Anger, swift and fierce, coursed through him, but Ali had no one to blame but himself. You should have known. When the first rumors of weapons reached you, you should have stopped. But Ali hadn’t stopped. Instead, he’d accompanied Anas to that tavern. He’d stood by while two men were killed.
He took a deep breath. From the corner of his eye, he saw Wajed give him a curious look. He straightened up.
“But why?” Muntadhir pressed. “What would the Tanzeem have to gain?”
“I don’t know,” Ghassan replied. “And I don’t care. It took years to bring peace to Daevabad after the deaths of the last Nahids. I don’t intend to let some dirt-blood fanatics eager for martyrdom tear us apart.” He pointed at Wajed. “The Citadel will find the men responsible and execute them. If they are Geziri, do it quietly. I don’t need the Daevas thinking our tribe supports the Tanzeem. And you will put in place the new restrictions on the shafit. Ban their gatherings. Throw them in prison if they so much as step on a pureblood’s foot. For now, at least.” He shook his head. “God willing, we’ll get through the next few months without any surprises, and we’ll be able to ease them again.”
“Yes, my king.”
Ghassan waved at the crate. “Get rid of that thing before Kaveh sniffs it out. I’ve had enough of his ranting for one day.” He rubbed his brow and sank back into his chair, his jeweled rings gleaming. He glanced up, fixing his sharp gaze on Muntadhir. “Also . . . should I need to execute another shafit traitor, my emir will watch without flinching else he’ll find himself carrying out the next sentence.”
Muntadhir crossed his arms, leaning against the desk in a familiar manner Ali never would have dared. “Ya, Abba, if I knew you were going to have his head crushed like an overripe melon, I would have skipped breakfast.”
Ghassan’s eyes flashed. “Your younger brother managed to control himself.”
Muntadhir laughed. “Yes, but Ali is Citadel trained. He’d dance in front of the karkadann if you told him to.”
Their father didn’t seem to appreciate the jest, his face growing stormy. “Or perhaps spending all your time drinking with courtesans and poets has weakened your constitution.” He glared. “You should be glad of your future Qaid’s training—God knows you’re likely to need it.” He rose from his desk. “And on that note, I would speak to your brother alone.”
What? Why? Ali was barely holding his emotions in check; he didn’t want to be alone with his father.
Wajed squeezed his shoulder and briefly leaned in toward Ali’s ear. “Breathe, boy,” he whispered as Ghassan stood and strolled toward the balcony. “He doesn’t bite.” He flashed Ali a reassuring smile and followed Muntadhir out of the office.
There was a long moment of silence. His father studied the garden, his hands clasped behind him.
His back was still to Ali when he asked, “Do you believe that?”
Ali’s voice came out in a squeak. “Believe what?”
“What you said before.” His father turned around, his dark gray eyes intent. “About God’s law applying equally— By the Most High, Alizayd, stop shaking. I need to be able to talk to my Qaid without him turning into a trembling mess.”
Ali’s embarrassment was tempered with relief—far better for Ghassan to blame his anxiety on nerves from being made Qaid. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Ghassan leveled his gaze on him again. “Answer the question.”
Ali thought fast, but there was no way he could lie. His family knew he was devout—he had been since childhood—and their religion was clear on the issue of the shafit. “Yes,” he replied. “I believe the shafit should be treated equally. That’s why our ancestors came to Daevabad. That’s why Zaydi al Qahtani went to war with the Nahids.”
“A war that nearly destroyed our entire race. A war that ended in the sacking of Daevabad and earned us the enmity of the Daeva tribe until this day.”
Ali startled at his father’s words. “Do you not think it was worth it?”
Ghassan looked irritated. “Of course I think it was worth it. I’m simply capable of seeing both sides of an issue. It’s a skill you should try to develop.” Ali’s cheeks grew hot, and his father continued. “Besides, there weren’t this many shafit in Zaydi’s time.”
Ali frowned. “Are they that numerous now?”
“Nearly a third of the population. Yes,” he said, noticing the surprise in Ali’s face. “Their numbers have burgeoned immensely in recent decades—information you’d do best to keep to yourself.” He gestured to the weapons. “There are now almost as many shafit in Daevabad as there are Daevas, and truthfully, my son, if they went to war in the streets, I’m not sure the Royal Guard could stop them. The Daevas would win in the end, of course, but it would be bloody, and it would destroy the city’s peace for generations.”
“But that’s not going to happen, Abba,” Ali argued. “The shafit aren’t fools. They just want a better life for themselves. They want to be able to work and live in buildings that aren’t coming down around them. To take care of their families without fearing their children will be snatched away by some pure—”
Ghassan interrupted. “When you come up with a way to provide jobs and housing for thousands of people, let me know. And if their lives were made easier here, they would only reproduce faster.”
“Then let them leave. Let them try to make better lives in the human world.”
“Let them cause chaos in the human world, you mean.” His father shook his head. “Absolutely not. They may look human, but many still have magic. We’d be inviting another Suleiman to curse us.” He sighed. “There’s no easy answer, Alizayd. All we can do is strike a balance.”
“But we’re not striking a balance,” Ali argued. “We’re choosing the fire worshippers over the shafit our ancestors came here to protect.”
Ghassan whirled on him. “The fire worshippers?”
Too late Ali remembered the Daevas hated that term for their tribe. “I didn’t mean—”
“Then don’t ever repeat such a thing in my presence.” His father glared at him. “The Daevas are under my protection, same as our own tribe. I don’t care what faith they practice.” He threw up his hands. “Hell, maybe they’re right to obsess over blood purity. In all my years, I’ve never encountered a Daeva shafit.”
They probably smother them in their cradles. But Ali didn’t say that. He’d been a fool to pick this fight today.
Ghassan ran a hand along the wet windowsill and then shook off the water droplets that had gathered upon his fingertips. “It’s always wet here. Always cold. I haven’t been back to Am Gezira in a century and yet every morning, I wake up missing its hot sands.” He glanced back at Ali. “This is not our home. It never will be. It will always belong to the Daevas first.”
It’s my home. Ali was accustomed to Daevabad’s damp chill and liked the diverse mix of peoples that filled its streets. He’d felt out of place during his rare trips to Am Gezira, always conscious of his half-Ayaanle appearance.