The Empire of Gold

by S. A. Chakraborty

  Mortified, Ali didn’t trust himself to speak. Unbidden, the thought came that he might not have minded that encounter with a different—more specific—woman in Fiza’s place.

  Pull yourself together. “I hope you remember how to pick a lock.”

  “What?”

  Ali shifted, trying to maneuver to examine whatever Fiza had slipped him. “We have our accomplice.”

  NIGHT FELL THICK AND FAST ON THE NTARAN COAST, the ocean glowing in the light of a bright moon. It was mesmerizing, the sparkling water glittering and shattering as it rose and fell, and Ali found himself struggling not to stare, his own breathing in time with the sea.

  “The tide is running high,” he murmured.

  “I know. I thought you’d have a visitor by now.” Nahri sniffed, a feigned snobbishness—for with nightfall had come one of al Mudhib’s guards to watch over them. “That shafit woman certainly sounded like she had plans for you.”

  I thought so too. From his spot on the deck, Ali had watched the pirates camp down for the night in a ring of tents set around a weak fire. Fiza had made a big show earlier of arguing with another shafit worker over the best way to break down the ship, insisting on taking apart an existing cabin and using it to build tracks to slide the pieces down the cliff before they touched the hull.

  But if she’d made any headway in convincing her fellows to mutiny, Ali couldn’t tell, and it worried him. She’d given him a metal spike that Nahri had already discreetly used to pick her locks, but there was no doing the same to the half dozen the pirates had used on Ali. In the meantime, plenty of the crew had found reasons to drop by, gawking and making remarks so crude about the bound Daevabadi royals that it was everything Ali could do not to summon the sea right there and then to drown them.

  He closed his eyes. Ali could sense the creek had risen with the tide, but it still wasn’t anywhere near enough water to carry the sandship off the cliff. Apprehension churned through him. Ali had wielded marid magic that powerful only once—when he’d submitted to it back on the beach in Daevabad. Now? With Suleiman’s seal in his heart?

  The strains of drunken, extremely off-key singing came to him, and Ali straightened up, catching sight of a familiar figure weaving—well, staggering—in their direction, a bottle dangling from one hand.

  “Is that Fiza?” he asked, his spirits falling. That was not how he hoped their accomplice would arrive.

  The shafit pirate stumbled onto the boat, crashing heavily against one side. “You’re not dead yet!” she said by way of greeting, giggling as she crossed the deck.

  Al Mudhib’s guard stepped between them. “You’re drunk, dirt-blood. Go sleep it off.”

  Fiza pouted, taking another swig of her bottle. She waved her hand in the vague direction of Ali. “Oh no. We have an appointment.”

  The guard grabbed her arm. “It makes no difference to me whether you leave on your own or I toss you off.” A nastier note entered his voice. “Besides, you’ve denied the rest of us. Why should the crocodile get a taste?”

  Fiza smiled sweetly. “You’re right. You should get a taste.”

  She smashed the wine bottle into his mouth.

  The guard didn’t even have a chance to shout before Nahri, freed of her shackles, launched herself at his knees. He tripped, going down hard as the women pinned him, and then Fiza hit him with the bottle again and knocked him out.

  “Always an asshole,” she muttered, sitting back on her heels. She reached under the robe she was wearing, pulling out al Mudhib’s pistol, Ali’s zulfiqar, and Nahri’s medical bag. “There,” she said, dumping it all on the ground. “Presents for everyone.”

  Ali gaped. “How did you—”

  One of the tents burst into flames.

  There were shouts of surprise as the few men still awake jumped to their feet and ran to the tent. But then a second tent caught fire. A third and a fourth, the wild flames lighting up the night and illuminating the half dozen figures racing toward the ship.

  “Up, up, up!” Fiza cried, waving to the rest of the shafit crew. She whirled on Ali and Nahri, both of whom were frozen in shock. “Come on, purebloods, be useful for once in your pampered lives!” Fiza’s mutineers were already cutting the ropes and kicking away the boards binding the ship to its cradle of broken trees.

  Nahri cursed but lunged to Ali’s side. “No sense of discretion,” she said, sounding scandalized as she fumbled with his locks. “For God’s sake, we could have at least tried to sneak out of here.”

