The City of Brass

by S. A. Chakraborty

  Dara suddenly veered into view behind her. His boots jammed against the stirrups, he was damn near standing on the horse, turned around to face the rukh. He drew back his bow, unleashing an arrow that hit the beast just below its eye. The rukh jerked its head back and shrieked again. At least a dozen silver arrows pierced its body, but they didn’t slow it in the slightest. Dara shot it twice more in the face, and the rukh dove for him, its massive talons outstretched.

  “Dara!” she screamed as the daeva made a sharp eastward turn. The rukh followed, apparently preferring a reckless daeva to a fleeing human.

  There was little chance he could hear her over the rukh’s enraged shrieks, but she couldn’t help but shout, “You’re going the wrong way!” There was nothing east but flat plains—was he trying to get himself killed?

  Dara shot the creature once more and then threw his bow and quiver away. He pulled himself into a squatting position on the horse’s saddle and cradled his sword to his chest with one arm.

  The rukh cried out in triumph as it closed in on the daeva. It opened its talons wide.

  “No!” Nahri screamed as the rukh snatched up the horse and Dara, as easily as a hawk might seize a mouse. It rose in the air while the horse screamed and kicked, and then veered back south.

  She yanked hard on the reins to pull her racing horse around. It reared, trying to throw her off, but she held on, and it turned. “Yalla, go! Go!” she shouted, reverting to Arabic in panic. She kicked hard, and it bolted after the rukh.

  The bird soared away with Dara clutched in its talons. It cried out again and then tossed both Dara and his horse high in the air. It opened its mouth wide.

  It was only seconds, but the moment between seeing Dara thrown in the air and seeing him vanish seemed to last an eternity, twisting something deep in her chest. The rukh caught the horse again with one foot, but the daeva was nowhere to be seen.

  She searched the sky, expecting him to reappear, to flit into existence like the wine he conjured up. This was Dara, the magical being who traveled by sandstorms and saved her from a pack of ghouls. He had to have a plan; he couldn’t just vanish down the gullet of some bloodthirsty bird.

  But he didn’t reappear.

  Tears pricked her eyes, her mind knowing what her heart denied. Her horse slowed, balking at her kicks. It clearly had more sense than she did; the only thing they could offer the rukh was dessert.

  She could see the crimson bird silhouetted against the mountains; it hadn’t gotten very far but suddenly shot up in the sky, frantically flapping its wings. As she watched, it started to fall and then momentarily righted itself, letting out a screech that sounded more frightened than triumphant. Then it fell again, tumbling through the air and crashing to the frozen ground.

  The force of the distant impact shuddered through her horse. Nahri wanted to scream. Nothing could survive a fall like that.

  She didn’t let her horse slow until they reached the shallow crater the rukh’s body had smashed into the ground. She tried to steel herself but had to look away from Dara’s dead horse. Her own animal startled and fussed. Nahri fought for control as she approached the rukh’s massive body. It towered over them, one enormous wing crumpled under its dead weight. Its glittering feathers were twice her height.

  She began to circle the bird, but the daeva was nowhere to be seen. Nahri choked back a sob. Had it really eaten him? That might have been faster than crashing to the ground, but—

  A cold, sharp feeling cut through her and she reeled, overcome with emotion. She caught sight of the creature’s bent head, black blood pouring from its mouth. The sight of it filled her with rage, displacing her grief and despair. She grabbed her dagger, overcome by the irrational need to tear at its eyes and rip out its throat.

  Its neck twitched.

  Nahri jumped, and her horse backed up. She tightened her grip on the reins, ready to flee, and then the neck twitched again . . . no, it bulged, like something was inside.

  She’d already slipped off her horse when a dark blade finally emerged from inside the rukh’s neck, laboriously cutting a long vertical gash before being dropped to the ground. The daeva followed, washed out in a wave of black blood. He collapsed to his knees.

  “Dara!” Nahri ran and kneeled at his side, throwing her arms around him before her mind caught up with her actions. The rukh’s hot blood soaked through her clothes.

  “I . . .” He spat a gob of black blood onto the ground before shaking free of her grasp and climbing laboriously to his feet. He wiped the blood from his eyes, his hands trembling. “Fire,” he rasped. “I need a fire.”

