The Kingdom of Copper

by S. A. Chakraborty

  But for Muntadhir, his devoutly loyal emir? For the Princess Zaynab, the proclaimed light of his eyes? Ali suspected his father’s reaction would be murkier, slower, and emotional. Ali might have taken the Citadel, but success lay with his siblings. His life lay with his siblings. He’d offered terms to his father—a letter outlining the steps he wanted to take to ensure security while they investigated the attack—but Ali knew the moment he ordered the muezzins to reveal Ghassan’s plans for the shafit that there was no going back. His father would not forgive such a breach in loyalty.

  “I pray your brother has better sense than you.” It was Abu Nuwas, bound on the floor and very angry. Ali had brought him up in what he suspected would be a futile effort to learn what his father might do next. “You brash fool. You should have gone to your father yourself rather than having those charges read aloud. That is not our people’s way.”

  “I’d say a fair number of Geziris disagree with you,” Ali argued. “As well as the majority of the Guard.”

  Abu Nuwas snorted. “You offered to double their salaries. I’d avoid the moral high ground if I were you, Prince Alizayd.”

  “My father erred when he chose to let his army go hungry rather than force the rich to pay their share.” Ali drummed his fingers on the desk, restless. There was not much to do besides wait for a response from the palace, and yet every minute dragged like an hour.

  You should enjoy them, he thought darkly. There is a strong possibility they will be your last. He paced before the wide window, contemplating his options. It had to be near midnight.

  A pair of flies flew lazily past his face. Ali batted them away, but movement caught his eye outside the window, along with a growing buzz. He stepped over to the sill.

  Lubayd joined him. “What is that?”

  Ali didn’t respond. He was just as astonished as his friend. What appeared to be hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of flies were swarming above the lake, buzzing and zipping as they rose steadily higher in the air, moving in skittering bursts toward the city.

  A few more flew through the window. Lubayd caught one in his hands and then shook it hard to stun it. It fell to the stone sill.

  “It looks like a sand fly, like one of the ones from back home.” Lubayd poked it and the fly crumbled into ash. “A conjured sand fly?”

  Ali frowned, running a finger over the remains. “Who would bother conjuring up an enormous swarm of sand flies?” Was this some sort of bizarre Navasatem tradition he wasn’t aware of? He leaned out the window to watch as the last of the flies made their way past the lake and into the city itself.

  Then he froze. Hidden by the twitching mass of flies overhead, something else had begun to move that had no business doing so. Ali opened his mouth to call out.

  A presence thundered to life in his head.

  He dropped to his knees with a gasp, the world going gray. He clutched his skull, crying out in pain as sweat erupted across his body. A scream that was not a scream, an urgent warning in a language without words, hissed in his mind, urging him to run, to swim, to flee.

  It was gone nearly as quickly as it came. Lubayd was holding him, calling his name as he braced himself on the windowsill.

  “What happened?” he demanded, shaking Ali’s shoulder. “Brother, talk to me!”

  Abruptly, all the flies in the room fell dead, a rain of ash tumbling around them. Ali barely noticed, his gaze locked on the window.

  The lake was moving.

  The dead water shivered, shaking off its stillness as the lake danced, small swells and currents playing on its surface. Ali blinked, convinced his eyes were playing tricks on him.

  “Ali, say something!”

  “The lake,” he whispered. “They’re back.”

  “Who’s back? What are you . . .” Lubayd trailed off. “What in God’s name is that?” he cried.

  The water was rising.

  It lifted from the earth in an undulating mass, a body of rushing black liquid that pulled from the shore, leaving behind a muddy bed of jagged crevasses and the bones of ancient shipwrecks. It rose higher and higher, blocking the stars and mountains to tower over the city.

  The rough outline of a reptilian head formed, its mouth opening to reveal glistening fangs. The bellowing roar that followed shook Ali to his bones, drowning out the alarmed cries from the sentries below.

  He was too shocked to do anything other than stare in disbelief at the utter impossibility before him.

  They turned the Gozan River into a beast, a serpent the size of a mountain that rose to howl at the moon. The seemingly ridiculous story of a now-dead Afshin and the girl who declared herself Manizheh’s daughter ran through Ali’s head as the lake-beast howled at the sky.

