The City of Brass

by S. A. Chakraborty

  “Yes, sire,” Abu Nuwas said, his voice grave.

  The king turned his attention to the shafit man. “And if you get caught . . .”

  The man simply bowed, and his father nodded. “Good, you may both go.” He glanced at Ali, and his face hardened. “Come here,” he commanded, switching to Geziriyya. “Sit.”

  He’d gone in as Qaid, but now Ali felt more like a boy bracing for a scolding. He took a seat on the plain chair opposite his father. He noticed for the first time that the king was in his ceremonial black robes and jewel-colored turban, which was odd. Court was being held later this afternoon, and his father didn’t typically dress like that unless he expected public business. A steaming cup of green coffee sat by his bejeweled hand, and his pile of scrolls looked even messier than usual. Whatever he was working on, he’d clearly been at it for some time.

  Muntadhir came around the desk and nodded at the cup. “Should I take that before you hurl it at his head?”

  Ali bit back a wave of panic, fidgeting under his father’s harsh stare. “What did I do?”

  “Not much, it seems,” Ghassan said. He drummed his fingers over the sprawl of papers. “I’ve been reviewing the reports from Abu Nuwas on your . . . tenure as Qaid.”

  Ali drew back. “There are reports?” He had figured Abu Nuwas was watching him, but there was enough paper on the desk to contain a detailed history of Daevabad. “I didn’t realize you had him spying on me.”

  “Of course I had him spying on you,” Ghassan scoffed. “Did you really think I’d blindly hand over complete control of the city’s security to my underage son with a history of poor decision making?”

  “I take it his reports are not glowing?”

  Muntadhir winced, and his father’s face darkened. “I hope you keep your sense of humor, Alizayd, when I send you to some wretched garrison in the wastes of the Sahara.” He jabbed angrily at the papers. “You were supposed to hunt down the remaining Tanzeem and teach the shafit a lesson. Yet our jail is mostly empty, and I see no evidence of increased arrests or evictions. What happened to the new ordinances on the shafit? Should not half of them be out on the street?”

  So Rashid had been correct last night in saying Ghassan would soon realize Ali wasn’t putting the new laws in place. Ali fought for words. “Is it not a good thing for our jail to be empty? There has been no mass violence since Anas’s execution, no increase in crime . . . I cannot arrest people for things they don’t do.”

  “Then you should have drawn them out. I told you I wanted them gone. You are Qaid. It’s your responsibility to figure out how to accomplish my orders.”

  “By inventing charges?”

  “Yes,” Ghassan said vehemently. “If that is what’s needed. Besides, Abu Nuwas says there have been several instances of purebloods having their foster children kidnapped in the past few weeks. Could you not have followed up on that?”

  Foster children? Is that what they call them? Ali gave his father an incredulous look. “You realize the people who make those complaints are slavers, yes? They kidnap these children from their parents in order to sell them to the highest bidder!” Ali started to rise from his seat.

  “Sit down,” his father snapped. “And don’t spout that shafit propaganda at me. People give up children all the time. And if these so-called slavers of yours have their paperwork in order, then as far as both you and I are concerned, they fall within the law.”

  “But, Abba—”

  His father slammed his fist onto the desk so hard the scrolls jumped. An inkwell fell, smashing to the floor.

  “Enough. I’ve already told Abu Nuwas that such transactions can now be done in the bazaar if it will make things safer.” When Ali opened his mouth, his father held up his hand. “Don’t,” he warned. “If you say another word on the matter, I swear I’ll have you stripped of your titles and sent back to Am Gezira for the rest of your first century.” He shook his head. “I was willing to give you a chance to prove your loyalty, Alizayd, but—”

  Muntadhir swept between them and spoke for the first time. “It is not yet at that point, Abba,” he said cryptically. “Let us see what the day brings—that is what we decided, yes?” He ignored Ali’s questioning look. “But perhaps when Wajed returns, Ali should go to Am Gezira. He is not even at his quarter century yet. Give him a garrison back home, and let him get seasoned for a few decades among our own people in a place where he can do less damage.”

  “That’s not necessary.” Ali’s face grew hot, but his father was already nodding in agreement.

