The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,62

IS A VERY LOVELY PLACE TO BE EXECUTED, I WILL grant you that,” Lubayd said conversationally as they were escorted down a deserted palace corridor. Sweet-smelling purple flowers climbed the columns, dappled sunlight playing through the wooden screens.

“We’re not going to be executed,” Ali said, trying to keep the feeling that they were walking to their doom from his face.

“They took our weapons,” Lubayd pointed out. “Well, they took Aqisa’s and my weapons … you gave yours away. Brilliant move, by the way.”

Ali threw him a dark look.

“In here, my prince.” The officer stopped, pulling open a blue-painted door with a pattern of leaping gazelles carved around it. It led to a small courtyard garden, enclosed by high walls of pale cream stone. In the center was a sunken pavilion shadowed by lush palms. Water bubbled merrily in a stone fountain shaped like a star and tiled with sunbursts, and across from it was a carpet laden with silver platters of rainbow-hued pastries and jewel-bright fruit.

“Your father will join you shortly. It is an honor to meet you, my prince.” The officer hesitated, then added, “My family is from Hegra. The work you did on our well last year … it saved them.” His eyes met Ali’s. “I hope you know how fond many of us in the Royal Guard remain of you.”

Ali considered the carefully worded statement. “A fondness well returned,” he replied. “What is your name, brother?”

The man bowed his head. “Daoud.”

“A pleasure to meet you.” Ali touched his heart. “Send your people my greetings when next you meet.”

“God willing, my prince.” He bowed again and then left, pulling the door shut behind him.

Aqisa gave him a look. “Making friends?”

Allies. Though Ali didn’t like how swiftly his mind settled on that word. “Something like that.”

Ahead, Lubayd had fallen upon the food. He took a bite of a honeyed confection studded with sugared flowers, and his eyes closed in bliss. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“It is likely poisoned,” Aqisa said.

“It is worth death.”

Ali joined him, his stomach rumbling. It had been years since he’d seen such delicacies. As usual, they’d been piled to impress—an amount not even Ali and his hungry companions would be able to finish. It was a practice he hadn’t thought much about when he was younger, but recalling the visible poverty in Daevabad’s streets, he suddenly saw it as sinfully wasteful.

The door creaked open. “Little Zaydi!”

Ali glanced up to see a barrel-chested man in an officer’s uniform and crimson turban stride into the garden. “Wajed uncle!” he cried happily.

The beaming Qaid pulled Ali into a crushing hug. “By God, boy, is it good to see you again!”

Ali felt some of the tension leave him, or perhaps Wajed’s embrace was merely turning him numb. “You too, uncle.”

Wajed pushed him back, holding him at arm’s length to look him over; there were tears in the older man’s eyes, but he laughed, clearly delighted at the sight of Ali. “Where is the gangly boy I taught to swing a zulfiqar? My soldiers were whispering that you resembled Zaydi the Great, striding up to the palace in your rags with your companions in tow.”

That was not a comparison Ali suspected would sit well with his father. “I don’t think anyone would mistake me for Zaydi the Great,” he demurred quickly. “But meet my friends.” He took Wajed’s arm. “Aqisa, Lubayd … this is Wajed al Sabi, the Qaid of the Royal Guard. He all but raised me when I was sent to the Citadel.”

Wajed touched his heart. “An honor,” he said sincerely. A little emotion crept into the Qaid’s gruff voice. “Thank you for protecting him.”

Ali heard the creak of the door again. His heart skipping a beat, he glanced back, expecting his father.

But it was Muntadhir who stepped into the sunlight.

Ali froze as his brother met and then held his gaze. Muntadhir looked paler than Ali remembered, shadows dark under his eyes. Two thin scars marked his left brow—a remnant of the Afshin’s scourge. But they did little to detract from his appearance. Muntadhir had always been the dashing one, the handsome, rakish prince who won over adoring nobles as swiftly as Ali put them off. He looked striking in the Qahtani royal regalia: the gold-trimmed black robe that swirled like smoke around his feet and the brilliant turban of twisted blue, purple, and gold silk that crowned his head. A length of luminous black Geziri pearls circled his neck and a ruby winked like