The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,21

face, its carefully sculpted columns and pavilions laden with magical goods. Ali smiled, returning the nods and salaams of various djinn merchants, a sense of calm stealing over him.

One of the vendors quickly stepped to block his path. “Ah, sheikh, I’ve been looking for you.”

Ali blinked, pulled from his euphoric daze. It was Reem, a woman from one of the artisan-caste families.

She waved a scroll in front of him “I need you to check this contract for me. I’m telling you … that shifty southern slave of Bilqis is cheating me. My enchantments have no equal, and I know I should be seeing higher returns on the baskets I sold him.”

“You do realize I’m one of those shifty southerners, correct?” Ali pointed out. The Qahtanis originally hailed from Am Gezira’s mountainous southern coast—and were rather proud descendants of the djinn servants Suleiman had once gifted Bilqis, the human queen of ancient Saba.

Reem shook her head. “You’re Daevabadi. It doesn’t count.” She paused. “It’s actually worse.”

Ali sighed and took the contract; between spending the morning digging a new canal and getting tossed around by a zahhak in the afternoon, he was beginning to yearn for his bed. “I’ll have a look.”

“Bless you, sheikh.” Reem turned away.

Ali and his friends kept walking but didn’t get far before Bir Nabat’s muezzin came huffing over to them.

“Brother Alizayd, peace and blessings upon you!” The muezzin’s gray eyes flitted over Ali. “Aye, you look half-dead on your feet.”

“Yes. I was about to—”

“Of course, you were. Listen …” The muezzin lowered his voice. “Is there any way you could give the khutbah tomorrow? Sheikh Jiyad hasn’t been feeling well.”

“Doesn’t Brother Thabit usually give the sermon in his father’s place?”

“Yes, but …” The muezzin lowered his voice even further. “I can’t deal with another of his rants, brother. I just can’t. The last time he gave the khutbah, all he did was ramble about how the music of lutes was leading young people away from prayer.”

Ali sighed again. He and Thabit didn’t get along, primarily because Thabit fervently believed all the gossip coming out of Daevabad and would rail to anyone who would listen that Ali was an adulterous liar who’d been sent to corrupt them all with “city ways.” “He won’t be happy when he learns you asked me.”

Aqisa snorted. “Yes, he will. It will give him something new to complain about.”

“And people enjoy your sermons,” the muezzin added quickly. “You choose very lovely topics.” His voice turned shrewd. “It is good for their faith.”

The man knew how to make an appeal, Ali would grant him that. “All right,” he grumbled. “I’ll do it.”

The muezzin pressed his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“You’re dealing with Thabit when he hears about this,” Ali said to Aqisa, half-stumbling down the path. They had almost reached his home. “You know how much he hates—” Ali broke off.

Two women were waiting for him outside his tent.

“Sisters!” he greeted them, forcing a smile to his face even as he inwardly swore. “Peace be upon you.”

“And upon you peace.” It was Umm Qays who spoke first, one of the village’s stone mages. She gave Ali a wide, oddly sly grin. “How does this day find you?”

Exhausted. “Well, thanks be to God,” Ali replied. “And yourselves?”

“Fine. We’re fine,” Bushra, Umm Qays’s daughter spoke up quickly. She was avoiding Ali’s eyes, embarrassment visible in her flushed cheeks. “Just passing through!”

“Nonsense.” Umm Qays yanked her daughter close, and the young woman gave a small, startled yelp. “My Bushra has just made the loveliest kabsa … she is an extraordinarily gifted cook, you know, can conjure up a feast from the barest of bones and a whisper of spice … Anyway, her first thought was to set aside a portion for our prince.” She beamed at Ali. “A good girl, she is.”

Ali blinked, a little taken aback by Umm Qays’s enthusiasm. “Ah … thank you,” he said, catching sight of Lubayd covering his mouth, his eyes bright with amusement. “It is much appreciated.”

Umm Qays was peeking in his tent. She tutted in disapproval. “A lonely place this looks, Alizayd al Qahtani. You are a great man. You should have a proper home in the cliffs and someone to return to.”

God have mercy, not this again. He stammered out a reply. “I-I thank you for your concern, but really I’m quite content. Being lonely.”

“Ah, but you’re a young man.” Umm Qays clapped his shoulder, giving his upper arm a squeeze. A surprised expression came over her face. “Well, my goodness