He stood up, feeling unsteady. “I . . . I’ll need to organize repairs first.” The words made him sick. The life he’d been carefully putting together in Bir Nabat had been turned upside down in a night, carelessly cast aside by outsiders in the name of their own political calculations. “We’ll leave for Daevabad tomorrow.” The words sounded odd in his mouth, unreal somehow.
Lubayd hesitated. “And your cousin?”
Ali doubted they would find Musa, but it was worth a try. “No man who would sabotage a well is kin of mine. Send a pair of fighters after him.”
“And should they find him?”
“Drag him back. I’ll deal with him when I return.” Ali’s hands tightened on his cup. “And I will return.”
6
Nahri
“Ow! By the Creator, are you doing that on purpose? It didn’t hurt nearly as bad last time!”
Nahri ignored her patient’s complaint, her attention focused instead on his neatly splayed lower midsection. Metal clamps held open the skin, white-hot to keep the wound clean. The shapeshifter’s intestines shimmered a pale silver—or at least they would have shimmered had they not been studded with stubborn bits of rocky growths.
She took a deep breath, centering herself. The infirmary was stifling, and she’d been working on this patient for at least two grueling hours. She had one hand pressed against his flushed skin to dull the pain of the procedure and keep it from killing him. With the other, she manipulated a pair of steel tweezers around the next growth. It was a complicated, time-consuming operation, and sweat beaded her brow.
“Damn it!”
She dropped the stone into a pan. “Stop turning into a statue, and you won’t have to deal with this.” She briefly paused to glare at him. “This is the third time I’ve had to treat you . . . people are not meant to shift into rocks!”
He looked a little ashamed. “It’s very peaceful.”
Nahri threw him an exasperated look. “Find another way to relax. I beg you. Stitches!” she called aloud. When there was no response, she glanced over her shoulder. “Nisreen?”
“One moment!”
From across the crowded infirmary, she caught sight of Nisreen dashing between a table piled high with pharmaceutical preparations and another with instruments due for a magical scalding. Nisreen picked up a silver tray, holding it over her head as she navigated the tightly packed cots and huddles of visitors. The infirmary was standing room only, with more people pushed into the garden.
Nahri sighed as Nisreen squeezed between a bouncing Ayaanle artist hexed with exuberance and a Sahrayn metalworker whose skin was covered in smoking pustules. “Imagine if we had a hospital, Nisreen. An enormous hospital with room to breathe and staff to do your busywork.”
“A dream,” Nisreen replied, setting down her tray. “Your stitches.” She paused to admire Nahri’s work. “Excellent. I never get tired of seeing how far your skills have progressed.”
“I’m barely allowed to leave the infirmary, and I work all day. I’d hope my skills had progressed.” But she couldn’t entirely hide her smile. Despite the long hours and grueling work, Nahri took great satisfaction in her role as a healer, able to help patients even when she couldn’t fix the myriad other problems in her life.
She closed the shapeshifter up quickly with the enchanted thread and then bound the wound, pressing a cup of opium-laced tea into his hands. “Drink and rest.”
“Banu Nahida?”
Nahri glanced up. A steward dressed in royal colors peeked in from the doors leading to the garden, his eyes going wide at the sight of her. In the moist heat of the infirmary, Nahri’s hair had grown wild, black curls escaping her headscarf. Her apron was splashed with blood and spilled potions. All she needed was a fiery scalpel in one hand to look like one of the mad, murderous Nahids of djinn lore.
“What?” she asked, trying to keep her irritation in check.
The steward bowed. “The emir would like to speak with you.”
Nahri gestured to the chaos around her. “Now?”
“He is waiting in the garden.”
Of course he is. Muntadhir was practiced enough in protocol to know she couldn’t entirely snub him if he showed up in person. “Fine,” she grumbled. She washed her hands and removed her apron, then followed the steward outside.
