The City of Brass

by S. A. Chakraborty

  The wailing ifrit silenced his cry as he caught sight of her, and hate filled his golden eyes. “You murderous witch!” he accused her, rising to his feet. “I should have killed you in Cairo!”

  Cairo . . . Nahri backed up until the water surged around her waist. Baseema. He was the one who’d possessed Baseema, who doomed the little girl and sent the ghouls after them. Her fingers twitched on her dagger.

  He charged forward, but Aeshma grabbed him and threw him to the ground. “No! We made a deal.”

  The skinny ifrit jumped to his feet and immediately started after her again, snapping and hissing as he tried to wriggle free of Aeshma’s grasp. The dirt beneath his feet sparked. “The devil take your deal! She blood-poisoned him—I’m going to rip out her lungs and grind her soul to dust!”

  “Enough!” Aeshma threw him to the ground again and raised his mace. “The girl is under my protection.” He glanced up and met Nahri’s eyes. There was a much colder look to his face now. “But the slave is not. If Manizheh wanted her bloody Scourge, she should have told us.” He lowered his weapon and gestured at Dara. “He’s yours, Vizaresh.”

  “Wait!” Nahri cried as the skinny ifrit leaped on Dara. Dara smashed him across the face with his bow, but then Qandisha—bigger than both men—simply grabbed Dara by the throat and lifted him off his feet.

  “Drown him again,” Aeshma suggested. “Maybe this time it will take.” The river danced and boiled around his feet as he started after Nahri.

  Dara tried to kick Qandisha, his cry abruptly ending when she plunged him under the dark water. The ifrit laughed as Dara’s fingers clawed at her wrists.

  “Stop!” Nahri screamed. “Let him go!” She hopped back, hoping to lose Aeshma in the deeper water and swim back to Dara.

  But as Aeshma closed in, the river swept back, almost like a wave drawing up. It pulled from the bank, pulled from her ankles, and in seconds, it was gone from her feet altogether, leaving her standing in a foot of muck.

  Absent the sound of the rushing current, the world went quiet. There was not even a hint of wind, the air saturated with the scent of salt, smoke, and wet silt.

  Taking advantage of Aeshma’s distraction, Nahri darted toward Dara.

  “Marid . . . ,” the female ifrit whispered, her golden eyes wide with fright. She dropped Dara and grabbed the other ifrit by his skinny arm, yanking him away. “Run!”

  The ifrit were fleeing by the time Nahri reached Dara. He was holding his throat, sucking for air. As she tried to pull him to his feet, his eyes locked on something past her shoulder, and the color left his face.

  She glanced behind her. She immediately wished she hadn’t.

  The Gozan was gone.

  A wide, muddy trench stood in the river’s place, wet boulders and deep ridges marking its former path. The air was still smoky, but the storm clouds had vanished, revealing a swollen moon and a rich spread of stars that lit up the sky. Or at least would have lit up the sky had they not been steadily blinking out as something darker than night rose in front of them.

  The river. Or what had been the river. It had drawn back and thickened, rapids and tiny waves still rippling across its surface, swirling and churning, defying gravity to rise. It wriggled and undulated in the air, slowly towering over them.

  Her throat tightened in fear. It was a serpent. A serpent the size of a small mountain and made entirely of rushing black water.

  The watery snake writhed, and Nahri got a glimpse of a head the size of a building, with whitecaps for teeth, as it opened its mouth to roar again at the stars. The sound broke across the air, some horrifying combination of a crocodile’s bellow and the break of a tidal wave. Behind the serpent, she spied the sandy hills where Dara said Daevabad lay hidden.

  He was frozen in terror now, and knowing how frightened he was of water, she didn’t expect that to change. She tightened her grip on his wrist. “Get up.” She pulled him forward. “Get up!” When he moved too slowly for her liking, she slapped him hard across the face and pointed toward the sandy dunes. “Daevabad, Dara! Let’s go! You can kill all the djinn you want once we get there!”

  Whether it was the slap or the promise of murder, the terror holding him seemed to break. He grabbed her outstretched hand, and they ran.

  There was another roar, and a thick tongue of water lashed the spot where they’d been standing, like a giant swatting a fly. It crashed against the muddy bank, and water swept out to splash their feet as they fled.

