“What?” Ali sat up straight. “Why?”
A shrill bird cry from outside the window interrupted them, and then a gray hawk neatly swept through the stone frame, tumbling to the floor in the form of a Geziri soldier, his uniform perfectly pressed. He fell into a bow as smoky feathers melted back into his skin. A scout, Ali recognized, one of the shapeshifters that regularly patrolled both the city and the surrounding lands.
“Your Majesty,” the scout started. “Forgive my intrusion, but I have news I thought urgent.”
Ghassan frowned impatiently when the scout fell silent. “Which is . . . ?”
“There’s a Daeva slave crossing the lake with an Afshin mark on his face.”
His father’s scowl deepened. “And? I have Daeva men going mad, painting themselves up in Afshin marks and running half-naked through the streets at least once a decade. That he’s a slave only explains his lunacy.”
The scout persisted. “He . . . he did not seem mad, my king. A bit haggard perhaps, but imposing. He looked like a warrior to me and wore a dagger at his waist.”
Ghassan stared. “Do you know when the last Afshin died, soldier?” When the scout flushed, Ghassan continued. “Fourteen hundred years ago. Slaves don’t last that long. The ifrit give them to the humans to cause chaos for a few centuries and when they’re driven thoroughly insane, dump them back on Daevabad’s doorstep to scare us.” He raised his brows. “Rather effectively, in your case.”
The scout dropped his gaze, stammering something unintelligible, but Ali noticed his brother suddenly frown.
“Abba,” Muntadhir started. “You don’t think . . .”
Ghassan threw him an exasperated glance. “Did you not hear what I just said? Don’t be ridiculous.” He turned back to the scout. “If it will console you both, follow him. Should he draw a bow and start scourging shafit in the street . . . well, then I suppose the day will be more interesting. Go.”
The flustered scout bowed; feathers sprouted over his arms, and he flew out the window, looking eager to escape.
“An Afshin . . .” Ghassan shook his head. “Next Suleiman himself will be appearing on my throne to lecture the masses.” He waved a dismissive hand at his sons. “You can go, as well, though you’re both confined to the palace for the rest of the day.”
“What?” Ali jumped to his feet. “I’m acting Qaid, there’s a possible riot brewing in the streets, a crazed slave arriving, and you want to lock me in my room?”
The king lifted his dark brows. “You won’t be Qaid for long if you keep questioning my orders.” He inclined his head toward the door. “Go.”
Muntadhir grabbed Ali by the shoulders, literally turning him around and shoving him toward the exit. “Enough, Zaydi,” he hissed under his breath.
They’re up to something. Ali didn’t like to think his father capable of intentionally stirring up such dangerous rumors, but even so, he didn’t want the shafit lured into a riot. He started to break off down the corridor. As much as the idea turned his stomach, he knew he needed to find Rashid.
Muntadhir grabbed his wrist. “Oh, no, akhi. You don’t leave my side today.”
“I need to get some papers from the Citadel.”
Muntadhir gave him a long look. Too long. Then he shrugged. “Well, then by all means, let’s go.”
“You don’t need to come.”
“I don’t?” Muntadhir crossed his arms. “And that’s where you would go? Just to the Citadel. Alone and back again without meeting anyone . . . no, Alizayd,” he snapped, grabbing Ali’s chin when he looked away, unable to meet his older brother’s suspicious gaze. “You look at me when I talk to you.”
A group of chattering courtiers rounded the bend of the corridor, and Muntadhir dropped his hand, stepping away from Ali as they passed.
The anger returned to his brother’s face as soon as they were out of sight. “You fool. You’re not even a good liar, do you know that?” Muntadhir paused and then let out an exasperated sigh. “Come with me.”
He grabbed Ali’s arm and pulled him in the opposite direction of the courtiers, through a servants’ entrance near the kitchens. Too frightened to protest, Ali stayed silent until his brother stopped at an unassuming alcove. Muntadhir raised his hand, whispering an incantation under his breath.
The alcove’s surface smoked. It vanished. A set of dusty stone steps greeted them, yawning into blackness.
Ali swallowed. “Are you going to assassinate me?” He was not entirely joking.
Muntadhir glared. “No, akhi. I’m going to save you.”
Muntadhir led him on a dizzying path down the stairs and through deserted corridors, lower and lower until Ali could hardly imagine they were still in the palace. There were no torches; the only light came from a handful of flames that Muntadhir charmed into existence. The firelight danced widely on the slick, damp walls, making Ali uncomfortably aware of how tight the corridor was. The air was thick and smelled of mildew and wet earth. “Are we under the lake?”
“Probably.”
Ali shuddered. They were underground and underwater? He tried not to think about the press of stone and earth and water above his head, but his heart raced. Most pureblooded djinn were notoriously claustrophobic, and he was no different. Nor was his brother, judging from Muntadhir’s ragged breathing.
“Where are we going?” he finally dared to ask.
“It’s better seen than explained,” Muntadhir said. “Don’t worry, we’re close.”
A few moments later the corridor ended abruptly in a pair of thick wooden doors that barely came to Ali’s chin. There were no knobs or door pulls, nothing to indicate how they opened.
Muntadhir’s hand shot out when Ali reached for them. “Not like that,” he warned. “Let me have your zulfiqar.”
“You’re not going to cut my throat and leave me in this godforsaken place, are you?”
“Don’t tempt me,” Muntadhir said flatly. He took the zulfiqar, bent down, and ran the blade lightly along his ankle. He pressed his palm against the bloody wound and handed the zulfiqar back to Ali. “Your turn. Take the blood from somewhere Abba won’t see. He’d kill me if he found out I brought you down here.”
Ali frowned but followed his brother’s example with the blade. “Now what?”
“Put your hand here.” Muntadhir gestured to a pair of grimy copper seals on the door, and they each pressed a bloody hand against a seal. The ancient doors opened with a whisper of dust into yawning blackness. His brother stepped through and raised his fistful of flames.
Ali ducked under the low doorway and followed. Muntadhir flung his hand out, scattering the flames to light the torches on the walls, illuminating a large cavern roughly hacked out of the city’s bedrock. Ali covered his nose as he took another step on the soft, sandy ground. The cavern reeked, and as his eyes adjusted to the blackness, he stilled.
The floor was covered with coffins. Scores, he realized, as Muntadhir lit another torch. Some were neatly lined up in identical rows of matching stone sarcophagi, while others were simply jumbled piles of plain wooden boxes. The smell wasn’t mildew. It was rot. The sharply astringent odor of the ashy decay of a djinn.