The City of Brass

by S. A. Chakraborty

  He didn’t answer—he didn’t have to. Flames raced down the tree, the heat so intense it instantly dried her wet skin. Acrid smoke poured off the wood, seeping past the roots and pooling into hazy black tendrils that slithered and twirled, solidifying as they slowly rose from the ground.

  Nahri backed up and reached for Dara’s arm. “Is . . . is it another daeva?” she asked, trying to sound hopeful as the smoky ropes twisted together, thicker, faster.

  Dara’s eyes were wide. “I fear not.” He took her hand. “I think we should leave.”

  They had no sooner turned back toward the cave when more black smoke swept down from the cliffs above, surging past the rocky entrance like a waterfall.

  Every hair on her body stood on end; the tips of her fingers buzzed with energy. “Ifrit,” she whispered.

  Dara stepped back so fast that he stumbled, his usual grace gone. “The river,” he stammered. “Run.”

  “But our supplies—”

  “There’s no time.” Keeping one hand clenched on her wrist, he dragged her down the rocky ridge. “Can you swim as well as you claim?”

  Nahri hesitated, thinking back to the Gozan’s fast current. The river was likely swollen from the storm, its already turbulent waters whipped into a frenzy. “I . . . maybe. Probably,” she corrected, seeing alarm flash across his face. “But you can’t!”

  “It matters not.”

  Before she could argue, he pulled her along, racing and scrambling down the limestone hill. The steep decline was treacherous in the dark, and Nahri slipped more than once on the loose, sandy pebbles.

  They were running along a narrow ledge when a low sound broke across the air, something between a lion’s roar and the snap of an uncontrolled fire. Nahri glanced up, getting the briefest glimpse of something large and bright before it slammed into Dara.

  The force knocked her back, her balance gone without the daeva’s firm grip on her wrist. She grabbed for a tree branch, for a rock, for anything as she stumbled, but her fingers raked uselessly through the air. Her feet met nothing, and then she was over the ridge.

  Nahri tried to protect her head as she hit the ground hard and rolled down the incline, the jagged rocks gouging her arms. Her body bounced past another small ledge, and then she landed in a thick patch of mud. The back of her head smashed into a hidden tree root.

  She lay still, stunned by the blinding pain, the wind knocked out of her. Every part of her hurt. She tried to take a small breath and cried out at the protest of an obviously broken rib.

  Just breathe. Don’t move. She needed to let her body heal. She knew it would; already the sting of her torn flesh was fading. She gingerly touched the back of her head, praying that her skull was still intact. Her fingers met bloodied hair but nothing else. Thank the Most High for that small piece of luck.

  Something in her abdomen twisted back into place, and she sat up, wiping her eyes free of blood or mud or God only knew what. She squinted. The Gozan was ahead of her, the rushing water glistening as it crested into rapids.

  Dara. She climbed to her feet and staggered forward, peering through the darkness at the ridge.

  Another flash blinded her, and the air crackled, followed by a deafening boom that knocked her back. Nahri threw up her hands to protect her eyes, but the light was already gone, vanished in a haze of quickly evaporating blue smoke.

  Then the ifrit was there, towering over her with arms as thick as tree boughs. Its flesh was pressed light, its skin shimmering between the ashy white of smoke and the crimson-tinged orange of fire. Its hands and feet were coal black, its hairless body covered with a scrawl of ebony markings even wilder than Dara’s.

  And it was beautiful. Strange and deadly, but beautiful. She froze as a pair of golden feline eyes settled on her. It smiled, its teeth blackened and sharp. A coal-colored hand reached for the iron scythe at its side.

  Nahri jumped to her feet and dashed across the rocks to open water, landing in the shallows with a splash. But the ifrit was too fast, snatching her ankle as she tried to swim away. She clawed at the muddy river bottom, hooking her fingers on a submerged tree root.

  The ifrit was stronger. He yanked again, and Nahri screamed as he dragged her back. He’d grown brighter, his skin pulsing with hot yellow light. A scar ran across his bald head like a smear of extinguished charcoal. The thief in her could not help but note the gleaming bronze chest plate he wore over a simple linen waist cloth. A string of raw quartz stones looped his neck.

