The Kingdom of Copper

by S. A. Chakraborty

  They were standing in a fairly simple entrance hall, with lacquered wooden walls and two doors. There were no windows, but the ceiling had been left open to the cloudy sky, making it feel as though they’d been dropped into a pit. The only other light came from a small oil lamp that sat burning next to a platter piled with sweets, in front of a garlanded rice-paper painting of a well-armed woman sitting astride a roaring tiger.

  His patience with Nahri abruptly vanished. Someone had tried to kill him less than a week ago. He was drawing a line at lurking in some mysterious shafit house while pretending he’d impregnated his brother’s wife.

  Ali turned on her, selecting his words carefully. “My dear,” he started. “Would you please explain what we’re doing here?”

  Nahri was gazing about the foyer with open curiosity. “We’re here to meet a shafit doctor named Subhashini Sen. This is where he works.”

  The man who’d brought them in abruptly straightened up. “He?” Suspicion blossomed across his face, and he reached for his waist.

  Ali was faster. He drew his zulfiqar in a breath, and the shafit man stepped back, his hand frozen on a wooden baton. He opened his mouth.

  “Don’t scream,” Nahri said quickly. “Please. We don’t mean anyone here harm. I only want to talk to the doctor.”

  The man’s gaze darted nervously to the door on his left. “I . . . you can’t.”

  Nahri looked baffled. “Excuse me?”

  The shafit man swallowed. “You don’t understand . . . she’s very particular.”

  Curiosity lit Nahri’s eyes. She must have also noticed the door the shafit man glanced at—because she was reaching for the handle in the next moment.

  Ali panicked, not thinking. “Nahri, wait, don’t—”

  The shafit man’s mouth fell open. “Nahri?”

  God preserve me. Ali charged after her as she slipped into the room. Discretion be damned, they were getting out of here.

  A clipped female voice with a thick Daevabadi accent cut him off the moment he passed the threshold.

  “I have told all of you . . . at least a dozen times . . . if you interrupt me while I’m doing this procedure, I’m going to perform it on you next.”

  Ali froze. Not so much at the warning, but at the sight of its source. A shafit woman in a plain cotton sari knelt before them at the side of an elderly man lying on a cushion.

  She had a needle inserted in his eye.

  Aghast at the grisly sight, Ali opened his mouth to protest, but Nahri clapped a hand over it before he could speak.

  “Don’t,” she whispered. She’d drawn back her veil, revealing the open delight dancing across her features.

  The shafit guard joined them, wringing his hands. “Forgive me, Doctor Sen. I would never have interrupted you. Only . . .” He glanced nervously between Ali and Nahri, his eyes seeming to trace Ali’s height and his zulfiqar anew. “You appear to have some guests from the palace.”

  The doctor hesitated. But only for a moment, and neither her hands nor attention so much as twitched. “Whether that’s true or some symptom of madness, all of you can take a seat right now. I still have part of this cataract to remove.”

  There was no room for disobedience in the woman’s stern voice. Ali backed up as quickly as the guard, dropping into one of the low couches lining the wall. He looked around the room. Full of light from an adjoining courtyard and copious lanterns, it was large enough to fit perhaps a dozen people. Three pallets were set low on the ground, the two not being used loosely covered in crisp linen. Cupboards lined one wall, and beside them a desk faced the courtyard, stacked high with books.

  Nahri, of course, had ignored the doctor’s command, and Ali watched helplessly as she drifted toward the desk and began flipping through a book, a grin on her face. He’d seen that look back when they’d been friends: when she’d read her first sentence correctly and when they’d gazed upon the moon through a human telescope, ruminating on the source of its shadows. Her desire to learn had been one of the things that had drawn him to her, a thing they had in common. He had not, however, expected it to lead them to a shafit doctor in one of the city’s more dangerous neighborhoods.

  The sound of a crying infant broke the silence. The door creaked open again, the wailing growing louder.

  “Subha, love, are you already done, then?” A new voice, a man’s low rumble. “The baby is hungry, but she won’t eat any of the . . . oh.” The man trailed off as he stepped into the infirmary.

