The western side of the room opened onto manicured formal gardens. Enormous windows—nearly the height of the ceiling—broke up the remaining walls, shielded by intricately carved wooden screens that kept the cavernous space cool while letting in light and fresh air. Flower-filled fountains set against the wall did the same, the water enchanted to continuously flow over channels of cut ice. Bright mirrored braziers of burning cedarwood hung from silver chains over a floor of green marble swirled with white veins. The floor rose as it reached the eastern wall and separated into five tiers, each level assigned to a different branch of the government.
Ali and his father walked out onto the top level, and as they approached the throne, Ali could not help but admire it. Twice his height and carved from sky blue marble, the throne originally belonged to the Nahids and looked it, a monument to the extravagance that had gotten them overthrown. It was designed to turn its occupant into a living shedu, the legendary winged lion that had been their family symbol. Rubies, carnelians, and pink and orange topaz were inlaid above the head to represent the rising sun, while the arms of the throne were similarly jeweled to imitate wings, the legs carved into heavy clawed paws.
The jewels sparkled in the sunlight—as did the thousands of eyes he suddenly realized were upon him. Ali promptly dropped his gaze. There was nothing that united the tribes more than gossiping about their leaders, and he suspected the sight of Ghassan’s second son eying the throne on his first day in court would set every tongue wagging.
His father nodded to the jeweled cushion below the throne. “Your brother isn’t here. You might as well take his seat.”
More gossip. “I’ll stand,” Ali said quickly, edging away from Muntadhir’s cushion.
The king shrugged. “Your choice.” He settled into his throne, Ali and Kaveh flanking him. Ali forced himself to look at the crowd again. Though the throne room could fit ten thousand, Ali guessed about half that number were here now. Nobles from all the tribes—their regular presence required to prove loyalty—shared space with clerics in white turbans, while court scribes, lesser wazirs, and Treasury officials swarmed in a dizzying array of ceremonial dress.
But the majority of the crowd looked to be commoners. No shafit, of course, save servants, but plenty of mixed tribal heritage like Ali. All were dressed well—none would present themselves in court otherwise—but some were clearly from Daevabad’s lower classes, their robes clean but patched, their ornaments little more than metal bangles.
An Ayaanle woman in mustard-colored robes with a scribe’s black sash around her collar stood up.
“In the name of King Ghassan ibn Khader al Qahtani, Defender of the Faith, and on the ninety-fourth Rabi’ al Thani of the twenty-seventh generation after Suleiman’s Blessing, I call this session to order!” She lit a cylindrical glass oil lamp and placed it on the dais before her. Ali knew his father would hear petitions until the oil ran out, but as he watched court officials herd the crowd below into some semblance of order, he gaped at the sheer number. His father didn’t mean to hear all these people, did he?
The first petitioners were brought forward and introduced: a silk merchant from Tukharistan and his aggrieved Agnivanshi customer. They prostrated themselves before his father and stood when Ghassan beckoned them to rise.
The Agnivanshi man spoke first. “Peace be upon you, my king. I am humbled and honored to be in your presence.” He jerked a thumb at the silk merchant, the pearls around his neck jangling. “I only beg your forgiveness for having dragged before you an unabashed liar and unrepentant thief!”
His father sighed as the silk merchant rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you just explain the problem?”
“He agreed to sell me a half-dozen bales of silk for two barrels each of cinnamon and pepper—I even threw in three crates of mangos as a gesture of good faith.” He whirled on the other merchant. “I delivered on my end, but by the time I returned home, half your silk had turned to smoke!”
The Tukharistani man shrugged. “I am merely an intermediary. I warned you that if you had problems with the product, you’d have to take it up with the supplier.” He sniffed, unimpressed. “And your mangos of good faith were sour.”
The Agnivanshi man bristled as if the merchant had insulted his mother. “Liar!”
Ghassan raised a hand. “Calm down.” He turned his hawklike gaze on the silk merchant. “Is what he says true?”
The merchant fidgeted. “It might be.”
“Then pay him for the silk that disappeared. It’s your responsibility to recover the loss from the suppliers. The Treasury will set the price. We’ll leave the question of the mangos’ acidity to God.” He waved them away. “Next!”
The bickering merchants were replaced by a Sahrayn widow left destitute by her spendthrift husband. Ghassan immediately granted her a small pension, along with a spot for her young son in the Citadel. She was followed by a scholar requesting funds to research the incendiary properties of zahhak bladders (firmly denied), an appeal for help against a rukh savaging villages in western Daevastana, and several more accusations of fraud—one including knock-off Nahid potions with some rather embarrassing results.
Hours later, the complaints were a blur, a stream of demands—some so utterly nonsensical Ali wanted to shake the petitioner. The sun had risen past the wooden window screens, the audience chamber growing warm, and Ali swayed on his feet, staring longingly at the cushion he’d refused.
None of it seemed to bother his father. Ghassan was as calmly impassive now as he’d been when they walked in—helped, perhaps, by the goblet a wine bearer had been keeping studiously full. Ali had never known his father to be a patient man and yet he showed no irritation toward his subjects, listening as intently to destitute widows as to wealthy nobles arguing over vast tracts of land. Truthfully . . . Ali was impressed.
But by God, did he want it to end.
When the light in the oil lamp finally snuffed out, it was all Ali could do not to drop to the floor in prostration. His father rose from his throne and was promptly swallowed by a crowd of scribes and ministers. Ali didn’t mind; he was eager to escape for a cup of tea so strong it could hold a spoon upright. He headed for the exit.
“Qaid?”
Ali paid no mind to the voice until the man called again, and then he realized with some embarrassment that he was now Qaid. He turned to see a short Geziri man behind him. He wore the uniform of the Royal Guard, a black-hemmed turban indicating he was a military secretary. He had a well-trimmed beard and kind gray eyes. Ali didn’t recognize him, but that wasn’t surprising. There was an entire section of the Royal Guard dedicated to the palace, and if the man was a secretary, it might have been decades since he trained in the Citadel.
The man promptly touched his heart and brow in the Geziri salute. “Peace be upon you, Qaid. I’m sorry to bother you.”
After hours of civilian complaints, a fellow Geziri warrior was a welcome sight. Ali smiled. “No bother at all. How can I help you?”
The secretary held out a thick roll of scrolls. “These are records of those suspected in manufacturing the faulty carpets that crashed in Babili.”
Ali stared at him in utter incomprehension. “What?”