Nahri hesitated, a wash of color sweeping over her face. “I think . . . initially . . . it might be better if we treated our own.”
The shafit doctor laughed. It was bitter and utterly without humor. “You don’t even see it, do you?”
“Subha . . . ,” Parimal cut in, his voice thick with warning.
“Let her speak,” Nahri interrupted. “I want to hear what she has to say.”
“Then you will. You say you mean us no harm?” Subha’s eyes flashed. “You are the very essence of harm, Nahid. You’re the leader of the tribe—the faith—that calls us soulless, and the last descendant of a family that culled shafit for centuries as though we were rats. You were the companion of the Scourge of Qui-zi, a butcher who could have filled the lake with the shafit blood he spilt. You have the arrogance to burst into my infirmary—my home—uninvited, to inspect me as though you are my superior. And now you sit there offering pretty dreams of hospitals while I am wondering how to get my child out of this room alive. Why would I ever work with you?”
Thunderous silence followed Subha’s fiery words. Ali felt the urge to speak up for Nahri, knowing her intentions had been good. But he also knew the doctor was right. He had seen firsthand the destruction that pureblood blunderings could cause the shafit.
A muscle worked in Nahri’s cheek. “I apologize for the manner of my arrival,” she said stiffly. “But my intent is sincere. I might be a Nahid and a Daeva, but I want to help the shafit.”
“Then go to your Temple, renounce your ancestors’ beliefs in front of the rest of your people, and declare us equals,” Subha challenged. “If you want to help the shafit, deal with your Daevas first.”
Nahri rubbed her head, looking resigned. “I can’t do that. Not yet. I’d lose their support and be of use to no one.” Subha snorted and Nahri glared at her, appearing angry now. “The shafit are hardly innocent in all of this,” she retorted, heat creeping into her voice. “Do you know what happened to the Daevas caught in the Grand Bazaar after Dara’s death? The shafit fell upon them like beasts, hurling Rumi fire and—”
“Beasts?” Subha snapped. “Ah, yes, because that’s what we are to you. Ravaging animals who need to be controlled!”
“It isn’t a terrible idea.” The words slipped from Ali’s mouth before he could think, and when both women whirled on him, he fought to stay composed. He was nearly as surprised as they were that he was speaking . . . but it wasn’t a terrible idea. It was . . . actually sort of brilliant. “I mean, if my father approved this, and you proceeded carefully, I think the Daevas and the shafit working together would be extraordinary. And to build a hospital, something Daevabad could truly use? It would be an incredible achievement.”
He caught Nahri’s gaze then. Her eyes swam with an emotion he couldn’t decipher . . . but she didn’t look entirely pleased by his sudden support.
Nor did Subha. “So, you’re also a part of this plan?” she asked him.
“No,” Nahri said flatly. “He isn’t.”
“Then you’re not good at convincing people to work with you, Nahid,” Subha replied, putting her daughter against her shoulder to burp her. “With him at your side, I might actually believe some of this newfound concern you seem to have for the shafit.”
“You’d work with him?” Nahri repeated in outraged disbelief. “You do realize it’s his father currently persecuting your people?”
“I’m quite aware,” Subha retorted. “There’s also not a shafit in Daevabad who doesn’t know how the prince feels about it.” She turned her attention back to Ali. “I heard about the father and daughter you saved from the traffickers. People say they’re living like nobles in the palace now.”
Ali stared at her, his heart dropping. For the first time he thought he might have seen a flicker of interest in Subha’s eyes, but he couldn’t bear the thought of lying to her.
“They were very nearly returned to that trafficker because I wasn’t careful enough. I think the Banu Nahida’s plan is admirable, I do. But when things go wrong in Daevabad . . .” He gestured between Nahri and himself. “People like us rarely pay the same price as the shafit.”
Subha paused. “It seems neither of you are good at convincing others to work with you,” she said calmly.
Nahri swore under her breath, but Ali held his ground. “A partnership founded in deceit is no partnership at all. I would not wish to lie and bring you into danger unwarned.”
Parimal reached out to touch a lock of the baby’s curly hair. “It might be a good idea,” he said softly to Subha. “Your father used to dream about building a hospital here.”