  “It is something to consider, yes. But things will not continue like this until Wajed’s return. After today, you’ll have excuse enough to crack down on the shafit.”

  “What?” Ali sat up straight. “Why?”

  A shrill bird cry from outside the window interrupted them, and then a gray hawk neatly swept through the stone frame, tumbling to the floor in the form of a Geziri soldier, his uniform perfectly pressed. He fell into a bow as smoky feathers melted back into his skin. A scout, Ali recognized, one of the shapeshifters that regularly patrolled both the city and the surrounding lands.

  “Your Majesty,” the scout started. “Forgive my intrusion, but I have news I thought urgent.”

  Ghassan frowned impatiently when the scout fell silent. “Which is . . . ?”

  “There’s a Daeva slave crossing the lake with an Afshin mark on his face.”

  His father’s scowl deepened. “And? I have Daeva men going mad, painting themselves up in Afshin marks and running half-naked through the streets at least once a decade. That he’s a slave only explains his lunacy.”

  The scout persisted. “He . . . he did not seem mad, my king. A bit haggard perhaps, but imposing. He looked like a warrior to me and wore a dagger at his waist.”

  Ghassan stared. “Do you know when the last Afshin died, soldier?” When the scout flushed, Ghassan continued. “Fourteen hundred years ago. Slaves don’t last that long. The ifrit give them to the humans to cause chaos for a few centuries and when they’re driven thoroughly insane, dump them back on Daevabad’s doorstep to scare us.” He raised his brows. “Rather effectively, in your case.”

  The scout dropped his gaze, stammering something unintelligible, but Ali noticed his brother suddenly frown.

  “Abba,” Muntadhir started. “You don’t think . . .”

  Ghassan threw him an exasperated glance. “Did you not hear what I just said? Don’t be ridiculous.” He turned back to the scout. “If it will console you both, follow him. Should he draw a bow and start scourging shafit in the street . . . well, then I suppose the day will be more interesting. Go.”

  The flustered scout bowed; feathers sprouted over his arms, and he flew out the window, looking eager to escape.

  “An Afshin . . .” Ghassan shook his head. “Next Suleiman himself will be appearing on my throne to lecture the masses.” He waved a dismissive hand at his sons. “You can go, as well, though you’re both confined to the palace for the rest of the day.”

  “What?” Ali jumped to his feet. “I’m acting Qaid, there’s a possible riot brewing in the streets, a crazed slave arriving, and you want to lock me in my room?”

  The king lifted his dark brows. “You won’t be Qaid for long if you keep questioning my orders.” He inclined his head toward the door. “Go.”

  Muntadhir grabbed Ali by the shoulders, literally turning him around and shoving him toward the exit. “Enough, Zaydi,” he hissed under his breath.

  They’re up to something. Ali didn’t like to think his father capable of intentionally stirring up such dangerous rumors, but even so, he didn’t want the shafit lured into a riot. He started to break off down the corridor. As much as the idea turned his stomach, he knew he needed to find Rashid.

  Muntadhir grabbed his wrist. “Oh, no, akhi. You don’t leave my side today.”

  “I need to get some papers from the Citadel.”

  Muntadhir gave him a long look. Too long. Then he shrugged. “
Well, then by all means, let’s go.”

  “You don’t need to come.”

  “I don’t?” Muntadhir crossed his arms. “And that’s where you would go? Just to the Citadel. Alone and back again without meeting anyone . . . no, Alizayd,” he snapped, grabbing Ali’s chin when he looked away, unable to meet his older brother’s suspicious gaze. “You look at me when I talk to you.”

  A group of chattering courtiers rounded the bend of the corridor, and Muntadhir dropped his hand, stepping away from Ali as they passed.

  The anger returned to his brother’s face as soon as they were out of sight. “You fool. You’re not even a good liar, do you know that?” Muntadhir paused and then let out an exasperated sigh. “Come with me.”

  He grabbed Ali’s arm and pulled him in the opposite direction of the courtiers, through a servants’ entrance near the kitchens. Too frightened to protest, Ali stayed silent until his brother stopped at an unassuming alcove. Muntadhir raised his hand, whispering an incantation under his breath.

