Not trusting himself to respond, Ali simply grunted. Nahri returned, a hooded cloak pulled over her clothes and messy braid.
“Let’s go.” She sounded like they were headed to a funeral.
Ali let Jamshid get ahead of them in the corridor and then turned back to Nahri. “Are you sure everything is okay?” he asked again. “Should I not have said—”
“No,” she cut in quickly. “What you said was perfect.”
“Then what’s wrong?” Ali pressed. “You seem so sad.”
Nahri stopped, taking a deep breath as if to steady herself. “There’s nothing wrong. But you shouldn’t do that here,” she added, pulling away.
Mortified, Ali realized he had unconsciously reached for her hand.
He instantly stepped back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine. It’s just we’re not running around Cairo by ourselves anymore.” A flush darkened Nahri’s cheeks. “People talk. I wouldn’t want them to get the wrong impression.”
“No,” Ali said hoarsely. “Of course not.”
“Good.” Nahri stared at him for another moment, and no matter what she claimed, Ali would swear he saw a flicker of regret in her eyes before she glanced away. “I should catch up with Jamshid.”
Ali nodded, only following when the siblings were far ahead. He kept his distance, trying to pretend that he was fine and normal and there wasn’t a whirling contraption of blades tearing through his chest where his heart used to be. Nahri was right. Ali shouldn’t have touched her; he shouldn’t be touching any woman who wasn’t his wife.
You could ask if she’d like to be your wife.
The ridiculous thought galloped unwelcome into his head, followed by utter panic, as though down the hall Nahri might somehow read his mind. By God, had the marid messed with him so much that Ali had lost all sense?
She is beyond you, and she always will be. Nahri had been loved by the Afshin, a man so handsome his enemies wrote poetry praising his beauty, and married to Muntadhir, Daevabad’s renowned breaker of hearts. Did Ali really think the brilliant, beautiful Banu Nahida would ever be interested in a scarred Geziri virgin with a propensity for saying exactly the wrong thing?
No. She wouldn’t be. Which meant Ali was going to keep his mouth shut and see what his mother wanted without further contemplating blowing up his dearest friendship and most importance political alliance.
Hatset was waiting for them outside the library. “Good morning to you all.” She smiled at Ali. “I hear you had an early start politicking at the mosque today.”
“If by politicking, you mean genuinely talking to people about their lives and praying together, yes,” he replied. “It was nice.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” His mother’s smile wavered, and she took his hand. “Alu, there is someone here you need to see. I didn’t want to overwhelm you yesterday, but—”
“Who?” Ali asked. Hatset looked unsettled, and he knew it took a lot to do that.
“Ustadh Issa.”
“Issa?”
When she said nothing more, Ali moved for the library, still in disbelief. But he no sooner pushed open the door than the elderly scholar was there, draped in a homespun blanket and surrounded by books, his giant emerald eyes blinking like a bat’s.
“Ustadh Issa … my God,” Ali stammered. “Peace be upon you.” He crossed the long room in seconds. “When did you get here?”
Issa’s eyes darted to Hatset before he replied. “Just recently. The journey exhausted me, and I requested a few days to recover.”
“But you were in Daevabad,” Ali said, reeling. “How did you escape?”
“It seems you have the Tukharistani woman, Razu, to thank,” his mother explained. “She convinced the Afshin that Issa was distressed, and that it would be a kindness to let a fellow slave leave a city ifrit had invaded.”
Ali had no problem believing anyone would think Issa distressed, but he was shocked to learn the Afshin had helped him. “Do you have any news?” he begged. “My sister, the other Geziris—”
Hatset answered again. “Zaynab is alive. She was able to warn the other Geziris, and those in the quarter survived. They’ve apparently joined with the shafit district and barricaded themselves off from the rest of the city.” She paused. “They’re not the only ones who survived, baba. Issa says Muntadhir is alive.”
Ali stared at her, the words impossible.
Jamshid reacted first, his head snapping up. “What?”
“Muntadhir is alive,” Hatset repeated. “Issa said he’s being held prisoner in the palace.”
“Oh, my God.” Ali abruptly sat down, feeling like his legs had been cut out from underneath him. Tears pricked his eyes. “Are you sure? Are you really sure?”
“No,” Issa said, sounding indignant. When Ali spun on him, he continued. “There is no such thing as certainty in this situation, young man. The emir is surrounded by deeply volatile enemies. They may have killed him since I left. Lady Manizheh was already threatening to do so if the Geziris and your sister did not surrender.”
“They won’t kill him.” It was Nahri, exchanging an oddly loaded glance with his mother. “Not yet. Muntadhir is too valuable, and Manizheh isn’t a fool.”
“We need to save him,” Jamshid declared.
“We need to save lots of people,” Nahri corrected. “You’re a Nahid now, Jamshid. All of Daevabad is your responsibility.”
Jamshid looked mutinous, but Ali’s astonishment had already dissipated, news of his brother and his city jolting him into action. He strode over to a desk, snatching a piece of parchment and a charcoal pencil. “Issa, I need you to tell me everything you know.”
The scholar made a sour face. “It’s going to be a lot. Razu and Elashia made me memorize all sorts of things before I left, about food and security and other such nonsense.” He let out a scandalized sound. “Razu put maps in the lining of my loincloth.”
Ali stilled, his blood rushing in his ears. This was
