“Why would you?” She dropped her gaze. “It’s not like you’ve ever asked. I’m sure you find harem politics frivolous and contemptible anyway.”
“Zaynab . . .” The hurt in her voice cut him deeply. Despite the antagonism that frequently characterized their relationship, his sister had come here to warn him. His brother had covered for him time and time again. And what had Ali done? He’d dismissed Zaynab as a spoiled brat and helped his father trap Muntadhir in an engagement with a woman he didn’t want.
Ali stood as the sun sank behind the tall palace walls, throwing the garden into shadow. “I need to find him.”
“Good luck.” Zaynab pulled her feet from the water. “He was drinking by noon and made some comment about consoling himself with half the city’s noblewomen.”
“I know where he’ll be.” Ali helped her to her feet. She turned to leave, and he touched her wrist. “Have tea with me tomorrow.”
She blinked in surprise. “Surely you have more important things to do than have tea with your spoiled sister.”
He smiled. “Not at all.”
It was dark by the time Ali reached Khanzada’s salon. Music spilled into the street, and a few soldiers milled about outside. He nodded to them and steeled himself as he climbed the stairs leading to the rooftop garden. He could hear a man grunting; a woman’s low cry of pleasure echoed from one of the dark corridors.
A servant moved to block the door when Ali arrived. “Peace be upon you, Sheikh . . . Prince!” the man corrected with an embarrassed flush. “Forgive me, but the lady of the house—”
Ali pushed past him and through the door, wrinkling his nose at the overly perfumed air. The roof was packed with at least two dozen noblemen and their retainers. Quick-footed servants twined among them, bringing wine and tending to water pipes. Musicians played and two girls danced, conjuring up illuminated flowers with their hands. Muntadhir lounged on a plush couch with Khanzada next to him.
Muntadhir didn’t seem to notice his arrival, but Khanzada jumped to her feet. Ali raised his hands, readying an apology that died on his lips when he noticed a new addition to Muntadhir’s drinking companions. He dropped his hand to his zulfiqar.
Darayavahoush grinned. “Peace be upon you, little Zaydi.” The Afshin sat with Jamshid and a Daeva man Ali didn’t recognize. They looked like they were having a good time, their goblets full, a pretty wine bearer perched beside them on the large cushioned bench.
Ali’s gaze slid from the Afshin to Jamshid. Now there was a situation he had little idea how to handle. He owed the Daeva man his life several times over, for interrupting Hanno and getting rid of his body, for getting him to Nahri. There was no denying it—but God, did he wish it had been someone other than Kaveh’s son. A word, an insinuation, and the grand wazir would be after Ali in a heartbeat.
Khanzada was suddenly in front of him, waving a finger in his face. “Did my servant let you in? I told him—”
Muntadhir finally spoke. “Let him pass, Khanzada,” he called in a weary voice.
She scowled. “Fine. But no weapons.” She snatched his zulfiqar away. “You make my girls nervous enough.”
Ali watched helplessly as his zulfiqar was handed off to a passing servant. Darayavahoush laughed, and Ali whirled on him, but Khanzada seized his arm and dragged him forward with a surprising amount of force for such a delicate-looking woman.
She pushed him into a chair beside Muntadhir. “Don’t make trouble,” she warned before stalking off. Ali suspected the doorman was about to get quite the tongue-lashing.
Muntadhir didn’t greet him, his vacant gaze focused on the dancers.
Ali cleared his throat. “Peace be upon you, akhi.”
“Alizayd.” His brother’s voice was cool. He took a sip from his copper goblet. “What brings a holy man to such a bastion of sin?”
A promising start. Ali sighed. “I want to apologize, Dhiru. To talk to you about—”
There was a burst of laughter from the Daeva men across the way. The Afshin appeared to be telling some sort of joke in Divasti, his face animated, his hands waving for emphasis. Jamshid laughed as the third man topped off his goblet. Ali frowned.
“What?” Muntadhir demanded. “What are you staring at?”
“I . . . nothing,” Ali stammered, surprised by the hostility in his brother’s voice. “I just didn’t realize Jamshid and Darayavahoush were so close.”
“They’re not close,” Muntadhir snapped. “He’s being polite to his father’s guest.” His eyes flashed, something dark and uncertain in their depths. “Don’t be getting any ideas, Alizayd. I don’t like that look on your face.”
“What look? What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about. You had your supposed assassin thrown in the lake and risked your life to cover up whatever the hell you were doing on the wall. It ends there. Jamshid isn’t talking. I asked him not to . . . and unlike some people here, he doesn’t lie to me.”
Ali was aghast. “You think I’m planning to hurt him?” He lowered his voice, noticing the curious gaze of a nearby servant—they might have been speaking Geziriyya, but an argument looked the same in any language. “My God, Dhiru, do you really think I’d kill the man who saved my life? Do you think me capable of that?”
“I don’t know what you’re capable of, Zaydi.” Muntadhir drained his goblet. “I’ve been telling myself for months that this is all a mistake. That you’re just some softhearted fool who threw his money around without asking questions.”
Ali’s heart skipped a beat, and Muntadhir beckoned for the wine bearer, falling silent only long enough for the man to finish pouring him more wine. He took a sip before continuing. “But you’re not a fool, Zaydi—you’re one of the brightest people I know. You didn’t just give them money, you taught them to hide it from the Treasury. And you’re far better at covering your tracks than I would have imagined. Your sheikh was crushed to death in front of you, and my God . . . you didn’t flinch. You had the damn presence of mind to dispose of a body while you were dying yourself.” Muntadhir shuddered. “That’s cold, Zaydi. That’s a coldness I didn’t know you had in you.” He shook his head, a hint of regret stealing into his voice. “I try to dismiss them, you know, the things people say. I always have.”
Nausea welled in Ali. In the depths of his heart, he suddenly suspected—and feared—where this conversation was going. He swallowed back the lump rising in his throat. “What things?”
“You know what things.” His brother’s gray eyes—the gray eyes they shared—swam with emotion, a mix of guilt and fear and suspicion. “The things people always say about princes in our situation.”
The fear in Ali’s heart unspooled. And then—with a swiftness that took him aback—it turned to anger. To a resentment that Ali hadn’t even realized, until this moment, he held tightly clamped, in a place he didn’t dare go. “Muntadhir, I’m cold because I’ve spent my entire life at the Citadel training to serve you, sleeping on floors while you slept with courtesans on silken beds. Because I was ripped from my mother’s arms when I was five so that I might learn to kill people at your command and fight the battles you’d never have to see.” Ali took a deep breath, checking the emotions swirling in his chest. “I made a mistake, Dhiru. That’s it. I was trying to help the shafit, not start some—”