“Calm down, Kaveh,” Ghassan cut in. He collapsed into a low chair behind his desk and knocked aside an unopened scroll. It went rolling away, but Ali doubted his father cared. Like many high-born djinn, the king was illiterate, believing reading was useless if you had scribes who could do it for you. “Let’s see if the Daevas themselves can go a half century without rebelling. I know how easily your people get misty eyed about the past.”
Kaveh shut his mouth, and Ghassan continued. “But I agree: it’s time the mixed-bloods were reminded of their place.” He pointed at Wajed. “I want you to start enforcing the ban on more than ten shafit gathering in a private residence. I know it’s fallen into disuse.”
Wajed looked reluctant. “It seemed cruel, my lord. The mixed-bloods are poor . . . they live as many to a room as possible.”
“Then they shouldn’t rebel. I want anyone with even the slightest of sympathies to Bhatt gone. Let it be known that if they have children, I’ll sell them. If they have women, I’ll give them over to my soldiers.”
Horrified, Ali opened his mouth to protest, but Muntadhir beat him to it. “Abba, you can’t really—”
Ghassan turned his fierce gaze on his eldest son. “Should I let these fanatics run free then? Wait until they’ve stirred the whole city into flames?” The king shook his head. “These are the same men who claim we could free up jobs and homes for the shafit by burning the Daevas to death in the Grand Temple.”
Ali’s head snapped up. He had dismissed the charge when Kaveh said it, but his father was not prone to exaggeration. Ali knew Anas, like most shafit, had a lot of grievances when it came to the Daevas—it was their faith that called for the shafit to be segregated, their Nahids who’d once routinely ordered the deaths of mixed-bloods with the same emotion one would rid a home of rats. But Anas wouldn’t really have called for the annihilation of the Daevas . . . would he?
His father’s next comment pulled Ali from his thoughts. “We need to cut off their funding. Take that away, and the Tanzeem are little more than puritanical beggars.” He fixed his gray eyes on Kaveh. “Have you made any further progress in uncovering their sources?”
The grand wazir raised his hands. “Still no proof. All I have are suspicions.”
Ghassan scoffed. “Weapons, Kaveh. A clinic on Maadi. Breadlines. That’s the work of the rich. High-caste, pureblooded wealth. How are you not able to find their patrons?”
Ali tensed, but it was clear from Kaveh’s frustration that he held no further answers. “Their finances are sophisticated, my king; their collection system may have even been designed by someone in the Treasury. They rotate the different tribal currencies, trade supplies with some ridiculous paper money used among the humans . . .”
Ali felt the blood drain from his face as Kaveh listed just a few of the many loopholes in Daevabad’s economy that Ali had complained about—with thorough explanations—to Anas throughout the years.
Wajed’s face perked up. “Human money?” He jerked a thumb at Ali. “You’re always harping about that currency nonsense. Have you taken a look at Kaveh’s evidence?”
Ali’s heart raced. Not for the first time, he thanked the Most High that the Nahids were dead. Even one of their half-trained children would be able to tell he was lying. “I . . . no. The grand wazir did not consult with me.” He thought fast, knowing that Kaveh believed him a zealous idiot. He looked down at the Daeva man. “I suppose if you’re having trouble . . .”
Kaveh bristled. “I’ve had the sharpest minds in the scholar’s guild assisting me; I doubt the prince could offer more.” He gave Ali a withering look. “I am hearing a number of Ayaanle names among their rumored patrons,” he added coolly before turning back to the king. “Including one that might concern you. Ta Musta Ras.”
Wajed blinked in surprise. “Ta Musta Ras? Isn’t he one of the queen’s cousins?”
Ali cringed at the mention of his mother, and his father scowled. “He is, and one I could easily see supporting a bunch of dirt-blooded terrorists. The Ayaanle have always been fond of treating Daevabad’s politics as a chessboard set for their amusement . . . especially when they’re safely ensconced in Ta Ntry.” He fixed his gaze on Kaveh. “But no proof, you say?”
The grand wazir shook his head. “None, my king. But plenty of rumors.”
“I can’t arrest my wife’s cousin over rumors. Especially not with Ayaanle gold and salt making up a third of my treasury.”
“Queen Hatset is in Ta Ntry now,” Wajed pointed out. “Do you think he would listen to her?”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Ghassan said darkly. “He might already be.”
Ali stared at his feet, his cheeks growing warm as they discussed his mother. He and Hatset weren’t close. Ali had been taken from the harem when he was five and given to Wajed to be groomed as Muntadhir’s future Qaid.
His father sighed. “You’ll have to go there yourself, Wajed. I trust no one else to speak to her. Let her and her entire damned family know she doesn’t return to Daevabad until the money stops. Should she wish to see her children again, the choice is hers.”
Ali could feel Wajed’s eyes upon him. “Yes, my king,” Wajed said softly.
Kaveh looked alarmed. “Who will serve as Qaid while he’s gone?”
“Alizayd. It’s only for a few months and will be good practice for when I’m dead and this one”—Ghassan jerked his head in Muntadhir’s direction—“is too occupied with dancing girls to rule the realm.”
Ali’s mouth dropped open, and Muntadhir burst into laughter.
“Well, that should cut down on theft.” His brother made a chopping motion across his wrist. “Quite literally.”
Kaveh went pale. “My king, Prince Alizayd is a child. He’s not even close to his first quarter century. You cannot possibly entrust the city’s security to a sixteen—”
“Eighteen,” Muntadhir corrected with a wicked grin. “Come now, Grand Wazir, there’s an enormous difference.”
Kaveh clearly didn’t share the emir’s amusement. His voice grew more pitched. “Eighteen-year-old boy. A boy who—might I remind you—once had a Daeva nobleman whipped in the street like a common shafit thief!”
“He was a thief,” Ali defended. He remembered the incident, but was surprised Kaveh did; it was years ago, the first—and last—time Ali had been allowed to patrol the Daeva Quarter. “God’s law applies equally to all.”
The grand wazir took a breath. “Trust me, Prince Alizayd, it is to my deep disappointment that you are not in Paradise where we all follow God’s law . . .” He didn’t pause long enough for the double meaning of his words to land, but Ali picked it up well enough. “But under Daevabad’s law, the shafit are not equal to purebloods.” He looked imploringly to the king. “Did you not just have someone executed for saying much the same thing?”
“I did,” Ghassan agreed. “A lesson you would do well to remember, Alizayd. The Qaid enforces my law, not his own beliefs.”
“Of course, Abba,” Ali said quickly, knowing he’d been foolish to speak so plainly in front of them. “I will do as you command.”