  A blast of gunfire made them both jump, Nahri nearly stabbing him with the pick. She swore again, breaking into the last lock and then helping Ali unwind his chains.

  Another pistol shot, this time coming from the opposite direction and slamming into the sandship’s mast, sending wooden splinters everywhere.

  “Would you two hurry?” Fiza yelled, taking shelter behind a barrel as she fired back.

  Ali climbed to his feet and kicked away the last shackles. With al Mudhib’s men closing in, and crossbow bolts and bullets flying past, he didn’t have time to indulge in his earlier doubts. Instead he raised his hands, staring at the shifting mass of salt water. It had been teasing at his consciousness all night. Remembering how difficult it had been to get the much smaller Nile to cooperate, when Ali called, he did so firmly.

  COME.

  The ocean, it turned out, was a lot more eager to play.

  Beyond the shouts of the pirates and the crackle of the burning tents, the sounds of the waves crashing on the beach suddenly changed. There was a whisper, growing to a roar as the jungle bordering the creek was devoured, the trees smashed. None of which was visible—not yet. Instead, the destruction could only be heard, the noise getting louder and louder.

  And then from the starlit dark, where there had been only a meandering beachside stream, came a rushing wave of water that would have breached the walls of Daevabad itself.

  It was an incredible sight—well, it would have been incredible, had summoning it not felt like ripping Ali’s heart in two.

  Fiza gasped. “God preserve me …” She jumped to the middle of the deck, shouting at the shafit who’d followed her. “Everyone, hold on!”

  Nahri grabbed Ali. Always prepared, she’d already tethered herself to the mast. She laid one hand on Ali’s heart and the other on his shoulder, bracing him.

  “I’ve got you, my friend,” she assured him. “Lift the seal.”

  But it was already lifting; like last time, the ring in his heart responded more to Nahri’s touch than any command Ali could give it. She sent a swell of cool relief surging through his body, and the pain immediately lessened.

  Just in time, for the swollen creek had crashed over the cliff, lapping toward the boat in ravenous, frothy swells. As though he were the sea itself, Ali tasted the oily wooden hull and the bricks of the foundation wall. The ship bobbed like a toy on the rising wave.

  Another shot glanced off the bow; al Mudhib was still out there somewhere.

  You should drown him. You should drown them all. Al Mudhib and his thugs were murderers and thieves, worthless scum who’d preyed upon Ayaanle villagers and forced shafit like Fiza into servitude. They deserved to die. And it would be so easy. A bare flick of Ali’s hand, and they’d be gone, devoured.

  Waves lashed the boat, and Ali slipped, falling from Nahri’s grasp and hurtling across the deck. He smashed into the opposite railing, and the pain in his chest returned with a vengeance, white hot and twisting through his heart.

  DROWN THEM. Ali gripped the railing and hauled himself back to his feet. Desperate for a distraction from the murderous urges swirling in his mind, he threw himself into controlling the marid magic.

  The sea, he commanded, pressing a fist against the agony in his chest. Bring us to the sea.

  The boat shot forward like a released arrow. The new crew cried out in alarm, cursing and praying.

  “Ali!” Nahri scrambled back to his side, reaching for him as a gray fog dashed across his visio
n. Her hands scorched his skin, and Ali jerked away, the ship moving with him and leveling more trees.

  “I’m fine.” And oddly enough … he was. The pain was gutting, yes, but it suddenly felt distant, like it was happening to someone else. Ali stepped forward, watching in wonder as they rushed toward the ocean. His legs seemed to have a mind of their own, steadying him as they careened around the bends of the wild, swollen creek.

  Devour it. Ali grinned with mad delight as floods raced forward to consume the beach. Blood filled his mouth, dripping past his lips as the magic in his veins boiled and surged through him, dashing against the hard alien intrusion in his chest.

  The ship burst from the forest, dashing through the inlet. And then … Ali sighed in pleasure, tasting the salt of the ocean as it overpowered the freshwater creek. Water raced over his skin in a welcoming embrace, fingers of it running through his hair and down his throat like a lover’s caress.

