Khayzur abruptly raised his hands to silence them. “The ifrit know about her?” he asked sharply.
“More than I do,” the daeva admitted. “One showed up just before I did and wasn’t at all surprised to see her. That’s why I called you.” He waved his hand. “You peris always know more than the rest of us.”
Khayzur’s wings drooped. “Not on this matter—though I wish I did. You’re right, the circumstances are strange.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, the gesture oddly human. “I need a cup of tea.” He abruptly returned to the rug, motioning for Nahri to follow. “Come, child.”
He dropped into a half perch, and a large samovar, fragrant with peppercorns and mace, suddenly appeared in his hands. He snapped his fingers, and three glass cups appeared. He filled them and handed her the first.
She examined the cup in awe; the glass was so thin it seemed almost like the steaming tea floated in her hand. “What are you?”
He gave her a gentle smile that revealed sharply pointed teeth. “I am a peri. My name is Khayzur.” He touched his brow. “An honor to meet you, my lady.”
Well, whatever a peri was, they clearly had better manners than daevas. Nahri took a sip of her tea. It was thick and peppery, burning down her throat in an oddly pleasant way. In an instant, her whole body felt suffused with warmth—and more important, her hunger was sated.
“That’s delicious!” She smiled, her skin tingling from the liquid.
“My own recipe,” Khayzur said proudly. He gave a sidelong glance at the daeva and nodded to the third cup. “If you’d like to stop glowering and join us, that’s yours, Dara.”
Dara. It was the third time the peri had called him that. She flashed him a triumphant smile. “Yes, Dara,” she said, all but purring his name. “Why don’t you join us?”
He threw her a dark look. “I’d prefer something stronger.” But he took the cup and dropped down beside her.
The peri sipped his tea. “Do you think the ifrit will come after her?”
Dara nodded. “It was hell-bent on taking her. I tried to kill it before it abandoned its host, but there’s a good chance it escaped.”
“Then it may have already told its fellows.” Khayzur shuddered. “You’ve no time to puzzle out her origins, Dara. You need to get her to Daevabad as soon as possible.”
Dara was already shaking his head. “I can’t. I won’t. Suleiman’s eye, do you know what the djinn would say if I brought in a Nahid shafit?”
“That your Nahids were hypocrites,” Khayzur replied. Dara’s eyes flashed. “And what of it? Is saving her life not worth embarrassing her ancestors?”
Nahri certainly thought her life was a hell of a lot more important than the reputation of some dead daeva relatives, but Dara didn’t look convinced. “You could take her,” he urged the peri. “Leave her at the banks of the Gozan.”
“And hope she finds her way past the veil? Hope the Qahtani family believes the word of some lost, human-looking girl should she somehow make it to the palace?” Khayzur looked appalled. “You are an Afshin, Dara. Her life is your responsibility.”
“Which is why she’d be better off in Daevabad without me,” Dara argued. “Those sand flies would likely murder her just to punish me for the war.”
The war? “Wait,” Nahri cut in, not liking the sound of this Daevabad at all. “What war?”
“One that ended fourteen centuries ago and over which he’s still holding a grudge,” Khayzur answered. At that, Dara knocked over his teacup and stalked off. “A skill at which he’s most adept,” the peri added. The daeva threw him a jewel-eyed glare, but the peri pressed on. “You’re only one man, Dara; you can’t hold the ifrit off forever. They will kill her if they find her. Slowly and gleefully.” Nahri shivered, a prickle of fear running over her skin. “And it will be entirely your fault.”
Dara paced the edge of the rug. Nahri spoke up again, not particularly keen on a pair of bickering magical beings deciding her fate without any input from her.
“Why would this Daevabad be safer than Cairo?”
“Daevabad is your family’s ancestral home,” Khayzur replied. “No ifrit can pass its veil—none can, save your race.”
She glanced at Dara. The daeva stared out at the setting sun, muttering angrily under his breath as smoke curled around his ears. “So it’s full of people like him?”
The peri gave her a weak smile. “I’m sure you will find a greater . . . breadth of temperaments in the city itself.”
How encouraging. “Why are the ifrit after me in the first place?”
