Jamshid

This takes place less than a year after the preceding Muntadhir chapter. Spoilers for the first book.

The sounds beyond the closed door were really quite ridiculous.

Jamshid e-Pramukh shifted on his feet, growing more apprehensive as he glanced at the wall of ceremonial weapons displayed along the long marble corridor in which he stood guard. It was a fearsome collection. A spear so large it could be hefted only by a giant and a mace studded with zahhak teeth. Dented shields, swords, and oh . . . a serrated axe with blood and gristle still encrusted in its teeth.

It was perhaps unsurprising decor considering the reputation of the formidable warlord from the Tukharistani frontier currently residing in these walls. The warlord rumored to be gathering soldiers and coin, intent on protecting his little fiefdom. The warlord who supposedly made a golden cup out of an enemy’s skull and boiled a captured ifrit alive. The warlord who had greeted the emir of Daevabad boasting about how his ancestors had once drunk Geziri blood.

The warlord now ensconced in his bedroom with Muntadhir and what sounded like at least four other people, including the woman Jamshid was pretty sure was the warlord’s wife and an extremely off-key singer.

Behind the closed door, Muntadhir laughed lightly, a teasing sound that caused Jamshid’s stomach to flip. Jamshid couldn’t make out his emir’s words, but his jesting tone didn’t sound afraid or intimidated. Then again, Muntadhir never sounded afraid or intimidated. Instead Daevabad’s emir seemed to float through life wonderfully confident and amused, unbothered by concepts such as basic safety. Why would he? He had other people who worried about those things on his behalf.

People like Jamshid, who found himself gripping his dagger as the warlord let out a cackling bellow. The small dagger was the only weapon Jamshid had been allowed; Muntadhir mentioned that they wouldn’t want to seem rude or distrustful. Heavens no. Far better for his emir to get murdered and then Jamshid and the rest of the Daevas persecuted for letting it happen.

Maybe you should have thought of that before quitting the Temple and joining the Royal Guard. Granted, when Jamshid presented himself to Ghassan, he’d thought he’d be joining the Daeva Brigade as an archer, proudly protecting his tribe’s quarter. Not personally guarding Ghassan’s eldest son and getting a crash course in Muntadhir’s extremely specific kind of politics.

The door opened with a bang. Jamshid shot to attention as drunken laughter and warm candlelight spilled into the corridor. For a moment, he panicked, and then Muntadhir al Qahtani was standing there, framed in the doorway. No matter the noises and implied activity Jamshid had been listening to, Muntadhir looked untouched and remarkably sober. The silk of his pale silver-blue waist cloth was still pressed flat, the moonstone buttons running up the collar of his tunic, dyed and cut in the most modern style, still fastened. His silver turban, crowned with a sapphire and carnelian ornament, might have been slightly tilted, but this only gave him a more rakish air.

As if he needs to be more rakish, Jamshid thought, glad the blush he felt stealing into his cheeks would be difficult to notice in the dark hallway.

Muntadhir’s gray gaze fell upon Jamshid and then he smiled. Muntadhir had a slow, drawling smile that brightened his entire face—a smile that did things to Jamshid’s nerves he suspected were not professionally helpful. His eyes sparkled as he leaned closer to whisper in Jamshid’s ear. He looked delighted and blissfully content, as though he’d opened the door simply to request more wine or perhaps another participant, and his breath was warm upon Jamshid’s neck.

“We need to get out of here.” Muntadhir spoke in Divasti, his tone still light and airy as though nothing were wrong. “Right away.”

Jamshid jerked back, his eyes darting over Muntadhir’s shoulder. A glimpse was enough to make him blush fully now. The party appeared to be in full swing, the warlord and his companions deeply unconcerned about Muntadhir’s foray toward the door. Or perhaps simply more focused on the rather acrobatic moves being performed.

Acting on instinct, Jamshid quietly pulled Muntadhir out and eased the door closed. Keeping a hand on the small of his back, like they were completely normal men out for additional refreshments, Jamshid carefully led Muntadhir down the corridor.

“The door’s down this way,” he whispered.

Muntadhir stopped. “We can’t go out the main door. Trust me.”

“All right . . .” Jamshid swallowed. “We’re a bit high up, but there was a window down the other way.”

“Perfect.” Muntadhir was already turning around. Jamshid raced to catch up, conscious of the sound of his boots clipping on the stone floor. Muntadhir had slipped his sandals back on, but his steps were silent. He clearly had more experience sneaking through darkened homes than the man who was ostensibly here to protect him.

The window was sandblasted glass, thick and hazy. Through the swirls of etched roses and climbing vines, the street was visible, but at least three stories down.

Muntadhir frowned. “Do you think we can break the glass?”

“No need.” Jamshid placed his palms against the cool glass, calling heat into his hands. It began to simmer and melt, dripping down in glimmering molten waves until there was an opening big enough for them to slip through.

Muntadhir gave an impressed whistle. “When this is over, you need to teach me how to do that.” He stepped through the window.

