“He was a child!” Hasan protested. “And he was stealing food, so he was obviously desperate. I told you, the cop was part of Montrose’s squadron. Violence was the only way.”
Hasan’s scowl deepened as he recalled the incident. He’d been on his way to collect a debt when he’d seen the commotion: a police officer, holding a boy by his ear, while a shopkeeper looked on with his hands on his hips. Hasan hadn’t needed any more context. At first, he’d tried talking to the officer. Zeyar had spent a significant amount of funds bribing the cops to look the other way from the Devars, but there was one squadron, led by Captain Richard Montrose, that was utterly impervious to bribes. They hated Virians, and by extension, they hated Virian wealth. No amount of money could make them forget that it was a brown hand offering it. When it became clear that both words and money were ineffective, Hasan had used his quick wit and even quicker fists to incapacitate the man long enough for the thief?—and Hasan?—to escape. Still, word of the Jackal’s brawl with the police had made its way back around to Zeyar, who had been almost as infuriated that evening as he was now.
“It would have been best if you had just left that officer well enough alone.” Zeyar shook his head. “Now our operations will be scrutinized more than ever as that bastard tries to get even with us. It’s in our best interest to keep the police happy or, at the very least, ignorant.”
“Why are you so determined to please the pigs?” Hasan wrinkled his nose. “They brutalize us without hesitation, yet when I return the favor, you chastiseme?”
“Theyhold the power,” Zeyar said. His words were tauntingly slow, as though he were explaining something to a child. “Befriending them meansweget access to that power.”
“We have power of our own.”
“Our business will never have as much power as the legitimate hierarchy,” Zeyar said emphatically. “Until we can make ourselves part of it, it’s in our best interest to placate it.”
Hasan scoffed. “We’ll never be part of it.”
“We deserve to be,” Zeyar insisted. “We’re daivyakt. Our blood can channel the power of the gods. The power we have now is a shadow of what we were born to wield.”
Paranjay, as if sensing that the conversation was about to plunge into the rut of an oft-argued topic, intervened again. “I agree that it’s best to avoid police scrutiny. However, I think even if Hasan had not interfered, we would still be seeing an increased police presence. The famine has led to reckless acts?—highway robberies, countless pickpocketings, burglaries. The police will catch the desperate. Will you rescue them all, Hasan?”
“I don’t care who he rescues,” Zeyar muttered loud enough for Hasan to hear, “as long as he doesn’t bleed out the rest of us to do it.”
“It’s not about rescuing.” Hasan turned to Paranjay. “We may not have the legitimate power that Zeyar thinks we deserve, but as the leaders of this gang, we have more power than most. When we create contracts, they’re law. When our rules are broken, we punish the offender. We have a responsibility to behave justly. To do what’s right.”
“Noble, but untrue,” Zeyar drawled, stubbing out his cigarette. “We do what makes us money. When there are shortages of food and water, and the price of basic commodities has doubled, do you think honor will put food on the table?”
Hasan put his hands over his face, trying to find the right words to convey his argument. It wasn’t aboutnobility. Those kinds of lofty ideals were reserved for men who could afford to pay others to get their hands bloodied for them. But when you were the one pulling the trigger, it was easy to lose sight of the meaning behind the violence. Their gang had the ability to affect real change through violence?—or mercy. But the only change Zeyar would ever acknowledge was in the figures in his bookkeeping.
“I don’t think this is about money, actually.” Paranjay palmed a sun-browned hand over his thick beard. “This is about family?—has always been. We do this so we can take care of each other. And to Zeyar’s point, we cannot do this if we aren’t turning a profit, and we can’t turn a profit if we aren’t unified in the way we’re running our business. So the problem tonight is not Daria or the police or money; it’s Hasan. Hear me out,” he added, catching Hasan’s incredulous look. “We’re a family business, but you aren’t acting like it. Twice now, you’ve made rash decisions that impact the business without consulting us. You need to stop.”
Hasan tried to look away, but Paranjay held his gaze firmly. Hasan noted that his second brother was alarmingly like their mother when he needed to be. “Fine,” he said at last. “I will consult you both before I deviate from the plan.”
“Finally,” Zeyar said, pushing his chair back. “Glad we sorted this. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got?—”
“Not so fast.” Paranjay kicked Zeyar’s chair back under him. The edge of the seat hit the eldest Devar brother behind the knees, reflexively forcing him to sit.
“There’s also the matter of Daria. At this point, it doesn’t matter if she’s an asset or a liability. She’s with us, and we can’t send her back to the ashes of her home in cold blood. We will find her a job in one of the textile factories that we patronize, and the owner will give us a cut of her wages until Darsh’s debt is paid off.” Paranjay looked at each brother. “Are we agreed?”
It would take Daria a decade to repay the debt, but at the end of the day, Hasan’s brothers were right: This was a business, and if he had to worry about how every single person who owed the Devar brothers money intended to finance their loan, he would go mad.
“Okay,” Hasan relented.
“Fine,” Zeyar said, looking considerably less pleased than he had a minute ago.
“Good.” Paranjay grinned, light as a sea breeze. “Because I’m starving, and it’s breakfast time. Who wants chai?”
As Paranjay turned on the gas stove and rummaged in the drawers for a pot, Hasan privately thought that his second brother often played far more than just his role of smuggler. He was a mediator?—a bridge between the islands that were Hasan and Zeyar, the fulcrum on a scale. They were an odd number, the three of them, but without Paranjay, they were unbalanced.
• • •
A month later, Hasan and his brothers ate what would be their last meal together in a very long time. Tomorrow, Paranjay would set sail for Welkland, his cargo full of opium.
While Hasan had inherited his control over fire from his mother’s side of the family, Zeyar and Paranjay had taken after their father, with the ability to control the air. Paranjay, like their father, used his skills when sailing to maximize speed and agility. These traits, plus Paranjay’s own love of the sea, lent themselves well to his role as a smuggler in the Devars’ criminal business. While the Devars transported everything from tea to tobacco, their most profitable?—and most frequent?—cargo was opium. While the plant was still grown in various colonies, including Viryana, it was illegal in Welkland, which only boosted demand. Paranjay made triple the markup on opium than on anything else.
“Are you headed out?” Zeyar asked. He and Hasan hovered as Paranjay lugged his trunk toward the door.
“Yeah.” Paranjay set it down. “I’m already late, though. Let’s make this quick.”
Paranjay gripped Hasan’s hand, pulling him into a hug. Hasan sighed but reciprocated, wrapping his arms around Paranjay. Though he’d never admit it, he was distrustful of the sea. He couldn’t imagine being in the middle of its vast expanses, trapped between the rolling depths and endless skies. It didn’t help, either, that their father had died like that, caught in a storm that he didn’t have enough power to fight.