  But why was Ali up here, in this bobbing toy of dead trees and oily pitch, when the ocean was so close?

  Come. This time the command wasn’t his. As if in a dream, Ali turned, reaching for the wooden rail that separated him from the water.

  “Ali, what are you doing?” He was dimly aware of a voice speaking his name. Nahri, one part of his mind told him.

  Daeva, another part accused. The scent of their fiery essence soured the wet air. They were everywhere, surrounding him in a place they had no business being.

  So leave them. Fling yourself into the sea and join us. Ali lifted a leg over the railing.

  “Ali, no!” The daeva called Nahri threw herself at him, grabbing him around the chest. “Fiza, help me!”

  Ali tried to wrench free. “Don’t touch me,” he hissed, the words coming out in a slither of foreign syllables.

  “What’s wrong with him?” another daeva cried, a woman. “What’s wrong with his eyes?”

  “Ali, please.” The first daeva was begging now, trying to pry his hands from the railing. “Let it go. Let the marid magic go!”

  They succeeded in dragging him back only a few steps before Ali shook them off. Foolish mortals, what did they know? Why stay here when the churning, heaving water beckoned so strongly? His blood ached for it, he ached for it.

  He was dimly aware of the daeva running at him again, an oar in her hand.

  “Ali, I’m really sorry,” she said as she put herself between him and the ocean. She lifted the oar …

  And smashed it into his skull.

  19

  DARA

  Had Dara not been expecting Muntadhir, he would never have guessed the bedraggled man with wild eyes and overgrown hair was the same emir he’d first met lounging in the throne room. Though Dara had seen men in far worse shape after weeks of imprisonment, it was still a startling reminder of their change in fortunes. Muntadhir was thin, his skin pale from a month without light, and his stained waist cloth revealed an angry red scar from the zulfiqar strike that should have killed him. Bruises and scratches covered his limbs; a welt protruded on his cheek. As he shuffled down the garden path, his wrists and ankles shackled and a guard at each elbow, Dara could already smell him.

  But even beaten and filthy, Muntadhir’s expression was fiery when he met Dara’s gaze. He drew up, glaring, and then spat at Dara’s feet.

  “Scourge.”

  “Al Qahtani.” Dara glanced at the soldiers. “Leave us.”

  He waited until his men were gone and then stood. He’d arranged to meet Muntadhir in a private nook of the inner gardens. Roses climbed the pale stone wall, and water danced in the tiled fountain, a peaceful scene at odds with the tension between the men.

  Dara stopped before Muntadhir. “I am going to remove your shackles. I trust you are not going to do anything foolish.”

  Rage burned in the emir’s dirty face, but he said nothing, remaining still as Dara struck off the irons at his wrists and ankles. The skin underneath was blistered and raw. Dara stepped back with relief, resisting the urge to cover his nose.

  Muntadhir shot a skittish look across the small courtyard. “What do you want?”

  “To talk.” Dara gestured to the basin of water he’d brought for washing and then pulled the top off a silver platter of spiced rice, greens, and dried fruit. “You must be hungry.”

  Muntadhir’s gray eyes locked on the food, but he didn’t move. “Is this a trick?”

  “No. I wanted to talk and figured it would be easier if you did not smell of rot or were delirious with starvation.” When the emir stayed put, Dara rolled his eyes. “For the love of the Creator, would you drop this whole ‘noble suffering thing’ your people so adore? You are supposed to be the agreeable one.”

  Still glaring, Muntadhir stepped forward and began gingerly washing his face and hands with the water. The movement drew Dara’s attention to the small hole in his earlobe—the place his copper relic should have been.

  He’s probably one of the few people in the palace without one. With a pair of ifrit now wandering freely, everyone seemed to have taken to wearing their relics, as though their very presence might protect them from the horror of being enslaved. Save Manizheh, Dara had not seen a Daeva in days without an amulet—relic hidden inside—hanging from their neck.

  Muntadhir let out a pained hiss as he rinsed his blistering skin, moving like an old man.

  “You need some salve.”

  “Ah, yes, salve. I’ll be sure to get some on the way back to my cell. I believe it’s next to the decaying corpses.”

