The ifrit who had taken the form of Muzaffar moved quickly, his slender knife flashing in the light of a lantern set on the low table, but Nasir was no amateur. He swerved and parried, forcing the ifrit back into the room, and disarming him with ease. The knife clattered to the tile, the thin rug muffling nothing.
Nasir pressed his dagger to the caliph’s neck as Zafira entered and barred the door.
“The crown prince and the renowned Huntress,” the ifrit said, unperturbed by the blade. “At last.”
He was stocky and well built, an exact imitation of the dead merchant, but the differences were there for those who looked—the celerity of his movements, the intermittence of his breathing, the occasional flicker of him as a whole, as if it required effort to exhibit a human face.
“Is that you speaking,” Nasir hissed, surprised by his fluent Arawiyan, “or the Lion?”
“Ifrit are not mindless servants,” he replied mildly. “The prerequisite to my accepting the Sarasin throne involved freedom of mind and wit.”
A dark majlis spread behind him, where a platter of fruit sat beside an inkpot and several missives. Fruit, Nasir thought dumbly. Rimaal, what did he expect ifrit to eat—fire?
“Let’s start with your name—what is it?”
The ifrit smiled. “I’ve heard human brains are quite small. In the interest of keeping your affairs simple, Muzaffar will suffice.”
Zafira lifted a brow. “And does your free wit justify the death of hundreds of humans?”
“It’s only natural for one to reciprocate that which is received.”
She gritted her teeth against his calm. “Any harm that comes to your kind is from the self-defense of ours.”
Muzaffar regarded her. “You are young. What you know of the purge of ifritkind is what your schools teach. The Sisters of Old banished us to an island where not even a drop of water could be found. It was not until the warden arrived that we found ways to live. She fashioned systems in which our people were given food and water, housing. Tell me, Huntress: If you were exiled for the skin you were born within, would you not desire reprisal?”
That warden was Nasir’s mother, and he felt a burst of pride. The Sisters were many things: saviors, queens of justice. They were also wrong. They had committed a grave mistake, and more than one race had suffered for it. Perhaps they, too, had even died for what they’d done.
For the world gave that which was owed.
“Then we stop,” Nasir said suddenly. Stop what, you fool?
He felt the ifrit’s consideration in the way his breathing shifted.
“What do you propose?”
“An alliance. You control both the Sarasin army and the ifrit army. Keep them from going to the Lion’s aid, and we’ll spare your life,” Zafira said.
Nasir cast her a look. For once, the book wasn’t in her hand, and the clarity in her gaze was startling in the gray light slanting through the wide window.
Laa, this anger was Zafira’s alone.
“An alliance is not synonymous with a threat, Huntress. If we are to discuss an accord, perhaps you can release me and we can talk in a civilized way.”
The irony of his words was not lost on Nasir. He met Zafira’s gaze. After her barely perceptible prompt, he removed his blade from Muzaffar’s neck.
Just as someone knocked on the door. Both of them froze.
Muzaffar noticed, and like a fool Nasir realized how, in that one small gesture, he had allowed the caliph to see how easily he could thwart them. But the ifrit did not call for aid.
“I’m busy,” was all he said, loud and crisp. “Ensure no one comes, please.”
A courteous ifrit. Rimaal.
He sat on the majlis and motioned for them to do the same.
Zafira sat cautiously. Nasir remained standing.
“Now,” Muzaffar said, flickering. “You wish for me to withhold both the Sarasin army and the ifrit army when the Lion summons. I do not control them all. I certainly have no command over those in Sultan’s Keep.”
Zafira didn’t budge. “You have command over enough.” “You’re asking me to defy my king.”
“A usurper,” Zafira corrected, then pointed at Nasir. “This is your king.”
“Mm. The ifrit army, as you call it, is merely the sum of my people. We crossed the Baransea for the life that was promised, not to become soldiers.”
“And you believe it is our fault that your people had to pick up swords,” Nasir assumed. At once, he understood the ifrit as he was. He was not like the Lion, bent on revenge. He truly cared for the well-being of his kind.
“Is it not? The Lion of the Night clears entire towns for us to thrive in—”
“You say ‘clear’ as if human lives were weeds,” Zafira growled.
“I wish for my people to live,” Muzaffar said, though he had the decency to sound apologetic. “If there were an alternative—”
“There is,” Nasir said, and he was surprised by the sudden fear in his veins. The heavy reminder of who he was, now that his father was gone. Every word he spoke held the potential for repercussions. He exhaled a shaky breath, for he feared winning this fight against the Lion almost as much as losing it.
Winning meant he would sit on the Gilded Throne. He would hold the lives of an entire kingdom in his hand.
“Aid us in returning balance and magic to the kingdom, and ifritkind will be free to live anywhere in Arawiya as they please. Should you need a place to hang shadows in lieu of the sky, I will give you an entire caliphate of your own as unique to your people as Alderamin is to the safin. One that doesn’t sit atop a graveyard.” For that was what Sarasin would soon become, if this fighting continued.
Neither Zafira nor Muzaffar hid their confusion.
“At the expense of whom, exactly?” Muzaffar ventured. “No one. Under the warden, ifritkind transformed Sharr
into a haven where you thrived. You can do the same once more in the expanse of land between Alderamin and Pelusia. It is currently known as the Wastes, but with support, that barren land can be made into whatever you wish.”
Zafira sat back. Muzaffar’s brows rose. “A caliphate without magic.”
Nasir’s brow furrowed. “The Wastes may not have a minaret, but when magic returns, it will flow across Alderamin
and Pelusia and every city between. No place will be left bereft.”
Muzaffar considered this for a while, but then his entire face transformed. “You mock me, Prince. You belittle my people into the fodder you believe us to be. You want the Wastes cultivated, and our labor is an economical choice.”
That was not—khara. If there was one thing Nasir hadn’t realized yet about diplomacy, it was the way other minds worked.
“Guards!” Muzaffar shouted, rising to his feet. Short man, short temper. His voice cut sharp as he faced Nasir. “Were you aware of the price on your head?”
Zafira remained frozen on the majlis.
“You praised the warden for changing your lives,” Nasir said, struggling to stay afloat. “She can aid you again. The crown will aid your efforts.”
“The warden is dead,” the ifrit gritted out. Nasir barked a laugh. “The warden is alive—”
The door flew open. Five Sarasin men hastened inside with three ifrit. Nasir didn’t flinch when a sword touched his neck.
“—and I know this, because she’s my mother.”
But he knew it would be a stretch for Muzaffar to believe him unless he saw her with his own eyes. No, Nasir needed something else. He studied him, the way he wore his skin with earnestness. His care for his people. The impeccability of his attire, either real or illusory, and the esteem with which he carried himself.
And Nasir knew how to tip the scales in the zumra’s favor. He was finally neck-deep in Altair’s beloved chance, and he hated it.
“And with the addition of a caliphate will come the addition of a caliph,” Nasir said, inclining his head even as the
guard’s blade dug deeper, nearly drawing blood. “You.”