  The serpent twisted and slammed to the ground just ahead of them. Nahri slid to a halt, pulling Dara in another direction to sprint across the emptied riverbed. It was littered with damp waterweeds and drying boulders; Nahri stumbled more than once, but Dara kept her on her feet as they dodged the crushing blows of the river monster.

  They had gotten a bit more than halfway across when the creature suddenly halted. Nahri didn’t turn around to see why, but Dara did.

  He gasped, his voice returning. “Run!” he screamed, as if they were not already doing so. “Run!”

  Nahri ran, her heart pounding, her muscles protesting. She ran so fast she didn’t even notice the ditch, a spot of what must have been deep water, before she was sailing over it. She hit the uneven bottom hard. Her ankle twisted as she landed, and she heard the snap before she felt the pain of the broken bone.

  Then from the ground, she saw what had made Dara scream.

  Having risen once again to howl at the sky, the creature was letting its lower half dissolve into a waterfall taller than the Pyramids. The water rushed toward them, the wave at least three times her height and spreading out in both directions. They were caught.

  Dara was at her side again. He clutched her close. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. His fingers snaked through her wet hair. She could feel his warm breath as he kissed her brow. She held him tight, tucking her head into his shoulder and taking a deep breath of his smoky scent.

  She expected it to be her last.

  And then something slammed down between them and the wave.

  The ground shook, and a high-pitched screech that would have frozen the blood of the bravest man alive broke the air. It sounded like a whole flock of rukh descending upon their prey.

  Nahri looked up from Dara’s shoulder. Outlined against the rushing wave was an enormous sweep of wings, glittering with lime-colored sparks where the starlight touched them.

  Khayzur.

  The peri shrieked again. He spread his wings, raised his hands, and then took a breath; as he inhaled, the air around Nahri seemed to ebb—she could almost feel it being pulled from her lungs. Then he exhaled, sending a racing, funnel-shaped cloud toward the serpent.

  The creature let out a watery bellow when the winds hit. A cloud of steam evaporated off its side, and it flinched, ducking away toward the ground. Khayzur flapped his wings and sent another giant gust. The serpent let out a defeated sound. It collapsed in the distance with a crash, flattening back out across the land, gone in an instant.

  Nahri let out a breath. Her ankle was already healing, but Dara had to help her to her feet and give her a shove to get out of the ditch.

  The river had lain down along different banks and was busily consuming the trees and ripping at the cliffs they had just escaped. There was no sign of the ifrit.

  They had crossed the Gozan.

  They had made it.

  She stood up, giving her ankle a delicate twist before she let out a triumphant shout. She could have thrown her head back and howled at the stars herself, she was so thrilled to be alive. “By God, Khayzur has the best timing!” She grinned, glancing around for Dara.

  But Dara wasn’t behind her. Instead she spotted him rushing toward Khayzur. The peri landed on the ground and immediately collapsed, his wings falling around him as he crumpled.

  By the time she reached them, Khayzur lay cradled in Dara’s arms. His lime-colored wings were marked with white boils and gray scabs that grew larger before her eyes. He shuddered and several feathers fell t
o the ground.

  “. . . was following and tried to warn . . . ,” he was saying to Dara. “You were so close . . .” The peri stopped to take a deep, rattling breath. He looked shrunken, and there was a purplish cast to his skin. When he looked up at her, his colorless eyes were resigned. Doomed.

  “Help him,” Dara begged. “Heal him!”

  Nahri bent to take his hand, but Khayzur waved her off. “There’s nothing you can do,” he whispered. “I broke our law.” He reached up and touched Dara’s ring with one of his claws. “And not for the first time.”

  “Just let her try,” Dara pleaded. “This can’t be happening because you saved us!”

  Khayzur gave him a bitter smile. “You still don’t understand, Dara, about my people’s role. Your race never did. Centuries after being crippled by Suleiman for interfering with humans . . . and you still don’t understand.”

  Taking advantage of Khayzur’s distracted rambling, Nahri laid her palm over one of the boils. It hissed and grew icy at her touch and then doubled in size. The peri yelped, and she pulled away. “I’m sorry,” she rushed. “I’ve never healed anything like you.”