  Nahri looked around, but the ground was covered in wet snow, and there were no branches in sight. “What can I do?” she cried as the daeva gasped for air. He collapsed to the ground again. “Dara!”

  She reached for him. “No,” he protested. “Don’t touch me . . .” He dug his fingers into the ground, sending up sparks that were quickly extinguished by the icy dirt. A terrible sucking sound came from his mouth.

  She crept closer despite his warning, aching to do something as a deep shudder ran through his body. “Let me heal you.”

  He slapped her hand away. “No. The ifrit—”

  “There are no damned ifrit here!”

  Beads of ash rolled down his face. Before she could reach for him again, he suddenly cried out.

  It was as if his very body momentarily turned to smoke. His eyes grew dim, and as they both watched, his hands briefly translucent. And though Nahri knew nothing about how daeva bodies worked, she could tell from the panic in his face that this was not normal.

  “Creator, no,” he whispered, staring in horror at his hands. “Not now . . .” He glanced up at Nahri, a mixture of fear and sadness in his expression. “Oh, little thief, I’m so sorry.”

  He had no sooner apologized than his entire body shimmered like steam, and he fell against the ground.

  “Dara!” Nahri knelt at his side and checked him over, her instincts kicking in. She could see nothing but slick black blood, whether the daeva’s or the rukh’s, she had no idea. “Dara, talk to me!” she begged. “Tell me what to do!” She tried to pull open his robe, hoping to see some type of wound she could heal.

  The hem crumbled into ash. Nahri gasped, trying not to panic as the daeva’s skin took on the same hue. Was he going to turn to dust in her arms?

  His skin briefly firmed up even as his body grew light. His eyes fluttered shut, and Nahri went cold. “No,” she said, brushing the ash from his closed eyes. Not like this, not after everything we’ve been through. She wracked her memory, trying to think of anything useful he’d told her about how the Nahids healed.

  He had said they could undo poisons and curses, she remembered that. But he hadn’t told her how. Did they have their own medicines, their own spells? Or did they do it by touch alone?

  Well, touch was all she had. She pulled his shirt open and pressed her trembling hands against his chest. His skin was so cold it numbed her fingers. Intent, he had mentioned more than once. Intent was critical in magic.

  She closed her eyes, focusing entirely on Dara.

  Nothing. There was no heartbeat, no breath. She frowned, trying to sense anything wrong, trying to imagine him healthy and alert. Her fingers grew frosty, and she pressed them harder against his chest, his body twitching in response.

  Something wet tickled her wrists, growing faster and thicker, like steam off a boiling pot. Nahri didn’t move, keeping the image of a healthy Dara, his smile sly as always, firmly in her mind. His skin warmed a bit. Please, let it be working, she begged. Please, Dara. Don’t leave me.

  A sharp ache crept up from the base of her skull. She ignored the pain. Warm blood dripped from her nose, and she fought a wave of dizziness. The steam was coming more quickly. She felt his skin grow firm beneath her fingertips.

  And then the first memory flashed before her eyes. A green plain, lush and entirely unfamiliar, sliced in half by a brilliant blue river. A young girl wi
th eyes as black as obsidian. She held out a badly constructed wooden bow.

  “Look, Daru!”

  “A masterpiece!” I exclaim, and she beams. My little sister, ever the warrior. The Creator help the man she marries . . .

  Nahri shook her head, dispelling the memory. She needed to remain focused. Dara’s skin was finally growing hot again, the muscles solidifying under her hands.

  A dazzling court, the palace walls covered in precious metals and jewels. I breathe in the scent of sandalwood and bow. “Does this please you, my master?” I ask, my smile ingratiating as always. I snap my fingers, and a silver chalice appears in my hand. “The finest drink of the ancients as requested.” I hand the beaming human fool the chalice and wait for him to die, the drink little more than concentrated hemlock. Perhaps my next master will be more careful in the wording of his wishes.

  Nahri shook free of the horrifying image. She bent down to concentrate. She just needed a little more time . . .

