The Kingdom of Copper

by S. A. Chakraborty

  Ali shook his head. “I don’t remember much. Darayavahoush shot me. I lost my balance and fell in the water. There was something in it, some sort of presence tearing at me, tearing through my mind, and when it saw the Afshin . . .” He shuddered. “Whatever it was, it was so angry, Amma. It said it needed my name.”

  “Your name?” Hatset’s voice rose. “Did you give it?”

  He nodded, ashamed. “It forced these visions upon me. Daevabad destroyed, all of you murdered . . .” His voice broke. “It made me see them again and again, all while it attached itself to me, biting and ripping at my skin. Zaynab and Muntadhir were screaming for me to save them, to give my name and I . . . I broke.” He could barely say the last words.

  Hatset pulled him into a hug. “You didn’t break, child,” she insisted, stroking his back. “You couldn’t have fought them.”

  Nerves fluttered in his stomach. “You know what it was, then?”

  His mother nodded, pulling back to touch the hooked scar in his palm. “I’m Ayaanle. I know what leaves these marks.”

  The word lay unsaid between them another moment, and then Ali couldn’t bear it. “It was a marid, wasn’t it? A marid did this.”

  He didn’t miss the way her gold eyes flickered around the pavilion before she replied—that she did so for this and not while discussing treason was telling. And not reassuring. “Yes.” She let go of his hands. “What happened after you gave your name?”

  Ali swallowed. “It took over me. Muntadhir said it looked like I was possessed, that I was speaking a strange language.” He bit his lip. “It used me to kill Darayavahoush, but I don’t remember anything between giving my name and waking up in the infirmary.”

  “The infirmary?” His mother’s voice was sharp. “Does that Nahid girl know—”

  “No.” The danger in the question and a tug of old loyalty pushed the lie from his lips. “She wasn’t there. Only Abba and Muntadhir know what happened.”

  Hatset’s eyes narrowed. “Your father knew the marid did all this to you and still he sent you to Am Gezira?”

  Ali grimaced but could not deny the relief coursing through him. It felt so good to finally talk about all this with someone who knew more, someone who could help him. “I’m not sure I would have survived Am Gezira if the marid hadn’t possessed me.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  He looked at her in surprise. “My abilities, Amma. You must realize that’s what’s behind my irrigation work.”

  Too late, he recognized the horror crossing her face. “Your abilities?” she repeated.

  His heart raced at the shock in her voice. “My . . . my abilities with water. Abba said the Ayaanle had a relationship with the marid. You recognized their marks . . .” Desperate hope clawed up in Ali’s chest. “That means this happens to djinn back in Ta Ntry, doesn’t it?”

  “No, baba . . .” Hatset took his hands in hers again. “Not like this. We find . . .” She cleared her throat. “We find bodies, love. Bodies with marks like yours. Djinn fishermen who stay out past sundown, human children lured to the riverbank. They’re murdered, drowned, and drained.”

  Ali reeled. Bodies? “But I thought . . .” He choked on the words. “Didn’t our ancestors revere the marid?”

  Hatset shook her head. “I don’t know what was between our ancestors, but the marid have been a terror as long as I’ve been alive. We keep it to ourselves; we’d rather handle our own business than invite foreign soldiers into Ta Ntry. And the attacks are rare. We’ve learned to avoid the places they like.”

  Ali was struggling to comprehend what he was hearing. “Then how did I survive?”

  His mother—his always savvy mother—looked equally at a loss. “I don’t know.”

  A door hinge creaked, and Ali yanked his robe back on so fast he heard some of the stitches tear. By the time a pair of servants joined them, Hatset’s face was calm; but he didn’t miss the grief with which she’d watched him move.

  She offered a small smile to the servants as they set down a tray of covered silver platters. “Thank you.”

  They removed the tops, and Ali’s heart and stomach gave a leap at the familiar smells of the Ntaran dishes he’d loved as a child. Fried plaintains and anise-spiced rice, fish steamed in banana leaf with ginger and grated coconut, and syrupy dumplings.

  “I remember your favorites,” Hatset said softly when they were alone again. “A mother doesn’t forget something like that.”