Ali glanced at Nahri. “Well?”
She looked murderous. “What do you know about building hospitals?”
“What do you know about building anything?” he asked. “Have you given thought to how to collect and administer the funds needed to restore a ruined, ancient complex? It’s going to be incredibly expensive. Time-consuming. Will you be assessing contracts and hiring hundreds of workers in between patients at the infirmary?”
Nahri’s glare only intensified. “Those were some very pretty words about founding relationships in deceit.”
Ali flinched, their fight in the garden coming back to him. “You said I owe you,” he replied carefully. “Let me pay my debt. Please.”
Whether or not that resonated, Ali couldn’t tell. Nahri drew up, the emotion vanishing from her face as she turned back to Subha. “Fine, he’s with me. Is that enough for you?”
“No,” the doctor said bluntly. “Get the king’s permission. Get money and draw up actual plans.” She nodded at the door. “And don’t come back until you do. I won’t have my family caught up in this mess otherwise.”
Ali stood. “Forgive us for our intrusion,” he apologized in a rasp; his still-healing throat didn’t seem to appreciate all the arguing he’d just done. “We’ll be in touch soon, God willing.” He snapped his fingers, trying to get Nahri’s attention. She’d turned back to the desk and its treasures, not seeming particularly eager to leave. “Nahri.”
She dropped her hand from the book she’d been reaching for. “Oh, fine.” She touched her heart, offering an exaggerated bow. “I look forward to speaking again, Doctor, and hearing what new invective you have to hurl upon my ancestors and tribe.”
“An endless supply, I assure you,” Subha responded.
Ali ushered Nahri out before she could reply. His hands were shaking as he secured the tail of his turban across his face and then pulled the outer door closed behind them. Then he leaned hard against it, the full meaning of what he’d just agreed to hitting him.
Nahri didn’t seem as bothered. She was gazing upon the busy shafit neighborhood below. And though she’d pulled her niqab back over her face, as a man swept past carrying a board of steaming bread, she inhaled, and the cloth pulled close against her lips in a way Ali cursed himself for noticing.
She glanced back. “This doesn’t make us friends again,” she said, her voice sharp.
“What?” he stammered, thrown by the bald statement.
“Us working together . . . it doesn’t mean we’re friends.”
He was more stung than he wanted to admit. “Fine,” he replied, unable to check the snippiness in his tone. “I have other friends.”
“Sure you do.” She crossed her arms over her abaya. “What did Subha mean when she mentioned that shafit family and traffickers? Surely things haven’t gotten that bad here?”
“It’s a long story.” Ali rubbed his aching throat. “But don’t worry. I suspect Doctor Sen will be more than happy to tell it to you, among other things.”
Nahri made a face. “If we can even do this. How do you propose we start?” she asked. “Since you seemed so convinced of your skills inside.”
Ali sighed. “We need to talk to my family.”
16
Dara
Dara sat in shocked silence in Manizheh’s tent, attempting to process what Kaveh had just read aloud from the s
croll. “Your son poisoned Alizayd al Qahtani?” he repeated. “Your son? Jamshid?”
Kaveh glared at him. “Yes.”
Dara blinked. The words in the letter Kaveh held did not match Dara’s memory of the merry, kindhearted young archer with a regrettably sincere attachment to his Qahtani oppressors. “But he is so loyal to them.”
“He’s loyal to one of them,” Kaveh corrected. “Creator curse that bloody emir. Muntadhir’s probably been in a drunken, paranoid spiral since his brother returned. Jamshid would do something foolish to help him.” He threw an annoyed look at Dara. “You might remember whose life Jamshid took six arrows to save.”
“Saving a life and taking one are very different matters.” A concern Dara didn’t like was shaping up in his mind. “And how would he even know how to poison someone?”
Kaveh raked a hand through his hair. “The Temple libraries, I suspect. He’s always been quite taken with Nahid lore. He used to get in trouble when he was a novitiate for sneaking into their archives.” His eyes darted to Manizheh. “Nisreen said this looked somewhat similar to . . .”