  The alcove’s surface smoked. It vanished. A set of dusty stone steps greeted them, yawning into blackness.

  Ali swallowed. “Are you going to assassinate me?” He was not entirely joking.

  Muntadhir glared. “No, akhi. I’m going to save you.”

  Muntadhir led him on a dizzying path down the stairs and through deserted corridors, lower and lower until Ali could hardly imagine they were still in the palace. There were no torches; the only light came from a handful of flames that Muntadhir charmed into existence. The firelight danced widely on the slick, damp walls, making Ali uncomfortably aware of how tight the corridor was. The air was thick and smelled of mildew and wet earth. “Are we under the lake?”

  “Probably.”

  Ali shuddered. They were underground and underwater? He tried not to think about the press of stone and earth and water above his head, but his heart raced. Most pureblooded djinn were notoriously claustrophobic, and he was no different. Nor was his brother, judging from Muntadhir’s ragged breathing.

  “Where are we going?” he finally dared to ask.

  “It’s better seen than explained,” Muntadhir said. “Don’t worry, we’re close.”

  A few moments later the corridor ended abruptly in a pair of thick wooden doors that barely came to Ali’s chin. There were no knobs or door pulls, nothing to indicate how they opened.

  Muntadhir’s hand shot out when Ali reached for them. “Not like that,” he warned. “Let me have your zulfiqar.”

  “You’re not going to cut my throat and leave me in this godforsaken place, are you?”

  “Don’t tempt me,” Muntadhir said flatly. He took the zulfiqar, bent down, and ran the blade lightly along his ankle. He pressed his palm against the bloody wound and handed the zulfiqar back to Ali. “Your turn. Take the blood from somewhere Abba won’t see. He’d kill me if he found out I brought you down here.”

  Ali frowned but followed his brother’s example with the blade. “Now what?”

  “Put your hand here.” Muntadhir gestured to a pair of grimy copper seals on the door, and they each pressed a bloody hand against a seal. The ancient doors opened with a whisper of dust into yawning blackness. His brother stepped through and raised his fistful of flames.

  Ali ducked under the low doorway and followed. Muntadhir flung his hand out, scattering the flames to light the torches on the walls, illuminating a large cavern roughly hacked out of the city’s bedrock. Ali covered his nose as he took another step on the soft, sandy ground. The cavern reeked, and as his eyes adjusted to the blackness, he stilled.

  The floor was covered with coffins. Scores, he realized, as Muntadhir lit another torch. Some were neatly lined up in identical rows of matching stone sarcophagi, while others were simply jumbled piles of plain wooden boxes. The smell wasn’t mildew. It was rot. The sharply astringent odor of the ashy decay of a djinn.

  Ali gasped in horror. “What is this?” All djinn, regardless of their tribe, burned their dead. It was one of the few rituals they shared after Suleiman divided them.

  Muntadhir scanned the room. “Our handiwork, apparently.”

  “What?”

  His brother motioned him toward a large rack of scrolls concealed behind an enormous marble sarcophagus. All were sealed in lead containers marked with tar. Muntadhir cracked open one of the seals, pulled out the scroll, and handed it to Ali. “You’re the scholar.”

  Ali carefully unrolled the fragile parchment. It was covered in an archaic form of Geziriyya, a simple line drawing of names leading to other names.

  Daeva names.

  A family tree. He glanced at the next page. This one had several entries, all following roughly the same format. He struggled to read one.

  “Banu Narin e-Ninkarrik, aged one hundred and one. Drowning. Verified by Qays al Qahtani and her uncle Azad . . . Azad e-Nahid . . . Aleph noon nine nine,” Ali read out the symbols at the end of the entry and raised his gaze to the pile of coffins before him. All had a four-digit pattern of numbers and letters painted in black tar on their sides.

  “Merciful God,” he whispered. “It’s the Nahids.”

  “All of them,” his brother confirmed, an edge to his voice. “All those who’ve died since the war anyway. No matter the cause.” He nodded at one dark corner, so far back Ali could only make out shadowy shapes of boxes. “Some Afshins, as well, though their family was wiped out in the war itself, of course.”