  And then it abruptly turned, its terrifying visage aimed directly at the Citadel.

  “Run!” Lubayd shouted, dragging him to his feet. “Get out!”

  There was a violent tearing, and then the floor buckled beneath him. The room spun and Ali tumbled through the air.

  He slammed hard against the opposite wall, the wind knocked from his lungs. He caught a glimmer through the window, the black water rushing up . . .

  And then Ali crashed into darkness.

  34

  Nahri

  Nahri glared at the guards. “I’m excellent with faces,” she warned. “Be assured I won’t forget yours.”

  One of the men snickered. “Good luck getting out of those binds.”

  Fuming, Nahri returned to pacing the low stone parapet. She and a still unconscious Kaveh e-Pramukh had been dragged back to the palace and deposited at a pavilion high upon the walls overlooking the lake to await the king. It was the same place she had once stargazed with Ali, though there was no hint of the fine furnishings and sumptuous feast she remembered. Instead they were alone with four Geziri warriors bristling with weapons, warriors whose eyes had yet to leave her.

  She stopped at the edge, staring over the distant, deadly water as she tried to shift the iron cuffs lower, wincing at the burn. But far worse than the pain was her feeling of helplessness. She and Kaveh had been here for what felt like hours, Nahri watching the sky grow an inky black while Jamshid was taken God only knew where.

  The still lake caught her eye. Had it not been cursed, she might have been tempted to jump for her freedom. It was a long fall that would likely break a bone or two, but she was a Nahid. She could always heal.

  Except that it is cursed and will tear you into a thousand pieces. Frustrated, Nahri turned back, fighting the urge to burn something.

  The look on her face must have been obvious. “Watch yourself, fire worshipper,” one of the guards warned. “Believe me when I say none of us have patience for the Scourge’s whore.”

  Nahri straightened up like a shot. “Call me that again and I’ll see you dead before dawn.”

  He instantly moved forward, his hand dropping to the hilt of his zulfiqar before one of his fellows hissed a warning in Geziriyya, pulling him back.

  “Banu Nahida?” Kaveh’s voice was weak from where he lay slumped against the wall.

  Forgetting the Geziri guard, Nahri hurried to the grand wazir’s side. His eyes had blinked open, and he looked dazed. Unable to heal him, Nahri had settled for ripping a strip of cloth from his shirt and binding it around his head. Blood had soaked through the cloth in black splotches.

  “Are you okay?” she asked urgently.

  He touched his head and winced. “I . . . I think so.” He sat up slowly. “What . . . where is Jamshid?”

  “I don’t know,” Nahri confessed. “Wajed took him from the midan, and we’ve been up here since then.”

  Kaveh drew up, alarm flashing across his face. “What time is it?”

  “Midnight, perhaps? Why?” she asked when alarm flashed across his eyes.

  “Midnight?” he whispered. “Creator, no. I have to find him.” He grabbed her shoulder with his bound hands, and Nahri jumped at the breach in etiquette. “I need you to think, Nahri. Did they say
anything about where they might be taking Jamshid? Anything at all?” His face looked gaunt in the dim light. “It wasn’t the Citadel, was it?”

  She jerked free. “I don’t know. And you’re not the only one with questions. Why did you lie about Muntadhir being hurt?”

  Kaveh looked only slightly remorseful. “Because I needed you and Jamshid somewhere safe tonight. Lady Nisreen . . . she was supposed to stay with the two of you in the infirmary, but . . .” Sorrow creased his features. “The Grand Temple seemed the next safest option.”

  “Are you worried the shafit are planning another attack?”

  Kaveh shook his head. He was toying with a ring on his hand, a gold band crowned with what appeared to be a copper-striped agate. “No, Banu Nahri. Not the shafit.”

  The door opened just then, the guards bowing their heads as Ghassan entered the pavilion. Nahri drew back, dread coursing through her. There was open rage in his eyes—an expression that contrasted sharply with the weary slump of his shoulders, and one that sent a shiver down her spine. Ghassan al Qahtani was not a man who easily betrayed his emotions.

