He stopped, catching a glimpse of his stomach. The wound was gone.
Stunned, Ali ran his hand over what had been a half-healed gash studded with stitches an hour earlier. It was now nothing more than a bumpy scar. The wound on his chest was still stitched, but that too looked remarkably improved. He reached for the third under his ribs and flinched. Hanno had driven the knife straight through him at that point, and it still hurt.
Maybe the canal water had some sort of healing properties? If so, it was the first Ali had heard of it. He’d have to ask Nahri. She’d been coming by most days to check on him, seemingly unfazed that he’d been dumped in her bedroom covered in blood only a few days ago. The only allusion she’d made to saving his life had been in her gleeful sack of his small library. She’d claimed several books, an ivory inkwell, and a gold armband as “payment.”
He shook his head. She was odd, to be sure. Not that Ali could complain. Nahri might be the only friend he had left.
“Peace be upon you, Ali.”
Ali startled at the sound of his sister’s voice and pulled on his shirt. “And upon you peace, Zaynab.”
She came around the path to join him on the wet stones. “Did I catch you swimming?” She feigned shock. “And here I thought you had no interest in the Ayaanle, and our—what do you like to call it—culture of scheming indulgence?”
“It was just a few laps,” he muttered. He wasn’t in the mood to fight with Zaynab. He sat, dropping his bare feet back into the canal. “What do you want?”
She sat beside him, trailing her fingers through the water. “To make sure you’re still alive, for one. No one’s seen you at court in nearly a week. And to warn you. I don’t know what you think you’re doing with that Nahid girl, Ali. You’ve no skill at politics, let alone—”
“What are you talking about?”
Zaynab rolled her gray-gold eyes. “The marriage negotiations, you idiot.”
Ali suddenly felt light-headed. “What marriage negotiations?”
She drew back, looking surprised. “Between Muntadhir and Nahri.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you telling me that you didn’t help her? By the Most High, she gave Abba a list of percentages and figures that looked like some report from the Treasury. He’s furious with you—he thinks you wrote it.”
God preserve me . . . Ali knew Nahri was clever enough to come up with such a thing on her own, but suspected he was the only Qahtani who had an accurate measure of the Banu Nahida’s capabilities. He rubbed his brow. “When did all this happen?”
“Yesterday afternoon. She showed up at Abba’s office, uninvited and unaccompanied, to say the rumors were tiring her, and she wanted to know where they stood.” Zaynab crossed her arms. “She demanded an equal cut in patient payments, a pensioned position for her Afshin, a paid training sabbatical in Zariaspa . . . and by God, the dowry . . .”
Ali’s mouth went dry. “Did she really ask for all that? Yesterday, you are sure?”
Zaynab nodded. “She also refuses to let Muntadhir take a second wife. Wants it written in the contract itself in recognition of the fact that the Daevas don’t permit it. More time to train, no patients for at least a year, unfettered access to Manizheh’s old notes . . .” Zaynab ticked off her fingers. “I’m sure I’m missing something. People said they were haggling past midnight.” She shook her head, seeming both impressed and indignant. “I don’t know who that girl thinks she is.”
The last Nahid in the world. And one with some very compromising information on the youngest Qahtani. He tried to keep his voice smooth. “What did Abba think?”
“He felt the need to check his pockets after she left but was otherwise elated.” Zaynab rolled her eyes. “He says her ambition reminds him of Manizheh.”
Of course it would. “And Muntadhir?”
“What do you think? He doesn’t want to marry some conniving, thin-blooded Nahid. He came straight to me to ask what it was like to be of mixed tribes, to not be able to speak Geziriyya—”
That surprised him. Ali hadn’t realized such concerns had been among Muntadhir’s reasons for not wanting to marry Nahri. “What did you tell him?”
She gave him an even stare. “The truth, Ali. You can pretend it doesn’t bother you, but there’s a reason so few djinn marry outside their tribe. I’ve never been able to master Geziriyya like you, and it’s completely severed me from Abba’s people. Amma’s are little better. Even when Ayaanle pay me compliments, I can hear the shock in their voice that a sand fly accomplished such sophistication.”
That took him aback. “I didn’t know that.”
“Why would you?” She dropped her gaze. “It’s not like you’ve ever asked. I’m sure you find harem politics frivolous and contemptible anyway.”
“Zaynab . . .” The hurt in her voice cut him deeply. Despite the antagonism that frequently characterized their relationship, his sister had come here to warn him. His brother had covered for him time and time again. And what had Ali done? He’d dismissed Zaynab as a spoiled brat and helped his father trap Muntadhir in an engagement with a woman he didn’t want.
Ali stood as the sun sank behind the tall palace walls, throwing the garden into shadow. “I need to find him.”
“Good luck.” Zaynab pulled her feet from the water. “He was drinking by noon and made some comment about consoling himself with half the city’s noblewomen.”
“I know where he’ll be.” Ali helped her to her feet. She turned to leave, and he touched her wrist. “Have tea with me tomorrow.”
She blinked in surprise. “Surely you have more important things to do than have tea with your spoiled sister.”
He smiled. “Not at all.”
It was dark by the time Ali reached Khanzada’s salon. Music spilled into the street, and a few soldiers milled about outside. He nodded to them and steeled himself as he climbed the stairs leading to the rooftop garden. He could hear a man grunting; a woman’s low cry of pleasure echoed from one of the dark corridors.
A servant moved to block the door when Ali arrived. “Peace be upon you, Sheikh . . . Prince!” the man corrected with an embarrassed flush. “Forgive me, but the lady of the house—”
Ali pushed past him and through the door, wrinkling his nose at the overly perfumed air. The roof was packed with at least two dozen noblemen and their retainers. Quick-footed servants twined among them, bringing wine and tending to water pipes. Musicians played and two girls danced, conjuring up illuminated flowers with their hands. Muntadhir lounged on a plush couch with Khanzada next to him.
Muntadhir didn’t seem to notice his arrival, but Khanzada jumped to her feet. Ali raised his hands, readying an apology that died on his lips when he noticed a new addition to Muntadhir’s drinking companions. He dropped his hand to his zulfiqar.