“The human masters they’ve killed.” His face twisted. “It supposedly amuses the ifrit to see them add up.”
The human masters they’ve killed. Nahri’s mind went back to the countless times she’d observed that tattoo wrapped around Dara’s arm, the tiny black lines dull in the light of his constant fires. There had to be hundreds of them.
Aware of the prince watching her, Nahri fought to keep her face composed. After all, she’d seen that vision in Hierapolis; she knew how thoroughly controlled Dara had been by his master. Surely he couldn’t be blamed for their deaths.
Besides, however ghastly the meaning of Dara’s slave mark, Nahri suddenly realized a much nearer threat lurked. She glanced again at the books in Alizayd’s hand, and a surge of protectiveness flooded through her, accompanied by a prickle of fear. “You’re studying him.”
The prince didn’t even bother lying. “It’s an interesting tale the two of you have concocted.”
Her heart dropped. Nahri, the pieces don’t fit . . . Dara’s hurried words came back to her, the mystery about their origins that had led him to lie to the king and race after the ifrit. He’d suggested the Qahtanis might not even realize something wasn’t right.
But it was clear that at least one of them had some suspicions.
Nahri cleared her throat. “I see,” she finally managed, not entirely masking the alarm in her voice.
Alizayd dropped his gaze. “You should go,” he said. “Your minders are likely getting worried.”
Her minders? “I remember the way,” Nahri retorted, turning back toward the garden’s wild interior.
“Wait!” Alizayd stepped between her and the trees. There was a hint of panic in his voice. “Please . . . I’m sorry,” he rushed on. “I shouldn’t have said that.” He shifted on his feet. “It was rude . . . and it’s hardly the first time I’ve been rude to you.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m getting accustomed to it.”
A wry expression crossed his face, nearly a smile. “I would beg that you not.” He touched his heart. “Please. I’ll take you back through the palace.” He nodded to the wet leaves sticking to her chador. “You needn’t go traipsing back through the jungle because I have no manners.”
Nahri considered the offer; it seemed sincere enough, and there was the slight chance she could accidentally knock his books into one of the fiery braziers of which the djinn seemed so fond. “Fine.”
He nodded in the direction of the wall. “This way. Let me just change.”
She followed him across the clearing to a stone pavilion fronting the wall and then through an open balustrade into a plain room about half the size of her bedroom. One wall was taken up by bookshelves, the rest of the room sparsely decorated with a prayer niche, a single rug, and a large ceramic tile inscribed with what looked like Arabic religious verses.
The prince went straight to the main door, an enormous antique of carved teak. He stuck his head out and made a beckoning motion. In seconds, a member of the Royal Guard appeared, silently installing himself at the open door.
Nahri gave the prince an incredulous look. “Are you afraid of me?”
He bristled. “No. But it is said that when a man and woman are alone in a closed room, their third companion is the devil.”
She raised an eyebrow, struggling to contain her mirth. “Well then, I suppose we should take precaution.” She eyed the water dripping from his waist-wrap. “Didn’t you need to . . . ?”
Ali followed her gaze, made a small, embarrassed noise, and then promptly vanished through a curtained archway—the books still in hand.
What an odd person. The room was extraordinarily plain for a prince, nothing like her lavish apartment. A thin sleeping pallet had been neatly folded and placed upon a single wooden chest. A low floor desk looked out upon the garden, its surface covered with papers and scrolls all set at disturbingly perfect right angles to one another. A stylus rested alongside an immaculate inkpot.
“Your quarters don’t look very . . . lived in,” she commented.
“I haven’t lived in the palace long,” he called from the other room.
She drifted toward the bookshelves. “Where are you from originally?”
“Here.” Nahri jumped at the close sound of his voice. Alizayd had returned without making a sound, now dressed in a long gray waist-wrap and striped linen tunic. “Daevabad, I mean. I grew up in the Citadel.”
“The Citadel?”
He nodded. “I’m training to be my brother’s Qaid.”
Nahri tucked that bit of information in her head for later, captivated by the crowded bookshelves. There were hundreds of books and scrolls there, including some half her height and a good number thicker than her head. She ran a hand along the multihued spines, overtaken by a sense of longing.
“Do you like to read?” Alizayd asked.
Nahri hesitated, embarrassed to admit her illiteracy to a man with such a large personal library. “I suppose you could say I like the idea of reading.” When his only response was a confused frown, she clarified. “I don’t know how.”
“Truly?” He seemed surprised, but at least not disgusted. “I thought all humans could read.”
“Not at all.” She was amused by the misconception—maybe humans were as much of a mystery to the djinn as the djinn were to humans. “I’ve always wanted to learn. I hoped I’d have the opportunity here, but it seems it’s not to be.” She sighed. “Nisreen says it’s a waste of time.”
“I imagine many in Daevabad feel the same way.” Even as she touched the gilded spine of one of the volumes, Nahri could tell he was studying her.
“And if you could . . . what would you read about?”
My family. The answer was immediate, but there was no way she was revealing that to Alizayd. She turned to face him. “The books you were reading outside looked interesting.”
He didn’t bat an eye. “I fear those particular volumes are unavailable right now.”
“When do you think they’ll be available?”
She saw something soften in his face. “I don’t think you’d want to read these, Banu Nahri. I don’t think you’d like what they say.”
“Why not?”
He hesitated. “War isn’t a pleasant topic,” he finally said.
That was a more diplomatic response than Nahri would have expected considering the tenor of their earlier conversation. Hoping to keep him talking, she decided to answer his initial question a different way. “Business.” At Alizayd’s visible confusion, she explained. “You asked what I would read about if I could. I would like to know how people run businesses in Daevabad, how they make money, negotiate with each other, that sort of thing.” The more she thought about it, the better idea it seemed. After all, it was her own brand of business savvy that had kept her alive in Cairo, hustling travelers and knowing the best way to swindle a mark.
He went entirely still. “Like . . . economics?”
“I suppose.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you sure my father didn’t send you?”
“Quite.”