  The newcomer was enormous, easily one of the largest men Ali had ever see. A mop of messy black curls fell past his shoulders, and his nose looked like it had been broken multiple times. Ali instantly raised his zulfiqar, but far from being armed, the man held only a wooden spoon and a small baby.

  Ali lowered his weapon with some embarrassment. Maybe Nahri had a point about him being jumpy.

  “And that’s the last of it,” the doctor announced, setting down her needle and sitting back. She reached for a tin of salve and then quickly bandaged the man’s eyes. “You’ll be keeping this on for a full week, understand? Don’t pester it.”

  She rose to her feet. The doctor looked younger than Ali would have expected, but that might have been thanks to her djinn blood, which was quite apparent. Though her dark brown skin didn’t have the telltale shine of a pureblood, her ears were as peaked as his own and there was only a glimmer of brown in her Agnivanshi-tin eyes. Her dark hair was plaited in a thick braid that fell to her waist, a line of vermilion neatly set in the part.

  She wiped her hands on a cloth tucked into her waistband and then looked them over, a muscle working in her cheek. It was an appraising gaze, one that flickered from the crying baby to linger on Ali and Nahri before returning to the child.

  Far from ruffled, she appeared unimpressed and rather irritated. “Manka . . . ,” she started, and the doorman’s head snapped up. “I want you to help Hunayn to the recovery room. Parimal, bring the baby here.”

  Both men instantly obeyed, one helping the groggy patient out while the other handed the baby over. The doctor took her child, her gaze not once leaving Ali and Nahri’s faces as she rearranged her sari over her chest and the baby’s sobs turned to happy suckling.

  Ali swallowed, fixing his gaze upon the opposite wall. Nahri didn’t seem bothered by any of this; she was still standing at the desk with a book in her hand.

  The doctor narrowed her eyes, glaring at the Banu Nahida. “If you wouldn’t mind . . .”

  “But of course.” Nahri set down the book and then took a seat next to Ali. “Was that cataract surgery you were doing?”

  “Yes.” The woman’s voice stayed clipped. She took a seat on a wooden stool across from them. “And it’s a complicated, delicate procedure . . . one I don’t like interrupted.”

  “We’re sorry,” Ali rushed to say. “We didn’t mean to barge in.”

  The woman’s expression didn’t change. He tried not to squirm; it felt like being confronted by Hatset crossed with the most terrifying of his old tutors.

  The doctor pursed her lips, nodding at the zulfiqar. “Mind putting that away?”

  He flushed. “Of course.” He quickly sheathed the sword and then pulled down his face covering. It didn’t seem right to intrude upon these people and remain anonymous. He cleared his throat. “Peace be upon you,” he offered weakly.

  Parimal’s eyes went wide. “Prince Alizayd?” His gaze darted to Nahri. “Does that mean you’re—”

  “Daevabad’s newest Nahid?” the doctor cut in, her voice filled with scorn. “Seems likely. So are the two of you here to shut us down, then? Planning to haul me off to the bronze boat for trying to help my people?”

  The mention of the bronze boat sent ice into his veins; Ali had once been forced to do just that to a number of shafit caught in a riot his father had engineered to provoke the Tanzeem. “No,” he said quickly. “Absolutely not.”

  “He’s right,” Nahri said. “I only wanted to meet you. I came across one
of your patients recently. A man with a hole in his skull, like someone had cut—”

  “Drilled.” Nahri blinked and the doctor pressed on, her voice cold. “It is called a trepanation. If you believe yourself a healer, you should use the correct terms.”

  Ali felt Nahri tense slightly at his side, but her voice stayed calm. “Drilled, then. He claimed you were a physician, and I wanted to see if that was true.”

  “Did you?” The doctor’s brows knit together in incredulity. “Is the little girl who makes potions for good luck and tickles away bad humors with a simurgh feather here to assess my training?”

  Ali’s mouth went dry.

  Nahri bristled. “I’d daresay what I do is a bit more advanced than that.”

  The doctor lifted her chin. “Go on, then, make your examination. You’ve already intruded, and I don’t suppose we can protest.” She jerked her head at Ali. “That’s why you brought your prince, no?”