Khayzur hesitated. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave that explanation to your Afshin. It’s a lengthy one.”
My Afshin? Nahri wanted to ask. But Khayzur had already turned his attention back to Dara. “Have you come to your senses yet? Or do you intend to let this nonsense over blood purity ruin another life?”
“No,” the daeva grumbled, but she could hear the indecision in his voice. He clasped his hands behind his back, refusing to look at either of them.
“By the Maker . . . go home, Dara,” Khayzur urged. “Have you not suffered enough for this ancient war? The rest of the Daeva tribe made peace long ago. Why can’t you?”
Dara twisted his ring, his hands trembling. “Because they didn’t witness it,” he said softly. “But you are correct about the ifrit.” He sighed and turned around, his face still troubled. “The girl is safest—from them anyway—in Daevabad.”
“Good.” Khayzur looked relieved. He snapped his fingers, and the tea supplies disappeared. “Then go. Travel as fast as you can. But discreetly.” He pointed to the rug. “Do not overly rely on this. Whoever sold it to you did a terrible job on the charm. The ifrit might be able to track it.”
Dara scowled again. “I did the charm.”
The peri lifted his delicate brows. “Well . . . then perhaps keep those close,” he suggested with a nod to the weapons piled under the tree. He rose to his feet, shaking out his wings. “I will not delay you further. But I’ll see what I can learn of the girl—should it be useful, I’ll try to find you.” He bowed in Nahri’s direction. “An honor to meet you, Nahri. Good luck to you both.”
With a single flap of his wings, he rose in the air and vanished into the crimson sky.
Dara stepped into his boots and swung the silver bow over one shoulder before smoothing the carpet out. “Let’s go,” he said, tossing his other weapons onto the rug.
“Let’s talk,” she countered, crossing her legs. She wasn’t moving from the carpet. “I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers.”
“No.” He dropped beside her on the rug, his voice firm. “I saved your life. I’m escorting you to the city of my enemies. That’s enough. You can find someone in Daevabad to bother with your questions.” He sighed. “I suspect this journey will already be long enough.”
Enraged, Nahri opened her mouth to argue and then stopped, realizing the rug now held all their supplies, as well as she and Dara both.
No horses. No camels. Her heart skipped a beat. “We’re not really going to—”
Dara snapped his fingers, and the carpet shot into the air.
4
Ali
It was a miserable morning in Daevabad.
Though the adhan, the call to dawn prayer, rang out across the wet air, there was no sign of the sun in the misty sky. Fog shrouded the great city of brass, obscuring its towering minarets of sandblasted glass and hammered metal and veiling its golden domes. Rain seeped off the jade roofs of marble palaces and flooded its stone streets, condensing on the placid faces of its ancient Nahid founders memorialized on the murals covering its mighty walls.
A chilly breeze swept through the winding streets, past intricately tiled bathhouses and the thick doors protecting fire temples whose altars had burned for millennia, bringing the smell of damp earth and tree sap from the thickly forested mountains that surrounded the island. It was the type of morning that sent most djinn scurrying indoors like cats flee
ing rain, back to beds of smoky silk brocade and warm mates, burning away the hours until the sun reemerged hot and proper to scald the city to life.
Prince Alizayd al Qahtani was not one of them. He pulled the tail of his turban across his face and shivered, hunching his shoulders against the cold rain as he walked. His breath came in a steamy hush, the sound amplified against the damp cloth. Rain dripped from his brow, evaporating as it crossed his smoky skin.
He went over the charges again in his mind. You have to talk to him, he told himself. You have no choice. The rumors are getting out of hand.
Ali stuck to the shadows as he neared the Grand Bazaar. Even at this early hour, the bazaar would be busy: sleepy merchants undoing the curses that had protected their wares throughout the night, apothecaries brewing potions to energize their first customers, children carrying messages made of burnt glass that shattered upon revealing their words—not to mention the bodies of barely conscious addicts wasted on smuggled human intoxicants. With little desire to be seen by any of them, Ali turned down a dark lane, a detour that took him so deep into the city that he could no longer glimpse the tall brass walls that enclosed it.
