He made his bleary-eyed way to the midan, the central plaza at Daevabad’s heart. It was empty at this late hour; the neglected fountain in its center cast wild shadows on the ground. The midan was enclosed by a copper wall gone green with age, the wall in turn broken up by seven equally spaced gates. Each gate led to a different tribal district with the seventh opening into the Grand Bazaar and its overcrowded shafit neighborhoods.
The midan’s gates were always a sight to behold. There was the Sahrayn Gate, black-and-white-tiled pillars wrapped in grapevines heavy with purple fruit. Beside it was that of the Ayaanle, two narrow, studded pyramids crowned with a scroll and a salt tablet. The Geziri Gate was next, nothing but a perfectly cut stone archway, his father’s people preferring function over form as always. It looked even plainer beside the richly decorated Agnivanshi Gate with its rose-colored sandstone sculpted into dozens of dancing figures, their delicate hands holding flickering oil lamps so small that they resembled stars. Next to that was the Tukharistani Gate, a screen of polished jade reflecting the night sky, carved in an impossibly intricate pattern.
And yet impressive as they all were, the final gate—the gate that would catch the first rays of sunlight each morning, the gate of Daevabad’s original people—outshone them all.
The Daeva Gate.
The entrance to the Daevas’ quarter—for the fire worshippers had arrogantly taken their race’s original name as their own tribal one—sat directly across from the Grand Bazaar, its enormous paneled doors painted a pale blue that could have been plucked directly from a fresh-washed sky, and embedded with white and gold sandstone disks set in a triangular pattern. The doors were held open by two massive brass shedu, the statues all that were left of the mythical winged lions the ancient Nahids were said to have ridden into battle against the ifrit.
He made his way toward the entrance, but he’d barely gotten halfway there when two figures stepped out from beneath the gate’s shadow. Ali stopped. One of the men quickly raised his hands and moved into the moonlight. Anas.
His sheikh smiled. “Peace be upon you, brother.” He was dressed in a homespun tunic the color of dirty wash water, his head uncharacteristically bare.
“And upon you peace.” Ali eyed the second man. He was shafit—that much was apparent from his rounded ears—but looked Sahrayn, with the North African tribe’s fiery red-black hair and copper eyes. He wore a striped galabiyya, its tasseled hood half drawn.
The man’s eyes widened at the sight of Ali. “This is your new recruit?” He laughed. “Are we so desperate for fighters that we’re taking crocodiles barely out of their shell?”
Outraged by the slur against his Ayaanle blood, Ali opened his mouth to protest, but Anas cut in. “Watch your tongue, Brother Hanno,” he warned. “We are all djinn here.”
Hanno didn’t look bothered by the admonishment. “Does he have a name?”
“Not one that concerns you,” Anas said firmly. “He’s here merely to observe.” He nodded at Hanno. “So go on. I know you like to show off.”
The other man chuckled. “Fair enough.” He clapped his hands, and a swirl of smoke shrouded his body. When it dissipated, his dirty galabiyya had been replaced by an iridescent shawl, a mustard-colored turban decorated with pheasant feathers, and a bright green dhoti, the waist cloth typically worn by Agnivanshi men. As Ali watched, his ears lengthened, and his skin brightened to a dark, luminous brown. Black braids crawled out from under his turban, stretching to sweep the hilt of the Hindustani talwar now sheathed at his waist. He blinked, his copper eyes turning the tin color of an Agnivanshi pureblood. A steel relic band clanged into place around his wrist.
Ali’s mouth fell open. “You’re a shapeshifter?” he gasped, hardly believing the sight before him. Shapeshifting was an incredibly rare ability, one which only a few families in each tribe possessed and even fewer managed to master. Talented shapeshifters were worth their weight in gold. “By the Most High . . . I didn’t think the shafit even capable of such advanced magic.”
Hanno snorted. “You purebloods always underestimate us.”
“But . . .” Ali was still stunned. “. . . if you can look pureblooded, why even live as shafit?”
The humor vanished from Hanno’s new face. “Because I am shafit. That I can wield my magic better than a pureblood, that the sheikh here could spin intellectual circles around the scholars of the Royal Library—that is proof that we’re not so different from the rest of you.” He glared at Ali. “It’s not a thing I mean to hide.”
Ali felt like a fool. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” Anas interrupted. He took Ali’s arm. “Let’s go.”
Ali drew to a halt when he realized where the sheikh was leading him. “Wait . . . you don’t mean to actually go in the Daeva Quarter, do you?” He assumed the gate had only been a meeting place.
“Afraid of a few fire worshippers?” Hanno teased. He tapped the hilt of his talwar. “Don’t worry, boy. I won’t let any Afshin ghost gobble you up.”
“I’m not afraid of the Daevas,” Ali snapped. He’d had just about enough of this man. “But I know the law. They don’t allow foreigners in their quarter after sunset.”
“Well, then I guess we’ll just have to be discreet.”
They passed under the snarling shedu statues and into the Daeva Quarter. Ali got a brief glance at the main boulevard—bustling at this time of night with shoppers browsing in the market and men playing chess over endless cups of tea—before Anas pulled him toward the back of the nearest building.
A dark alley stretched before them, lined with neatly stacked crates of garbage awaiting disposal. It snaked away, vanishing into the gloomy distance.
“Stay low and stay quiet,” Anas warned. It quickly became clear that the Tanzeem men had done this before; they navigated the maze of alleys with ease, darting into the shadows every time a back door banged open.
When they finally emerged, it was in a neighborhood that bore little resemblance to the gleaming central boulevard. The ancient buildings looked hewn directly from Daevabad’s rocky hills, ramshackle wooden huts squashed in every available space. A squat brick complex stood at the end of the street, firelight winking from behind its tattered curtains.
As they drew closer, Ali could hear drunken laughter and the strains of some sort of stringed instrument pouring out from the open door. The air was hazy; smoke drifted about the men lounging on stained cushions, swirling past steam pipes and dark goblets of wine. The patrons were all Daeva, many with black caste tattoos and family sigils emblazoned on their golden-brown arms.
A burly man in a stained vest with a scar splitting one cheek guarded the entrance. He climbed to his feet as they approached, blocking the door with an enormous ax.
“You lost?” he growled.
“We’re here to see Turan,” Hanno said.
The guard’s black eyes shifted to Anas. He sneered. “You and your crocodile friend can come in, but the dirt-blood stays out here.”
Hanno stepped up to him, his hand on his talwar. “For what I’m paying your boss, my servant stays with me.” He jerked his head at the ax. “Mind?”