The City of Brass

by S. A. Chakraborty

  “Please thank Kaveh for the gesture, but I fear I’ll have to interrupt.” Muntadhir nodded at the door. “You can go.”

  Both women offered muted salaams and then hurried out.

  Muntadhir glanced at their sister. “Zaynab, would you mind? I think Ali and I need to talk.”

  “He grew up in a Citadel full of men, Dhiru . . . I think he’s had ‘the talk.’” Zaynab laughed at her joke but rose from the bed, ignoring the annoyed look Ali shot in her direction. She touched his shoulder as she passed. “Do try and stay out of trouble, Ali. Wait at least a week before launching any holy wars. And don’t be a stranger,” she shot back over her shoulder as she headed toward the garden. “I expect you to come listen to me gossip at least once a week.”

  Ali ignored that, immediately turning for the doors leading to the palace. “You’ll excuse me, akhi. Clearly, I need to have words with the grand wazir.”

  Muntadhir stepped in front of him. “And what are you going to tell him?”

  “To keep his fire-worshipping whores to himself!”

  Muntadhir raised a dark eyebrow. “And how do you think that will play?” he asked. “The teenage son of the king—already rumored to be some sort of religious fanatic—berating one of the most-respected Daeva men in the city, a man who’s loyally served his father for decades? And over what—a gift most young men would be delighted to receive?”

  “I’m not like that, and Kaveh knows—”

  “Yes, he does,” Muntadhir finished. “He knows very well, and I’m sure he’s made certain to situate himself someplace where there will be a great number of witnesses to the scene you’re ready to cause.”

  Ali was taken aback. “What are you saying?”

  His brother gave him a dark look. “That he’s trying to upset you, Ali. He wants you away from Abba, ideally away from Daevabad and back in Am Gezira, where you can’t do anything to hurt his people.”

  Ali threw up his hands. “I haven’t done anything to his people!”

  “Not yet.” Muntadhir crossed his arms over his chest. “But you religious types hardly make a secret of your feelings toward the Daevas. Kaveh is afraid of you; he probably thinks your presence here is a threat. That you’ll turn the Royal Guard into some sort of morality police and have them beating up all men wearing ash marks.” Muntadhir shrugged. “Honestly, I can’t blame him; the Daevas tend to suffer when people like you come near power.”

  Ali leaned against his desk, taken aback by his brother’s words. He was already trying to fill in for Wajed while hiding his involvement with the Tanzeem. He didn’t feel capable of matching political wits with a paranoid Kaveh right now.

  He rubbed his temples. “What do I do?”

  Muntadhir took a seat in the window. “You could try sleeping with the next courtesan he sends you,” he said with a grin. “Oh, Zaydi, don’t give me that look. It would throw Kaveh for a loop.” Muntadhir absentmindedly twirled a bit of flame around his fingers. “Until he turned around and denounced you as a hypocrite, of course.”

  “You’re not leaving me with a lot of options.”

  “You could try not stomping around like the royal version of the Tanzeem,” Muntadhir offered. “Actually, I don’t know . . . attempt to befriend a Daeva? Jamshid’s been wanting to learn how to use a zulfiqar. Why don’t you give him lessons?”

  Ali was incredulous. “You want me to teach Kaveh’s son how to use a Geziri weapon?”

  “He’s not just Kaveh’s son,” Muntadhir argued, sounding a little irritated. “He’s my best friend, and you’re the one who asked me for advice.”

  Ali sighed. “Sorry. You’re right. It’s just been a long day.” He shifted against the desk, promptly knocking over one of his carefully arranged stacks of paperwork. “A day with no sign of ending anytime soon.”

  “Maybe I should have left you with the women. They might have improved your attitude.” Muntadhir rose from the window. “I just wanted to make sure you survived your first day at court, but you look like you have a lot of work. At least think on what I’ve said about the Daevas. You know I’m only trying to help.”

  “I know.” Ali exhaled. “Were your negotiations successful?”

  “My what?”

  “Your negotiations with the Tukharistani minister,” Ali reminded. “Abba said you were trying to reduce a debt.”

  Muntadhir’s eyes brightened with amusement. He pressed his lips together as if fighting a grin. “Yes. She proved to be very . . . accommodating.”