  But it was too late. The darkness behind her closed eyes swept away again, replaced by a ruined city surrounded by rocky hills. A sliver of moon splashed dim light on broken masonry.

  I thrash against the ifrit, dragging my feet on the ground as they pull me toward the sinkhole, the remains of an ancient well. Its dark water glimmers, hinting at hidden depths.

  “No!” I scream, for once not caring about my honor. “Please! Don’t do this!”

  The two ifrit laugh. “Come now, General Afshin!” The female offers a mock salute. “Don’t you want to live forever?”

  I try to struggle, but the curse has already weakened me. They bind my wrists with rope, not bothering with iron, and then wrap the rope around one of the heavy stones lining the well.

  “No!” I beg, as they haul me over the edge. “Not now! You don’t under—” The brick hits me in the stomach. Their black smiles are the last thing I see before the dark water closes over my face.

  The brick plummets to the bottom of the well, dragging me along headfirst. I frantically twist my wrists, clawing and ripping at my skin. No, I can’t die like this. Not with the curse still on me!

  The stone thuds against the bottom, my body bouncing against the rope. My lungs burn, the press of dark water against my skin terrifying. I follow the rope, trying desperately to find the knot tying it to the stone. My own magic is lost to me, the ifrit’s curse coursing through my blood, preparing to seize me as soon as I breathe my last.

  I’m going to be a slave. The thought rings through my mind as I fumble for the knot. When I next open my eyes, it will be to look upon the human master to whose whims I’ll be entirely beholden. Horror surges through me. No, Creator, no. Please.

  The knot won’t budge. My chest is collapsing, my head spinning. One breath, what I would do for just one breath . . .

  There was a scream from another world, a faraway world on a snowy plain, shouting a strange name that meant nothing.

  The water finally pries past my clenched jaws, pouring down my throat. A bright light blossoms before me, as lush and green as the valleys of my homeland. It beckons, warm and welcoming.

  And then Nahri was gone.

  “Nahri, wake up! Nahri!”

  Dara’s terrified cries tugged at her mind, but Nahri ignored them, warm and comfortable in the thick blackness that surrounded her. She pushed away the hand shaking her shoulder, settling deeper into the hot coals and savoring the tickle of fire licking up her arms.

  Fire?

  Nahri had no sooner opened her eyes and seen a set of dancing flames than she shrieked and jumped up. She batted her arms and the fiery tendrils shimmied away, dropping to the ground like snakes and melting into the snow.

  “It’s okay! It’s okay!”

  Dara’s voice barely registered as she frantically swept her body. But instead of scorched flesh and burned clothes, she found only normal skin. Her tunic barely felt warm to the touch. What in the name of all . . . She glanced up, giving the daeva a wild look. “Did you light me on fire?”

  “You wouldn’t wake!” he protested. “I thought it might help.” His face was paler than usual, the crossed wing and arrow tattoo on his face standing out like charcoal. And his eyes were brighter, closer to how they’d looked in Cairo. But he was standing up, healthy and whole, and mercifully not translucent.

  The rukh . . . she remembered, her head feeling like she’d had too much wine. She rubbed her temples, unsteady on her feet. I healed him and then . . .

  She gagged, the memory of water pouring down her throat strong enough to make her sick. But it hadn’t been her throat, hadn’t been her memory. She swallowed, taking in the sight of the anxious daeva again.

  “God be merciful,” she whispered. “You’re dead. I saw you die . . . I felt you drown.”

  The devastated shadow that overtook his face was confirmation enough. Nahri gasped and instinctively stepped back, bumping into the still warm body of the rukh.

  No breath, no heartbeat. Nahri closed her eyes, everything coming together too fast. “I-I don’t understand,” she stammered. “Are you . . . are you some sort of ghost?” The word sounded ridiculous to her ears even as its implication broke her heart. Her eyes were suddenly wet. “Are you even alive?”

  “Yes!” The words tumbled out in a rush. “I mean, I-I think so. It’s . . . it’s complicated.”

  Nahri threw up her hands. “Whether or not you’re alive shouldn’t be complicated!” She turned away, linking her fingers behind her head and feeling wearier than she had at any point during their exhausting journey. She paced down the length of the rukh’s belly. “I don’t understand why every . . .” And then she stopped, distracted by the sight of something lashed to one of the rukh’s massive talons.

