The music ended. The Daeva men started to clap, and Darayavahoush said something that made the dancers giggle.
Muntadhir’s gaze locked on the Afshin like a cat after a mouse. He cleared his throat, and Ali saw something very dangerous—and very stupid—settle in his face. “You know, I think I’ll deal with one of her demands right now.” He raised his voice. “Jamshid! Darayavahoush!” he called. “Come. Take some wine with me.”
“Dhiru, I don’t think this is a good—” Ali abruptly shut up as the Daeva men came within earshot.
“Emir Muntadhir. Prince Alizayd.” Darayavahoush inclined his head, bringing his fingers together in the Daeva salute. “May the fires burn brightly for you both on this beautiful evening.”
Jamshid looked nervous, and Ali guessed that he’d been around a drunken Muntadhir enough to know when things were about to go very badly. “Greetings, my lords,” he said hesitantly.
Muntadhir must have noticed his distress. He snapped his fingers and nodded to the floor cushion at his left. “Be at peace, my friend.”
Jamshid sat. Darayavahoush grinned and snapped his fingers. “Just like that?” he asked, adding something in Divasti. Jamshid blushed.
Unlike Ali, however, Muntadhir was fluent in the Daeva language. “I assure you he is no trained dog,” Muntadhir said coolly in Djinnistani, “. . . but my dearest friend. Please, Afshin,” he said, indicating the spot next to Jamshid. “If you would sit.” He beckoned for the wine bearer again. “Wine for my guests. And Prince Alizayd will take whatever you serve children who cannot yet handle drink.”
Ali forced a smile, recalling how Darayavahoush had goaded him about his rivalry with Muntadhir while they sparred. There could hardly be a worse time for the Afshin to pick up on any hostility between the Qahtani brothers.
Darayavahoush turned to him. “So what happened to you?”
Ali bristled. “What are you talking about?”
The Afshin nodded at his stomach. “Injury? Illness? You’re carrying yourself differently.”
Ali blinked, too astonished to reply.
Muntadhir’s eyes flashed. Despite their argument, there was a fiercely protective edge in his voice when he spoke. “Watching my brother so closely, Afshin?”
Darayavahoush shrugged. “You are not a warrior, Emir, so I don’t expect you to understand. But your brother is. A very good one.” He winked at Ali. “Straighten up, boy, and keep your hand away from the wound. You wouldn’t want your enemies to observe such weakness.”
Muntadhir again beat him to a response. “He is quite recovered, I assure you. Banu Nahri has been at his bedside daily. She is very attached to him.”
The Afshin glowered, and Ali—being quite attached to his head as well as to Nahri—quickly spoke up. “I’m sure she’s equally devoted to all her patients.”
Muntadhir ignored him. “The Banu Nahida is actually the reason I wished to speak to you.” He glanced at Jamshid. “There’s a governorship available in Zariaspa, yes? I believe I overheard your father saying something about it.”
Jamshid looked confused but replied, “I think so.”
Muntadhir nodded. “A coveted position. Enviable pension in a beautiful part of Daevastana. Few responsibilities.” He took a sip of his wine. “I think it would be a good fit for you, Darayavahoush. When we were discussing the wedding yesterday, Banu Nahri seemed worried about your future and—”
“What?” The Afshin’s dangerous smile vanished.
“Your future, Afshin. Nahri wants to make sure you’re well rewarded for your loyalty.”
“Zariaspa is not Daevabad,” Darayavahoush snapped. “And what wedding? She’s not even past her quarter century. She’s not legally permitted to—”
Muntadhir waved one hand, cutting him off. “She came to us yesterday with her own offer.” He smiled, an uncharacteristically malicious gleam in his eyes. “I suppose she’s eager.”
He lingered on the word, imbuing it with more than a hint of vulgarity, and Darayavahoush cracked his knuckles. Ali instinctively reached for his zulfiqar, but his weapon was gone, taken by Khanzada’s servants.
Fortunately, the Afshin stayed seated. But the motion of his hand drew Ali’s attention, and he startled. Was the Afshin’s slave ring . . . glowing? He narrowed his eyes. It appeared so. The emerald shone with the barest of lights, like a flame contained by a grimy glass lamp.
The Afshin didn’t seem to notice. “I follow the Banu Nahida in all things,” he said, his voice icier than Ali ever thought a man’s could be. “No matter how abominable. So I suppose congratulations are in order.”
Muntadhir started to open his mouth but thankfully, Khanzada chose that moment to approach.
She perched on the edge of Muntadhir’s sofa and draped an elegant arm around his shoulders. “My beloved, with what serious business do you gentlemen mar this beautiful evening?” She stroked his cheek. “Such grumpy faces on all of you. Your inattention insults my girls.”
“Forgive us, my lady,” the Afshin interjected. “We were discussing the emir’s wedding. Surely you will be in attendance?”
Heat rose in his brother’s expression, but if Darayavahoush hoped to spark some sort of jealousy-fueled lover’s spat, he had underestimated the courtesan’s loyalty.
She smiled sweetly. “But of course. I shall dance with his wife.” She slid into Muntadhir’s lap, her sharp eyes staying on Darayavahoush’s face. “Perhaps I can give her some guidance in how to best please him.”
The air grew warm. Ali tensed, but the Afshin didn’t respond. Instead, he drew in a sharp breath and reached for his head as if overcome by an unexpected migraine.
Khanzada feigned concern. “Are you well, Afshin? If the evening has overtired you, I have rooms where you may rest. Surely I can find you companionship,” she added with a cold smile. “Your type is rather apparent.”
She’d gone too far—she and Muntadhir both. Darayavahoush snapped back to attention. His green eyes flashed, and he bared his teeth in an almost feral grin.
“Forgive the distraction, my lady,” he said. “But that truly is a beautiful image. You must fantasize about it often. And how lovingly detailed . . . right down to the little house in Agnivansha. Red sandstone, yes?” he asked, and Khanzada went pale. “On the banks of the Chambal . . . a swing for two overlooking the river.”
The courtesan straightened up with a gasp. “How . . . you can’t possibly know that!”
Darayavahoush didn’t take his eyes off her. “By the Creator, how very much you want it . . . so much so that you’d be willing to run away, to abandon this pretty place and all its riches. You don’t think he’d be a good king anyway . . . would it not be better for him to go off with you, to grow old together, reading poetry and drinking wine?”