Ali leaned against the stone sarcophagus, and then remembering what it contained, quickly straightened back up. “What are you saying?”
His brother met his gaze. “Something’s going to happen today, Alizayd. Something you’re not going to like. And I want you to promise me you’re not going to do anything stupid in response.”
The deadly intent in Muntadhir’s voice took him aback. “What’s going to happen?”
Muntadhir shook his head. “I can’t tell you.”
“Then how can you expect me to—”
“All I’m asking is that you let Abba do what he needs to do to keep the city’s peace.” Muntadhir gave him a dark look. “I know you’re up to something with the shafit, Zaydi. I don’t know what exactly, nor do I want to. But it ends. Today.”
Ali’s mouth went dry. He fought for a response. “Dhiru, I—”
Muntadhir hushed him. “No, akhi. There is no fight to be had here. I’m your emir, your older brother, and I’m telling you: stay away from the shafit. Zaydi . . . look at me.” He took Ali by the shoulders, forcing him to meet his eyes. They were filled with worry. “Please, akhi. There’s only so much I can do to protect you otherwise.”
Ali took a shaky breath. Here alone with the older brother he’d looked up to for years, the one he’d spent his life preparing to protect and serve as Qaid, Ali felt the terror and guilt of the past few weeks, the anxiety that weighed upon him like armor, finally loosen.
And then collapse. “I’m so sorry, Dhiru.” His voice cracked, and he blinked, fighting back tears. “I never meant for any of this . . .”
Muntadhir pulled him into a hug. “It’s all right. Look . . . just prove your loyalty now and I promise you that when I’m king, I will listen to you about the mixed-bloods. I have no desire to harm the shafit—I think Abba is often too hard on them. And I know you, Ali—you and your spinning mind, your obsession with facts and figures.” He tapped Ali’s temple. “I suspect there are some good ideas hiding behind your propensity for rash, terrible decisions.”
Ali hesitated. Earn this. Anas’s last order was never far in his mind, and if he closed his eyes, Ali could still see the crumbling orphanage, could hear the little boy’s rattling cough.
But you can’t save them on your own. And wouldn’t the brother that he loved and trusted, the man who would actually have real power one day, be a better partner than the bickering remnants of the Tanzeem?
Ali nodded. And then he agreed, his voice echoing in the cavern.
“Yes, my emir.”
15
Nahri
Nahri glanced behind her, but the boat was already leaving, the captain singing as he returned to the open lake. She took a deep breath and followed Dara and the Ayaanle merchants as they made their way to the enormous doors, flanked by a pair of winged lion statues, set in the brass wall. The docks were otherwise deserted and in a state of disrepair. She picked her way carefully through the crumbling monuments, catching sight of a gray hawk watching them from high atop one of the statue’s shoulders.
“This place looks like Hierapolis,” she whispered. The decaying grandeur and deathly silence made it hard to believe there was a teeming city behind the high brass walls.
Dara cast a dismayed glance at a collapsed pier. “It was much grander in my day,” he agreed. “The Geziri never had much taste in the finer aspects of life. I doubt they care about upkeep.” He lowered his voice. “And I don’t think the docks get much use. I’ve not seen another daeva in years; I assumed most people became too afraid to travel after the Nahids were wiped out.” He gave her a small smile. “Maybe now that will change.”
She didn’t return his smile. The idea that her presence might be reason enough to renew commerce was daunting.
The heavy iron doors opened as their group approached. A few men milled about the entrance, soldiers from the look of them. All wore white waist-wraps that went to their calves, black sleeveless tunics, and dark gray turbans. They shared the same bronze-brown skin and black beards as the boat captain. She watched as one nodded to the merchants and motioned them inside.
“Are they Geziris?” she asked, not taking her eyes off the long spears held by two of the men. Their scythed points had a coppery gleam.
“Yes. The Royal Guard.” Dara took a deep breath, self-consciously touching the muddied mark on his temple. “Let’s go.”
The guards seemed preoccupied with the merchants, poking through their salt tablets and scouring their scrolls with pursed lips. One guard glanced up at them, his gunmetal gray gaze briefly flickering past her face. “Pilgrims?” he asked, sounding bored.
Dara kept his gaze low. “Yes. From Sarq—”
The guard waved him off. “Go,” he said distractedly, nearly knocking Nahri over as he turned to help his fellows with the long-suffering salt traders.
Nahri blinked, surprised by how easily that had gone.
“Come on,” Dara whispered, tugging her forward. “Before they change their minds.”
They slipped through the open doors.
As the full force of the city hit her, Nahri realized the walls must have held sound in as well as magic because they were standing in the loudest, most chaotic place she’d ever seen, surrounded by waves of jostling people.
Nahri tried to peer over their heads to look down the crowded street. “What is this place?”
Dara glanced around. “The Grand Bazaar, I believe. We had ours in the same location.”
Bazaar? She gave the frenzied scene a dubious glance. Cairo had bazaars. This looked more like a cross between a riot and the hajj. And it wasn’t so much the number of people that astounded her, but the variety. Pureblooded djinn strode through the crowds, their odd and ephemeral grace marking their difference among the mob of more human-looking shafit. Their attire was wild—literally; in one case she saw a man pass by with an enormous python settled over his shoulders like a contented pet. People wore glowing robes the color of turmeric and dresses like wound-up sheets, held together by shells and razor-sharp teeth. There were headdresses of glittering stones and wigs of braided metals. Capes of bright feathers and at least one robe that looked like a skinned crocodile, its toothy mouth resting on its wearer’s shoulder. A spindly man with an enormous smoking beard ducked by, and a girl holding a basket swept past Nahri, bumping her with one hip. The girl briefly glanced back, letting her gaze linger appreciatively on Dara. A spark of annoyance lit in Nahri, and one of the girl’s long black braids let out a wriggle like a stretching snake. Nahri jumped.
Dara, meanwhile, just looked irritated. He eyed the bustling crowd with open displeasure, giving the muddy street an unimpressed sniff. “Come,” he said, pulling her forward. “We’ll attract attention if we just stand here gawking.”
But it was impossible not to gawk as they pushed their way through the crowd. The stone street was wide, lined with dozens of market stalls and unevenly stacked buildings. A dizzying maze of covered alleys snaked off the main avenue, crowded with foul heaps of decaying garbage and stacked crates. The air was ripe with the smell of coal and cooking aromas. Djinn shouted and gossiped all around her; vendors hawked their wares while customers haggled.