An Afshin arrow. Ali scowled. It was just like the fire worshippers to let their children run around pretending to be war criminals. He touched his ear, and came away with a smear of blood on his fingers.
Abu Nuwas pulled free his zulfiqar and stepped forward with a snarl, but Ali held him back. “Don’t. He’s just a boy.”
Seeing that he wasn’t going to be punished, the boy gave them a wicked grin and jumped off the fountain to flee down a twisting alley.
Kaveh’s eyes were bright with mirth. Across the plaza, a veiled woman held a hand across her hidden mouth, though Ali could hear her giggle. The old men playing chatrang had their eyes fixed on their game pieces, but their mouths twitched in amusement. Ali’s cheeks grew warm with embarrassment.
Rashid stepped up to him. “You should have the boy arrested, Qaid,” he said quietly in Geziriyya. “He’s young. Give him to the Citadel to be raised properly as one of us. Your ancestors used to do so all the time.”
Ali paused, nearly taken in by Rashid’s reasonable tone. And then he stopped. How is that any different from purebloods stealing shafit children? And the fact that he could do it, that Ali could snap his fingers and have a boy kidnapped from the only home he’d ever know, wrested from his parents and his people . . . ?
Well, it suddenly explained why someone like Kaveh might look upon him with such hostility.
Ali shook his head, uneasy. “No. Let’s just go back to the Citadel.”
“Oh, my love, my light, how you have stolen my happiness!”
Ali let out a grumpy sigh. It was a beautiful night. A thin moon hung over Daevabad’s dark lake, and stars twinkled in the cloudless sky. The air was fragrant with frankincense and jasmine. Before him played the city’s finest musicians, at hand was a platter of food from the king’s favored chef, and the dark eyes of the singer would have driven a dozen human men to their knees.
Ali was miserable. He fidgeted in his seat, keeping his gaze on the floor and trying to ignore the jingle of ankle bells and the girl’s smooth voice singing of things that made his blood rise. He tugged at the stiff collar of the new silver dishdasha Muntadhir had forced him to wear. Embroidered with a dozen rows of seed pearls, it was tight on his throat.
His behavior didn’t go unnoticed. “Your little brother doesn’t appear to be having a good time, my emir.” An even silkier female voice interrupted the singer, and Ali glanced up to meet Khanzada’s coy smile. “Are my girls not to your liking, Prince Alizayd?”
“Don’t take it personally, my light,” Muntadhir interrupted, kissing the hennaed hand of the courtesan curled at his side. “He got shot in the face this morning by a child.”
Ali threw his brother an annoyed look. “Do you have to keep bringing it up?”
“It’s very funny.”
Ali scowled, and Muntadhir lightly smacked his shoulder. “Ya, akhi, can you at least try to look less murderous? I invited you here so we could celebrate your promotion, not so you could terrify my friends.” He gestured at the dozen or so men arrayed around them, a handpicked group of the wealthiest and most influential nobles in the city.
“You didn’t invite me.” Ali sulked. “You ordered me.”
Muntadhir rolled his eyes. “You’re part of Abba’s court now, Zaydi.” He switched to Geziriyya and lowered his voice. “Socializing with these people is part of it . . . hell, it’s supposed to be a perk.”
“You know how I feel about these”—Ali waved his hand at a nobleman giggling like a little girl, and the man abruptly shut up—“debaucheries.”
Muntadhir sighed. “You need to stop talking like that, akhi.” He nodded at the platter. “Why don’t you eat something? Maybe the weight of some food in your stomach will drag you off your high horse.”
Ali grumbled but obeyed, leaning forward to take a small glass of sour tamarind sherbet. He knew Muntadhir was just trying to be kind, to ease his awkward, Citadel-raised little brother into court life, but Khanzada’s salon made Ali terribly uncomfortable. A place like this was the epitome of the wickedness Anas had wanted to eradicate in Daevabad.
Ali stole a glance at the courtesan as she leaned in to whisper in Muntadhir’s ear. Khanzada was said to be the most skilled dancer in the city, hailing from a family of acclaimed Agnivanshi illusionists. She was stunning, Ali would admit that. Even Muntadhir, his handsome older brother famous for leaving a string of broken hearts in his wake, had fallen for her.
I suppose her charms are enough to pay for all this. Khanzada’s salon was located in one of the city’s most desirable neighborhoods, a leafy enclave nestled in the heart of the Agnivanshi Quarter’s entertainment district. Her home was large and beautiful, three floors of white marble and cedar-screened windows that surrounded an airy courtyard with fruit trees and an intricately tiled fountain.
Ali would have seen the entire place razed to the ground. He despised these pleasure houses. It wasn’t enough that they were dens of every vice and sin imaginable, put on brazen public display, but he knew from Anas that most of these girls were shafit slaves stolen from their families and sold to the highest bidder.
“My lords.”
Ali looked up. The girl who had been dancing stopped before them and bowed low to the ground, pressing her hands on the tiled floor. Though her hair had the same night-black sheen as Khanzada’s and her skin shimmered like a pureblood, Ali could see round ears beneath her sheer veil. Shafit.
“Rise, my dear,” Muntadhir said. “Such a pretty face does not belong on the floor.”
The girl stood and pressed her palms together, blinking long-lashed hazel eyes at his brother. Muntadhir smiled, and Ali wondered if Khanzada would have some competition tonight. His brother beckoned her closer and hooked a finger into her bangles. She giggled, and he removed one of the strands of pearls that looped his neck, playing at placing it over her veil. He whispered something in her ear, and she laughed again. Ali sighed.
“Perhaps Prince Alizayd would like some of your attention, Rupa,” Khanzada teased. “Do you like your men tall, dark, and hostile?”
Ali shot her a glare, but Muntadhir only laughed. “It might help your attitude, akhi,” he said as he nuzzled the girl’s neck. “You’re too young to have sworn off them completely.”
Khanzada pressed closer to Muntadhir. She trailed her fingers down his waist-wrap. “And Geziri men make it so easy,” she said, tracing the pattern embroidered on the hem. “Even their garments are practical.” She grinned and removed her hand from his brother’s lap to run it down Rupa’s smooth face.
She looks like she’s evaluating a piece of fruit at the market. Ali cracked his knuckles. He was a young man—he’d be lying if he said the pretty girl didn’t stir him—but that only made him more uneasy.
Khanzada took his disdain the wrong way. “I have other girls if this one doesn’t suit your interest. Boys, as well,” she added with a wicked grin. “Perhaps such an adventurous taste runs in the—”