  Well, at least he was feeling sharper. Dara held his tongue, watching as Muntadhir finished washing up and then seated himself beside the tray, already looking haughtier. He eyed the food skeptically.

  “Are you too snobbish to eat Daeva cuisine?”

  “I rather like Daeva cuisine,” Muntadhir countered. “I’m just wondering if it’s poisoned.”

  “Poison is not my style.”

  “No, I suppose your style is torturing a dying man with threats to his younger siblings.”

  Dara stared at him. “I can put you back in your cell.”

  “And miss possibly poisoned food and your magnetic presence?” Muntadhir reached for the platter, rolling a small ball of the rice and popping it into his mouth. He made a face after he swallowed. “Underspiced. The kitchen staff must not be fond of you.”

  Dara snapped his fingers. Muntadhir jumped, but Dara had only conjured a cup of wine, bringing it to his lips in the same motion.

  The emir watched with open jealousy. “Why do you still have your magic?”

  “The Creator has blessed me.”

  “I doubt that very much.” Muntadhir probably had mites in his clothes and was clearly starving, but he ate like the nobleman he was, every move precise and elegant. It threw Dara back into his memories of that last night in Daevabad. Muntadhir, drunk, with a courtesan in his lap, mocking his future marriage to the Banu Nahida.

  Unable to stop himself, Dara opened his mouth. “You did not deserve her.”

  The words came out hard, and Muntadhir stilled, his hand halfway to his mouth, as if he expected to be struck again.

  Then he relaxed, giving Dara a dirty look. “Neither did you.”

  “Did you hurt her?”

  A hint of genuine anger blossomed in the emir’s face. “I never raised a hand to her. I’ve never raised a hand to any woman. I’m not you, Scourge.”

  “No, you just forced her to marry you.”

  Muntadhir glowered. “I’m sure the thought of me dragging Nahri by the hair to my bed was very comforting to you as you were stepping past the bodies of Geziri children, but that’s not how things were between us.”

  Dara knew he had no right to ask, but he could not go any further with this man if he had even once taken advantage of her. “Then how were things between you?”

  “It was a political marriage between two deeply incompatible people, but she was my wife. I tried to protect her, to build something between us that might have been good for Daevabad.
And I think she did the same with me.”

  “Did you love her?”

  Muntadhir stared at him in exasperation. “How are you so old and yet so naive? No, I didn’t love her. I cared for her—in fifty years, if she and my father didn’t kill each other first, if we’d had a child, maybe things would have been different.”

  “And Jamshid?”

  The other man flinched. He hid it well, but Dara still noticed. Muntadhir’s true weakness.

  Muntadhir shoved the food away. “Conjure another cup of wine or put me back in my cell. Discussing my romantic entanglements with you is almost enough to make me wish the zulfiqar had done its job.”

  Checking his temper, Dara conjured another cup and pushed it in Muntadhir’s direction, the amber liquid sloshing over the rim.

  Muntadhir tasted it, his nose wrinkling in displeasure. “Date wine. Overly sweet and utterly common. You really never did spend much time in the palace, did you?”

  “I find politics loathsome.”

  “Do you?” Muntadhir waved about the courtyard. “And what do you think all this is if not politics? I find that those who look on politics with contempt are usually the first to be dragged down by them.”

  Dara drained his cup and set it down, not having any desire to get pulled in by riddles. “I saw your sister.”

  Muntadhir coughed, spitting out his wine. “What?” The mask slipped, worry filling his face. “Where? Has Manizheh—”

  “No. Not yet, anyway. I saw Zaynab at the hospital, fighting at the side of a warrior woman of your tribe.”

  Muntadhir was gripping his cup so hard Dara could see the whites of his knuckles. “Did you hurt her?”

  “No. Nor, for that matter, did I tell Manizheh she was there.”

  “Waiting to see how this conversation went?”

  “I’m not telling you this to threaten her, al Qahtani. I’m telling you so you know you have a reason to live.” When Muntadhir’s only response was more arrogant staring, as though Dara were a speck of dirt on his shoe, Dara continued. “Our conquest … it has not exactly gone to plan.”

  Muntadhir feigned shock, his eyes wide. “You don’t say.”