Nahri blinked in the bright sunshine. The wild harem garden—more jungle than garden, really—had been pruned back and tamed on the land facing the infirmary by a team of dedicated Daeva horticulturists. They’d been giddy at the assignment, eager to re-create the glorious palace landscapes the Nahids had been famous for, even if only in miniature. The infirmary’s grounds were now starred with silver-blue reflecting pools, the walkways lined with perfectly pruned pistachio and apricot trees and lush rosebushes laden with delicate blooms that ranged from a pale, sunny yellow to the deepest of indigos. Though most of the herbs and plants used in her work were grown in Zariaspa on the Pramukh family estates, anything that needed to be fresh when used was planted here, in neatly manicured corner plots bursting with shuddering mandrake bushes and dappled yellow henbane. A marble pavilion overlooked it all, set with carved benches and invitingly plump cushions.
Muntadhir stood there now, his back to her. He must have come from court because he was still dressed in the smoky gold-edged black robe he wore for ceremonial functions, his brightly colored silk turban dazzling in the sun. His hands rested lightly upon the balustrade, the lines of his body commanding as he gazed upon her garden.
“Yes?” she asked brusquely as she stepped into the pavilion.
He glanced back, his gaze traveling down her body. “You look a sight.”
“I’m working.” She wiped away some of the sweat from her forehead. “What do you need, Muntadhir?”
He turned to face her fully, leaning against the railing. “You didn’t come last night.”
That was what this visit was about? “I was busy with my patients. And I doubt your bed was cold for long.” She couldn’t resist adding the last part.
His lips twitched. “This is the third time in a row you’ve done this, Nahri,” he persisted. “You could at least send word instead of leaving me waiting.”
Nahri took a deep breath, her patience with Muntadhir—already a thing in short supply—diminishing with each second. “I apologize. Next time I’ll send word so you can head straightaway to whatever wine-soaked salon you’re frequenting these days. Now are we done?”
Muntadhir crossed his arms. “You’re in a good mood today. But no, we’re not done. Can we talk somewhere more private?” He gestured to the bright citrus trees in the distance. “Your orange grove, perhaps?”
A protective instinct surged in Nahri’s heart. The orange grove had been planted long ago by her uncle Rustam, and it was precious to her. While not as talented a healer as her mother, Manizheh, Rustam had been a famed botanist and pharmacist. Even decades after his death, the carefully selected plants within the grove grew strong and healthy, their healing powers more potent and their fragrance headier. Nahri had requested the grove be restored to its original glory, enchanted by the privacy and shade afforded by the glen’s thick screen of leaves and brambles, and the feeling of standing on soil once worked by her family’s hands.
“I don’t let anyone in there,” she reminded him. “You know that.”
Muntadhir shook his head, used to her stubbornness. “Then let’s just walk.” He moved toward the steps without waiting for her.
Nahri followed. “What’s happened with the Daeva family I told you about?” she asked as they made their way along the snaking path. If Muntadhir was going to pull her away from work, she might as well take advantage of it. “The ones who were abused by the Royal Guard?”
“I’m looking into it.”
She stopped. “Still? You told me you’d speak to your father last week.”
“And I did,” Muntadhir replied, sounding annoyed. “I can’t exactly go around setting criminals free against the
king’s command because you and Jamshid are upset. It’s more complicated than that.” He eyed her. “And the more you interfere, the harder you make it. You know how my father feels about you getting involved in political matters.”
The words struck hard, and Nahri drew up. “Fine,” she said bitterly. “You can go tell him his warning has been passed on.”
Muntadhir grabbed her hand before she could turn away. “I’m not here at his command, Nahri,” he protested. “I’m here because I’m your husband. And regardless of how either of us feels about that, I don’t want to see you hurt.”
He led her toward a shaded bench that faced the canal. It was tucked behind a timeworn neem tree whose boughs curved down in a thick cascade of emerald leaves, effectively curtaining them from view.
He sat, pulling her down beside him. “I hear you had quite the adventure with my sister the other week.”
