The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy) by S. A. Chakraborty

Author:S. A. Chakraborty [Chakraborty, S. A.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2017-11-14T00:00:00+00:00

17

Ali

The boat before Ali was made of pure bronze and large enough to hold a dozen men. Beams of sunlight undulated across its gleaming surface, reflected off the distant lake below. The hinges holding the boat to the wall creaked hoarsely as it swayed in the breeze. They were ancient; the bronze boat had been hanging here for nearly two thousand years.

It was one of the execution methods of which the Nahid Council had been most fond.

The shafit prisoners in front of Ali must have known they were doomed, had likely realized it as soon as they were arrested. There was little begging as his men forced them into the bronze boat. They knew better than to expect mercy from purebloods.

They confessed. These are no innocent men. Whatever rumor incited them, they had taken up weapons with the intent of sacking the Daeva Quarter.

Prove your loyalty, Zaydi, Ali heard his brother say. He hardened his heart.

One of the prisoners—the smallest—suddenly broke away. Before the guards could grab him, he threw himself at Ali’s feet.

“Please, my lord! I didn’t do anything, I swear! I sell flowers in the midan. That’s all!” The man looked up, pressing his palms together in respect.

Except that he wasn’t a man at all. Ali startled; the prisoner was a boy, one who looked even younger than himself. His brown eyes were swollen from crying.

Perhaps sensing Ali’s uncertainty, the boy continued, his voice desperate. “My neighbor just wanted the ransom! He gave my name, but I swear I did nothing! I have Daeva customers . . . I would never hurt them! Zavan e-Kaosh! He would vouch for me!”

Abu Nuwas yanked the boy to his feet. “Get away from him,” he growled as he shoved the sobbing shafit into the boat with the rest. Most were praying, their heads lowered in prostration.

Shaken, Ali turned over the scroll in his hands, the paper worn thin. He stared at the words he was supposed to recite, the words he’d said too many times this week.

One more time. Just do this one more time.

He opened his mouth. “You have all been found guilty and sentenced to death by the noble and illuminated Ghassan al Qahtani, king of the realm and . . . Defender of the Faith.” The title felt like poison in his mouth. “May you find mercy in the Most High.”

One of his father’s metallurgists stepped forward and cracked his charcoal-colored hands. He gave Ali an expectant look.

Ali stared at the boy. What if he’s telling the truth?

“Prince Alizayd,” Abu Nuwas prompted. Flames twisted around the metallurgist’s fingers.

He barely heard Abu Nuwas. Instead he saw Anas in his mind.

It should be me up there. Ali dropped the scroll. I’m probably the closest thing to the Tanzeem here.

“Qaid, we are waiting.” When Ali said nothing, Abu Nuwas turned to the metallurgist. “Do it,” he snapped.

The man nodded and stepped forward, his smoldering black hands turning the hot crimson of worked iron. He grabbed the edge of the boat.

The effect was instantaneous.

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