  He raised her hand as if in shared victory. “I have her!” he screamed in a language that sounded like wildfire. He grinned again and ran his tongue over his sharp teeth, a look of unmistakable hunger in his gold eyes. “The girl! I have—”

  Recovering her senses, Nahri grabbed for the dagger Dara had given her in the cave. Nearly slicing off one of her fingers in the process, she plunged it deep into the ifrit’s fiery chest. He cried out and dropped her wrist, sounding more surprised than hurt.

  He lifted one painted eyebrow as he glanced down at the dagger, obviously unimpressed. Then he slapped her hard across the face.

  The blow knocked Nahri off her feet. She reeled, black spots blinking before her eyes. The ifrit pulled the dagger free, barely glancing at it before he flung it past her.

  She scrambled up, slipping and staggering as she tried to back away. She couldn’t take her eyes off his scythe. The iron blade was stained black, the edge battered and dull. It would kill her, no doubt, and it would hurt. A lot. She wondered how many of her Nahid ancestors had met their end upon that scythe.

  Dara. She needed the Afshin.

  The ifrit followed at a leisurely pace. “So you’re the one getting all the races riled up . . . ,” he started. “The latest of Anahid’s treacherous, blood-poisoning spawn.”

  The hate in his voice sent a new surge of fear through her body. She spotted the dagger on the ground and snatched it up. It might not hurt the ifrit, but it was all she had. She held it out, trying to keep as much distance as possible between them.

  The ifrit grinned again. “Are you afraid, little healer?” he drawled. “Are you trembling?” He caressed his blade. “What I would do to see that traitor’s blood run out of you . . .” But then he dropped his hand, looking regretful. “Alas, we made a deal to return you unharmed.”

  “Unharmed?” She thought back to Cairo, the memory of the ghoul’s teeth ripping open her throat vivid in her mind. “Your ghouls tried to eat me!”

  The ifrit spread his hands, looking apologetic. “My brother acted rashly, I admit.” He cleared his throat as if he was having trouble speaking, and then tilted his head to regard her. “Astonishing really, I give the marid their due. At first glance, you’re completely human, but look past that and . . .” He stepped closer to study her face. “There’s the daeva.”

  “I’m not,” she said quickly. “Whoever you’re working for . . . whatever it is you want . . . I’m just a shafit. I can’t do anything,” she added, hoping the lie might buy her some time. “You don’t need to waste your time on me.”

  “Just a shafit?” He laughed. “Is that what that lunatic slave thinks?”

  The sound of a crashing tree drew her attention before she could respond. A line of fire danced across the ridge, consuming the scrub brush as if it was kindling.

  The ifrit followed Nahri’s glance. “Your Afshin’s arrows might be sharper than his wits, little healer, but you are both outmatched.”

  “You said you meant us no harm.”

  “We mean you no harm,” he corrected. “The wine-soaked slave was not part of our deal. But perhaps . . . if you come willingly . . .” He trailed off with a cough and took in a sharp breath.

  As she watched, he wheezed and reached for a nearby tree to brace himself. He coughed again, clutching his chest where she had wounded him. He pulled the breastplate off, and Nahri gasped. The skin around the wound had turned black with what looked like infection. And it was spreading, tiny coal-colored tendrils snaking out like de
licate veins.

  “Wha-what did you do to me?” he cried out as the blackening veins gave way to a blue-tinged ash before their eyes. He coughed again, hacking up a dark viscous liquid that steamed when it hit the ground. He staggered closer and tried to grab her. “No . . . you didn’t. Say you didn’t!” His golden eyes were wide with panic.

  Still clutching the dagger, Nahri edged back, fearing the ifrit might be trying to trick her. But as he clutched his throat and fell to his knees, sweating ash, she remembered something Dara had told her weeks ago over the Euphrates.

  It was said the very blood of a Nahid was poisonous to the ifrit, more fatal than any blade. As if in a trance, her gaze slowly fell on the dagger. Mixed in with the ifrit’s black blood was her own dark crimson from when she’d cut herself trying to stab him.

  She looked back at the ifrit. He was lying on the rocks, blood leaking from his mouth. His eyes, beautiful and terrified, met hers. “No . . . ,” he panted. “We had a deal . . .”

