The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,85

of the Daevas and friends he would destroy if she so much as thought about stepping out of line.

He looked calm and as inscrutable as ever, dressed in royal robes and his striking silk turban—a turban Nahri couldn’t look at without recalling the cold way he’d revealed the truth about Dara and Qui-zi to her on that rain-soaked pavilion five years ago. Early in her marriage, Nahri had quietly asked Muntadhir to take his off before they were alone—a request he had granted without comment and one he’d religiously followed.

Her gaze went to him now. She hadn’t spoken to her husband since their fight in the infirmary, and seeing him there, dressed in the same official robes and turban as his father, deepened her unease. Jamshid was at his side, of course, their knees brushing, but there were others as well, most of whom Nahri recognized. Wealthy, well-connected men all of them … but they were also Muntadhir’s friends, true ones. One appeared to be telling Muntadhir a story, while another passed him a water pipe.

It looked as though they were trying to keep his spirits up—or perhaps distract him from the other side of the platform, where Ali had taken a seat. Though he lacked his older brother’s dazzling array of jewelry, the starkness of his attire seemed to elevate him. At Ali’s left were several officers from the Royal Guard, along with a thickly bearded man with an infectious grin and a severe-eyed woman in male dress. On his right, the Qaid appeared to be telling a story at which Ghassan gave a hearty laugh. Ali remained silent, his gaze flitting between his companions and a large glass pitcher of water on the rug before him.

And though it was a beautiful night in an enchanted garden, filled with guests who looked like they might have stepped from the pages of a book of legends, Nahri had a sense of foreboding. The things Muntadhir had whispered to Jamshid, whatever Hatset was up to … Nahri could see it playing out in the scene before her. Daevabad’s sophisticated elites—the literati noblemen and wealthy traders—had flocked to Muntadhir. The rougher men who wielded blades, and the ones who could stand before the Friday crowds and fill their hearts with holy purpose … they were with Ali.

And if those brothers remained divided, if those groups turned on each other … Nahri didn’t see it ending well for her people—for any of them.

Her stomach rumbled. Impending civil war or not, there was little Nahri could do to save her tribe on an empty stomach. Not particularly caring about etiquette, she pulled over a tiled glass dish of knafeh and a reed platter of fruit, fully determined to gorge herself on cheese pastry and melon.

The nape of her neck prickled. Nahri glanced back up.

Through the narrow opening, Ali was watching her.

She met his troubled gray eyes. Nahri typically tried to close herself off from her abilities in crowds like this, the competing heartbeats and gurgling humors an irritating distraction. But for a moment she let them expand.

Ali stood out like a spot on the eye, a deep silence in the ocean of sounds.

You’re my friend, she remembered him declaring the first time she’d saved his life, with the utter confidence the haze of opium had instilled. A light, he’d added when he begged her not to follow Dara.

Annoyed by the unwanted, unsettling feeling the memory caused, she snatched up one of the serving knives. Still holding his gaze, she plunged it deep into a piece of melon, then began carving it with surgical precision. Ali drew up, looking both startled and somehow still snobbish. Nahri glared, and he finally looked away.

Ahead, Ghassan clapped his hands. Nahri watched as he gazed warmly at the crowd.

“My friends, I thank you for honoring my family with your presence here tonight.” He beamed at Ali. “And I thank God for allowing me the joy of seeing my youngest again. It is a blessing whose value I didn’t quite realize until he came striding into my palace dressed like some northern raider.”

That brought a chuckle to the mostly Geziri crowd, and Ghassan continued. “Prince Alizayd, of course, wanted none of this. If he had his way, we’d share a single platter of dates and perhaps a pot of the coffee I hear he now brews himself.” Ghassan’s voice turned teasing. “Then he would likely give us a lecture on the benefit of estate taxes.”

Ali’s companions burst into laughter at