  “That’s good.” Ali retrieved his papers, straightening the stacks on his desk. “Let me know if you’d like me to check the numbers you agreed on. I know mathematics isn’t your—” He stopped, surprised by the kiss Muntadhir suddenly planted on his forehead. “What?”

  Muntadhir only shook his head, exasperated affection in his face. “Oh, akhi . . . you’re going to get eaten alive here.”

  9

  Nahri

  Cold. That was her first thought upon waking. Nahri shivered violently and curled into a ball, pulling her blanket over her head and tucking her frozen hands under her chin. Could it be morning already? Her face felt damp, and the tip of her nose was completely numb.

  What she saw when she opened her eyes was so strange, she immediately sat up.

  Snow.

  It had to be; it matched Dara’s description perfectly. The ground was covered by a thin blanket of white with only a few dark patches of soil visible. The very air seemed more still than usual, frozen into silence by the snow’s arrival.

  Dara was still gone, as were the horses. Nahri wrapped her blanket around her shoulders and fed the dying fire the driest branch she could find, trying not to let her nerves get the better of her. Maybe he’d just taken the horses to graze.

  Or maybe he really did leave. She forced down a few bites of cold stew and then started packing up her meager supplies. There was something about the silence and lonely beauty of the fresh snowfall that made the solitude more intense.

  The stale bread and spicy stew left her mouth dry. Nahri searched their small campsite, but the waterskin was nowhere to be seen. Now she did start to panic. Would Dara really leave her with no water?

  That bastard. That smug, self-righteous bastard. She tried to melt some snow in her hands but only got a mouthful of mud. She spat, growing annoyed, and then pulled on her boots. Dara be damned. She’d noticed a stream in the sparse woods behind their camp. If he wasn’t back by the time she returned, well . . . she’d have to start making other plans.

  She stomped toward the forest. If I die out here, I hope I come back as a ghoul. I will haunt that arrogant, wine-soaked daeva until the Day of Judgment.

  As she walked deeper into the forest, the sounds of warbling birds faded. It was dark; the tall, ancient trees blocked what little light penetrated the cloudy morning sky. Unbending pine needles held up tiny cups of crisp snow in the air all around her.

  A thin layer of ice covered the rushing stream. She broke it easily with a rock and knelt to drink. The water was so cold it made her teeth ache, but she forced a few mouthfuls down and splashed some on her face, her entire body trembling. She longed for Cairo, its heat and crowds the perfect remedy to this cold, lonely place.

  A flash drew her attention back to the stream, and she glanced down to see a bright fish dash behind a submerged rock. It briefly reappeared to fight the swift current, its scales sparkling in the dim light.

  Nahri pressed her palms against the muddy bank and leaned closer. The fish was a striking silver color with brilliant blue and green bands crossing its body. While it was only about the length of her hand, it looked plump, and she suddenly wondered how it would taste seared over her weak campfire.

  The fish must have guessed her intent. Just as she was considering the best way to catch it, it vanished behind the rocks again, and a breeze blew straight through her thin headscarf. She shivered and stood; the fish wasn’t worth staying here any longer.

  She returned to the for
est’s edge and then stopped.

  Dara was back.

  She doubted he saw her. He stood between the horses with his back to the trees, and as Nahri watched, he pressed his brow against one’s fuzzy cheek, giving its nose an affectionate scratch.

  She wasn’t moved by the gesture. Dara probably thought even animals were superior to shafit like her.

  But there was visible relief in his face when she entered their campsite. “Where were you?” he demanded. “I was worried that something ate you.”

  Nahri pushed past him toward her horse. “Sorry to disappoint.” She grabbed the edge of her saddle and shoved one foot into the stirrup.

  “Let me help—”

  “Don’t touch me.” Dara jerked away, and Nahri heaved herself awkwardly into the saddle.

  “Listen . . . ,” he started again, sounding admonished. “About last night. I was drunk. It’s been a long time since I’ve had company.” He chewed his lip. “I suppose I forgot my manners.”