  Ali gazed around. He spotted a pair of tiny coffins across the room and turned away, his stomach souring. Regardless of how he felt about the fire worshippers, this was ghastly. Only the worst criminals were buried in their world, dirt and water said to be so contaminating to djinn remains that they concealed one’s soul from God’s judgment entirely. Ali wasn’t sure he believed that, but still, they were creatures of fire, and to fire they were supposed to return. Not to some dark, dank cave under a cursed lake.

  “This is obscene,” he said softly as he rolled up the scroll; he didn’t need to read further. “Abba showed you this?”

  His brother nodded and stared at the pair of small coffins. “When Manizheh died.”

  “I take it she’s down here somewhere?”

  Muntadhir shook his head. “No. You know how Abba felt about her. He had her burned in the Grand Temple. He said that when he became king he wanted to have all the remains blessed and burned, but he didn’t think there was a way to do so discreetly.”

  Shame gnawed at Ali. “The Daevas would tear down the palace gates if they found out about this place.”

  “Probably.”

  “Then why do all this?”

  Muntadhir shrugged. “You think it was Abba’s decision? Look at how old some of these bodies are. This place was likely built by Zaydi himself . . . oh, don’t give me that look, I know he’s your hero, Ali, but don’t be that naive. You must know the things people used to say about the Nahids, that they could change their faces, swap forms, resurrect each other from ash . . .”

  “Rumors,” Ali said dismissively. “Propaganda. Any scholar could—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Muntadhir said evenly. “Ali, look at this place.” He pointed to the scrolls. “They kept records, they verified the bodies. We might have won the war, but at least some of our ancestors were so frightened of the Nahids, they literally kept their bodies to reassure themselves that they were truly dead.”

  Ali didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure how to. The whole room made his skin crawl; Suleiman’s chosen, reduced to rotting in their burial shrouds. The cavern—no, the tomb—was silent save for the sound of spitting torches.

  Muntadhir spoke again. “It gets worse.” He jiggled free a small drawer in the side of the rack and plucked out a copper box about the size of his hand. “Another blood seal, though what you have on your hand should be enough to open it.” He offered it to Ali. “Trust me, our ancestors never wanted anyone to find this. I’m not even sure why they kept it.”

  The box grew warm in Ali’s
bloody hand, and a tiny spring was released. Nestled inside was a dusty brass amulet.

  A relic, he recognized. All djinn wore something similar, a bit of blood and hair, sometimes a baby tooth or flayed piece of skin—all bound up with holy verses in molten metal. It was the only means by which they could be returned to a body if they were enslaved by an ifrit. Ali wore one, as did Muntadhir, copper bolts through their right ears in the manner of all Geziri.

  He frowned. “Whose relic is this?”

  Muntadhir gave him a bleak smile. “Darayavahoush e-Afshin’s.”

  Ali dropped the amulet as if it had bitten him. “The Scourge of Qui-zi?”

  “May God strike him down.”

  “We shouldn’t have this,” Ali insisted. A shiver of fear ran down his spine. “That—that’s not what the books say happened to him.”

  Muntadhir gave him a knowing look. “And what do the books say happened, Alizayd? That the Scourge mysteriously disappeared when his rebellion was at its height, as he prepared to retake Daevabad?” His brother knelt to retrieve the amulet. “Strange timing, that.”

  Ali shook his head. “It’s not possible. No djinn would turn over another to the ifrit. Not even their worst enemy.”

  “Grow up, little brother,” Muntadhir chided and replaced the box. “It was the worst war our people have ever seen. And Darayavahoush was a monster. Even I know that much of our history. If Zaydi al Qahtani cared for his people, he would have done anything to end it. Even this.”

  Ali reeled. A fate worse than death: That’s what everyone said about enslavement. Eternal servitude, forced to grant the most savage and intimate desires of an endless slew of human masters. Of the slaves that were found and freed, very few survived with their sanity intact.

  Zaydi al Qahtani couldn’t have arranged such a thing, he tried to tell himself. His family’s long reign could not be the product of such an awful betrayal of their race.

  His heart skipped a beat. “Wait, you don’t think the man the scout saw . . .”

  “No,” Muntadhir said, a little too quickly. “I mean, he can’t be. His relic is right here. So he couldn’t have been returned to a body.”