Nahri instantly tensed. “Did your father—”
“No,” Muntadhir assured. “Zaynab told me. Yes,” he clarified, perhaps noticing the surprise on Nahri’s face. “I know about her little jaunts in the Geziri Quarter. I found out about them years ago. She’s clever enough to keep herself safe, and her guard knows he can come to me if she’s ever in trouble.”
“Oh.” That took Nahri aback. And oddly enough, it made her a little jealous. The Qahtanis might be her ancestral enemies and a bunch of backstabbing opportunists, but the quiet loyalty between the siblings—borne out of the type of familial love Nahri had never known—filled her with a sad sort of envy.
She pushed it away. “I take it she told you about the hospital?”
“She said she’d never seen you so excited.”
Nahri kept her face carefully blank. “It was interesting.”
“It was interesting?” Muntadhir repeated in disbelief. “You, who barely stops talking about your work in the infirmary, discovered your ancestors’ old hospital and a group of freed ifrit slaves, and your only comment is ‘It was interesting’?”
Nahri chewed her lip, debating how to respond. The hospital had been far more than interesting, of course. But the fantasies she’d been spinning since her visit seemed a fragile thing, safest kept to herself.
Muntadhir clearly wasn’t so easily fooled. He took her hand again. “I wish you would talk to me,” he said softly. “I know neither of us wanted this, Nahri, but we could try to make it work. I feel like I have no idea what goes on in your head.” His tone was imploring but there was no hiding a hint of exasperation. “You have more walls up than a maze.”
Nahri said nothing. Of course, she had walls up. Nearly everyone she knew had betrayed her at least once.
He rubbed his thumb against her palm. Her fingers twitched, and she made a face. “Lots of stitching today, and I think my internal healing abilities have stopped recognizing aching muscles as an abnormality.”
“Let me.” Muntadhir took her hand in both of his and began to massage it, pressing the joints as though he’d been doing it for years.
Nahri exhaled, some of the tension immediately leaving her sore fingers. “Who taught you how to do this?”
He pulled at her fingers, stretching them out in a way that felt heavenly. “A friend.”
“Were you and said friend wearing clothes at the time of this lesson?”
“You know, considering the friend . . . it is rather likely we weren’t.” He gave her a wicked smile. “Would you like to know what else she taught me?”
Nahri rolled her eyes. “I won’t unburden myself to you, so now you’re trying to seduce me using knowledge you gained from another woman?”
His grin widened. “Political life has taught me to be creative in my approaches.” He brushed his fingers lightly up her wrist, and Nahri couldn’t help a slight shiver at his touch. “You’re clearly too busy to come to my bed. How else to sustain the peace our marriage alliance was supposed to build?”
“You have no shame; do you know that?” But the edge was gone from her voice. Muntadhir was damnably good at this.
His fingers were tracing delicate patterns on the skin of her wrist, his eyes dancing with mirth. “You don’t complain about that when you do find your way into my bed.”
Heat flooded her cheeks—not all of it from embarrassment. “You’ve slept with half of Daevabad. I’d hope that would teach you some skill.”
“That sounds like a challenge.”
The mischief in his expression was not helping with the utterly traitorous unspooling of heat in her belly. “I have work,” she protested as he pulled her onto his lap. “At least a dozen patients waiting. And we’re in the garden. Someone could . . .” She trailed off as he pressed his mouth to her neck, lightly kissing her throat.
“No one can see anything,” Muntadhir said calmly, his voice sending a brush of warmth against her skin. “And you clearly need to relax. Consider it a professional duty.” His hands slipped underneath her tunic. “Surely your patients will be better served by having a Banu Nahida who’s not in such a snappish mood.”
Nahri sighed, pressing closer to him despite herself. His mouth had moved lower, his beard tickling her collar. “I am not snappish . . .”
There was a polite cough from behind the tree, followed by a squeaked “Emir?”
Muntadhir removed neither his hands nor his lips. “Yes?”
“Your father wishes to speak with you. He says it’s urgent.”
Nahri stilled, the mention of Ghassan making her go cold.
