grim. “Then it is a side effect of the marid possession.”
Ali pressed his palms against his knees. “It’s nothing,” he insisted. “And no one there cares. They’re too busy trying to survive.”
His father didn’t seem convinced. “It is still risky.”
Ali didn’t argue. Of course it was risky, but he hadn’t cared. The sight of dying Bir Nabat, the thin bodies of its people, and the children whose hair was streaked with the rust of famine had driven those concerns from his heart.
He met his father’s gaze. “Northern Am Gezira had been suffering for years. I wanted to do some good for the people who sheltered me before I was murdered by assassins.”
He let the charge lie, and though Ghassan’s calm expression slipped slightly, his voice was even when he replied. “And yet you still live.”
Resisting the urge to offer a sarcastic apology, Ali responded simply. “All praise is due to God.” Muntadhir rolled his eyes, but Ali continued. “I have no desire to play politics in Daevabad. My companions need only a short time to rest, and I intend to make the Ayaanle provision us in exchange for the transport of their goods. We can be gone in a week.”
Ghassan smiled. “No. As a matter of fact, Alizayd, you cannot.”
Dread snared Ali’s heart, but Muntadhir reacted first, straightening up like a shot. “Why not? Do you hear him? He wishes to leave.”
“It will look suspicious if he goes back too soon.” Ghassan took another sip of his wine. “He hasn’t been home in five years and leaves in days? People will talk. And I won’t have rumors of our rift spreading. Not with the Ayaanle already meddling.”
His brother’s face shuttered. “I see.” He was gripping his knees as though resisting the urge to throttle someone. Ali, most likely. “Then when is he leaving?”
Ghassan tented his hands. “When he has my permission to do so … permission I’m granting to you now, Muntadhir. Ask the servant at the gate to retrieve the case from my office on your way. He will know what you mean.”
Muntadhir didn’t argue. He didn’t say another word, in fact. He got to his feet smoothly and departed without looking at Ali again. But Ali watched his brother until he vanished, a lump rising in his throat that he couldn’t quite swallow.
Ghassan waited until they were alone before he spoke again. “Forgive him. He’s been fighting with his wife more than usual lately, and it puts him in a foul mood.”
His wife. Ali wanted to ask after her, but he dared not make the situation worse.
But his father had clearly noticed his reticence. “You used to speak far more freely. And loudly.”
Ali stared at his hands. “I was young.”
“You are young still. You’ve not even reached your first quarter century.”
Silence fell between them, awkward and charged. He could feel his father studying him, and it sent a prickle down his spine. It wasn’t the fear of his youth, Ali realized, but something deeper, more complicated.
It was anger. Ali was angry. He was angry about the cruel sentence his father had handed him and angry that the king was more worried about gossip in Am Gezira than its people going hungry. He was beyond angry at what was happening to Daevabad’s shafit in the ghastly ruins of Anas’s mosque.
And he was angry that feeling this way about his own father still filled him with shame.
Fortunately, a servant came in at that moment, bearing a plain leather box about the size of a turban case. He bowed and set it at Ghassan’s side. As he turned to leave, the king motioned him close and whispered an order in his ear Ali couldn’t make out. The man nodded and left.
“I will not keep you, Ali,” Ghassan said. “It’s a long journey and I can only imagine how eager you are for a hot bath and a soft bed. But I have something that should have been given over to you long ago, in keeping with our traditions.” He motioned to the box.
Apprehensive, Ali took it. Aware of his father’s keen gaze, he opened it carefully. Nestled inside was a beautifully crafted straight blade—a Daeva blade.
A familiar blade. Ali frowned. “This is Nahri’s dagger, isn’t it?” She had often worn it at her waist.
“It actually belonged to Darayavahoush,” his father replied. “He must have given it to her when he first left Daevabad.” Ghassan leaned back in his cushion. “Her room was searched after his death, and I wasn’t eager to