  Ali didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to say. The answers he’d wanted for years about the marid had left worse questions and more mysteries in their wake. What happened to him wasn’t something that happened to other Ayaanle. The marid were a terror in Ta Ntry, monsters to be feared.

  Monsters who had saved him. Ali shifted, completely on edge. The possession in the lake had been vicious, but his abilities after had felt . . . calming. The solace when he ran his hands through a canal, the near playfulness with which new springs bubbled beneath his feet. What was that all supposed to mean?

  His mother touched his wrist. “Alu, it’s okay,” she said, breaking the silence. “You’re alive. That’s all that matters now. Whatever the marid did to you . . . it’s over.”

  “That’s just it, Amma . . . it’s not over,” Ali said softly. “It’s getting worse. Ever since I came back to Daevabad . . . I feel like these things are inside me, slipping over my skin, whispering in my head . . . and if I lose control . . .” He shivered. “People used to kill djinn they suspected of cavorting with the marid.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” she declared firmly. “Not to you. I’ll take care of this.”

  Ali bit his lip, wanting to believe her but seeing little way out of a mess it was clear neither of them understood. “How?”

  “First, we fix . . . this,” she said, waving a hand over his body. “You’ll use my hammam from now on. Send the servants away with one of your rants about modesty, and they’ll have no problem letting you bathe alone. I also have an Agnivanshi tailor I trust completely. I’ll tell him your scars are from the Afshin and you want them hidden. I’m sure he can design you some new clothes to do so.”

  “Alizayd the Afshin-slayer,” he repeated grimly. “How fortunate that I’m known for killing a man who liked to scourge his opponents.”

  “It’s a stroke of fortune I’ll take,” Hatset replied. “In the meantime, I’m going to reach out to a scholar I’m acquainted with. He can be a bit . . . difficult. But he probably knows more about the marid than anyone else alive.”

  Hope rose in Ali’s voice. “And you think he can help us?”

  “It’s worth a try. For now, put this business with the marid out of your mind. And eat.” Hatset pushed the platters at him. “I’d like to have you looking like less of a wraith by week’s end.”

  Ali picked up a pitcher of rosewater to rinse his hands. “Why by week’s end?”

  “Because that’s when your father is holding a feast to celebrate your return.”

  Ali scowled, plucking a bit of rice and stew from the plate with his fingers. “I wish he’d hold a feast to send me somewhere that isn’t a marid-haunted island surrounded by a cursed lake.”

  “He’s not going to be sending you anywhere if I have any say in it.” She poured a cup of tamarind juice and pushed it in his direction. “I just got you back, baba.” Her voice was fierce. “And if I have to fight some marid to keep you, so be it.”

  12

  Nahri

  Because a lost little girl from Cairo thought she was living in some sort of fairy tale. And because for all her supposed cleverness, she couldn’t see that the dashing hero who saved her was its monster.

  Nahri closed her eyes, quietly obeying the whispered commands of the servants painting her face. Muntadhir’s cruel taunt played ceaselessly in her mind; she’d been thinking about his words for days now, the accusation all the more haunting because for the life of her, Nahri could not help but fear it contained a kernel of tru
th.

  One of her maids approached with a selection of ornate hair combs shaped like various birds. “Which would you like, my lady?”

  Nahri stared at the jeweled combs, too glum to even silently assess their value. Her braids were already undone, her black curls spilling wildly to her waist. She touched her hair, twisting one lock around a finger. “It’s fine like this.”

  Two of her maids exchanged nervous looks, and from the corner of the room where she’d been watching Nahri dress with open concern, Nisreen coughed.

  “My lady, with all respect . . . between your hair and the dress, you do not quite appear to be going to a ceremonial event,” her mentor said delicately.

  No, I probably look like I’m about to visit my husband’s bed, which is ironic because I’m damn well never doing that again. Nahri had again chosen to wear the sleeveless linen gown with the elaborate beaded collar that reminded her of Egypt. The prospect of interacting with the Qahtanis left her anxious and she wanted to cling to something familiar.

  And she didn’t really care what anyone else thought about it. “I’m going like this. It’s a Geziri feast, and there won’t be any men in the women’s section to see me either way.”

  Nisreen sighed, perhaps recognizing defeat. “I take it I am still to come up with some sort of emergency so that you can leave early?”