  She whirled on him. “Your manners? You go into a wild rant about the djinn—you know, the ones who stopped the indiscriminate butchery of shafit like me, insult me when I show some relief at the news of their victory, and then announce you’re planning to leave me at the gates of that damn city anyway? And you’re blaming it all on wine and your lack of manners?” Nahri scoffed. “By the Most High, you’re so arrogant you can’t even apologize properly.”

  “Fine. I’m sorry,” he said, exaggerating the words. “Is that what you wish to hear? You are the first shafit I’ve ever spent time with. I didn’t realize . . .” He cleared his throat, playing nervously with the reins. “Nahri, you have to understand that when I was growing up, we were taught that the Creator himself would punish us if our race continued breaking Suleiman’s laws. That another human would rise to strip away our powers and upend our lives if we didn’t bring the other tribes into line. Our leaders said the shafit were soulless, anything out of their mouths a deception.” He shook his head. “I never questioned it. No one did.” He hesitated, his eyes bright with regret. “When I think of some of the things I’ve done . . .”

  “I think I’ve heard enough.” She jerked the reins out of his hands. “Let’s just go. The sooner we get to Daevabad, the sooner we’re done with each other.”

  She kicked her horse a bit harder than usual, and it gave an annoyed snort before rushing into a trot. Nahri clutched the reins and squeezed her legs, praying her rash move wouldn’t land her on the ground. She was a terrible rider, while Dara seemed to have been born in the saddle.

  She tried to relax, knowing from experience that the most comfortable way to ride was to let her body follow the animal’s motions, leaving her hips loose to sway instead of bouncing all over the place. Behind her, she heard Dara’s horse pounding the frozen ground.

  He quickly caught up. “Oh, don’t run off like that. I said I was sorry. Besides . . .” She heard his voice catch, and when he spoke again, she could barely hear him. “I will take you to Daevabad.”

  “Yes, I know. To the gates. We’ve been over this.”

  Dara shook his head. “No. I will take you into Daevabad. I will escort you to the king myself.”

  Nahri immediately pulled on her reins to slow her horse. “Is this a trick?”

  “No. I swear on my parents’ ashes. I will take you to the king.”

  Macabre oath aside, she found it hard to trust his rather abrupt change of heart. “Will I not embarrass the legacy of your precious Nahids?”

  He dropped his gaze to study his reins, looking ashamed. “It matters not. In truth, I cannot predict how the djinn will react and . . .” A blush stole into his cheeks. “I could not bear it if something happened to you. I would never forgive myself.”

  She opened her mouth to mock his reluctant affection for the “dirt-blood thief” and then stopped, struck by the soft edge to his voice and the way he was anxiously twisting his ring. Dara looked as nervous as a prospective bridegroom. He was telling the truth.

  Nahri stared at him, catching sight of the sword at his waist. His silver bow gleamed in the morning light. No matter the disturbing things that occasionally came out of his mouth, he was a good ally to have.

  She’d be lying if she said her gaze didn’t linger a moment longer than necessary. Her heart skipped a beat. Ally, she reminded herself. Nothing more.

  “And how do you expect to be greeted in Daevabad?” she asked. Dara looked up, a wry smile on his face. “You mentioned being locked up in a dungeon,” she reminded him.

  “Then how fortunate I travel with Cairo’s premier picker of locks.” He gave her a wicked grin before spurring his horse. “Try to keep up. It seems I cannot afford to lose you now.”

  They traveled throughout the morning, racing along the frost-encrusted plains, their horses’ hooves loud against the frozen ground. The snow cleared, but the wind kicked up, sweeping rolling gray clouds over the southern horizon and whipping through Nahri’s garments. With the snow gone, she could see the blue mountains surrounding them, capped by ice and belted by dark forests, the trees growing sparser as the rocky cliffs rose. At one point, they startled a group of wild goats grown fat on grass, with thick, matted coats and sharply curved horns.

  She eyed them hungrily. “Do you think you could get one?” she asked Dara. “All you do with that bow of yours is polish it.”

  He glanced at the goats with a frown. “Get one? Why?” His confusion turned to revulsion. “You mean to eat?” He made a disgusted sound. “Absolutely not. We don’t eat meat.”

  “What? Why not?” Meat had been a rare luxury on her limited income in Cairo. “It’s delicious!”