  “I’m not her prince,” Ali corrected swiftly, glaring when Nahri threw him an annoyed look. “I said I’d take you to Sukariyya Street,” he said, defending himself. “Not sneak you into some doctor’s house by pretending that we . . . that you . . .” Very unhelpfully, the memory of Nahri’s gold dress appeared again in his mind, and mortified heat stole over his face. “Never mind,” he stammered.

  “Traitor,” Nahri said, her tone withering as she added something even less kind in Arabic. But it was clear neither Ali’s desertion nor the doctor’s hostility would stop her. She rose to her feet, crossing to the bookshelf.

  “This is an impressive collection . . . ,” she remarked, longing in her voice. She pulled two volumes loose. “Ibn Sina, al Razi . . . where did you get all this?”

  “My father was a physician in the human world.” The doctor gestured to her pointed ears. “Unlike me, he could pass, and so he did. He traveled and studied wherever he liked. Delhi, Istanbul, Cairo, Marrakesh. He was two hundred and fifty when some loathsome Sahrayn bounty hunter found him in Mauritania and dragged him to Daevabad.” Her eyes lingered on the books. “He brought everything he could.”

  Nahri looked even more awed. “Your father spent two hundred years studying medicine in the human world?” When the doctor nodded, she pressed on. “Where is he now?”

  The doctor swallowed hard before responding. “He died last year. A stroke.”

  The eagerness faded from Nahri’s face. She carefully put the book back. “I’m sorry.”

  “As am I. It was a loss for my community.” There was no self-pity in the doctor’s voice. “He trained a few of us. My husband and I are the best.”

  Parimal shook his head. “I’m a glorified bonesetter. Subha is the best.” There was affectionate pride in his voice. “Even her father said so, and that man did not compliment easily.”

  “Do the other doctors he trained practice here as well?” Nahri asked.

  “No. It’s not worth the risk. Purebloods would rather we die from coughs than live to procreate.” Subha’s grip on her baby tightened. “The Royal Guard comes in here and any number of my instruments could land me in prison under the weapons ban.” She scowled. “Nor are the shafit entirely innocent. These are desperate times, and there are people who believe we’re rich. I had a talented surgeon from Mombasa working here until a band of thieves kidnapped his daughter. He sold everything he owned to ransom her back and then fled. They were going to try and smuggle themselves out of the city.” Her face fell. “I’ve heard nothing since. Many of the boats don’t make it.”

  The boats? Ali stilled. Daevabad wasn’t an easy place to escape. The courage—the desperation—it must take to load one’s family onto a rickety smuggler’s boat and pray it made it across the murderous waters . . .

  We have failed them. We have utterly failed them. He took in the little family before him, remembering the shafit his mother had saved. There were thousands more like them in Daevabad, men and women and children whose potential and prospects had been coldly curtailed to suit the political needs of the city in which they had no choice but to live.

  Lost in his thoughts, Ali only noticed Nahri reaching for a cabinet door when Parimal lunged forward.

  “Wait, Banu Nahida, don’t—”

  But she’d already opened it. Ali heard her breath catch. “I take it this is for protection from those kidnappers, then?” she asked, pulling out a hefty metallic object.

  It took Ali a moment to recognize it, and when he did, his blood ran cold.

  It was a pistol.

  “Nahri, put that down,” he said. “Right now.”

  She threw him an irritated look. “Oh, give me some credit. I’m not going to shoot myself.”

  “It is a tool of iron and gunpowder and you are the Banu Nahida of Daevabad.” When she frowned, looking confused, his voice broke in alarm. “It explodes, Nahri! We are literally creatures of fire; we don’t go near gunpowder!”

  “Ah.” She swallowed and then set it back down, carefully easing the door shut. “Probably best to be careful, then.”

  “It’s mine alone,” Parimal said quickly, an obvious lie. “Subha knew nothing.”

  “You shouldn’t have that here,” Ali warned. “It’s incredibly dangerous. And if you got caught?” He looked between the two. “Shafit possession of even a small amount of gunpowder is punished with execution.” Granted, Ali suspected that was a punishment driven by fear of the shafit as much as it was of gunpowder—no pureblooded djinn wanted a weapon around that the shafit could handle with more finesse. “Add a pistol? This entire block would be leveled.”

