“Well, you must do something,” Kaveh insisted. “You’re the Qaid. The city’s safety is your responsibility.”
Ali rose from his desk. Kaveh was probably being ridiculous. But on the very, very slim chance this rumor had a grain of truth, he did want to do what he could to avoid a riot. And that meant going to his father.
“Let’s go,” he said, beckoning Kaveh along. “I’m his son, he’ll see me.”
“The king can’t see you right now, my prince.”
Ali’s cheeks grew hot as the guard politely denied him. Kaveh coughed into his hand in a poor effort to hide his laugh. Ali stared at the wooden door, embarrassed and annoyed. His father wouldn’t see the grand wazir and now was too busy for his Qaid?
“This is ridiculous.” Ali barged past the guard and shoved the door open. He didn’t care what sort of dalliance he was interrupting.
But the scene that met his eyes was not the flirtatious pack of concubines he expected, but rather a small group of men huddled around his father’s desk: Muntadhir, Abu Nuwas, and even more strangely, a shafit-looking man he didn’t recognize clad in a shabby brown robe and sweat-stained white turban.
The king glanced up, clearly surprised. “Alizayd . . . you’re early.”
Early for what? Ali blinked, trying to gather his composure. “I . . . ah, sorry, I didn’t realize you were . . .” He trailed off. Conspiring? Judging from how quickly the men straightened up when he barged in and the vaguely guilty look on his brother’s face, conspiring was definitely his first impression. The shafit man lowered his gaze, stepping behind Abu Nuwas like he didn’t want to be seen.
Kaveh came in behind him. “Forgive us, Your Majesty, but there is an urgent matter—”
“Yes, I got your message, Grand Wazir,” his father interrupted. “I’m handling it.”
“Oh.” Kaveh squirmed under the king’s withering stare. “I just fear that if—”
“I said I’m handling it. You’re dismissed.”
Ali almost felt a moment of pity for the Daeva man as he quickly backed out of the room. Ignoring his younger son, Ghassan nodded at Abu Nuwas. “So we’re understood?”
“Yes, sire,” Abu Nuwas said, his voice grave.
The king turned his attention to the shafit man. “And if you get caught . . .”
The man simply bowed, and his father nodded. “Good, you may both go.” He glanced at Ali, and his face hardened. “Come here,” he commanded, switching to Geziriyya. “Sit.”
He’d gone in as Qaid, but now Ali felt more like a boy bracing for a scolding. He took a seat on the plain chair opposite his father. He noticed for the first time that the king was in his ceremonial black robes and jewel-colored turban, which was odd. Court was being held later this afternoon, and his father didn’t typically dress like that unless he expected public business. A steaming cup of green coffee sat by his bejeweled hand, and his pile of scrolls looked even messier than usual. Whatever he was working on, he’d clearly been at it for some time.
Muntadhir came around the desk and nodded at the cup. “Should I take that before you hurl it at his head?”
Ali bit back a wave of panic, fidgeting under his father’s harsh stare. “What did I do?”
“Not much, it seems,” Ghassan said. He drummed his fingers over the sprawl of papers. “I’ve been reviewing the reports from Abu Nuwas on your . . . tenure as Qaid.”
Ali drew back. “There are reports?” He had figured Abu Nuwas was watching him, but there was enough paper on the desk to contain a detailed history of Daevabad. “I didn’t realize you had him spying on me.”
“Of course I had him spying on you,” Ghassan scoffed. “Did you really think I’d blindly hand over complete control of the city’s security to my underage son with a history of poor decision making?”
“I take it his reports are not glowing?”
Muntadhir winced, and his father’s face darkened. “I hope you keep your sense of humor, Alizayd, when I send you to some wretched garrison in the wastes of the Sahara.” He jabbed angrily at the papers. “You were supposed to hunt down the remaining Tanzeem and teach the shafit a lesson. Yet our jail is mostly empty, and I see no evidence of increased arrests or evictions. What happened to the new ordinances on the shafit? Should not half of them be out on the street?”
So Rashid had been correct last night in saying Ghassan would soon realize Ali wasn’t putting the new laws in place. Ali fought for words. “Is it not a good thing for our jail to be empty? There has been no mass violence since Anas’s execution, no increase in crime . . . I cannot arrest people for things they don’t do.”
“Then you should have drawn them out. I told you I wanted them gone. You are Qaid. It’s your responsibility to figure out how to accomplish my orders.”
“By inventing charges?”
“Yes,” Ghassan said vehemently. “If that is what’s needed. Besides, Abu Nuwas says there have been several instances of purebloods having their foster children kidnapped in the past few weeks. Could you not have followed up on that?”
Foster children? Is that what they call them? Ali gave his father an incredulous look. “You realize the people who make those complaints are slavers, yes? They kidnap these children from their parents in order to sell them to the highest bidder!” Ali started to rise from his seat.
“Sit down,” his father snapped. “And don’t spout that shafit propaganda at me. People give up children all the time. And if these so-called slavers of yours have their paperwork in order, then as far as both you and I are concerned, they fall within the law.”
“But, Abba—”
His father slammed his fist onto the desk so hard the scrolls jumped. An inkwell fell, smashing to the floor.
“Enough. I’ve already told Abu Nuwas that such transactions can now be done in the bazaar if it will make things safer.” When Ali opened his mouth, his father held up his hand. “Don’t,” he warned. “If you say another word on the matter, I swear I’ll have you stripped of your titles and sent back to Am Gezira for the rest of your first century.” He shook his head. “I was willing to give you a chance to prove your loyalty, Alizayd, but—”
Muntadhir swept between them and spoke for the first time. “It is not yet at that point, Abba,” he said cryptically. “Let us see what the day brings—that is what we decided, yes?” He ignored Ali’s questioning look. “But perhaps when Wajed returns, Ali should go to Am Gezira. He is not even at his quarter century yet. Give him a garrison back home, and let him get seasoned for a few decades among our own people in a place where he can do less damage.”
“That’s not necessary.” Ali’s face grew hot, but his father was already nodding in agreement.
“It is something to consider, yes. But things will not continue like this until Wajed’s return. After today, you’ll have excuse enough to crack down on the shafit.”