  “It’s unclean.” Dara shuddered. “Blood pollutes. No Daeva would consume such a thing. And especially not a Banu Nahida.”

  “A Banu Nahida?”

  “The title we give to female Nahid leaders. A position of honor,” he added, a little chiding in his voice. “Of responsibility.”

  “So you’re telling me I should hide my kebabs?”

  Dara sighed.

  They kept riding, but Nahri’s legs were aching by the afternoon. She twisted in her saddle to stretch her cramping muscles and pulled the blanket tighter, wishing for a cup of Khayzur’s hot spiced tea. They’d been traveling for hours; certainly it was time for a break. She kicked her heels against the horse’s side, trying to close the distance between her and Dara so she could suggest they stop.

  Annoyed by his inexperienced rider, her horse snorted and skidded to the left before galloping forward and passing Dara.

  He laughed. “Having some problems?”

  Nahri cursed and yanked back on the reins, pulling her horse into a walk. “I think it hates—” She stopped speaking, her eyes drawn toward a dark crimson smudge in the sky. “Ya, Dara . . . have I gone mad or is there a bird the size of a camel flying toward us?”

  The daeva whirled around, then pulled to a stop with a curse, snatching the reins from her hands. “Suleiman’s eye. I don’t think it’s seen us yet, but . . .” He looked worried. “There’s no place to hide.”

  “Hide?” she asked, lowering her voice when Dara hushed her. “Why? It’s just a bird.”

  “No, it’s a rukh. Bloodthirsty creatures; they’ll eat anything they find.”

  “Anything? You mean like us?” She groaned when he nodded. “Why does everything in your world want to eat us?”

  Dara carefully pulled his bow free as he watched the rukh circle the forest. “I think it’s found our camp.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “They have an excellent sense of smell. It will be able to track us.” Dara inclined his head to the north, toward the thickly forested mountains. “We need to reach those trees. Rukh are too large to hunt in the forest.”

  Nahri glanced back at the bird, which had drifted closer to the ground, and then at the edge of the forest. It was impossibly far. “We’ll never make it.”

  Dara pulled off his turban, cap, and robe and tossed them to he
r. Puzzled, Nahri watched as he secured his sword to his waist. “Don’t be such a pessimist. I have an idea. Something I heard about in a story.” He nocked one of his gleaming silver arrows. “Just stay low and hold on to your horse. Don’t look back, and don’t stop. No matter what you see.” He pulled on her reins, jerked her horse in the right direction, and urged both animals into a trot.

  She swallowed, her heart in her throat. “What about you?”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  Before she could protest, Dara smacked her horse’s rump hard. She could feel the heat of his hand from her saddle; the animal whinnied in protest and bolted toward the forest.

  Nahri threw herself forward, one hand clutching the saddle and the other wrapped in the horse’s damp mane. It took every bit of self-control not to scream. Her body bounced wildly, and she tightened her legs, desperately hoping that she wouldn’t be thrown off. She caught a brief glimpse of the racing ground before squeezing her eyes shut.

  A long cry pierced the air, so high-pitched it seemed to tear right through her. Unable to cover her ears, Nahri could only pray. Oh, Merciful One, she begged, please don’t let this thing eat me. She’d survived a body-possessing ifrit, ravenous ghouls, and a deranged daeva. This couldn’t end with her being gobbled up by an overgrown pigeon.

  Nahri peeked up from the horse’s mane, but the forest didn’t look much closer. Her horse’s hooves beat against the ground, and she could hear it panting. And where was Dara?

  The rukh screeched again, sounding furious. Worried about the daeva, she ignored his warning and glanced back.

  “God preserve me.” The whispered prayer came unbidden to her lips at the sight of the rukh. She suddenly knew why she’d never heard of them.

  No one survived to tell the tale.

  Camel size was a terrible understatement; larger than Yaqub’s shop and with a wingspan that would have covered the length of her street in Cairo, the monstrous bird probably snacked on camels. It had ebony eyes the size of platters and glittering feathers the color of wet blood. Its long black beak ended in a sharply curved tip. It looked big enough to swallow her whole, and it was closing in. There was no way she’d make it to the forest.