Ali was miserable. He fidgeted in his seat, keeping his gaze on the floor and trying to ignore the jingle of ankle bells and the girl’s smooth voice singing of things that made his blood rise. He tugged at the stiff collar of the new silver dishdasha Muntadhir had forced him to wear. Embroidered with a dozen rows of seed pearls, it was tight on his throat.
His behavior didn’t go unnoticed. “Your little brother doesn’t appear to be having a good time, my emir.” An even silkier female voice interrupted the singer, and Ali glanced up to meet Khanzada’s coy smile. “Are my girls not to your liking, Prince Alizayd?”
“Don’t take it personally, my light,” Muntadhir interrupted, kissing the hennaed hand of the courtesan curled at his side. “He got shot in the face this morning by a child.”
Ali threw his brother an annoyed look. “Do you have to keep bringing it up?”
“It’s very funny.”
Ali scowled, and Muntadhir lightly smacked his shoulder. “Ya, akhi, can you at least try to look less murderous? I invited you here so we could celebrate your promotion, not so you could terrify my friends.” He gestured at the dozen or so men arrayed around them, a handpicked group of the wealthiest and most influential nobles in the city.
“You didn’t invite me.” Ali sulked. “You ordered me.”
Muntadhir rolled his eyes. “You’re part of Abba’s court now, Zaydi.” He switched to Geziriyya and lowered his voice. “Socializing with these people is part of it . . . hell, it’s supposed to be a perk.”
“You know how I feel about these”—Ali waved his hand at a nobleman giggling like a little girl, and the man abruptly shut up—“debaucheries.”
Muntadhir sighed. “You need to stop talking like that, akhi.” He nodded at the platter. “Why don’t you eat something? Maybe the weight of some food in your stomach will drag you off your high horse.”
Ali grumbled but obeyed, leaning forward to take a small glass of sour tamarind sherbet. He knew Muntadhir was just trying to be kind, to ease his awkward, Citadel-raised little brother into court life, but Khanzada’s salon made Ali terribly uncomfortable. A place like this was the epitome of the wickedness Anas had wanted to eradicate in Daevabad.
Ali stole a glance at the courtesan as she leaned in to whisper in Muntadhir’s ear. Khanzada was said to be the most skilled dancer in the city, hailing from a family of acclaimed Agnivanshi illusionists. She was stunning, Ali would admit that. Even Muntadhir, his handsome older brother famous for leaving a string of broken hearts in his wake, had fallen for her.
I suppose her charms are enough to pay for all this. Khanzada’s salon was located in one of the city’s most desirable neighborhoods, a leafy enclave nestled in the heart of the Agnivanshi Quarter’s entertainment district. Her home was large and beautiful, three floors of white marble and cedar-screened windows that surrounded an airy courtyard with fruit trees and an intricately tiled fountain.
Ali would have seen the entire place razed to the ground. He despised these pleasure houses. It wasn’t enough that they were dens of every vice and sin imaginable, put on brazen public display, but he knew from Anas that most of these girls were shafit slaves stolen from their families and sold to the highest bidder.
“My lords.”
Ali looked up. The girl who had been dancing stopped before them and bowed low to the ground, pressing her hands on the tiled floor. Though her hair had the same night-black sheen as Khanzada’s and her skin shimmered like a pureblood, Ali could see round ears beneath her sheer veil. Shafit.
“Rise, my dear,” Muntadhir said. “Such a pretty face does not belong on the floor.”
The girl stood and pressed her palms together, blinking long-lashed hazel eyes at his brother. Muntadhir smiled, and Ali wondered if Khanzada would have some competition tonight. His brother beckoned her closer and hooked a finger into her bangles. She giggled, and he removed one of the strands of pearls that looped his neck, playing at placing it over her veil. He whispered something in her ear, and she laughed again. Ali sighed.
“Perhaps Prince Alizayd would like some of your attention, Rupa,” Khanzada teased. “Do you like your men tall, dark, and hostile?”
Ali shot her a glare, but Muntadhir only laughed. “It might help your attitude, akhi,” he said as he nuzzled the girl’s neck. “You’re too young to have sworn off them completely.”
Khanzada pressed closer to Muntadhir. She trailed her fingers down his waist-wrap. “And Geziri men make it so easy,” she said, tracing the pattern embroidered on the hem. “Even their garments are practical.” She grinned and removed her hand from his brother’s lap to run it down Rupa’s smooth face.
She looks like she’s evaluating a piece of fruit at the market. Ali cracked his knuckles. He was a young man—he’d be lying if he said the pretty girl didn’t stir him—but that only made him more uneasy.
Khanzada took his disdain the wrong way. “I have other girls if this one doesn’t suit your interest. Boys, as well,” she added with a wicked grin. “Perhaps such an adventurous taste runs in the—”
“Enough, Khanzada,” Muntadhir cut in, a note of warning in his voice.
The courtesan laughed and slid into Muntadhir’s lap. She pressed a wineglass to his lips. “Forgive me, my love.”
The humor returned to Muntadhir’s face, and Ali looked away, his temper rising. He didn’t like to see this side of his brother; such profligacy would be a weakness when he was king. The shafit girl looked between them.
As if awaiting orders. Something in Ali snapped. He dropped his spoon, folding his arms across his chest. “How old are you, sister?”
“I . . .” Rupa looked again to Khanzada. “I am sorry, my lord, but I do not know.”
“She’s old enough,” Khanzada interrupted.
“Is she?” Ali asked. “Well, I’m sure you would know . . . you’d be certain to get all the details of her pedigree when you bought her.”
Muntadhir exhaled. “Simmer down, Zaydi.”
But it was Khanzada who grew irate. “I do not buy anyone,” she said, defending herself. “I have a list of girls wishing entrance to my school as long as my arm.”
“I am certain you do,” Ali said scornfully. “And how many of your customers must they sleep with to get off this list?”
Khanzada straightened up, fire in her tin-colored eyes. “Excuse me?”
Their argument was attracting curious glances; Ali switched to Geziriyya so only Muntadhir could understand him. “How can you even sit here, akhi? Have you ever given thought to where—”
Khanzada jumped to her feet. “If you want to accuse me of something, at least have the courage to say it in a language I can understand, you half-tribe brat!”
Muntadhir abruptly straightened up at her words. The nervous chatter of the other men died away, and the musicians stopped playing.
“What did you just call him?” Muntadhir demanded. Ali had never heard such ice in his voice.
Khanzada seemed to realize she had made a mistake. The anger vanished from her face, replaced by fear. “I-I only meant—”
“I don’t care what you meant,” Muntadhir snapped. “How dare you say such a thing to your prince? Apologize.”