The neighborhood he entered was an old one, crowded with ancient buildings mimicking human architecture lost to time: columns carved with Nabatean graffiti, friezes of Etruscan satyrs, and intricate Mauryan stupas. Civilizations long dead, their memory captured by the curious djinn who’d passed through—or by nostalgic shafit trying to re-create their lost homes.
A large stone mosque with a striking spiral minaret and black and white archways stood at the end of the street. One of the few places in Daevabad where djinn purebloods and shafit still worshipped together, the mosque’s popularity with traders and travelers from the Grand Bazaar made for an unusually transient community . . . and a good place to be invisible.
Ali ducked inside, eager to escape the rain. He’d no sooner slipped off his sandals than they were snatched away by a zealous ishtas, the small, scaled creatures obsessed with organization and footwear. For a bit of fruit and negotiation, Ali’s shoes would be returned to him after prayer, scrubbed and fragrant with sandalwood. He continued, passing a pair of matching marble ablution fountains, one flowing with water for the shafit while its partner swirled with the warm black sand most purebloods preferred.
One of the oldest in Daevabad, the mosque consisted of four covered halls enclosing a courtyard open to the gray sky. Worn down by the feet and brows of centuries of worshippers, its red and gold carpet was thin but immaculate—whatever self-cleaning enchantments had been woven in with its threads still held. Large, hazy glass lanterns filled with enchanted flames hung from the ceiling, and nuggets of frankincense smoldered in corner braziers.
It was mostly empty this morning, the benefits of communal prayer perhaps not outweighing the vile weather for many of its usual congregants. Ali took a deep breath of the fragrant air as he scanned the scattered worshippers, but the man he was looking for had yet to arrive.
Maybe he’s been arrested. Ali tried to dismiss the dark thought as he approached the gray marble mihrab, the niche in the wall indicating the direction of prayer. He raised his hands. Despite his nerves, as Ali began to pray, he felt a small measure of peace. He always did.
But it didn’t last long. He was finishing his second rakat of prayer when a man knelt quietly beside him. Ali stilled.
“Peace be upon you, brother,” the man whispered.
Ali avoided his gaze. “And upon you peace,” he said softly.
“Were you able to get it?”
Ali hesitated. “It” was the fat purse concealed in his robe that contained a small fortune from his overflowing personal vault at the Treasury. “Yes. But we need to talk.”
From the corner of his eye, Ali saw his companion frown, but before he could respond, the mosque’s imam approached the mihrab.
He gave the rain-damp group of men a weary look. “Straighten your lines,” he admonished. Ali stood as the dozen or so sleepy worshippers shuffled into place. He tried to concentrate while the imam led them in prayer, but it was difficult. Rumors and accusations swirled in his mind, charges he felt ill-prepared to lay on the man whose shoulder brushed his.
When prayer was over, Ali and his companion stayed seated, silently waiting as the rest of the worshippers filed out. The imam was last. He climbed to his feet, muttering under his breath. As he glanced at the two remaining men, he froze.
Ali dropped his gaze, letting his turban shadow his face, but the imam’s attention was focused on his companion. “Sheikh Anas . . . ,” he gasped. “P-peace be upon you.”
“And upon you peace,” Anas replied calmly. He touched his heart and gestured to Ali. “Would you mind giving the brother here and me a moment alone?”
“Of course,” the imam rushed on. “Take all the time you need; I’ll make sure no one disturbs you.” He hurried out, pulling the inner door shut.
Ali waited another moment before speaking, but they were alone, the only sound the steady patter of rain in the courtyard. “Your reputation grows,” he noted, a little unnerved by the imam’s deference.
Anas shrugged and leaned back on his palms. “Or he’s off to warn the Royal Guard.”
Ali startled. His sheikh smiled. Though Anas Bhatt was in his fifties—an age at which pureblooded djinn were still considered young adults—Anas was shafit, and gray dusted his black beard, lines creasing his eyes. Though there must have been a drop or two of djinn blood in his veins—his ancestors couldn’t have crossed into Daevabad without it—Anas could have passed for human and had no magical abilities. He was dressed in a white kurta and embroidered cap and had a thick Kashmiri shawl wrapped around his shoulders.
“It was a jest, my prince,” he added when Ali didn’t return his smile. “But what’s wrong, brother? You look as though you’ve seen an ifrit.”