“Wait!” Jamshid grabbed his wrist. “We’re three stories up, and you’ve been drinking. Are you sure you’re going to be able to climb down?”

“It’s better than staying here. And I’m perfectly steady, see?” Muntadhir held out his hand. “Not even I’m foolish enough to get drunk in front of massive, angry warriors with more weapons than wits.”

Creator, help me. This was not what Jamshid had signed up for. But as he crawled after Muntadhir, he could not help the spike of thrill that raced through him. This should have been what he signed up for, because it was indeed more exciting than memorizing dusty texts in the Temple.

They went hand over foot down the tiled roof. Then it was a short drop to a garden balcony of lushly potted palms and hanging baskets of ferns. They crept through the flowers, Jamshid tapping Muntadhir’s shoulder and nodding in the direction of a drainpipe.

“Do you think you can slide down that?” he asked.

The emir went a bit pale, but then there was an enraged bellow from above them. “Yes,” Muntadhir agreed. He threw himself at the drainpipe with the zeal of a schoolboy and slid down. Jamshid waited until Muntadhir had stumbled away, cursing and limping, and then followed.

He landed far more gracefully than the emir, albeit in a puddle that sent a spray of dirty water across Muntadhir’s fine clothes. Jamshid froze, certain he’d just broken some arcane rule of palace etiquette prescribing banishment for those who sullied their royals, but then he remembered that pretty much everything they were doing was a breach of etiquette. Besides, Muntadhir grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him forward.

“Come on!”

They hurried through the darkened alleys of what looked like a rather seedy section of the Tukharistani Quarter, far grittier than anything Jamshid was used to. Muntadhir seemed to know where he was going, however, taking the turns of the tight winding streets as if he had walked them all his life. As they neared one of the main avenues, Muntadhir loosened his turban to wrap one end over his nose and mouth.

“Do you do this often?” Jamshid could not help but ask.

“What? Sneak around my city?” Muntadhir winked, his steel eyes sparkling in the light of the painted glass lamps strung across the street. “I typically travel with far more companions and a great many more weapons, which makes the sneaking part difficult.” He threaded his arm through Jamshid’s and pulled him close. “But it might be fun to be anonymous for once. After all, who’d be expecting the Qahtani emir to be gallivanting around with only a Daeva for protection?”

Again the extremely unhelpful fluttering in Jamshid’s belly. “I should remind you I’ve had less than a year of weapons training.” And I won’t remind you that the only weapon on me right now is a tiny knife.

Muntadhir patted his hand. “All the more challenge for us both.”

Jamshid probably should have been unsettled by that, but as the two of them made their way into the bustling commercial heart of the Tukharistani district, arm in arm like normal citizens out for a night on the town, it was difficult to be upset. Jamshid had lived in Daevabad for more than a decade, but his life in the city had always been constricted. A mix of justified fear and prejudice kept most Daevas from venturing outside their quarter to mix with the djinn tribes, let alone any shafit. Jamshid’s world instead revolved around the Temple and socializing with other nobles. Nights in the glittering Tukharistani district—in the company of the even more cosmopolitan prince—were a new and exhilarating experience.

“I can’t believe I’ve never been here before,” Jamshid remarked, inhaling the burnt caramel notes of the fiery skewered confections being sold by the stall ahead of them.

“You’ve never been to the Tukharistani district?” When Jamshid nodded, Muntadhir chuckled. “You weren’t kidding when you said your father was overprotective.”

“I’m surprised your father isn’t more overprotective.” But as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Jamshid regretted them. It felt impossible to check himself around Muntadhir, as though the emir couldn’t have Jamshid killed and his family destroyed with a snap of his fingers. He rushed to apologize. “Forgive me. Not that—”

Muntadhir waved him off, the movement unsteady. “There’s nothing to forgive. My father adheres to a different sort of protection.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that it would be more dangerous for both Daevabad and me if I appeared weak.” Muntadhir met his gaze. Behind his facecloth, it looked like he was attempting to smile. “If my father had his way, I would have spent my childhood in Am Gezira, living off the land with my cousins and battling zahhak.”

Jamshid frowned. “So why didn’t you?”

“My mother didn’t want me to leave.” A hint of old grief softened Muntadhir’s voice. “We were very close.”

You prying idiot. “I’m sorry,” Jamshid blurted out. “I shouldn’t be questioning you like this.”

“And I probably shouldn’t be answering. And yet I find myself continuously doing that with you, Pramukh. You would have made a good priest. Or an even better spy, were you so inclined.”

Jamshid shuddered. “I don’t think I’d make a very good spy.”

“Ah, you never know.” But then Muntadhir stumbled, nearly falling to his knees. “Oh, all right. So that’s why they pulled out cushions when they started passing the mushrooms around.”

“Passing the what?”

Muntadhir clutched his arm. “You should probably get me back to the palace.”