  He drew to a stop, looking coldly down at the Daevas on the ground. “Leave us,” he snapped to the guards.

  The soldiers were gone the next moment, closing the door behind them.

  Nahri struggled to her feet. “What do you want?” she demanded. “How dare you drag us here when our people are wounded and grieving because of a lapse in your security?”

  Ghassan tossed a scroll at her feet. “Are you responsible for this?” he asked.

  Nahri picked it up. She recognized Ali’s handwriting immediately. She read it . . . and then she read it again, convinced she’d misunderstood. The well-thought-out plans to spearhead an investigation into today’s attacks and ensure security for the city until passions had died down.

  The calm assurances that he would return his father’s army when he was convinced there would be no retribution against the shafit.

  Nahri stared at the words, willing them to rearrange. You fool. You could have gone to Am Gezira. You could have found some doting wife and lived a peaceful life.

  “What?” Kaveh prompted, sounding worried. “What is it?”

  Nahri dropped the scroll. “Ali took the Citadel.”

  Kaveh gasped. “He did what?”

  Ghassan cut in. “The question remains, Banu Nahida. Are you and my son working together?”

  “No,” she said acidly. “Believe it or not, I did not have much time today between shrouding the dead and treating burned children to participate in a coup.”

  “Is that why you dragged us here?” Kaveh demanded, glaring at the king. “You’ve lost control of your fanatical son—a danger you should have dealt with years ago—and you’re trying to pin the blame on us?”

  Ghassan’s eyes lit with challenge. “Oh, has my simpering grand wazir finally grown a spine? A rather rich accusation, Kaveh, considering the part you played in inflaming people’s passions.” His face grew stormy. “Did you think I wouldn’t follow up on Ali’s suspicions about the attack on the shafit camp? Did you think you could light a spark like that in this city—my city—and not have it explode in your face?”

  Nahri’s stomach dropped. It was one thing to hear the accusation from Ali—he could be a little overwrought—but the certainty in Ghassan’s voice and the flush in Kaveh’s cheeks confirmed what her heart had wanted to deny. She might not have trusted the grand wazir, but he was a fellow Daeva, a friend of Nisreen’s, and Jamshid’s father.

  “You faked the attack on the Daeva couple,” she whispered. “Didn’t you?”

  Kaveh’s face was bright red. “You and Jamshid needed to see the truth about the shafit, and it would have happened sooner or later on its own—it has today! How can you possibly defend the dirt-bloods after what they did to the procession? They have no business being anywhere near your ancestors’ hospital; they have no place in our world at all!”

  Nahri jerked back like she’d been slapped.

  But Kaveh wasn’t done. He glared at Ghassan. “Nor do you. Daevabad has not seen a day of peace since Zaydi al Qahtani bathed it in Daeva blood, and you are as treacherous as your barbarian forefather.” Emotion ripped through his voice. “I almost believed it, you know. Your act. The king who wished to unite our tribes.” Nahri watched as angry tears filled his eyes. “It was a lie. Twenty years I served you; my son took half a dozen arrows to save yours, and you used his life to threaten me.” He spat at Ghassan’s feet. “Do not pretend you care for anyone but your own, you filthy sand fly.”

  Nahri instinctively took a step back. No one spoke to Ghassan like that. He did not brook the slightest dissent, let alone open insults from an upstart Daeva wazir.

  That Ghassan smiled instead of opening Kaveh’s throat was petrifying.

  “You’ve wanted to say that for a long time, haven’t you?” the king drawled. “Look at you, all full of spite and indignation . . . as if I have not accommodated your tribe’s frivolous grievances again and again. As if I wasn’t the one to lift you and your son out of your sad lives as petty provincial nobles.” He crossed his arms. “Let me return the favor, Kaveh, for there is something I have also long wanted to tell you.”

  “Enough of this,” Nahri interrupted. Jamshid was missing and Ali was in open revolt; she wasn’t wasting time over whatever history Ghassan and Kaveh shared. “What do you want, Ghassan? And where is Jamshid?”