Muntadhir sighed. “Of course it is.” He pulled away to meet her gaze. “Have dinner with me tonight?” he asked. “I will order your strange flower tea and you can insult my shamelessness to your heart’s content.”
Nahri had little desire to dine with him but admittedly wouldn’t mind continuing what they’d just started. She had been under a great deal of stress lately, and she often got more sleep the nights she spent in Muntadhir’s room; people usually had to be actively dying for a servant to muster up the courage to interrupt the emir and his wife there.
Besides which, the flicker of hope in his eyes was pulling on the one shred of tenderness left in her heart; for all his flaws—and there were a great number—her husband did not lack in charm. “I’ll try,” she said, biting back a smile.
He grinned back, looking genuinely pleased. “Excellent.” He untangled his limbs from hers.
Nahri hastily straightened her tunic; she was not going back to the infirmary looking like . . . well, like she had just been doing what she had been doing. “Good luck with whatever your father wants.”
Muntadhir rolled his eyes. “I am sure it is nothing.” He touched his heart. “In peace.”
She watched him go, taking a minute to enjoy the fresh air and the trill of birdsong. It was a beautiful day, and her gaze drifted lazily over to the herb garden.
It landed on a shafit man scurrying through the bushes.
Nahri frowned, watching as the fellow hurried past a patch of sage to stop in front of a willow tree. He wiped his brow, looking nervously over his shoulders.
Odd. While there were some shafit among the gardeners, none were allowed to touch the Nahid plants, nor was this particular man familiar. He took a pair of shears from his belt and opened them, as though he meant to cut away one of the branches.
Nahri was on her feet in an instant, her silk slippers and a lifetime of cat burglary disguising the sound of her steps. The man didn’t even look up until she was nearly on top of him.
“What do you think you’re doing to my tree?” she demanded.
The shafit man jumped up, whirling around so fast that his cap tumbled off. His human-hued hazel eyes went wide with horror.
“Banu Nahida!” he gasped. “I . . . forgive me,” he begged, bringing his hands together. “I was just—”
“Hacking at my willow? Yes, I see that.” She touched the maimed branch, and a sprinkling of new bark spread beneath her fingers. Nahri had a bit of a talent for botany herself, though she hadn’t yet attempted t
o develop it further, much to Nisreen’s chagrin. “Do you know what would happen if someone else had caught . . .” She trailed off, the sight of the man’s bare scalp stealing her attention. It was disfigured, his hair long around his temples, but prickly and patched at the top as if recovering from a rushed shave. The flesh there was mottled purple and slightly swollen, surrounding an oddly flat patch in the size and shape of a coin. A half-moon of scar tissue edged the patch—it had been stitched, and skillfully so.
Overwhelmed by curiosity, Nahri reached out and lightly touched the swollen flesh. It was soft—too soft. She let her Nahid senses expand, confirming what seemed impossible.
A small section of the man’s skull had been removed beneath the skin.
She gasped. It was healing; she could sense the spark of new bone growth, but even so . . . She dropped her hand. “Did someone do this to you?”
The man looked petrified. “I had an accident.”
“An accident that neatly bored a hole through your skull and then stitched it shut?” Nahri knelt beside him. “I’m not going to hurt you,” she assured him. “I just want to know what happened—and make certain someone isn’t going around Daevabad cutting coins out of people’s skulls.”
“It was nothing like that.” He bit his lip, glancing around. “I fell off a roof and cracked my head,” he whispered. “The doctors told my wife that blood was swelling under the bone and that removing part of the skull might relieve the pressure and save my life.”
Nahri blinked. “The doctors?” She looked at the tree he’d been taking the cuttings from. Willow. Of course. Both the leaves and bark were valuable, easily distilled into medicine for aches and pains . . . for human aches and pains. “Did they ask you for this as well?”
He shook his head, still trembling. “I offered. I saw a picture in one of their books and thought I remembered seeing a tree like it when I worked on the roof here last year.” He gave her an imploring look. “They’re good people, and they saved my life. I wanted to help.”
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