 

Jamshid tried not to trip as he eased Muntadhir into his bed. As intoxicated as Muntadhir was—and he was out of it: Muntadhir had spent their walk back to the palace reciting poetry to his hands and falling asleep—Jamshid didn’t think collapsing onto the emir of Daevabad was wise. Finally Jamshid got him more or less onto the mattress, and Muntadhir let out a sigh of contentment that made Jamshid’s thoughts go in a series of inappropriate directions.

Control yourself, he chided, a command that was easier chanted internally than obeyed as he leaned over Muntadhir’s body to reach for a pillow. Jamshid was overly conscious of the silky feel of the sheets between his fingers. The plumpness of the pillow and the perfume of Muntadhir’s breath. He slipped the pillow carefully under the emir’s head, his heart going wild at the brief brush of Muntadhir’s hair. He’d never seen the emir’s head uncovered before. Muntadhir had beautiful hair, the black warmed by just a hint of russet. It was cut short, curling at the ends, and Jamshid found himself wondering what it would look like if it was grown out. If it would catch his fingers.

He swallowed loudly, aware that imagining how Muntadhir’s hair would feel in his hands was not part of controlling himself. He let go of the pillow.

“Is there anything else I can do, Emir?” he asked, trying to steady his voice.

Muntadhir’s eyes fluttered open. His gaze was still bleary, but lying down seemed to have helped, a little alertness returning to his expression. “Travel back in time and tell me not to eat anything tonight?”

“They haven’t taught me that particular skill at the Citadel yet.” A small, exhausted smile lit Muntadhir’s face, and fresh worry knotted Jamshid up. “Are you sure I cannot call someone? Nisreen, perhaps? She could brew you a tonic or—”

“I’m fine. Truly. I mean . . . there are currently three of you and one of them is dancing with stars, but I’m at the point where I recognize only one is real. I just need to sleep.” Muntadhir reached out, still looking a little dazed. His fingers brushed Jamshid’s cheek, tracing down the line of his jaw. “You look very good in starlight.”

Everything in Jamshid went still. Suddenly all he was conscious of was the press of Muntadhir’s fingers and the heavy wonder in his gray eyes.

Kiss him.

Had it been any other man, under any other circumstances, Jamshid would have done just that. But Muntadhir was not a man—not really. He was a prince. The emir. And not only the emir, he was very obviously impaired, and so when Muntadhir’s thumb moved over Jamshid’s bottom lip, making everything in him tremble, Jamshid forced himself to stay still.

“We are not good for you,” Muntadhir said softly.

Jamshid let out a choked breath. It was taking everything he had right now not to jump into this man’s bed and crush his mouth to his, so the warning needed a moment to land. “Wh-what?”

Muntadhir’s thumb went over his lips once more, and Jamshid would swear he actually did see stars.

“You would have been safer at your Temple. This place, this palace, it eats people up from the inside. It takes everything that is kind and gentle in your heart and turns it to stone.” Muntadhir dropped his hand. “And you . . . you are good and perfect, and it is going to destroy you.”

There was true fear in Muntadhir’s glazed eyes. And though being warned in such a way by one of Daevabad’s most cunning and powerful figures should have frightened Jamshid, it didn’t.

Not until Jamshid sat back on his heels and caught a glimpse of the opposite wall. Muntadhir’s chamber was opulent and almost absurdly lavish, with woven rugs so thick and soft that his feet sank deep into them, painted silk landscapes covering the walls and rosewood partitions carved so finely it looked like one was in a garden. It occupied a prime location in the ancient palace, its balcony offering an unparalleled view of both the city and the deep lake that surrounded it. This room had clearly always belonged to the highest of nobility.

And Jamshid knew that: because painted in pale fragments that still clung to the wall across from him was a circle of roaring shedus. The emblem of his blessed Nahids, long dead now. The winged lions that still symbolically guarded the Daeva Quarter, bordering the heavy gates his people made sure to keep clean and oiled should they ever need to be shut against the rest of the city.

You will always be a Daeva to them first. His father had shouted these words until he was blue in the face upon returning from Zariaspa to learn his son had traded in his Temple garb for a spot in the Qahtanis’ army. Do you understand that? Everything you do in their service reflects on us, every mistake risks us.

Jamshid lowered his gaze. “Your concern is noted, my emir,” he said, forcing a cool professionalism into his voice. “Is there anything else?”

He could hear Muntadhir swallow. Jamshid didn’t want to look up. He didn’t want to see the glimmer of regret in the other man’s face that would soften him, that would make him seem real and genuine instead of the untouchable, deadly charisma of the emir who could—and would—ruin or elevate you with a single gesture.

“Would you stay?” Muntadhir’s voice was faint. “Just poke me every once in a while, to make sure I haven’t stopped breathing. And talk to me,” he added, sounding like sleep was beginning to overtake him again. “It makes me feel less like I’m hallucinating.”

“What would you like me to talk about?”

“Anything,” Muntadhir answered. “I just want to hear your voice.”