The City of Brass

by S. A. Chakraborty

  She pulled her scarf across her face. The men were still fighting when they reached the boat. Their language was raucous, sounding like a mismatch of every language Nahri had ever heard in the bazaars.

  “The king will hear of this, he will!” one of the Ayaanle traders declared. He angrily shook a piece of parchment at the boatman’s feet. “We were given a fixed contract by the palace for transport!”

  Nahri watched the men in awe. All the Ayaanle were at least two heads taller than she was, their brilliant teal robes flapping like birds. Their eyes were gold, but without the yellow harshness of the ifrit. She was utterly transfixed; she didn’t even have to touch them to feel the life and energy sparking just beneath their skin. She could hear their breathing, could sense enormous lungs filling and puffing like bellows. The beat of their hearts was like wedding drums.

  The Geziri boatman was far less impressive, though his slouch and stained tunic might have been to blame. He exhaled a long stream of black smoke and orange sparks, dangling the pipe from his long fingers.

  “A pretty piece of paper,” he drawled, gesturing at the traders’ contract. “Perhaps it shall serve as a raft if you don’t want to pay my price.”

  Nahri appreciated the man’s logic, but Dara seemed less impressed. He stepped up, the others finally noticing them. “And what price is that?”

  The boatman gave him a surprised look. “Daeva pilgrims don’t pay, you fool.” He grinned wickedly at the Ayaanle. “Crocodiles, however . . .”

  The other djinn abruptly raised his hand, and sparks twisted around his fingers. “You dare insult us, you thin-blooded, wave-addled . . .”

  Dara gently led Nahri to the other side of the boat. “They might be a while,” he said as they headed up the narrow painted ramp.

  “They sound like they’re going to kill each other.” She glanced back as one of the Ayaanle traders started to bang a long wooden staff against the boat’s hull. The Geziri captain cackled.

  “They’ll agree on a fare eventually. Believe it or not, their tribes are actually allies. Though of course under Daeva rule, all passage was free.”

  She detected a hint of smugness in his voice and sighed. Something told her the squabbles between the various djinn tribes would make the war between the Turks and Franks look positively friendly.

  But however nasty their argument, the captain and the merchants must have finally agreed on a price, because before she knew it, the camels were being led into the belly of the ship. The boat lurched and swayed with each step, the sewn wooden planks protesting. Nahri watched the merchants settle on the opposite end of the boat, gracefully crossing their long legs underneath their sweeping robes.

  The captain jumped aboard and pulled the ramp up with a loud bang. Nahri felt her stomach flutter with nerves. She watched as he plucked a short rod from his waist-wrap. As he turned it over in his hands, it became longer and longer.

  She frowned, peering over the boat’s side. They were still beached on the shore. “Shouldn’t we be in the water?”

  Dara shook his head. “Oh, no. Passengers only embark from land. It’s too risky otherwise.”

  “Risky?”

  “Oh, the marid cursed this lake centuries ago. If you put so much as a toe in the water, it’ll grab you, rip you to shreds, and send your remains to all the locations your mind has ever contemplated.”

  Nahri’s mouth dropped open in horror. “What?” she gasped. “And we’re going to cross it? In this rickety piece of—”

  “There is no god but God!” the captain cried and slammed the rod—which was now a pole nearly as long as the boat—into the sandy shore.

  The boat shoved off so fast it was briefly propelled in the air. It slammed into the lake with a great crash that sent a wave of water flying over its sides. Nahri shrieked and covered her head, but the captain quickly swept between her and the rising wave. He clucked his tongue at the water and threatened it with his pole like one would shoo away a dog. The water flattened out.

  “Relax,” Dara urged, looking embarrassed. “The lake knows to behave. We’re perfectly safe here.”

  “It knows . . . Do me a favor,” Nahri seethed, glaring at the daeva. “Next time we’re about to do something like cross a marid-cursed lake that shreds people, stop and explain every step. By the Most High . . .”

  No one else seemed bothered. The Ayaanle were chatting among themselves, sharing a basket of oranges. The captain balanced precariously on the edge of the hull and adjusted the sail. As Nahri watched, he tucked the pipe into his tunic and began to sing.