  “And you can’t now,” he said gently. He coughed to clear his throat and lifted his head, his long ears pricked up like a cat’s. “You need to go. My people are coming. The marid will be back, as well.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” Dara said firmly. “Nahri can cross the threshold without me.”

  “It is not Nahri they want.”

  Dara’s bright eyes widened, and he glanced around, as though he expected to see a new addition to their trio. “M-me?” he stammered. “I don’t understand. I’m nothing to either your race or the marids!”

  Khayzur shook his head as the shrill cry of a large bird pierced the air. “Go. Please . . . ,” he croaked.

  “No.” There was a tremor in Dara’s voice. “Khayzur, I can’t leave you. You saved my life, my soul.”

  “Then do the same for another.” Khayzur rustled his wrecked wings and gestured at the sky. “What’s coming is beyond you both. Save your Nahid, Afshin. It’s your duty.”

  It was as if he’d cast a spell on the daeva. She watched Dara swallow and then nod, all trace of emotion vanishing from his face. He laid the peri carefully on the ground. “I am so sorry, old friend.”

  “What are you doing?” Nahri exclaimed. “Help him to his feet. We need to— Dara!” she shouted as the daeva picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. “Don’t! We can’t leave him here!” She kneed the daeva in the chest and tried to push off his back, but his grip was too tight. “Khayzur!” she screamed, catching a glimpse of the injured peri.

  He gave her a long, sad look before turning his gaze back to the sky. Four dark shapes soared over the cliffs. The wind kicked up, seeding the air with sharp pebbles. She saw the peri wince and draw a withered wing across his face for protection.

  “Khayzur!” She kicked at Dara again, but he only sped up, struggling to clamber over a sandy dune with her still on his shoulder. “Dara, please! Dara, don’t—”

  And then she could not see Khayzur any longer, and they were gone.

  12

  Ali

  Ali’s spirits felt lighter as he headed for the midan, cheered by Jamshid’s kind words. He passed under the Agnivanshi Gate, its scattered oil lamps making it seem like traveling through a constellation. Ahead, the midan was still, the night songs of insects replacing the sound of the music and drunken revelers he left behind. A cool breeze blew bits of rubbish and silvery dead leaves across the ancient cobblestones.

  A man stood at the fountain’s edge. Rashid. Ali recognized him, though his secretary was out of uniform, dressed in a rather bland dark robe and slate-colored turban.

  “Peace be upon you, Qaid,” Rashid greeted him as Ali came forward.

  “And upon you peace,” Ali replied. “Forgive me. I didn’t think we had any further business this evening.”

  “Oh, no!” Rashid assured. “Nothing official, anyway.” He smiled, his teeth a bright flash in the dark. “I hope you’ll forgive my impertinence. I didn’t mean to pull you away from your evening amusements.”

  Ali made a face. “It’s no bother, trust me.”

  Rashid smiled again. “Good.” He gestured to the Tukharistani Gate. “I was on my way to see an old friend in the Tukharistani Quarter, and thought you might like to come along. You’ve mentioned wanting to see more of the city.”

  It was a kind, if slightly strange, offer. Ali was the king’s son; he wasn’t someone you casually invited for tea. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

  “It’s no intrusion at all. My friend runs a small orphanage. In truth, I thought it might be good for a Qahtani to be seen there. They’ve fallen on rough times recently.” Rashid shrugged. “Your choice, of course. I know you’ve had a long day.”

  Ali had, but he was also intrigued. “I’d like that very much, actually.” He returned Rashid’s smile. “Lead the way.”

  By the time they reached the heart of the Tukharistani Quarter, clouds had drawn past the sky, veiling the moon and bringing a light mist of rain. The weather did nothing to dissuade the crowds of merrymakers and evening shoppers, however. Djinn children chased each other through the crowd, running after conjured-up pets of smoke while their parents gossiped under metal canopies hastily erected to block the rain. The sound of the raindrops striking their battered copper surfaces echoed throughout the quarter. Enclosed glass globes of enchanted fire hung from the storefronts, reflecting the puddles and dizzy array of colors on the bustling street.