  She was at the rukh’s foot in an instant, tearing the bundle from its ties. The black scrap of fabric was filthy and torn but the cheap coins were recognizable. As was the heavy gold ring tied to one end. The basha’s ring. She untied both, holding the ring up in the sunlight.

  Dara hurried toward her. “Don’t touch that. Suleiman’s eye, Nahri, not even you could want those. They’re probably from its last victim.”

  “They’re mine,” she said softly, quiet horror taking grip of her heart. She rubbed the ring, remembering how it had cut her palm so many weeks ago. “They’re from my home back in Cairo.”

  “What?” Dara stepped closer and snatched the headdress from her hands. “You must be mistaken.” He turned the filthy fabric over and pressed it to his face, taking a deep breath.

  “I’m not mistaken!” She dropped the ring, suddenly wanting nothing to do with it. “How is that possible?”

  Dara lowered the headdress; there was panic in his bright eyes. “It was hunting us.”

  “You mean it belonged to the ifrit? They broke into my home?” Nahri asked, her voice rising. Her skin crawled at the thought of those creatures in her tiny stall, rifling through the few precious things she owned. And what if that hadn’t been enough? What if they’d gone after her neighbors? After Yaqub? Her chest tightened.

  “It wasn’t an ifrit. The ifrit can’t control rukhs.”

  “Then what can?” Nahri didn’t like the cold stillness that had overtaken him.

  “Peris.” He threw the headdress to the ground, the movement sudden and violent. “The only creatures who can control ruhks are peris.”

  “Khayzur.” She took a shaky breath. “But why?” she stammered. “I thought he liked me.”

  He shook his head. “Not Khayzur.”

  She couldn’t believe his naiveté. “What other peris even know about me?” she pointed out. “And he rushed off after finding out about my Nahid heritage—probably to go tell his friends.” She started walking toward the rukh’s other leg. “I bet my teacup is tied over. . . .”

  “No.” Dara reached for her hand. Nahri flinched, and he immediately pulled back, a flash of hurt in his face. “I . . . Forgive me.” He swallowed and turned toward the horse. “I’ll try not to touch you again. But we
need to leave. Now.”

  The sadness in his voice cut her deeply. “Dara, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “There’s no time.” He gestured for her to climb into the saddle, and she did so reluctantly, taking the bloody sword when he handed it to her.

  “I will need to ride with you,” he explained, pulling himself up and settling in behind her. “At least until we find another horse.”

  He kicked the horse into a trot and despite his promise, she fell back against his chest, momentarily taken aback by the smoky heat and warm press of his body. He’s not dead, she tried to assure herself. He can’t be.

  He pulled the horse to an abrupt stop where he’d thrown his bow and quiver. He raised his hands, and they flew to him like loyal sparrow hawks.

  Nahri ducked as he swung the weapons over her head, looping both over his left shoulder. “So what do we do now?” She thought back to Khayzur’s easy banter and Dara’s quip about how the peri could rearrange the landscape with a single sweep of his wings.

  “The only thing we can,” he said, his breath soft against her ear. He snatched up the reins again, holding her tight. There was nothing affectionate or remotely romantic about the gesture; it was desperation, like a man clinging to a ledge.

  “We run.”

  10

  Ali

  Ali squinted and tapped the delicate stem of the scales on the desk in front of him, aware of the expectant eyes of the other three men in the room. “They look even to me.”

  Rashid bent down to join him, the silver scale platters reflected in the military secretary’s gray eyes. “It could be hexed,” he offered in Geziriyya. He jerked his head in the direction of Soroush, the Daeva Quarter’s muhtasib. “He might have come up with some type of curse that would weigh the coins in his favor.”

  Ali hesitated, glancing at Soroush. The muhtasib, the market official in charge of exchanging Daeva currency with the myriad others used in Daevabad, was trembling, his black gaze locked on the floor. Ali could see ash staining his fingertips; he’d been nervously touching the charcoal mark on his brow since they entered. Most religious Daevas wore such a mark. It was a sign of their devotion to the Nahids’ ancient fire cult.