  “Jamshid . . .” Ghassan’s eyes glittered. “Now, oddly enough, there is a Daeva I like. Certainly more loyal than either of you, though I can’t imagine from whom he inherited such wisdom. It clearly doesn’t run in his family.”

  At her side, Kaveh tensed and Nahri frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Ghassan paced closer, reminding her uncomfortably of a hawk stalking something small and fragile. “Did it never strike you as strange how confident I was of your identity, Banu Nahri? So immediately confident?”

  “You told me I resemble Manizheh,” Nahri said slowly.

  The king clucked his tongue. “But enough that I’d make a scene in court having only spotted you from a distance?” He glanced at Kaveh. “What do you think, Grand Wazir? It seems you knew Manizheh very well. Does our Nahri resemble her strongly?”

  Kaveh looked like he was having a hard time breathing, let alone answering. His hands were clenched into tight fists, his knuckles pale and bloodless. “Yes,” he whispered.

  Ghassan’s eyes flashed in triumph. “Oh, come now, you can lie better than that. Not that it matters. She has something else. Something her mother had, something her uncle had. Not that either of them was aware of it. Bit embarrassing actually.” He tapped the black mark on his temple, Suleiman’s eight-pointed star. “You think you own a thing, and well . . .”

  A frisson of danger tingled across her skin. Hating that she was playing into his game but seeing no way out, she pressed. “Why don’t you try speaking straight for once?”

  “Suleiman’s seal, child. You bear a shadow of his mark . . . right here.” Ghassan reached out to touch the side of her face, and Nahri jerked away. “To me, it is clear as day.” The king turned back to Kaveh, his gray eyes simmering with triumph and something else, something vicious and vindictive. “They all bear it, Grand Wazir. Every single person with Nahid blood. Manizheh. Rustam. Nahri.” He paused, seeming to savor the moment. “Your Jamshid.”

  Kaveh shot to his feet.

  “Sit back down,” Ghassan snapped. The cruel humor was gone from his voice in an instant, the merciless cold of a despot replacing it. “Or the only place Jamshid—your Baga Nahid—will end up is in a shroud.”

  Nahri reeled, her hand going to her mouth. “Jamshid is a Nahid?” Bewildered and shocked, she struggled for words. “But he has no . . .”

  Abilities. The word died on her tongue. Jamshid’s desperate questions about the Rumi fire that had burned him and his abruptly healed wounds. The ancient Tukharistani he’d spoken to Razu . . . and the ra
w burst of power Nahri had felt when he clutched her hand and she summoned a sandstorm.

  Jamshid was a Nahid. Nahri’s eyes were suddenly wet. Jamshid was family.

  And there was no way he knew it; he wasn’t that good of a liar. She whirled on Kaveh. He’d dropped back to the ground at Ghassan’s command but looked no less fierce. “You hid it from him,” she accused. “How could you?”

  Kaveh was shaking now, rocking back and forth. “I had to protect him from Ghassan. It was the only way.”

  The king scoffed. “Fine job you did of that; I knew that boy was a Nahid the moment you brought him to my court. The rest was rather easy to figure out.” Hostility leached into his voice. “The summer of his birth was when Saffiyeh died. The summer Manizheh ignored my pleas to return to Daevabad early to save her queen.”

  “Saffiyeh was never her queen,” Kaveh shot back. “And Manizheh got barely a week with her own child before she was forced to return to you once again.”

  “It was clearly enough time for her to do something to conceal Jamshid’s abilities, wasn’t it?” Malice twisted Ghassan’s face. “She always considered herself so clever . . . and yet her son might have used those abilities when Darayavahoush turned on him. An irony in that: the last Baga Nahid nearly killed by his Afshin, all while trying to save a Qahtani.”

  Nahri looked away, heartsick. Dara probably would have thrown himself on his own sword if he’d known that truth. She leaned against the parapet, her legs suddenly weak. Ghassan and Kaveh were still arguing, and Nahri knew she should be paying attention, but suddenly all she wanted to do was escape this awful palace and find her brother.

  “You should be grateful,” Ghassan was saying. “I gave the two of you a life here. Wealthy, respected, powerful . . .”