  Ali narrowly avoided two men haggling over a glittering golden apple. A Samarkandi apple, Ali recognized; a lot of djinn swore a single bite of its flesh was as effective as a Nahid’s touch. Though Ali’s Tukharistani wasn’t great, he could hear pleading in the prospective buyer’s voice, and he glanced back. Rust-colored metal growths covered the man’s face, and his left arm ended in a stump.

  Ali shuddered. Iron poisoning. It wasn’t terribly uncommon, especially among djinn travelers who might drink from a stream without realizing it ran over banks rich in the deadly metal. Iron built up in the blood for years, before striking violently and without warning, causing limbs and skin to atrophy. Deadly and swift, it was nonetheless easily cured by a single visit to a Nahid.

  Except there weren’t any more Nahids. And that apple wouldn’t help the doomed man, nor would the myriad other “cures” hawked to desperate djinn by unscrupulous con artists. There was no substitute for a Nahid healer, and that was a dark truth that most people—Ali included—tried not to think about. He averted his eyes.

  Thunder rumbled, oddly distant. Perhaps a storm was brewing past the veil hiding the city. Ali kept his head down, hoping to avoid both the rain and the curious glances of passersby. Even out of uniform, his height and royal finery gave him away, provoking startled salaams and hurried bows in his direction.

  When they reached a fork in the main road, Ali noticed a striking stone monument twice his height, built of worn sandstone, roughly shaped like an elongated bowl, almost like a boat placed on its stern. The top had started to crumble, but as they passed, he spotted new incense at its base. A small oil lamp burned inside, throwing flickering light on a long list of names in Tukharistani script.

  The Qui-zi memorial. Ali’s skin crawled as he recalled what happened to the ill-fated city. Which Afshin’s handiwork had that atrocity been again? Artash? Or was it Darayavahoush? Ali frowned, trying to remember his history lessons. Darayavahoush, of course; Qui-zi was why people started calling him the Scourge. A nickname to which the Daeva devil had thoroughly committed, judging from the horrors he would later perpetrate during his rebellion.

  Ali glanced again at the memorial. The flowers inside were fresh, and he wasn’t surprised. His people had long memories, and what had happened at Qui-zi was not a thing easily forgotten.

  Rashid finally stopped outside a modest two-story dwelling. It was not a particularly impress
ive sight; the roof tiles were cracked and covered in black mold, and dying plants in broken pots were scattered out front.

  His secretary tapped lightly on the door. A young woman opened it. She gave Rashid a tired smiled that vanished as soon as she spotted Ali.

  She dropped into a bow. “Prince Alizayd! I . . . peace be upon you,” she stammered, her Djinnistani laced with the thick accent of Daevabad’s working class.

  “You can call him Qaid, actually,” Rashid corrected. “At least for now.” Amusement simmered in his voice. “May we come in, sister?”

  “Of course.” She held open the door. “I’ll prepare some tea.”

  “Thank you. And please tell Sister Fatumai that we’re here. I’ll be in the back. There’s something I want to show the Qaid.”

  There is? Curious, Ali wordlessly followed Rashid down a dark corridor. The orphanage looked clean—its floors were worn but well-scrubbed—but in terrible disrepair. Water dripped into pans from the broken roof, and mildew covered the books that were neatly stacked in a small classroom. The few toys he saw were sad things: animal bones carved into game pieces, patched dolls, and a ball made of rags.

  As they turned the corner, he heard a terrible hacking cough. Ali glanced down the corridor. It was dim, but he spotted the shadowy form of an older woman supporting a skinny young boy upon a faded cushion. The boy started to cough again, the hacking sound interspaced by choked sobs.

  The woman rubbed the boy’s back as he fought for air. “It’s okay, dear one,” Ali heard her say softly, bringing a cloth to his mouth as he coughed again. She pressed a steaming cup to his lips. “Have some of this. You’ll feel better.”

  Ali’s eyes locked on the cloth she’d held to the boy’s mouth. It glistened with blood.

  “Qaid?”

  Ali glanced up, realizing Rashid was halfway down the corridor. He quickly caught up. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean to stare.”

  “It’s all right. These are things I’m sure you’re usually kept from seeing.”