Nahri was speechless. She could take little heart in Ghassan’s assertion that shafit were equals—not when he could so easily disregard such a truth for political reality. Doing so bespoke a cruelty she had not seen in Dara’s far more ignorant brand of prejudice.
“So expose me,” she challenged. “I don’t care. I’m not going to help you slander his memory.”
“‘Slander his memory’?” Ghassan laughed. “He’s the Scourge of Qui-zi. This lie pales in comparison with his actual atrocities.”
“Says a man committed to using lies to further his reign.”
The king lifted one of his dark eyebrows. “Do you want to hear how he earned that title?”
Nahri stayed silent, and the king regarded her. “But of course. For all the interest in our world, all the things you asked my son . . . you’ve shown curiously little appetite for your Afshin’s bloody history.”
“Because it doesn’t matter to me.”
“So it will not bother you to hear it.” Ghassan sat back, pressing his hands together. “Let us talk of Qui-zi. The Tukharistanis were once your ancestors’ most loyal subjects, you know. Steadfast and peaceful, devoted to the fire cult . . . With just one flaw—they intentionally broke the law regarding humans.”
He tapped his turban. “Silk. A specialty of the humans in their land and an immediate hit when it was introduced to Daevabad. But its creation is a delicate task—too delicate for hot-blooded djinn hands. And so the Tukharistanis invited a select few human families into their tribe. They were embraced and given their own protected city. Qui-zi. None could leave, yet it was considered a paradise. As one would expect, the daeva and human populations mixed throughout the years. The Tukharistanis were careful not to let anyone with human blood leave Qui-zi, and silk was so prized that your ancestors turned a blind eye to the city’s existence for centuries.
“Until Zaydi al Qahtani rebelled. Until the Ayaanle swore their allegiance and suddenly any daeva—forgive me, any djinn—with a trace of sympathy for the shafit fell under suspicion.” The king shook his head. “Qui-zi could not stand. The Nahids needed to teach us all a lesson, a reminder of what happened when we broke Suleiman’s law and got too close to humans. So they devised such a lesson and selected an Afshin to carry it out, one too young and too stupidly devoted to question its cruelty.” Ghassan eyed her. “I’m sure you know his name.
“Qui-zi fell almost immediately; it was a merchant city in the wilds of Tukharistan with few defenses. His men sacked the houses and burned a fortune in silk. They weren’t there for riches, they were there for the people.
“He had every man, woman, and child scourged until they bled. If their blood wasn’t black enough, they were immediately killed, their bodies tossed in an open pit. And they were the lucky ones; the purebloods faced a worse fate. The throats of their men were packed with mud and then they were buried alive, enclosed in the same pit as their dead shafit fellows and any pureblooded woman unfortunate enough to be carrying a suspect pregnancy. The boys were castrated so that they would not carry on their fathers’ wickedness, and the women given over to rape. Then they burned the city to the ground and brought the survivors back to Daevabad in chains.”
Nahri was numb. She balled her hands into fists, her nails digging into the skin of her palms. “I don’t believe you,” she whispered.
“Yes, you do,” Ghassan said flatly. “And truthfully had that put an end to the rebellion, prevented the far greater number of deaths and atrocities in the war to come . . . I’d have put a whip in his hand too. But it didn’t. Your ancestors were ill-tempered fools. Forget the slain innocents, they destroyed half of Tukharistan’s economy. A commercial grievance wrapped in moral outrage?” The king tutted. “By year’s end, every remaining Tukharistani clan had sworn loyalty to Zaydi al Qahtani.” He touched his turban again. “Fourteen hundred years later, their finest spinners send me a new one every year to mark the anniversary.”
He’s lying, she tried to tell herself. But she could not help but recall the perpetually haunted Afshin. How many times had she heard the dark references to his past, seen the regret in his eyes? Dara admitted to once believing that the shafit were little more than soulless deceptions, that blood-mixing would lead to another of Suleiman’s curses. He said he’d been banished from Daevabad when he was Ali’s age . . . punished for carrying out the orders of her Nahid ancestors.
He did it, she realized, and something shattered inside her, a piece of her heart that would never repair. She forced herself to look at Ghassan, struggling to stay expressionless. She would not show him how deep a wound he’d just struck.
She cleared her throat. “And the point of this tale?”
The king crossed his arms. “Your people have a history of making foolish decisions based on absolutes instead of reality. They’re still doing it today, rioting in the streets and rushing to their deaths for a demand no sensible person would expect me to grant.” Ghassan leaned forward, his face intent. “But in you, I see a pragmatist. A shrewd-eyed woman who would negotiate her own bride price. Who manipulated the son I sent to spy on her to the point where he sacrificed himself to protect her.” He spread his hands. “What happened was an accident. There is no need to derail the plans we had both set in place, no reason we cannot repair what was broken between us.” He eyed her. “So tell me your price.”
A price. She would have laughed. There it was. That’s all anything really came down to: a price. Looking out for herself and no one else. Love, tribal pride . . . they were worthless in her world. No, not just worthless, they were dangerous. They’d destroyed Dara.
But there was something else in what Ghassan had just said. The son who sacrificed himself . . . “Where’s Ali?” she demanded. “I want to know what the mar—”
“If the word ‘marid’ comes out of your mouth again, I will have every Daeva child in the city thrown into the lake before your eyes,” Ghassan warned, his voice cold. “And as for my son, he is gone. He will not be here to defend you again.”
Nahri drew back in horror, and he let out an irritated sigh. “I’m growing impatient, Banu Nahri. If my slandering one of the most murderous men in history bothers your conscience, let’s devise another tale.”
She didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”
“Let’s talk about you.” He tilted his face, studying her like she was a chessboard. “I can easily reveal you as shafit; there are a number of ways—none particularly pleasant—in which to do so. That alone would turn most of your tribesmen against you, but we might as well go further, give the masses something to gossip about.”
He tapped his chin. “Your disregard for your people’s fire cult is almost too easy, as are your failures in the infirmary. We’d need a scandal . . .” He paused, a calculating expression crossing his hawkish face. “Perhaps I spoke wrongly about what happened in the infirmary. Maybe it was Darayavahoush who found you in the arms of another man. A young man whose name makes Daeva blood boil . . .”
Nahri recoiled. “You would never.” It was obvious they were speaking plainly, so she didn’t pretend not to know of whom he spoke. “You think people are howling for Ali’s blood now? If they thought he—”