  Subha gave him a wary look. “Is that a warning or a charge?”

  “A warning,” he replied, meeting her eyes. “One I’d beg you heed.”

  Nahri returned to his side, her swagger gone. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “Truly. I wasn’t sure what to think when I saw that man. I’ve heard rumors of how desperate the shafit are, and I know how easily people can prey upon that type of fear.”

  Subha stiffened. “That you would think such a thing of me says far more about you.”

  Nahri winced. “You’re probably right.” She dropped her gaze, looking uncharacteristically chastened, and then reached for her bag. “I . . . I brought you something. Healing herbs and willow bark from my garden. I thought you could use them.” She offered the bag.

  The doctor made no move to take it. “You must know nothing of your family’s history if you think I’d ever give ‘medicine’ prepared by a Nahid to a shafit.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is that why you’re here? To spread some new disease among us?”

  Nahri recoiled. “Of course not!” Genuine shock filled her voice, tugging at Ali’s heart. “I . . . I wanted to help.”

  “Help?” The doctor glared. “You broke into my practice because you wanted to help?”

  “Because I wanted to see if we could work together,” Nahri rushed. “On a project I’d like to propose to the king.”

  Subha was staring at the Banu Nahida as if she’d sprouted another head. “You want to work with me? On a project you intend to propose to the king of Daevabad?”

  “Yes.”

  The doctor’s gaze somehow grew even more incredulous. “Which is . . . ?”

  Nahri pressed her hands together. “I want to build a hospital.”

  Ali gaped at her. She might as well have said she wished to throw herself before a karkadann.

  “You want to build a hospital?” the doctor repeated blankly.

  “Well, not so much build one as rebuild one,” Nahri explained quickly. “My ancestors ran a hospital before the war, but it’s in ruins now. I’d like to restore and reopen it.”

  The Nahid hospital? Certainly she couldn’t mean . . . Ali shuddered, searching for a response. “You want to recover the Nahid hospital? The one near the Citadel?”

  She looked at him with surprise. “You know about that place?”

  Ali fought very hard to keep his face composed. There was nothing in Nahri’s voice that suggested she’d a
sked the question in anything other than innocence. He dared a glance at Subha, but she looked lost.

  He cleared his throat. “I . . . er . . . might have heard a thing or two about it.”

  “A thing or two?” Nahri pressed, eyeing him closely.

  More. But what Ali knew about that hospital—about what had been done there before the war, and the brutal, bloody way the Nahids had been punished for it—those facts were not widely known and certainly not ones he was about to share. Especially with an already arguing Nahid and shafit.

  He shifted uncomfortably. “Why don’t you tell us more about your plan?”

  Her eyes stayed on his, heavy with scrutiny for another moment, but then she sighed, turning back to Subha. “A single cramped infirmary is no place to treat the entirety of Daevabad’s population. I want to start seeing people who didn’t have to pay a bribe to gain access to me. And when I reopen the hospital, I want it open to all.”

  Subha narrowed her eyes. “To all?”

  “To all,” Nahri repeated. “Regardless of blood.”

  “Then you’re delusional. Or you’re lying. Such a thing would never be permitted. The king would forbid it, your priests would die of shock and horror . . .”

  “It will take some convincing,” Nahri cut in lightly. “I know. But I think we can make it work.” She pointed at the bookshelf. “There are more books like that in the Royal Library; I’ve read them. I healed people in the human world for years, and I know the value in those methods. There are still plenty of times I prefer ginger and sage to zahhak blood and incantations.” She gave Subha an imploring look. “That’s why I came to find you. I thought we could work together.”

  Ali sat back, stunned. Across from him, Parimal appeared equally astonished.

  Subha’s expression turned colder. “And should I bring to this hospital a shafit man dying of a stroke . . .” Her voice trembled slightly, but her words were precise. “An ailment I suspect you could heal with a single touch . . . are you going to lay hands on him, Banu Nahida? In the presence of witnesses, of your pureblood fellows, would you use Nahid magic on a mixed-blood?”