  “Please.” Nahri couldn’t entirely snub the feast, but she could make sure she spent as little time there as possible. “Did you happen to notice if Jamshid left?”

  “He did. He insisted on helping me restock the apothecary shelves and then departed. I told him he needed another day to recover, but—”

  “But he wants to be at Muntadhir’s side.” Nahri waited until the maids had left to finish the sentence. “Muntadhir doesn’t deserve him.”

  “I don’t disagree.” When Nahri moved to stand, Nisreen touched her shoulder. “You’ll take care with the queen tonight?”

  “I always do.” It was the truth; Nahri evaded Hatset like she owed the older woman money. From what Nahri had observed, the queen was Ghassan’s equal in cunning and resource, but whereas the king desired Nahri as an ally—in name at least—Hatset wanted nothing to do with her, treating her with the wary disdain someone might show an ill-mannered dog.

  Which was fine with Nahri, especially tonight. She would steal a few minutes to eat—possibly actually steal one of the gold carving knives used during state functions just to make herself feel better—and then be gone without having to talk to either of the Qahtani princes.

  Draping a snow-white chador embroidered with sunbursts of sapphires over her head, she followed a female steward through the open corridor that led to the formal gardens in front of Ghassan’s throne room. Globes of enchanted flames in rainbow-bright hues nestled in the fruit trees, and fine carpets embroidered with hunting scenes had been laid upon the trimmed grass. Tiny jade hummingbirds glittered as they sang and swooped between delicate copper feeders, their song mingling with the strumming of lutes. The air was fragrant with jasmine, musk, and roasted meat. The last made her stomach rumble sadly; Nahri hadn’t touched meat since committing to her role as Banu Nahida.

  Directly ahead was an enormous tent constructed with swaths of silver silk that shimmered under the moonlight. The steward pulled aside one of the pearly curtains, and Nahri stepped inside the perfumed interior.

  Its opulence was a mockery of the tents the nomadic Geziris would have once called home. Stunning hand-loomed rugs in a riot of colors lay thick upon the ground, and an illusionist had conjured up a constellation of miniature fireworks to swirl and sparkle overhead. Fire burned in wide, open golden lamps—the djinn had a strong aversion to the small, closed ones often used as slave vessels by the ifrit.

  The tent was warm and packed; Nahri slipped out of her chador, handing it off to a waiting attendant and blinking as her eyes adjusted to the crowded, firelit interior. Past the bustle of servants and guests lingering near the entrance, she caught a glimpse of Queen Hatset and Princess Zaynab holding court on a raised marble dais scattered with ebony and gold cushions. Cursing the etiquette that required her to greet them first, Nahri made her way across the floor. She was determined to ignore the raised eyebrows she knew her dress would attract, so she refused to look at the other women . . . which meant she realized too late that many had pulled their various shaylas and veils over their heads.

  The reason why sat between his mother and sister.

  It took Nahri a moment to recognize the finely dressed young man in the robes of an Ayaanle noble as the traitorous former friend she’d contemplated murdering in her garden a few days ago. Gone were the filthy traveling robe and ragged ghutra. Over a rich, black dishdasha trimmed with pale moonstone beads, Ali wore a grass-green robe patterned in silver ikat, a cheerfully colored garment deeply uncharacteristic of the taciturn prince. A beautiful silver turban crowned his head, wrapped in the Geziri style that revealed the copper relic bolted to his ear.

  Ali looked equally taken aback by the sight of Nahri, his shocked gaze traveling from her uncovered head down her bare arms. She heard him take a sharp breath, and she bristled; given Ali’s conservative views, he probably thought the dress even more inappropriate than Nisreen had.

  “Banu Nahida,” Hatset greeted her, beckoning Nahri closer with a hand that sparkled with golden rings. “There you are. Come, join us!”

  Nahri approached, bowing her head as she brought her hands together. “Peace be upon you all,” she said, in her best attempt at ingratiating politeness.

  “And upon you peace, dear daughter.” Hatset gave her a warm smile. The royal women looked stunning, as usual. Hatset wore a silk abaya dyed in saffron and crimson, the fabric shimmering like a flame under a midnight-colored shayla trimmed in Geziri pearls. Zaynab—who could drive men to their knees dressed in an ill-fitting sack—was clad in a gown that looked like a waterfall had come to life and decided to worship her, a cascade of teal, emerald, and cobalt blue held together by a collar of real lotus flowers. “I was beginning to fear something might have happened to you when you didn’t arrive with your husband.”

