew the moment he ordered the muezzins to reveal Ghassan’s plans for the shafit that there was no going back. His father would not forgive such a breach in loyalty.
“I pray your brother has better sense than you.” It was Abu Nuwas, bound on the floor and very angry. Ali had brought him up in what he suspected would