Ali’s heart raced. Not for the first time, he thanked the Most High that the Nahids were dead. Even one of their half-trained children would be able to tell he was lying. “I . . . no. The grand wazir did not consult with me.” He thought fast, knowing that Kaveh believed him a zealous idiot. He looked down at the Daeva man. “I suppose if you’re having trouble . . .”
Kaveh bristled. “I’ve had the sharpest minds in the scholar’s guild assisting me; I doubt the prince could offer more.” He gave Ali a withering look. “I am hearing a number of Ayaanle names among their rumored patrons,” he added coolly before turning back to the king. “Including one that might concern you. Ta Musta Ras.”
Wajed blinked in surprise. “Ta Musta Ras? Isn’t he one of the queen’s cousins?”
Ali cringed at the mention of his mother, and his father scowled. “He is, and one I could easily see supporting a bunch of dirt-blooded terrorists. The Ayaanle have always been fond of treating Daevabad’s politics as a chessboard set for their amusement . . . especially when they’re safely ensconced in Ta Ntry.” He fixed his gaze on Kaveh. “But no proof, you say?”
The grand wazir shook his head. “None, my king. But plenty of rumors.”
“I can’t arrest my wife’s cousin over rumors. Especially not with Ayaanle gold and salt making up a third of my treasury.”
“Queen Hatset is in Ta Ntry now,” Wajed pointed out. “Do you think he would listen to her?”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Ghassan said darkly. “He might already be.”
Ali stared at his feet, his cheeks growing warm as they discussed his mother. He and Hatset weren’t close. Ali had been taken from the harem when he was five and given to Wajed to be groomed as Muntadhir’s future Qaid.
His father sighed. “You’ll have to go there yourself, Wajed. I trust no one else to speak to her. Let her and her entire damned family know she doesn’t return to Daevabad until the money stops. Should she wish to see her children again, the choice is hers.”
Ali could feel Wajed’s eyes upon him. “Yes, my king,” Wajed said softly.
Kaveh looked alarmed. “Who will serve as Qaid while he’s gone?”
“Alizayd. It’s only for a few months and will be good practice for when I’m dead and this one”—Ghassan jerked his head in Muntadhir’s direction—“is too occupied with dancing girls to rule the realm.”
Ali’s mouth dropped open, and Muntadhir burst into laughter.
“Well, that should cut down on theft.” His brother made a chopping motion across his wrist. “Quite literally.”
Kaveh went pale. “My king, Prince Alizayd is a child. He’s not even close to his first quarter century. You cannot possibly entrust the city’s security to a sixteen—”
“Eighteen,” Muntadhir corrected with a wicked grin. “Come now, Grand Wazir, there’s an enormous difference.”
Kaveh clearly didn’t share the emir’s amusement. His voice grew more pitched. “Eighteen-year-old boy. A boy who—might I remind you—once had a Daeva nobleman whipped in the street like a common shafit thief!”
“He was a thief,” Ali defended. He remembered the incident, but was surprised Kaveh did; it was years ago, the first—and last—time Ali had been allowed to patrol the Daeva Quarter. “God’s law applies equally to all.”
The grand wazir took a breath. “Trust me, Prince Alizayd, it is to my deep disappointment that you are not in Paradise where we all follow God’s law . . .” He didn’t pause long enough for the double meaning of his words to land, but Ali picked it up well enough. “But under Daevabad’s law, the shafit are not equal to purebloods.” He looked imploringly to the king. “Did you not just have someone executed for saying much the same thing?”
“I did,” Ghassan agreed. “A lesson you would do well to remember, Alizayd. The Qaid enforces my law, not his own beliefs.”
“Of course, Abba,” Ali said quickly, knowing he’d been foolish to speak so plainly in front of them. “I will do as you command.”
“See, Kaveh? Nothing to fear.” Ghassan nodded in the direction of the door. “You may leave. Court will be held after the noon prayer. Let word get out about this morning; perhaps that will cut down on the number of petitioners harassing me.”
The Daeva minister looked like he had more to say, but he merely nodded, throwing Ali a vicious look as he left.
Wajed slammed the door shut behind him. “That snake has a twisted tongue, Abu Muntadhir,” he said to the king, switching to Geziriyya. “I’d like to make him wriggle like one.” He caressed his zulfiqar. “Just once.”
“Don’t give your protégé any ideas.” Ghassan unwound his turban, leaving the brilliant silk in a heap on the desk. “Kaveh is not wrong to be upset, and he doesn’t even know the half of things.” He nodded to a large crate sitting next to the balcony. Ali hadn’t noticed it earlier. “Show them.”
The Qaid sighed but crossed to the crate. “An imam who runs a mosque near the Grand Bazaar contacted the Royal Guard a few weeks ago and said he suspected Bhatt of recruiting one of his congregants.” Wajed pulled free his khanjar and pried open the crate’s wooden slats. “My soldiers followed that man to one of his hideouts.” He beckoned for Ali and Muntadhir. “We found this there.”
Ali took a step closer, already sick. In his heart, he knew what was in that crate.
The weapons Anas swore he didn’t have were packed in tight. Crude iron cudgels and battered steel daggers, studded maces and a couple of crossbows. A half-dozen swords and a few of the long incendiary devices—rifles?—humans had invented, along with a box of ammunition. Ali’s disbelieving eyes scanned the crate and then his heart skipped a beat.
Zulfiqar training blades.
The words were out of Ali’s mouth before he could stop himself. “Someone in the Royal Guard stole these.”
Wajed gave him a grim nod. “It had to be. A Geziri man; we only let our own near those blades.” He crossed his arms over his massive chest. “They must have been stolen from the Citadel, but I suspect the rest were bought from smugglers.” He met Ali’s horrified gaze. “There were three other crates like this one.”
Beside him, Muntadhir exhaled. “What in God’s name were they planning to do with all this?”
“I’m not sure,” Wajed admitted. “They could have armed a few dozen shafit men at most. No real match for the Royal Guard, but—”
“They could have murdered a score of people shopping in the Grand Bazaar,” the king cut in. “They could have lain in wait outside the Daevas’ temple on one of their feast days and massacred a hundred pilgrims before help arrived. They could have started a war.”
Ali gripped the crate, though he had no memory of reaching for it. In his mind, he saw the warriors he’d grown up with—the cadets who’d fallen asleep on one another’s shoulders after long days of training, the young men who teased and insulted one another as they headed out on their first patrols. The ones Ali would soon swear to lead and protect as Qaid. They were the ones who would have likely faced these weapons.