“To one of my experiments?” Manizheh finished. “It is, though I doubt anyone but she would recognize that. Jamshid must have stumbled upon some of my old notes.” She crossed her arms, her expression grave. “Does she think anyone else suspects him?”
Kaveh shook his head. “No. They believe it was his cupbearer, and the boy was killed in the melee, though she warned they were still interrogating the kitchen staff. She also said that if . . . that if Jamshid fell under suspicion, she was prepared to take the blame.”
Dara was stunned. “What? Forgive me, but why should she? It is your son who is at fault, and foolishly so. What if his ingredients are followed back to the infirmary? Nahri might be blamed!”
Manizheh took a deep breath. “You are certain this letter was not traced in any way?”
Kaveh spread his hands. “We took all the precautions you taught us. She was only to contact me in an emergency. And respectfully, Banu Nahida—we are running low on time.” He nodded at her worktable. “Your experiments . . . have you had luck figuring out how to limit—”
“It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.” Manizheh exhaled. “Tell me our plans once again,” she commanded.
“We cross into the city and take the Royal Guard with the assistance of the marid and the ifrit,” Dara answered automatically. “A contingent of my men stay behind with Vizaresh and his ghouls”—he had to fight to keep the distaste from his voice—“while we continue on to the palace.” He glanced between them. “You told me you have a plan for taking care of the king?”
“Yes,” Manizheh said briskly.
Dara paused. Manizheh had been cagey about this for months, and while he didn’t want to step out of bounds, he felt now would be a good time to understand the full scope of their plans. “My lady, I am your Afshin; it might be helpful if you would tell me more.” His voice rose in warning. “We don’t know how my magic might react to Suleiman’s seal. If the king is able to cripple me—”
“Ghassan al Qahtani will be dead before either of us sets foot in the palace. It’s being arranged, and I will be in a position to tell you more in a few days. But speaking of Suleiman’s seal . . .” Her gaze flickered from Dara to Kaveh. “Have you learned anything more about the ring?”
The grand wazir’s face fell. “No, my lady. I have bribed and cajoled everyone I know, from concubines to scholars. Nothing. There is no one ring he wears consistently, and there are no records of how it’s passed to a new owner. A historian was executed last year simply for attempting to research the seal’s origins.”
Manizheh grimaced. “I fared no better, and I spent decades scouring the Temple archives. There are no texts, no records.”
“Nothing?” Dara repeated. “How is that possible?” The success of their plan hinged on Manizheh taking possession of Suleiman’s seal ring. Without it . . .
“Zaydi al Qahtani probably had all the records burned when he took the throne,” Manizheh said bitterly. “But I remember Ghassan going into seclusion for a few days after his father’s funeral. When he reappeared, he looked as though he’d been ill—and the seal mark was on his face.” She paused, considering this. “He never left the city again. He used to enjoy hunting in the lands beyond the Gozan when he was young. But after he became king, he never strayed farther than the mountains inside the threshold.”
Kaveh nodded. “The seal ring may be tied to Daevabad—it’s certainly never been used to stop any wars outside the city.” He glanced at Dara. “Unless things were different in your day?”
“No,” Dara replied slowly. “The members of the Nahid Council would pass it among each other, taking turns serving with it.” He thought hard, trying to recall what he remembered—it always hurt to think about his old life. “But I only knew that because of the mark on their face. I do not recall ever seeing a ring.”
After another moment, Manizheh spoke again. “Then we need his son. We’ll have to make sure Muntadhir survives the initial siege so he can tell us how to take the seal. He’s Ghassan’s successor. He must know.” She eyed Kaveh. “Can you find a way to do this?”
Kaveh looked apprehensive. “I don’t think that’s information Muntadhir is going to give up easily . . . particularly in the wake of his father’s death.”
“And I don’t think it’s going to be difficult to force Ghassan’s wastrel son to talk,” Manizheh countered. “I imagine the very prospect of being alone in a room with Dara will have him spilling any number of royal secrets.”
Dara dropped his gaze, his stomach tightening. Not that he should be surprised she’d use him as a threat. He was the Scourge of Qui-zi, after all. No one—least of all the man Nahri had been forced to wed—would want to be on the receiving end of his supposed vengeance.
