The Kingdom of Copper

by S. A. Chakraborty

  “The hospital was meant to be a step,” she countered. “It was meant to provide a foundation to build some peace and security between the Daevas and shafit for the day your father doesn’t have his boot on our neck. We’re not there, Ali. Not yet.”

  “And how many more people will die while we wait for that day?”

  Their gazes locked. There was nothing but conviction in the warm gray of his eyes. No cunning, no deception.

  It terrified her. Because whatever history was between them, Nahri did not think she had it in her to watch the kind man who’d built her this office, this quiet homage to the home she still loved—the man who’d taught her to read and helped her summon flames for the first time—be executed in the arena.

  Nahri sat back down. “Ali, you say you owe me your life,” she started, fighting a tremble in her voice. “I’m going to collect on that debt. Go back to Am Gezira.”

  He let out an exasperated sigh, turning away. “Nahri . . .”

  She reached out, taking his chin in one hand and forcing him to look back at her. He visibly jumped at her touch, his eyes going wide.

  “Take your father’s offer,” she said firmly. “You can help people in Am Gezira without getting killed. Marry some woman who will love to hear you ramble about canals, and have a whole band of children you’ll undoubtedly be too strict with.” She cupped his cheek, her thumb brushing his beard. She didn’t miss the sudden racing of his heart.

  Nor the sadness rising in her own.

  Ali seemed speechless, his eyes flickering nervously across her face. It would have to do. She stood up, dropping her hand as she stepped away, the sudden sting of tears in her eyes. “Go steal some happiness for yourself, my friend,” she said softly. “Trust me when I say the chance doesn’t always come back.”

  29

  Ali

  “So you still haven’t told me where you were last night,” Lubayd said as they made their way to the arena. “Aqisa and I were looking for you at the celebration.”

  “I didn’t go,” Ali replied. “I didn’t feel up to it.”

  Lubayd halted in his tracks. “Another nightmare?”

  “No,” Ali said quickly, hating the fear in his friend’s expression. “No nightmares. But I was exhausted and didn’t trust myself not to say something inflammatory to my father. Or my brother.” He made a sour face as they kept walking. “To anyone really.”

  “Well, then I’m glad you slept in and avoided getting arrested. Though you did miss quite the party.” He stretched, cracking his neck. “Is Aqisa meeting us at the arena?”

  “Later. I asked her to guard the Banu Nahida during the parade this morning.”

  “That’s the one meant to reenact Anahid’s arrival in Daevabad, right?” Lubayd snorted. “In that case, will you and your little healer be fighting to the death at some point to represent the latter half of our history?”

  Ali flinched at the joke. Go back to Am Gezira, Ali. Steal some happiness for yourself. Ali had been replaying those words and the memory of Nahri’s hand cradling his jaw in his mind since last night. Which—he had to give credit to her—had rather effectively interrupted his brewing thoughts of rebellion.

  He closed his eyes. God forgive him, she had looked so beautiful last night. After not seeing her for weeks, Ali had been struck speechless at the sight of her standing in the darkness of that quiet room, dressed in the finery of her ancestors. She’d looked like a legend brought to life, and for the first time, he’d been nervous—truly nervous—in her presence, struggling not to stare as she smiled her sharp smile and slid her fingers under her chador. And when she’d touched his face . . .

  Muntadhir’s wife. She’s Muntadhir’s wife.

  As if his thoughts had the power to conjure, a familiar laugh sounded ahead, one whose lightheartedness cut through Ali like a knife.

  “—I’m not mocking you,” Muntadhir teased. “I think the ‘Suleiman just threw me across the world look’ has its appeal. Your rags even smell!” Muntadhir laughed again. “It’s all very authentic.”

  “Oh, be quiet,” he heard Jamshid return. “There’s more where these rags came from and your steward owes me a favor. I’ll have them used to line your fancy turban.”

  Ali peered around the corner. Muntadhir and Jamshid were across the corridor, framed together in a sunlit arch. He frowned, shading his eyes against the sudden brightness. For half a second, he’d swear he saw his brother’s hands on Jamshid’s collar, his face inclined toward his neck as though jokingly smelling him, but then Ali blinked, sunspots blossoming across his vision, and the two men were apart, neither looking very pleased to see him.