  The words were said with far too much intent, but Nahri wasn’t surprised: there seemed to be very little Hatset didn’t know about the domestic happenings of the palace. Nahri had no doubt a few of her maids were in the queen’s employ—and that news of her argument with Muntadhir had already been relayed.

  But Nahri was not discussing her marital woes with this woman. She feigned a smile. “Forgive my tardiness. I had a patient.”

  Hatset’s golden eyes twinkled. “No apology necessary.” She gestured to Nahri’s dress. “That is quite lovely. A little different, to be sure, but very beautiful.” Her voice took on a teasing tone. “Alu, doesn’t she look pretty?” she asked her son.

  Ali’s gaze was darting everywhere but at Nahri. “I, er, yes,” he stammered. “I should go. The men will be expecting me.”

  Hatset grabbed his wrist. “Remember to talk to people . . . and about things other than hadith and economics, for the love of God, Alizayd. Tell some exciting stories about Am Gezira.”

  Ali rose to his feet. Nahri hated to admit such a thing, but he looked striking in his new clothes, the beautifully dyed robe highlighting his haughty features and luminous dark skin. She supposed that’s what happened when you let your mother dress you.

  He kept his gaze on the floor as he passed her. “In peace,” he said softly.

  “Go jump in the lake,” she returned under her breath in Arabic. She saw him tense but he didn’t stop.

  Hatset smiled as she watched him walk away, her expression both proud and fiercely protective.

  Of course she’s proud; she’s probably been conspiring to get him back here for years. Nahri had been turning over in her mind the conversation she’d overheard between Muntadhir and Jamshid since her run-in with Ali. She wondered if there was any truth to her husband’s concerns about the deadly intentions of the “mother” she now knew was Hatse
t.

  The queen’s gaze shifted back to Nahri. “Dear one, why are you still standing? Sit,” she commanded, gesturing to the cushion next to Zaynab. “My daughter has already accidentally knocked aside the tent panel in front of us to improve our view. And you always hide yourself away at these things.” She nodded at the platters surrounding them. “I’ve had the kitchens bring out some vegetarian dishes for you.”

  Nahri went from baffled to suspicious in one fell swoop. Hatset was clearly up to something—so much so that the queen was barely attempting to hide it with her question about Muntadhir and her exuberant friendliness. And the rather obvious comment to Ali about her dress.

  Nahri’s cheeks suddenly burned. Oh, no . . . she was not letting herself get dragged between the estranged brothers that way. She had enough problems of her own. But neither could she be rude. Hatset was the queen—wealthy, powerful, and with as much of an iron fist when it came to the harem as her husband held over the city. Daevabad’s royal harem was enormously influential; here marriages between their world’s most powerful families were debated, and here posts and contracts were given out that changed lives . . . all under the watchful eye of the djinn queen.

  So when Hatset again gestured to the cushion next to Zaynab, Nahri sat.

  “I take it you knock aside tent panels with the same frequency that your empty litter dallies in the Geziri bazaar?” she whispered to her sister-in-law. Zaynab rolled her eyes, and Nahri continued, gesturing at the platters of fruit and pastries spread before her. “This reminds me of the first time we met. I mean . . . before you purposely got me so intoxicated I passed out.”

  Zaynab shrugged. “I was trying to be a good host,” she said airily. “How was I to know the potency of such forbidden substances?”

  Nahri shook her head, stealing a glance through the billowing tent partitions at the men’s section. The jeweled stakes pinning the silk had indeed been knocked aside in front of them, giving Nahri a fairly good view. Ahead, the Qahtani men sat with their closest retainers on a beautiful white jade platform that floated upon the lush grass. The platform was stunning, its edges carved with an assortment of leaping oryxes, sly-eyed sphinxes, and soaring simurghs. Precious stones and gems highlighted the length of a horn, the sweep of a tail, and the delicate array of feathers on a wing. The men reclined upon silk cushions, wine cups and spun glass water pipes scattered about them.