The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,60

was shaking, rubbing her back and whispering into her ear as she sobbed. He stepped back as the guards made a halfhearted attempt to pull his daughter away, glaring at them.

The Geziri djinn crossed his arms over his fine silks and then sighed, striding to the front of the platform.

A too-wide grin came over his face. “How’s this pair for you who’ve not yet had the good fortune to spot some weak-blooded kin? They’re both Daevabadi-born and fluent in Djinnistani. And our friend here is a talented cook. We found him running a snack stall in the bazaar. He’d be an asset in the kitchen of any long-lost relation.”

What? Ali stared in incomprehension at the sight before him.

Aqisa was clearly not as confused. “They’re selling them,” she whispered in rising horror. “They’re selling shafit.”

“That can’t be.” Lubayd looked sick all over again. “That … that is forbidden. No Geziri would ever …”

Ali wordlessly pressed the reins of his camel into Lubayd’s hands.

Lubayd grabbed his arm. Ali tried to wrench away, and Lubayd nodded at the line of men guarding the stockade. “Look, you rash fool.”

Ali stared—but it wasn’t because of the guards. Familiar landmarks drew his eye: a pottery shop with a blue-striped door, the distinctive way two of the narrow alleys ran close but never touched, the slightly slumped minaret in the distance. Ali knew this neighborhood. He knew what had once stood here, what the building in ruins before him once was.

It was the mosque at which Sheikh Anas, the martyred former leader of the Tanzeem, had preached.

Ali inhaled, suddenly breathless. His father might as well have twisted a knife in his heart. But he knew the punishment hadn’t been directed at the son in faraway Am Gezira; it had been aimed at the shafit whose plight had pushed him into disloyalty … the ones being auctioned off before his eyes.

The girl began to cry harder.

“To hell with this,” Aqisa snapped, striding forward.

Ali followed her, leaving Lubayd cursing in their wake and struggling with the camels. The Geziri trader must have noticed them because he broke off from his vile pitches, his steel eyes lighting with anticipation.

“By the Most High, you two look like you just blew in from a sandstorm.” The trader laughed. “Certainly not my usual customers, but I suppose one can find blood kin anywhere.” He lifted a dark brow. “As long as that kin can pay.”

Aqisa’s hand dropped to her sword. Ali swiftly stepped in front of her. “When did Daevabad start selling its shafit citizens?” he demanded.

“Selling?” The man clucked his tongue. “We’re not selling anyone.” He sounded aghast. “That would be illegal. We are merely facilitating the search for this man’s pureblood family … and then taking a fee to support our work.” He touched his heart. “Easier to find relatives when he’s standing in front of them, no?”

It was a pathetically flimsy cover, and at his side, Aqisa snarled. Ali could only imagine how awful his home must look to his friends. Like many Geziris, the djinn of Bir Nabat kept their mixed-blood relatives with them, ignoring the law that demanded they be brought to Daevabad to live out their lives. The few shafit in Bir Nabat were treated as equals, roles found for them no matter their abilities with magic.

Ali gritted his teeth. “It doesn’t look like he desires to find any pureblooded kin,” he said. “You said he had a livelihood? Why not let him return to it?”

The trader shrugged. “The shafit are like children. Should we let children choose their fate as well?”

At that, Aqisa elbowed Ali hard in the stomach and then took advantage of his distraction to push him out of her way. She pulled free her khanjar, her eyes flashing. “I should cut out your tongue,” she snapped in Geziriyya. “You’re a traitor to our tribe, to everything our people stand for!”

The trader raised his hands as several of his guards flanked him. “Nothing we’re doing here is illegal,” he said, the oily tone leaving his voice. “And I don’t need some northern garbage-picker getting everyone riled up …”

“What is your price?” The question was poison in Ali’s mouth. “The price for the man and his daughter both?”

The trader shrugged in the direction of a djinn in shocking spotted robes. “The gentleman from Agnivansha offered twelve hundred dinars for the girl alone.”

Twelve hundred dinars. A disgustingly low amount at which to value a life and yet far more than what he and his companions could