I’d take an ifrit over my father. Ali scanned the dark mosque, half-expecting to see spies nestled in its shadows. “Sheikh, I’m starting to hear . . . certain things about the Tanzeem again.”
Anas sighed. “What is the palace claiming we did now?”
“Tried to smuggle a cannon past the Royal Guard.”
“A cannon?” Anas gave him a skeptical look. “What would I do with a cannon, brother? I’m shafit. I know the law. Possessing even an overly large kitchen knife would get me thrown in prison. And the Tanzeem are a charitable organization; we deal in books and food, not weapons. Besides, how would you purebloods know what a cannon looks like anyway?” He scoffed. “When’s the last time someone in the Citadel visited the human world?”
He had a point there, but Ali pressed on. “There’ve been reports for months that the Tanzeem is trying to buy weapons. People say your rallies have grown violent, that some of your supporters are even calling for the Daevas to be killed.”
“Who spreads such lies?” Anas demanded. “That Daeva infidel your father calls the grand wazir?”
“It’s not just Kaveh,” Ali argued. “We arrested a shafit man just last week for stabbing two purebloods in the Grand Bazaar.”
“And I’m responsible?” Anas threw up his hands. “Am I to be called to account for the actions of every shafit man in Daevabad? You know how desperate our lives are here, Alizayd. Your people should be happy more of us haven’t resorted to violence!”
Ali recoiled. “Are you condoning such a thing?”
“Of course not,” Anas replied, sounding annoyed. “Don’t be absurd. But when our girls are snatched off the street to be used as bed slaves, when our men are blinded for looking at a pureblood the wrong way . . . is it not to be expected that some will fight back any way they can?” He gave Ali an even stare. “It’s your father’s fault things have gotten this bad—if the shafit were afforded equal protection, we wouldn’t be forced to take the law into our own hands.”
It was a low, albeit justified, blow, but Anas’s angry denial wasn’t doing much to assuage Ali’s concerns. “I was always clear wit
h you, Sheikh. Money for books, food, medicine, anything like that . . . but if your people are taking up arms against my father’s citizens, I can’t be part of that. I won’t.”
Anas raised a dark eyebrow. “What are you saying?”
“I want to see how you’re spending my money. Surely you’ve kept some type of records.”
“Records?” His sheikh looked incredulous . . . and then offended. “Is my word not enough? I run a school, an orphanage, a medical clinic . . . I have widows to house and students to teach. A thousand responsibilities and now you want me to waste time on what exactly . . . an audit from my teenage patron who fancies himself an accountant?”
Ali’s cheeks burned, but he wasn’t backing down. “Yes.” He pulled the purse from his robe. The coins and jewels inside jingled together when they hit the ground. “Otherwise this will be the last of it.” He rose to his feet.
“Alizayd,” Anas called. “Brother.” His sheikh scrambled to his feet, putting himself between Ali and the door. “You’re acting rashly.”
No, I was acting rashly when I started funding a shafit street preacher without checking into his story, Ali wanted to say, but he held his tongue, avoiding the older man’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Sheikh.”
Anas’s hand shot out. “Just wait. Please.” There was an edge of panic in his normally calm voice. “What if I could show you?”
“Show me?”
Anas nodded. “Yes,” he said, his voice growing firm, as if he had come to a decision. “Can you get away from the Citadel again tonight?”
“I-I suppose.” Ali frowned. “But I don’t see what that has to do with—”
The sheikh cut him off. “Then meet me at Daeva Gate tonight, after isha prayer.” He glanced down Ali’s body. “Dress as a nobleman from your mother’s tribe, with all the finery you have to spare. You’ll easily pass.”
Ali flinched at the comment. “That doesn’t—”
“You will learn tonight what my organization does with your money.”
Ali followed his sheikh’s instructions exactly, slipping out after isha prayer with a bundle tucked under one arm. After taking a circuitous route through the Grand Bazaar, he ducked into a dark, windowless lane. He unrolled the bundle—one of the rich teal robes the Ayaanle, his mother’s kinsmen, were fond of—and pulled it on over his uniform.
The City of Brass Page 6