  “Alizayd.” His brother’s disdainful gaze flickered up and down Ali’s rumpled dishdasha. “Late night?”

  Muntadhir always seemed to know a new way to make him feel small. His brother was immaculately turned out as usual in his ebony robes and brilliant royal turban. He’d looked even more stylish last night, dressed in an ikat-patterned waistcloth and brilliant sapphire tunic. Ali had seen him at the party, had watched from an upper balcony after Nahri left as his brother laughed and caroused like he’d built the hospital himself.

  “As always,” Ali replied acidly.

  Jamshid’s eyes flashed at his tone. The Daeva man was indeed dressed in rags, his black tunic torn and smeared with ash and his pants with unfired brick dust—a nod to the human temple that Suleiman had ordered their ancestors to build.

  Muntadhir cleared his throat. “Jamshid, why don’t you head to the procession? We’ll meet later.” He squeezed the other man’s shoulder. “I still want to see that saddle.”

  Jamshid nodded. “Until then, Emir-joon.”

  He left, and Muntadhir ignored Ali, sweeping through the entrance that led to the arena’s royal viewing platform.

  Lubayd snickered. “I suppose emirs don’t like to be interrupted, same as everyone else.”

  Ali was baffled by the amusement in his friend’s voice. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know . . .” Lubayd stopped and studied Ali. “Oh . . . you don’t know.” Spots of color rose in his cheeks. “Forget it,” he said, turning to follow Muntadhir.

  “What don’t I know?” Ali asked, but Lubayd ignored him, suddenly very interested in the spectacle below. To be fair, it was a sight: a half-dozen Daeva archers were competing, putting on a show to amuse the packed crowd while they waited for the procession to arrive.

  Lubayd whistled. “Wow,” he said, watching as a mounted Daeva archer on a silver stallion raced across the sand, aiming a flaming arrow at a hollow gourd mounted on a high pole. The gourd was stuffed with kindling and painted with pitch; it burst into flames, and the crowd cheered. “They really are demons with those bows.”

  Ali glowered. “I’m well aware.”

  “Alizayd.” Ghassan’s voice rang across the pavilion just as Ali was about to take a seat with a few of the officers from the Royal Guard. His father was at the front, of course, leaning against a silk-covered bolster, a jade cup of ruby-colored wine at hand. “Come here.”

  Lubayd grabbed his wrist before he could move. “Careful,” he warned. “You seem a little surlier than usual this morning.”

  Ali didn’t respond. It was true he didn’t trust himself to say anything to his father, but he had no choice other than to make his way to the front. Muntadhir was already seated, flashing his charming grin at a pretty servant as she passed. She stopped with a blush and smile to pour him a cup of wine.

  He makes that look so easy. Not that Ali wanted to go around enticing attractive women into pouring him wine—every part of that was forbidden. But he knew Muntadhir wouldn’t have been reduced to a stammering wreck in front of Nahri last night. And as he watched his brother, Ali was unable to deny the jealousy clawing in his chest. Muntadhir had leaned over to whisper in the cupbearer’s ear, and she giggled, playfully bumping him with her shoulder.

  You have a wife. A beautiful, brilliant wife. Though Ali supposed when everything
else was offered to you on a silver platter, beautiful, brilliant wives weren’t blessings to be cherished.

  “Everything going well with the procession?” Ghassan asked Muntadhir, paying no attention to Ali as he sat down stiffly on a plain prayer mat, forgoing the soft cushions closer to the pair.

  Muntadhir nodded, taking a sip of his wine as the cupbearer moved away. “The priests and Nahri led dawn ceremonies at the lake. Kaveh was to make sure they all boarded their chariots, and Jamshid just left to escort them here with another group of archers.” A small smile broke his face. “He’s riding today.”

  “And security for the procession?” Ghassan pressed. “Did you speak with Wajed?”

  “I did. He assured me he has soldiers lining the parade route and that no shafit would be permitted to join.”