  The words swept over her, sounding oddly familiar yet completely incomprehensible. It was such a strange sensation that it took her a moment to fully realize what was happening. “Dara?” She tugged on his sleeve, drawing his attention from the sparkling water. “Dara, I can’t understand him.” That had never happened to her before.

  He glanced up at the djinn. “No, he’s singing in Geziriyya. Their language can’t be understood, can’t even be learned by foreign tribesmen.” His lips curled. “A fitting ability for such a duplicitous people.”

  “Don’t start.”

  “I’m not. I didn’t say it to his face.”

  Nahri sighed. “What was that they were speaking to each other then?” she asked, gesturing between the captain and the traders.

  He rolled his eyes. “Djinnistani. An ugly and unrefined merchant tongue consisting of the most unpleasant sounds of all their languages.”

  Well, that was enough of Dara’s opinions for now. Nahri turned away, lifting her face to the bright sun. It was warm on her skin, and she fought to keep her eyes open, the rhythmic motion of the boat lulling her toward sleep. She lazily watched a gray hawk circle and dip close, perhaps hoping for orange scraps, before it veered off toward the distant cliffs.

  “I still don’t see anything that looks like a city,” she said idly.

  “You will very shortly,” he answered, peering at the green mountains. “There’s one last illusion to pass.”

  As he spoke, something shrill rang in her ears. Before she could cry out, her entire body suddenly constricted, as if it had been compressed in a tight sheath. Her skin burned, and her lungs felt full of smoke. Her vision briefly blurred as the ringing grew louder . . .

  And then it was gone. Nahri lay flat on her back on the deck, trying to catch her breath. Dara leaned over her, his face full of worry. “What happened? Are you all right?”

  She pushed herself upright and rubbed her head, dislodging her shawl and wiping away the sweat that sheened her face. “I’m fine,” she mumbled.

  One of the Ayaanle merchants rose as well. Upon seeing her uncovered face, he averted his golden eyes. “Is your lady ill, brother? We have some food and water . . .”

  “She’s not your concern,” Dara snapped.

  The trader flinched like he’d been slapped and abruptly sat back down with his fellows.

  Nahri was shocked by Dara’s rudeness. “What’s wrong with you? He was just trying to help.” She let her voice rise, half-hoping the Ayaanle could hear her embarrassment. She pushed away Dara’s hand as he tried to help her to her feet, and then nearly fell over again as an enormous walled city loomed before them, so large it blotted out most of the sky and entirely covered the rocky island upon which it sat.

  The walls alone would have dwarfed the Pyramids, and the only buildings she could see in the distance were tall enough to peek over them: a dizzying variety of slender minarets, egg-shaped temples with sloping green roofs, and squat brick buildings draped in intricate white stonework resembling lace. The wall itself shone brilliantly in the bright sun, the light glistening off the golden surface like . . .

  “Brass,” she whispered. The massive wall was entirely built of brass, polished to perfection.

  She wordlessly walked to the edge of the boat. Dara followed. “Yes,” he said. “The brass better holds the enchantments used to build the city.”

  Nahri’s eyes roamed the wall. They wer
e approaching a port of stone piers and docks that looked large enough to hold both the Frankish and Ottoman fleets. A large, perfectly cut stone roof sheltered much of the area, held up by enormous columns.

  As the boat pushed closer, she noticed figures skillfully carved into the wall’s brass surface, dozens of men and women dressed in an ancient style she couldn’t identify, with flat caps covering their curly hair. Some were standing and pointing, holding unfurled scrolls and weighted scales. Others simply sat with open palms, their veiled faces serene.

  “My God,” she whispered. Her eyes widened as they grew closer; brass statues of the same figures towered over the boat.

  A grin like Nahri had never before seen lit Dara’s face as he gazed upon the city. His cheeks flushed with excitement, and when he glanced down at her, his eyes were so bright she could barely meet his gaze.

  “Your ancestors, Banu Nahida,” he said, gesturing to the statues. He pressed his hands together and bowed. “Welcome to Daevabad.”