  He hit me. He threatened to kill Dara. Acting on a rush of cold hate and instinct that likely would have frightened her if she had given it more thought, she kicked him hard in the stomach. He cried out, and she dropped to her knees, pressing her dagger against his throat.

  “Who did you make a deal with?” she demanded. “What did they want with me?”

  He shook his head and took a rattling breath. “Filthy Nahid scum . . . you’re all the same,” he spat. “. . . knew it was a mistake . . .”

  “Who?” she demanded again. When he said nothing, she slashed her hand open and pressed her bloody palm against his wound.

  The sound that came from the ifrit was unlike any she could imagine: a screech that tore at her soul. She wanted to turn away, to flee into the river and submerge herself, escaping all this.

  Nahri thought again of Dara. Over a thousand years as a slave, stolen from his people and murdered, given over to the whims of countless cruel masters. She saw Baseema’s gentle smile, the most innocent of innocents gone forever. She pushed harder.

  With her other hand, she kept the dagger against his throat, though judging from his shrieks, it wasn’t necessary. She waited until his cries turned to a whimper. “Tell me, and I’ll heal you.”

  He squirmed under her blade, his eyes briefly dilating black. The wound bubbled, steaming like an overfilled cauldron, and a terrible liquid sound came from his throat.

  “Nahri!” Dara’s voice rose from somewhere in the dark, a distant distraction. “Nahri!”

  The ifrit’s fevered gaze fixed on her face. Something flickered in his eyes, something calculating and vile. He opened his mouth. “Your mother,” he wheezed. “We made a deal with Manizheh.”

  “What?” she asked, so startled that she nearly dropped the knife. “My what?”

  The ifrit started to seize, a rattling moan coming from somewhere low in his throat. His eyes dilated again, and his mouth fell open, a haze of steam rushing past his lips. Nahri grimaced. She doubted she’d get much more information from him.

  His fingers scrabbled on her wrist. “Heal me . . . ,” he begged. “You promised.”

  “I lied.” With a sharp and vicious motion, she slashed her hand back and cut his throat. Dark vapor rose from his maimed neck and stifled his cry. But his eyes, fixed and hateful, stayed on her blade, watching as she raised it over his chest. The throat . . . Dara had once instructed, the weaknesses of the ifrit one of the few things he would tell her.

  . . . the lungs. She brought the blade back down, plunging it into his chest. It didn’t go in easily, and she fought the urge to vomit as she leaned her weight into the dagger. Viscous black blood gushed over her hands. The ifrit convulsed once, twice, and then fell still, his chest lowering like she’d emptied a sack of flour. Nahri watched another moment but knew he was dead, felt the lack of life and vigor immediately. She had killed him.

  She stood; her legs trembled. I killed a man. She stared at the dead ifrit, transfixed by the sight of his blood seeping and smoking over the pebbly ground. I killed him.

  “Nahri!” Dara skidded to a stop in front of her. He took one of her arms as his alarmed eyes raked over her bloodied clothing. He touched her cheek, his fingers grazed her wet hair. “By the Creator, I was so worried . . . Suleiman’s eye!”

  Spotting the ifrit, he leaped back, pulling her protectively behind him. “He . . . you . . . ,” he stammered, sounding more shocked than she had ever heard him. “You killed an ifrit.” He whirled on her, his green eyes flashing. “You killed an ifrit?” he repeated as he took a closer look.

  Your mother . . . The ifrit’s final claim taunted her. She couldn’t forget that strange flicker in his eyes before he spoke. Was it a lie? Words meant to haunt the enemy who would kill him?

  A hot breeze swept past her cheeks, and Nahri lifted her eyes. The cliffs were on fire; the wet trees snapped and cracked as they burned. The air smelled poisonous, hot and seeded with tiny burning embers that swept across the dead landscape and twinkled above the dark river.

  She pressed one of her bloody hands against her temple as a wave of nausea swept over her. She turned away from the dead ifrit, the sight of its body triggering a strange sense of rightness that she didn’t like. “I . . . he said something about . . .” She stopped speaking. More black smoke was coming down the cliff, twisting and slithering through the trees and growing into a thick roiling wave as it neared them.