  Ali struggled not to roll his eyes. Of course, banning the shafit from the festivities would be the type of “security” the palace enacted. Though Ali supposed he should be happy his brother and not his father was overseeing Navasatem. Ghassan probably would have chosen to execute on sight any shafit who strayed within five blocks of the procession route.

  All too aware he was in the exact mood that Lubayd had warned him to guard against, Ali tried to direct his attention to the arena. The Daeva archers were dressed in the age-old style of their ancestors, dashing about as if they were part horse themselves in wildly striped felt leggings, dazzling saffron coats, and horned silver helms. They rose to stand in painted saddles as they galloped in sweeping arcs and intricate formations, ornaments flashing in their horses’ manes as they drew back stylized silver bows.

  Unease pooled in Ali’s stomach. Though not Afshins themselves—Darayavahoush’s family had been wiped out in the war—the men below were the clearest inheritors of his legacy. One of the men let a scythe-ended arrow fly at a target, and Ali could not help but cringe. He didn’t know which kind of arrows Darayavahoush had shot through his throat, but he’d bet one of them was down below.

  “Not to your taste, Zaydi?” Muntadhir was watching him.

  The sarcasm with which his brother spoke his nickname cut deep, and then the punch of another arrow tearing through a target made his stomach clench. “Not quite,” he said through his teeth.

  “And yet to hear it, you’re the finest warrior in Daevabad.” Muntadhir’s tone was light, but malice lurked underneath it. “The great Afshin-slayer.”

  “I never trained much with the bow. You know that.” Ali had learned to use one, of course, but he was meant to be Qaid, and archery took time, time Wajed had preferred Ali spend on the zulfiqar and strategy. The Daeva men before him had likely been in saddles since they were five, given toy bows at the same age.

  A servant came by with coffee, and Ali gratefully took a cup.

  “You look as though you need that,” Ghassan commented. “I was surprised not to see you at the hospital’s opening last night.”

  Ali cleared his throat. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Unfortunate,” Ghassan said. “I have to say I was pleased; it’s an impressive complex. Regardless of your recent behavior, you and Banu Nahri have done fine work.”

  Ali checked the resentment growing inside him, knowing he’d be smarter to take advantage of his father’s seemingly amicable mood. “I am glad to hear that.” He took another sip of his coffee, savoring the bitter, cardamom-scented tang. “On a related note, I was wondering if you’d seen my proposal.”

  “You’ll have to be more specific,” Ghassan replied. “I think I have fifty proposals from you on my desk at the moment.”

  “The one giving official recognition to the shafit guilds in the workcamp. I’d like them to be able to compete for government contract—”

  “My God, do you ever stop?” Muntadhir cut in rudely. “Can we not have a day’s break from your yammering about the economy and the shafit?”

  Ghassan raised a hand before Ali could speak. “Let him be. As it is, he’s not wrong to be thinking about the economy.” He cleared his throat, his gaze going a little distant. “I’ve received an offer for Zaynab’s hand.”

  Ali instantly tensed; there was nothing he liked in the careful way his father had delivered that news. “From who?” he demanded, not caring that he sounded curt.

  “Nasir Ishak.”

  Ali blinked. “Who?”

  “Nasir Ishak.” Muntadhir had gone pale as he repeated the name. “He’s a spice merchant from Malacca.”

  “He’s more than a spice merchant,” Ghassan corrected. “He’s king of the djinn in those islands in all but name. Daevabad’s control has always been tenuous there.”

  Malacca. Ali looked between his father and brother. They couldn’t be serious. “Daevabad’s control is tenuous there because it’s across the ocean. Zaynab will be lucky to visit here once a century!”

  Neither man answered him. Muntadhir looked like he was fighting to keep his composure. “You told me you had decided against his offer, Abba,” he said.

  “That was before . . . recent events.” Ghassan’s mouth thinned in displeasure. “We need to start looking beyond Ta Ntry for allies and resources. Nasir is an opportunity we can ill afford to turn away.”

  “Does Zaynab get a say in this?” Ali could hear the edge in his voice, but this was too much. Was this another reason his mother had been banished? So that she wouldn’t be able to protest her daughter being shipped across the sea to fill the Treasury’s coffers?