  14

  Ali

  Ali slammed the stack of papers back on his desk, nearly knocking over his teacup. “These reports are lies, Abu Zebala. You are the city’s sanitation inspector. Explain to me why the Daeva Quarter all but sparkles while a man in the Sahrayn district was crushed the other day by a collapsing pile of garbage.”

  The Geziri official standing before him offered an obsequious smile. “Cousin . . .”

  “I am not your cousin.” Not technically true, but sharing a great-great-grandfather with the king had gotten Abu Zebala his position. It wasn’t going to let him squirm out of answering the question.

  “Prince,” Abu Zebala graciously corrected. “I am investigating the incident. It was a young boy—he should not have been playing in the trash. Truly, I blame his parents for not—”

  “He was two hundred and eighty-one, you fool.”

  “Ah.” Abu Zebala blinked. “Was he then?” He swallowed, and Ali watched him calculate his next lie. “Either way . . . the idea of equally distributing sanitation services among the tribes is outdated.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Abu Zebala pressed his hands together. “The Daevas greatly value cleanliness. Their whole fire cult is about purity, no? But the Sahrayn?” The other djinn shook his head, looking disappointed. “Come now. Everyone knows those western barbarians would happily stew in their own filth. If cleanliness is important enough to the Daevas that they’re willing to put a price on it . . . who am I to deny them?”

  Ali narrowed his eyes as he untwisted Abu Zebala’s words. “Did you just admit to being bribed?”

  The other man didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. “I would not say bribed . . .”

  “Enough.” Ali shoved the records back at him. “Correct this. Each quarter gets the same standard of trash removal and street sweeping. If it’s not done by the end of the week, I’ll have you sacked and sent back to Am Gezira.”

  Abu Zebala started to protest, but Ali raised his hand so abruptly the other man flinched. “Get out. And if I hear you speak of such corruption a second time, I’ll take your tongue to prevent a third.”

  Ali didn’t really mean that; he was merely exhausted and annoyed. But Abu Zebala’s patronizing smile vanished and he paled. He nodded and quickly left, his sandals clattering as he fled down the steps.

  That was poorly done. Ali sighed and stood, walking toward the window. But he didn’t have the patience for a man like Abu Zebala. Not after last night.

  A single ferry pushed over the calm water of the distant lake, bright sunlight reflecting on its black and gold hull. It was a beautiful day to sail. Whoever was on the ferry should count themselves lucky, he thought; the last time Ali crossed was in rain so heavy he’d feared the boat would sink.

  He yawned, exhaustion creeping up on him again. He hadn’t gone back to the palace last night, unable to bear the thought of seeing his luxurious apartment—or running into the family the Tanzeem wanted him to betray—after the disastrous encounter at the orphanage. But he hadn’t gotten much sleep in his office; in truth, he hadn’t gotten much sleep since the night he had followed Anas into the Daeva Quarter.

  He returned to his desk, its flat surface suddenly tempting. Ali laid his head upon his arm and closed his eyes. Maybe just a few minutes . . .

  A sudden knock jarred Ali from sleep, and he jumped, scattering his papers and knocking over the teacup. When the grand wazir barged in, Ali didn’t bother to hide his irritation.

  Kaveh closed the door as Ali swept wet tea leaves off his now-stained reports. “Hard at work, my prince?”

  Ali glared at him. “What do you want, Kaveh?”

  “I need to speak to your father. It is most urgent.”

  Ali waved his hand around the office. “You do know that you’re in the Citadel? I understand it must be confusing at your age . . . all these buildings that look nothing alike, located on opposite sides of the city . . .”

  Kaveh sat without invitation in the chair across from Ali. “He won’t see me. His servants say he’s busy.”

  Ali hid his surprise. Kaveh was a deeply annoying man, but his position was one which usually guaranteed access to the king, especially if the matter was urgent. “Perhaps you’ve fallen from favor,” he suggested hopefully.

  “I take it then that the rumors do not have you worried?” Kaveh asked, pointedly ignoring Ali’s response. “The gossip in the bazaar about a Daeva girl who supposedly converted to your faith to elope with a djinn man? People say her family stole her back last night and are hiding her in our quarter.”

