Nahri blanched. “But they can be freed, right? The slaves?”
Ali hesitated, thinking about the Afshin’s relic hidden in the tomb far below his feet—the relic that had no business being there. How Darayavahoush had been freed without it was something not even his father knew. But there seemed little harm in answering her question; it wasn’t as if Nahri would ever see the tomb.
“If they’re fortunate enough to have their slave vessel—their ring or lamp or whatnot—reunited with their relic by a Nahid, then yes,” Ali said.
He could practically see the wheels turning in Nahri’s mind. “Their relic?”
He tapped the steel bolt in his right ear. “We get them when we’re children. Each tribe has its own tradition, but it’s basically taking . . . well, a relic of ourselves: some blood, some hair, a baby tooth. We seal it all up with metal and keep them on our person.”
She looked a little disgusted. “Why?”
Ali hesitated, not certain how to put what he had to say delicately. “A djinn has to be killed to be made into a slave, Nahri. The curse binds the soul, not the body. And the ifrit . . .” He swallowed. “We’re the descendants of people they consider traitors. They take slaves to terrorize us. To terrorize the survivors who’ll come upon the empty body. It can be . . . messy.”
She stopped in her tracks, her eyes lighting with horror.
Ali spoke quickly, trying to allay the alarm in her face. “Either way, the relic is considered the best way to preserve a part of us. Especially since it can take centuries to track down a slave vessel.”
Nahri looked sick. “So how did the Nahids free them, then? Did they just conjure up a new body or something?”
He could tell from her tone that she thought the idea was ridiculous, which is likely why she paled when he nodded. “That’s exactly what they did. I don’t know how—your ancestors were not ones to share their secrets—but something like that, yes.”
“And I can barely conjure up a flame,” she whispered.
“Give yourself time,” Ali assured her, reaching for the door. “That’s one thing we’ve got a lot more of compared to humans.” He held the door for her, and then stepped out into the main rotunda of the library. “Are you hungry? I could have that Egyptian cook prepare some—”
Ali’s mouth went dry. Across the crowded library floor, leaning against an ancient stone column, was Rashid.
He was clearly waiting for Ali—he straightened up as soon as Ali spotted him and headed in their direction. He was in uniform, his face perfectly composed, the picture of loyalty. One would never think the last time he and Ali had laid eyes on each other was when Rashid tricked him into visiting a Tanzeem safe house, threatening Ali with damnation for pulling his support of the shafit militants.
“Peace be upon you, Qaid,” Rashid said, greeting him politely. He inclined his head. “Banu Nahida, an honor.”
Ali edged in front of Nahri. Whether to protect his secret from her or to protect her from the vaguely hostile way Rashid’s mouth curled when he said her title, Ali wasn’t certain. He cleared his throat. “Banu Nahida, why don’t you go ahead? This is Citadel business and won’t take but a moment.”
Rashid raised a skeptical eyebrow at that, but Nahri stepped away—though not before giving them both an openly curious look.
Ali eyed the rest of the library. Its main floor was a bustling place, filled at all hours with ongoing lectures and harassed scholars, but he was a Qahtani prince and tended to attract attention no matter his surroundings.
Rashid spoke up, his voice colder. “I’d say you’re not pleased to see me, brother.”
“Of course not,” Ali hissed. “I ordered you back to Am Gezira weeks ago.”
“Ah, you mean my sudden retirement?” Rashid drew a scroll from his robe and shoved it at Ali. “You might as well add it to your torch. Thank you for the generous pension, but it’s not necessary.” He lowered his voice, but his eyes flashed with anger. “I risked my life to help the shafit, Alizayd. I’m not a man to be bought off.”
Ali flinched, his fingers curling around the scroll. “It wasn’t meant in that manner.”
“No?” Rashid stepped closer. “Brother, what are you doing?” he demanded in an angry whisper. “I take you to a home filled with shafit orphans, children who are sick and starving because we can’t afford to care for them, and in response you abandon us? You retreat to the palace to play companion to a Nahid? A Nahid who brought the Scourge of Qui-zi back to Daevabad?” He threw up his hands. “Have you lost all sense of decency?”
Ali grabbed his wrist, holding it down. “Quiet,” he warned, jerking his head toward the darkened archive from which he and Nahri had just emerged. “We’re not doing this here.”
Still glowering, Rashid followed him, but Ali had no sooner shut the door than the other man whirled on him again.
“Tell me there’s something I’m missing, brother,” he demanded. “Please. Because I cannot reconcile the young man Anas sacrificed himself to save with one who would force shafit into the bronze boat.”
“I’m the city’s Qaid,” Ali said, hating the defensiveness in his voice. “Those men attacked the Daeva Quarter. They were tried and sentenced under our law. It was my duty.”
“Your duty,” Rashid scoffed, pacing away. “Being Qaid is not the only duty put upon you in this life.” He glanced back. “I suppose you’re not so different from your brother, after all. A pretty fire worshipper flutters her lashes and you—”
“That’s enough,” Ali snapped. “I made clear my intention to stop funding the Tanzeem when I learned you were buying weapons with my money. I offered you the retirement to save your life. And as for the Banu Nahida . . .” Ali’s voice grew heated. “My God, Rashid, she’s a human-raised girl from Egypt—not some fiery preacher from the Grand Temple. My father’s guest. Surely you’re not so biased against the Daevas that you oppose my befriending—”
“Befriending?” Rashid interrupted, looking incredulous. “You don’t take friends from among the fire worshippers, Alizayd. That’s how they trick you. Getting close to the Daevas, integrating them into the court and the Royal Guard—that’s what’s led your family astray!”
Ali’s voice was cold. “Surely you see the hypocrisy in accusing another of tricking me into friendship.” Rashid flushed. Ali pressed on. “I’m finished with the Tanzeem, Rashid. I couldn’t help you even if I wanted to. Not anymore. My father found out about the money.”
That finally shut down the other man’s tirade. “Does he suspect you of anything else?”
Ali shook his head. “I doubt I’d be standing here if he knew about Turan. But the money was enough. I’m sure he has people watching my every move, not to mention my Treasury accounts.”
Rashid paused, a bit of the anger gone. “Then we’ll lie low. Wait a year or so for the scrutiny to die down. In the meantime—”
“No,” Ali cut in, his voice firm. “My father made it clear that it was innocent shafit who would pay if he caught so much as a whiff of betrayal from me. I won’t risk that. Nor do I need to.”