  “I’ve spoken with Zaynab about this possibility,” Ghassan replied tersely. “I would never force her. I would never have to. She takes her loyalty and duty to our family far more seriously than you, Alizayd. And quite frankly, your stunt in the shafit camp and your mother taking half the Ayaanle delegation back to Ta Ntry has forced my hand.” He turned back to Muntadhir. “Nasir is arriving next week for the holiday. I’d like you to spend time with him and get to know what kind of man he is before I decide anything.”

  His brother stared at his hands, emotions warring on his face. Ali watched him, silently begging: Say something. Anything. Give some sign that you can stand up to him, that you won’t become him.

  Muntadhir cleared his throat. “I’ll talk to him.”

  “Coward.” The moment the word slipped from his lips, Ali knew it wasn’t fair. But he didn’t care.

  Muntadhir stared at him in shock. “What did you just say to me?”

  “I said you’re a—” From below, another arrow struck the target, making a solid thunk as it tore through the flesh of the gourd. Ali instinctively flinched, the moment stealing his words.

  Ghassan had drawn up, glaring at Ali with open contempt. “Have you lost all sense of honor?” he hissed under his breath. “I should have you lashed for speaking with such disrespect.”

  “No,” Muntadhir said sharply. “I can handle this, Abba. I should have already.”

  Without another word, his brother rose to his feet and turned to face the packed pavilion. He aimed a dazzling smile at the crowd, the change in his expression so sudden it was as though someone had snuffed out a candle.

  “Friends!” he called out. The Qahtani men had been speaking quietly in Geziriyya, but Muntadhir raised his voice, switching to Djinnistani. “The great Afshin-slayer is anxious to show his skills, and I do believe you deserve a spectacle.”

  An expectant hush fell across the crowd, and Ali suddenly realized just how many people were watching them: nobles always eager to witness some drama from Daevabad’s royals.

  And Muntadhir knew how to draw their attention. “So I’d like to issue my little brother a challenge . . .” He gestured to the archers below. “Beat me.”

  Ali stared at him in incomprehension. “You want to compete with me? In the arena?”

  “I do.” Muntadhir put his wine cup down with a flourish, his eyes dancing as if this were all a joke. “Come on, Afshin-slayer,” he goaded when Ali didn’t move. “Surely you’re not afraid?” Without waiting for a response, Muntadhir laughed and headed for the s
teps.

  The eyes of the rest of pavilion were on Ali, expectant. Muntadhir might have done it in jest, but he’d issued a challenge, and Ali would lose face if he didn’t address it—especially one so seemingly innocent.

  Ali rose to his feet slowly.

  Ghassan gave him a warning look, but Ali knew he wouldn’t interfere; Geziri men didn’t back down from such a public contest, and princes in the line of succession certainly did not. “Remember yourself,” he said simply.

  Remember what? That I was always meant to be beneath him? Or that I was meant to be his weapon—one who could defeat any man?

  Lubayd was at his elbow in a second. “Why do you look like you just swallowed a locust?” he whispered. “You can shoot an arrow better than that gold-draped fool, can’t you?”

  Ali swallowed, not wanting to confirm his weakness. “I-I was shot, Lubayd. By the Afshin,” he stammered, the memories coming to him in a swift punch. “It was bad. I haven’t touched a bow since.”

  Lubayd blanched, but there was no time for him to respond. Muntadhir was already joining the Daeva riders. They grinned as he greeted them in the Divasti that Ali couldn’t speak, gesturing back toward Ali with laughter. God only knew what Muntadhir was saying to them. They were probably his friends, the wealthy nobles with whom he liked to wine and dine in the salons of courtesans and poets. A world that didn’t look kindly upon men like Ali.

  And though he knew he’d provoked his brother, a hurt Ali rarely acknowledged made itself known, the knot of resentment and jealousy he tried so hard to disavow threatening to come undone. The times he’d forced himself to smile when Muntadhir’s companions teased him growing up, asking how many men he’d killed at the Citadel and if it was really true he’d never touched a woman. The countless family celebrations that ended with Muntadhir sleeping in a silken bed at the palace and Ali on the floor of his barracks.