It was the kindest thing she’d said to him in weeks, and despite everything, a light blossomed in Dara’s heart. “Thank you, my lady,” he said reverently. “I pray you are enjoying yourself as well.”
Manizheh motioned for the servants to hold the line of waiting guests and then turned back to him. “It is a singular experience to provide a warm welcome to people I know kissed the hands of the kings who locked me away. But it’s nice to hear laughter in the palace again.” Her gaze fell on the children surrounding the storyteller. “Perhaps we may still wrest some good from all this.”
Despite her optimistic word, her voice was melancholy. Manizheh had obviously nursed her own quiet dreams of returning to Daevabad, of arriving as a savior and being reunited with her children, instead of struggling to hold a broken, bloody city.
Dara ventured carefully. “Has there been any further word of your children?”
Manizheh’s expression fell, and glancing at her, Kaveh answered. “Just the same rumors about Wajed and Jamshid—all of which contradict one another. Some people say the Tukharistanis have given Wajed safe passage, others that he’s recruiting troops in Am Gezira or has boarded a stolen human boat for Ta Ntry.” He shook his head, reaching out to squeeze Manizheh’s hand. “It’s impossible to say which is true. And of Nahri and Alizayd, nothing at all.”
“It is still very early,” Dara offered, trying to hold on to hope himself. Manizheh nodded silently, but he didn’t miss the worry in her eyes.
Or the rather open display of affection between her and Kaveh. Manizheh didn’t seem to care what people might think about their unmarried Banu Nahida sharing a bed with the grand wazir, and it slightly concerned him. Dara wasn’t a politician, but even he knew it might have been more pragmatic for Manizheh to form a marriage alliance with someone not already in her camp.
There was also not a chance in hell he was saying that—not when he’d just started to return to her good graces.
“No smiles from the triumphant conquerors?”
Dara twitched at Muntadhir’s mocking voice behind him but held his tongue as he turned around.
He was instantly glad he’d done so, for Muntadhir wasn’t alone—he stood with three Daeva companions. They were all richly dressed, but the emir stood out. The only Geziri in the room, he’d dressed the part in a robe so black it looked as though a starless night had arranged itself around his shoulders, and a brilliant blue-and-copper turban pinned at a rakish angle with a pearl ornament. A patterned silk sash was tied at his waist, a khanjar tucked beneath.
“I don’t recall saying you could have a weapon,” Dara warned.
Muntadhir gave him a dangerous smile and turned to Manizheh, touching his heart and brow so politely one would never have imagined they’d faced off in a dungeon only weeks ago. “Peace be upon you, Banu Manizheh. If I may approach, I’d like to introduce you to a few of my companions.”
Manizheh’s greeting to the son of the king she’d killed was no less gracious. “If they are the companions you say have been in talks with the other tribes, by all means …” Manizheh motioned the group forward. “May the fires burn brightly for you, gentlemen.”
The men brought their fingers together in smooth unison, bowing as Muntadhir introduced them. “Tamer e-Vaigas, Sourush Aratta, and Arta Hagmatanur … I’m sure you know well your Banu Manizheh e-Nahid and Darayavahoush e-Afshin.”
Vaigas. Dara blinked in surprise. A familiar name. “I had a Vaigas in my command. One of my closest advisors,” he added, remembering his long-dead friend. “Bizvan. He was a demon with a spear. Clever tactician as well.”
Tamer’s face shone with awe. “I’m his descendant,” he gushed. “I heard growing up that he’d fought at your side in the rebellion but thought it might just be a story.”
“Not a story at all.” Dara grinned, happy to learn Bizvan had survived long enough to sire children—even if it was troubling to learn his descendants had flocked to the Qahtani’s side. Dara clapped the young man’s shoulder, nearly knocking him over. “Why have you not joined my army? You come from good fighting stock!”
A look of sheer terror crossed Tamer’s visage before he let out a forced laugh. “Maybe a thousand years ago. Bizvan’s spear hangs on the wall of our guest room. We’re merchants now.” He turned back to Manizheh. “Which is what brings me here tonight. My family has deep ties with some of the leading Agnivanshi traders; Sourush and Arta”—he nodded to the other Daevas—“with the Tukharistanis. Those trapped in the city are beginning to reach out. They’re afraid to do so publicly, but I believe there’s hope.”
“Then I am even happier to meet you.” Manizheh gestured to the cushions below her. “Sit.” She glanced at Dara, a knowing look in her eyes. “Why don’t you celebrate with your men? Watching nobles bow doesn’t strike me as the way you’d like to spend your evening.”
Oh, thank the Creator. Dara brought his hands together in blessing. “Your mercy is appreciated.”
He was barely out of eyesight when he took another glug from the wine bottle. “They’re using his spear as wall decor,” he muttered to himself, his desire to get drunk growing deeper with each haughty fake laugh he heard from the rich snobs around him. Suleiman’s eye, where were his fellows?
He finally found them in a sunken iwan near the back of the throne room, lounging on pillows and appearing to already be in the state of intoxication Dara hoped to achieve.
“Afshin!” Gushtap shot up unsteadily. “We’re not on duty, I swear.”
“Good, neither am I.” Dara tossed his wine bottle to Gushtap before dropping to an adjacent cushion. “Relax,” he added, trying to assuage the nervous expressions of his warriors. “We could all use
