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.