  Ah. Ali reconsidered Kaveh’s concern. There wasn’t much that sparked more tension in their world than conversions and intermarriage. And unfortunately the situation the wazir just laid out was fuel for a riot. Daevabad’s law provided absolute protection to converts; under no circumstances were their Daeva families allowed to harass or detain them. Ali saw no problem with this: the djinn faith was the correct faith, after all. Yet the Daevas could be extremely possessive when it came to their kin, and it rarely ended well.

  “Would it not be better for you to go back to your people and find the girl? Surely you have the resources. Return her to her husband before things get out of control.”

  “As much as I enjoy handing over Daeva girls to mobs of angry djinn,” Kaveh started sarcastically, “the girl in question doesn’t seem to exist. No one on either side knows her name or has any identifying information. Some say her husband is a Sahrayn trader, some say a Geziri metalworker, and others a shafit beggar.” He scowled. “If she were real, I would know.”

  Ali narrowed his eyes. “So what is the problem then?”

  “That it’s a rumor. There’s no girl to turn over. But that answer merely angers the djinn even more. I fear they’re looking for any reason to sack our quarter.”

  “And who is ‘they,’ Grand Wazir? Who would be foolish enough to attack the Daeva Quarter?”

  Kaveh raised his chin. “Perhaps the men who helped Anas Bhatt murder two of my tribesmen, the men I believe you were tasked with finding and arresting.”

  It took every bit of self-control Ali had not to flinch. He cleared his throat. “I doubt a few fugitives already on the run from the Royal Guard would be interested in attracting such attention.”

  Kaveh held his stare a moment longer. “Perhaps.” He sighed. “Prince Alizayd, I’m simply telling you what I’ve heard. I know you and I have our differences, but I beg that you set them aside for a moment.” He pursed his lips. “There’s something about this that has me truly worried.”

  The honesty in Kaveh’s voice struck him. “What would you have me do?”

  “Put a curfew in place and double the guard at our tribal gate.”

  Ali’s eyes went wide. “You know I cannot do that without the king’s permission. It would cause panic in the streets.”

  “Well, you must do something,” Kaveh insisted. “You’re the Qaid. The city’s safety is your responsibility.”
<
br />   Ali rose from his desk. Kaveh was probably being ridiculous. But on the very, very slim chance this rumor had a grain of truth, he did want to do what he could to avoid a riot. And that meant going to his father.

  “Let’s go,” he said, beckoning Kaveh along. “I’m his son, he’ll see me.”

  “The king can’t see you right now, my prince.”

  Ali’s cheeks grew hot as the guard politely denied him. Kaveh coughed into his hand in a poor effort to hide his laugh. Ali stared at the wooden door, embarrassed and annoyed. His father wouldn’t see the grand wazir and now was too busy for his Qaid?

  “This is ridiculous.” Ali barged past the guard and shoved the door open. He didn’t care what sort of dalliance he was interrupting.

  But the scene that met his eyes was not the flirtatious pack of concubines he expected, but rather a small group of men huddled around his father’s desk: Muntadhir, Abu Nuwas, and even more strangely, a shafit-looking man he didn’t recognize clad in a shabby brown robe and sweat-stained white turban.

  The king glanced up, clearly surprised. “Alizayd . . . you’re early.”

  Early for what? Ali blinked, trying to gather his composure. “I . . . ah, sorry, I didn’t realize you were . . .” He trailed off. Conspiring? Judging from how quickly the men straightened up when he barged in and the vaguely guilty look on his brother’s face, conspiring was definitely his first impression. The shafit man lowered his gaze, stepping behind Abu Nuwas like he didn’t want to be seen.

  Kaveh came in behind him. “Forgive us, Your Majesty, but there is an urgent matter—”

  “Yes, I got your message, Grand Wazir,” his father interrupted. “I’m handling it.”

  “Oh.” Kaveh squirmed under the king’s withering stare. “I just fear that if—”

  “I said I’m handling it. You’re dismissed.”

  Ali almost felt a moment of pity for the Daeva man as he quickly backed out of the room. Ignoring his younger son, Ghassan nodded at Abu Nuwas. “So we’re understood?”