  “Get back!” Dara yanked her away, and the smoky tendrils flattened with a low hiss. Dara took the opportunity to shove her toward the water. “Go, you can still get to the river.”

  The river. She shook her head; even as she watched, an enormous tree branch shot past like it had been fired from a cannon, and the water roared as it crashed against the boulders littering its banks.

  She couldn’t even see the opposite shore—there was no way she could cross. And Dara would probably dissolve.

  “No,” she replied, her voice grim. “We’ll never make it.”

  The smoke surged forward and began to separate, swirling and piling into three distinct shapes. The daeva snarled and drew his bow. “Nahri, get in the water.”

  Before she could reply, Dara gave her a hard push, knocking her into the cold current. It wasn’t deep enough for her to submerge, but the river fought her as she climbed back to her feet.

  Dara released one of his arrows, but it sailed uselessly through the nebulous forms. He cursed and shot again as one of the ifrit flashed with fiery light. A blackened hand grabbed the arrow. Still holding it, the ifrit burned back into its solid form, followed immediately by the other two.

  The ifrit with the arrow was even larger than the one Nahri had killed. The skin around his eyes smoldered in a rough band, black and gold. The other two were smaller: another man and a woman wearing a diadem of braided metals.

  The ifrit rolled Dara’s arrow between his fingers. It began to melt, the silver winking as it dripped into the dirt. The ifrit grinned, and then his hand smoked. The arrow was gone, replaced by an enormous iron mace. The spikes and ridges of its heavy head were dull with blood. He hoisted the horrific weapon up on one shoulder and stepped forward.

  “Salaam alaykum, Banu Nahida.” He gave her a sharp smile. “I have so looked forward to this meeting.”

  The ifrit’s Arabic was flawless, with just enough of Cairo’s flavor to make her flinch. He inclined his head in a slight bow. “You call yourself Nahri, yes?”

  Dara drew back another arrow. “Don’t answer that.”

  The ifrit lifted his hands. “There is no harm. I know it’s not her real name.” He turned his golden gaze back to Nahri. “I am Aeshma, child. Why don’t you come from the water?”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but then the female sauntered over to Dara.

  “My Scourge, it has been far too long.” She licked her painted lips. “Look at that slave mark, Aeshma. A beauty. Have you ever seen one as long?” She sighed, her eyes creasing in pleasure. “And oh, how he earned them.”


  Dara paled.

  “Don’t you remember, Darayavahoush?” When he said nothing, she gave him a sad smile. “A pity. I’ve never seen a slave so ruthless. Then again, you were always willing to do anything to stay in my good graces.”

  She leered at him, and Dara recoiled, looking sick. A surge of hatred swept through Nahri.

  “Enough, Qandisha.” Aeshma waved his companion off. “We are not here to make enemies.”

  Something brushed against Nahri’s shins under the black water. She ignored it, focusing her attention on the ifrit. “What do you want?”

  “First: for you to get out of the water. There is no safety in there for you, little healer.”

  “And there’s safety with you? One of your people in Cairo promised the same and then set a pack of ghouls on us. At least there’s nothing in here trying to eat me.”

  Aeshma raised his eyes. “A terribly ill choice of words, Banu Nahida. The denizens of air and water have already done you both more harm than you know.”

  She frowned, trying to untwist his words. “What do you . . .” She stopped speaking. A shudder went through the river, like something impossibly large heaving itself along the muddy bottom. She eyed the water around her. She could’ve sworn she saw a flash of scales in the distance, a wet glistening that vanished as quickly as it had come.

  The ifrit must have noticed her reaction. “Come now,” he urged. “You are not safe.”

  “He’s lying.” Dara’s voice was barely more than a growl. The daeva was still, his hate-filled gaze fixed on the ifrit.

  The skinny one suddenly straightened up, sniffing the burning air like a dog before rushing into the brush where the murdered ifrit lay.

  “Sakhr!” The skinny ifrit cried, his luminous eyes wide in disbelief as he touched the throat Nahri had torn open. “No . . . no, no, no!” He threw his head back and let out a screech of despair that seemed to rend the very air before bending back over the dead ifrit and pressing his forehead to the corpse’s.

  His grief took her completely by surprise. Dara said the ifrit were demons. She wouldn’t have thought they cared for each other at all, let alone so deeply.