Kaveh’s face seemed to momentarily display equal misgivings, but then the other man bowed. “Understood, Banu Nahida.”
“Good. Kaveh, I would like you to prepare for your journey back to Daevabad. If there’s a conflict brewing between those sand-fly princes, make sure our people—not to mention our respective children—stay out of it. Dara will enchant a carpet for you and teach you how to fly it.” Manizheh turned back to her worktable. “I need to finish this.”
Dara followed Kaveh out of the tent, grabbing his sleeve as soon as they were clear. “We need to talk.”
Kaveh threw him an annoyed look. “Surely you can teach me how to fly one of your Creator-forsaken tapestries later.”
“It is not about that.” He pulled Kaveh toward his tent. This was not a discussion he wanted anyone to overhear—nor a topic he suspected Kaveh would take well to.
Kaveh half stumbled inside and then glanced around Dara’s tent, his expression souring further. “Do you sleep surrounded by weapons? Do you truly not have a single personal possession that doesn’t deal death?”
“I have what I require.” Dara crossed his arms over his chest. “But we are not here to discuss my belongings.”
“Then what do you want, Afshin?”
“I want to know if Jamshid’s loyalty to Muntadhir is going to be a problem.”
Kaveh’s eyes flashed. “My son is a loyal Daeva, and considering what you did to him, you have some nerve questioning anything he does.”
“I am Banu Manizheh’s Afshin,” Dara said flatly. “I am in charge of her military conquest and the future security of our city . . . so yes, Kaveh, I need to know if a well-connected, well-trained former soldier—who just poisoned Muntadhir’s political rival—is going to be a problem.”
An expression of pure hostility swept over Kaveh’s face. “I am done with this conversation.” He turned on his heel.
Dara took a deep breath, hating himself for what he was about to do. “My slave abilities came back to me that night . . . before the boat,” he called out as Kaveh reached the tent flap. “It was brief—quite frankly, I still don’t know what happened. But when I was in that dancer’s
salon, I felt a surge of magic, and then I could see her desires, her wishes all spread before me.” Dara paused. “She had at least a dozen. Fame, money, a leisurely retirement with a lovesick Muntadhir. But when I saw into Muntadhir’s mind next . . . it was not the dancer who occupied it.”
Kaveh halted, his hands in fists at his sides.
“There was no throne either, Kaveh,” Dara said. “No riches, no women, no dreams of being king. Muntadhir’s only desire was your son at his side.”
The other man was trembling, his back still turned.
Dara continued, his voice low. “I mean Jamshid absolutely no harm, I swear to you. I swear on the Nahids,” he added. “And what we say here never has to leave this tent. But, Kaveh . . .” His tone grew imploring. “Banu Manizheh is relying on us both. We need to be able to talk about this.”
A long moment of silence stretched between them, the cheerful chatter and clash of his sparring men beyond the tent at odds with the tension rising inside it.
And then Kaveh spoke. “He did nothing,” he whispered. “Jamshid took six arrows for him and all Muntadhir did was hold his hand while his father let my boy suffer.” He turned around, looking haunted—and old, as though the very memory had aged him. “How do you do that to someone you claim to love?”
Dara unwittingly thought of Nahri, and he didn’t have an answer for the man. Suddenly, he felt quite old himself. “How long”—he cleared his throat, suspecting it still wouldn’t take much for Kaveh to storm out—“have they been involved with each other?”
Kaveh’s face crumpled. “At least ten years,” he confessed softly. “If not longer. He was careful to hide it from me in the beginning. I suspect he feared I would disapprove.”
“Such a fear is understandable,” Dara said, quietly sympathetic. “People have often looked askance at such relationships.”
Kaveh shook his head. “It wasn’t that. I mean . . . it was in part, but our name and our wealth would have shielded him from the worst. I would have shielded him,” he said, his voice growing fiercer. “His happiness and safety are my concerns, not the gossip of others.” He sighed. “Muntadhir was the problem. Jamshid thinks because he is charming and speaks Divasti and loves wine and entertains his cosmopolitan court that he is different. He is not. Muntadhir is Geziri to the core and will always be loyal to his father and his family first. Jamshid refuses to see that, no matter how many times that man breaks his heart.”
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