The other man didn’t look happy, but he stepped away and Hanno entered the tavern, Anas and Ali following.
Besides a few hostile glances—mostly aimed at Anas—the patrons ignored them. It looked like the type of place people came to be forgotten, but Ali struggled not to stare. He’d never been to a tavern—he’d never even spent much time around the fire worshippers. Few Daevas were permitted to serve in the Royal Guard, and of those who did, Ali suspected none were interested in befriending the youngest Qahtani.
He dodged out of the way as a drunk man fell from his ottoman with a smoky snort. The sound of feminine laughter caught his attention, and Ali glanced over to find a trio of Daeva women conversing in rapid-fire Divasti over a mirrored table covered in brass game pieces, half-empty goblets, and glittering coins. Though their conversation was gibberish—Ali had never bothered to learn Divasti—each woman was more stunning than the last, their black eyes sparkling as they laughed. They wore embroidered blouses that were cut low and tight across their breasts, their slender golden waists wrapped in jeweled chains.
Ali abruptly lost the battle he’d been waging against staring. He’d never seen an adult Daeva woman uncovered, let alone one displaying the charms of these three. The most conservative of the tribes, Daeva women veiled themselves when leaving their homes, with many—especially from highborn families—refusing to speak to foreign men at all.
Not these three. Noticing Ali, one of the women straightened up, boldly meeting his eyes with a wicked grin. “Aye, darling, do you like what you see?” she asked in accented Djinnistani. She licked her lips, causing his heart to skip several beats, and nodded to the jeweled collar around his neck. “You look like you could afford me.”
Anas stepped between them. “Lower your eyes, brother,” he chided gently.
Embarrassed, Ali dropped his gaze. Hanno snickered, but Ali didn’t look up until they were led into a small back room. It was better adorned than the tavern; intricately woven rugs depicting fruit trees and dancers covered the floor while chandeliers of cut glass hung from the ceiling.
Hanno pushed Ali onto one of the plush cushions lining the wall. “Keep quiet,” he warned as he took a seat beside him. “It took me a long time to set this up.” Anas stayed standing, his head bowed in an uncharacteristically subservient manner.
A thick felt curtain in the center of the room swept away to reveal a Daeva man in a crimson coat standing at the entrance to a dark corridor.
Hanno beamed. “Greetings, sahib,” he boomed in an Agnivanshi accent. “You must be Turan. May the fires burn brightly for you.”
Turan didn’t return the smile or the blessing. “You’re late.”
The shapeshifter lifted his dark brows in surprise. “Is the market for stolen children a punctual one?”
Ali startled, but before he could open his mouth, Anas caught his eye from across the room and gave a slight shake of his head. Ali stayed quiet.
Turan crossed his arms, looking irritated. “I can find another buyer if your conscience bothers you.”
“And disappoint my wife?” Hanno shook his head. “Absolutely not. She’s already set up the nursery.”
Turan’s eyes slid to Ali. “Who’s your friend?”
“Two friends,” Hanno corrected, tapping the sword at his waist. “Do you expect me to wander about the Daeva Quarter with the ridiculous amount of money you’re demanding and not bring protection?”
Turan’s cold gaze stayed fixed upon Ali’s face. His heart raced; Ali could think of few places worse to be recognized as a Qahtani prince than a Daeva tavern filled with drunk men of various criminal persuasions.
Anas spoke for the first time. “He is delaying, master,” he warned. “He probably already sold the boy.”
“Shut your mouth, shafit,” Turan snapped. “No one gave you permission to speak.”
“Enough.” Hanno cut in. “But come, man, do you have the boy or not? All this complaining about my tardiness and now you’re wasting time leering at my companion.”
Turan’s eyes flashed, but he disappeared behind the felt curtain.
Hanno rolled his eyes. “And the Daevas wonder why nobody likes them.”
There was an angry burst of Divasti from behind the curtain, and then a dirty little girl carrying a large copper tray was pushed into the room. She looked as human as Anas. Her skin was dull, and she was dressed in a linen shift wholly inadequate for the night’s chill, her hair shaved so roughly there were scarred nicks on her bare scalp. Keeping her gaze down, she approached on bare feet, mutely offering the tray upon which sat two steaming cups of apricot liquor. She couldn’t have been any older than ten.
Ali spotted the bruises on the girl’s wrist at the same time as Hanno, but the shapeshifter straightened up first.
He hissed. “I’ll kill that man.”
The little girl scrambled back, and Anas hurried to her side. “It’s okay, little one, he didn’t mean to scare you . . . Hanno, put your weapon away,” he warned as the shapeshifter drew his talwar. “Don’t be a fool.”
Hanno snarled but sheathed the blade as Turan reentered.
The Daeva man took one look at the scene before him and then glared at Anas. “Get away from my servant.” The girl retreated to a dark corner, cowering behind her tray.
Ali’s temper flashed. He’d heard Anas speak for years about the plight of the shafit, but to actually witness it, to hear how the Daevas spoke to Anas, to see the bruises on the terrified little girl . . . Maybe Ali had been wrong to question him earlier.
Turan approached. A baby—well-swaddled and fast asleep—was nestled in his arms. Hanno immediately reached for him.
Turan held back. “The money first.”
Hanno nodded at Anas, and the sheikh stepped forward with the purse Ali had given him earlier. He spilled the contents on the rug, a mix of currencies including human dinars, Tukharistani jade tablets, salt nuggets, and a single small ruby.
“Count it yourself,” Hanno said curtly. “But let me see the boy.”
Turan passed him over, and Ali had to work to contain his surprise. He’d expected another shafit child, but the baby’s ears were as peaked as his own, and his brown skin gleamed with the luminescence of a pureblood. Hanno briefly opened one closed lid, revealing tin-colored eyes. The baby let out a smoky whimper of protest.
“He’ll pass,” Turan assured him. “Trust me. I’ve been in this business long enough to know. No one will ever suspect that he’s a shafit.”
Shafit? Ali looked at the boy again, taken aback. But Turan was right: he didn’t look like a mixed-blood in the slightest.
“Did you have any trouble getting him away from his parents?” Hanno asked.
“The father wasn’t an issue. Agnivanshi pureblood who just wanted the money. The mother was a maid who ran off when he got her pregnant. Took a while to track her down.”
“And she agreed to sell the child?”
Turan shrugged. “She’s shafit. Does it matter?”