“See, Kaveh? Nothing to fear.” Ghassan nodded in the direction of the door. “You may leave. Court will be held after the noon prayer. Let word get out about this morning; perhaps that will cut down on the number of petitioners harassing me.”
The Daeva minister looked like he had more to say, but he merely nodded, throwing Ali a vicious look as he left.
Wajed slammed the door shut behind him. “That snake has a twisted tongue, Abu Muntadhir,” he said to the king, switching to Geziriyya. “I’d like to make him wriggle like one.” He caressed his zulfiqar. “Just once.”
“Don’t give your protégé any ideas.” Ghassan unwound his turban, leaving the brilliant silk in a heap on the desk. “Kaveh is not wrong to be upset, and he doesn’t even know the half of things.” He nodded to a large crate sitting next to the balcony. Ali hadn’t noticed it earlier. “Show them.”
The Qaid sighed but crossed to the crate. “An imam who runs a mosque near the Grand Bazaar contacted the Royal Guard a few weeks ago and said he suspected Bhatt of recruiting one of his congregants.” Wajed pulled free his khanjar and pried open the crate’s wooden slats. “My soldiers followed that man to one of his hideouts.” He beckoned for Ali and Muntadhir. “We found this there.”
Ali took a step closer, already sick. In his heart, he knew what was in that crate.
The weapons Anas swore he didn’t have were packed in tight. Crude iron cudgels and battered steel daggers, studded maces and a couple of crossbows. A half-dozen swords and a few of the long incendiary devices—rifles?—humans had invented, along with a box of ammunition. Ali’s disbelieving eyes scanned the crate and then his heart skipped a beat.
Zulfiqar training blades.
The words were out of Ali’s mouth before he could stop himself. “Someone in the Royal Guard stole these.”
Wajed gave him a grim nod. “It had to be. A Geziri man; we only let our own near those blades.” He crossed his arms over his massive chest. “They must have been stolen from the Citadel, but I suspect the rest were bought from smugglers.” He met Ali’s horrified gaze. “There were three other crates like this one.”
Beside him, Muntadhir exhaled. “What in God’s name were they planning to do with all this?”
“I’m not sure,” Wajed admitted. “They could have armed a few dozen shafit men at most. No real match for the Royal Guard, but—”
“They could have murdered a score of people shopping in the Grand Bazaar,” the king cut in. “They could have lain in wait outside the Daevas’ temple on one of their feast days and massacred a hundred pilgrims before help arrived. They could have started a war.”
Ali gripped the crate, though he had no memory of reaching for it. In his mind, he saw the warriors he’d grown up with—the cadets who’d fallen asleep on one another’s shoulders after long days of training, the young men who teased and insulted one another as they headed out on their first patrols. The ones Ali would soon swear to lead and protect as Qaid. They were the ones who would have likely faced these weapons.
Anger, swift and fierce, coursed through him, but Ali had no one to blame but himself. You should have known. When the first rumors of weapons reached you, you should have stopped. But Ali hadn’t stopped. Instead, he’d accompanied Anas to that tavern. He’d stood by while two men were killed.
He took a deep breath. From the corner of his eye, he saw Wajed give him a curious look. He straightened up.
“But why?” Muntadhir pressed. “What would the Tanzeem have to gain?”
“I don’t know,” Ghassan replied. “And I don’t care. It took years to bring peace to Daevabad after the deaths of the last Nahids. I don’t intend to let some dirt-blood fanatics eager for martyrdom tear us apart.” He pointed at Wajed. “The Citadel will find the men responsible and execute them. If they are Geziri, do it quietly. I don’t need the Daevas thinking our tribe supports the Tanzeem. And you will put in place the new restrictions on the shafit. Ban their gatherings. Throw them in prison if they so much as step on a pureblood’s foot. For now, at least.” He shook his head. “God willing, we’ll get through the next few months without any surprises, and we’ll be able to ease them again.”
“Yes, my king.”
Ghassan waved at the crate. “Get rid of that thing before Kaveh sniffs it out. I’ve had enough of his ranting for one day.” He rubbed his brow and sank back into his chair, his jeweled rings gleaming. He glanced up, fixing his sharp gaze on Muntadhir. “Also . . . should I need to execute another shafit traitor, my emir will watch without flinching else he’ll find himself carrying out the next sentence.”
Muntadhir crossed his arms, leaning against the desk in a familiar manner Ali never would have dared. “Ya, Abba, if I knew you were going to have his head crushed like an overripe melon, I would have skipped breakfast.”
Ghassan’s eyes flashed. “Your younger brother managed to control himself.”
Muntadhir laughed. “Yes, but Ali is Citadel trained. He’d dance in front of the karkadann if you told him to.”
Their father didn’t seem to appreciate the jest, his face growing stormy. “Or perhaps spending all your time drinking with courtesans and poets has weakened your constitution.” He glared. “You should be glad of your future Qaid’s training—God knows you’re likely to need it.” He rose from his desk. “And on that note, I would speak to your brother alone.”
What? Why? Ali was barely holding his emotions in check; he didn’t want to be alone with his father.
Wajed squeezed his shoulder and briefly leaned in toward Ali’s ear. “Breathe, boy,” he whispered as Ghassan stood and strolled toward the balcony. “He doesn’t bite.” He flashed Ali a reassuring smile and followed Muntadhir out of the office.
There was a long moment of silence. His father studied the garden, his hands clasped behind him.
His back was still to Ali when he asked, “Do you believe that?”
Ali’s voice came out in a squeak. “Believe what?”
“What you said before.” His father turned around, his dark gray eyes intent. “About God’s law applying equally— By the Most High, Alizayd, stop shaking. I need to be able to talk to my Qaid without him turning into a trembling mess.”
Ali’s embarrassment was tempered with relief—far better for Ghassan to blame his anxiety on nerves from being made Qaid. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Ghassan leveled his gaze on him again. “Answer the question.”
Ali thought fast, but there was no way he could lie. His family knew he was devout—he had been since childhood—and their religion was clear on the issue of the shafit. “Yes,” he replied. “I believe the shafit should be treated equally. That’s why our ancestors came to Daevabad. That’s why Zaydi al Qahtani went to war with the Nahids.”
“A war that nearly destroyed our entire race. A war that ended in the sacking of Daevabad and earned us the enmity of the Daeva tribe until this day.”