Ali nodded. “No, of course not. You’re right.” He tried to put the nightmarish thought of the Scourge of Qui-zi, freed after centuries of slavery and seeking bloody vengeance for his slain Nahids, out of mind. “Then why did you bring me here, Dhiru?”
“To set your priorities straight. To remind you of our real enemy.” Muntadhir gestured at the Nahid remains scattered around them. “You’ve never met a Nahid, Ali. You never watched Manizheh snap her fingers and break the bones of a man across the room.”
“It doesn’t matter. They’re dead anyway.”
“But the Daevas are not,” Muntadhir replied. “Those kids you were fretting about upstairs? What’s the worst that will happen to them—they’ll grow up thinking they’re purebloods?” Muntadhir shook his head. “The Nahid Council would have had them burned alive. Hell, probably half the Daevas still think that’s a good idea. Abba walks the line between them. We are neutral. It’s the only thing that’s kept peace in the city.” He lowered his voice. “You . . . you are not neutral. People who think and talk the way you do are dangerous. And Abba does not suffer threats to his city lightly.”
Ali leaned against the stone sarcophagus, and then remembering what it contained, quickly straightened back up. “What are you saying?”
His brother met his gaze. “Something’s going to happen today, Alizayd. Something you’re not going to like. And I want you to promise me you’re not going to do anything stupid in response.”
The deadly intent in Muntadhir’s voice took him aback. “What’s going to happen?”
Muntadhir shook his head. “I can’t tell you.”
“Then how can you expect me to—”
“All I’m asking is that you let Abba do what he needs to do to keep the city’s peace.” Muntadhir gave him a dark look. “I know you’re up to something with the shafit, Zaydi. I don’t know what exactly, nor do I want to. But it ends. Today.”
Ali’s mouth went dry. He fought for a response. “Dhiru, I—”
Muntadhir hushed him. “No, akhi. There is no fight to be had here. I’m your emir, your older brother, and I’m telling you: stay away from the shafit. Zaydi . . . look at me.” He took Ali by the shoulders, forcing him to meet his eyes. They were filled with worry. “Please, akhi. There’s only so much I can do to protect you otherwise.”
Ali took a shaky breath. Here alone with the older brother he’d looked up to for years, the one he’d spent his life preparing to protect and serve as Qaid, Ali felt the terror and guilt of the past few weeks, the anxiety that weighed upon him like armor, finally loosen.
And then collapse. “I’m so sorry, Dhiru.” His voice cracked, and he blinked, fighting back tears. “I never meant for any of this . . .”
Muntadhir pulled him into a hug. “It’s all right. Look . . . just prove your loyalty now and I promise you that when I’m king, I will listen to you about the mixed-bloods. I have no desire to harm the shafit—I think Abba is often too hard on them. And I know you, Ali—you and your spinning mind, your obsession with facts and figures.” He tapped Ali’s temple. “I suspect there are some good ideas hiding behind your propensity for rash, terrible decisions.”
Ali hesitated. Earn this. Anas’s last order was never far in his mind, and if he closed his eyes, Ali could still see the crumbling orphanage, could hear the little boy’s rattling cough.
But you can’t save them on your own. And wouldn’t the brother that he loved and trusted, the man who would actually have real power one day, be a better partner than the bickering remnants of the Tanzeem?
Ali nodded. And then he agreed, his voice echoing in the cavern.
“Yes, my emir.”
15
Nahri
Nahri glanced behind her, but the boat was already leaving, the captain singing as he returned to the open lake. She took a deep breath and followed Dara and the Ayaanle merchants as they made their way to the enormous doors, flanked by a pair of winged lion statues, set in the brass wall. The docks were otherwise deserted and in a state of disrepair. She picked her way carefully through the crumbling monuments, catching sight of a gray hawk watching them from high atop one of the statue’s shoulders.
“This place looks like Hierapolis,” she whispered. The decaying grandeur and deathly silence made it hard to believe there was a teeming city behind the high brass walls.
Dara cast a dismayed glance at a collapsed pier. “It was much grander in my day,” he agreed. “The Geziri never had much taste in the finer aspects of life. I doubt they care about upkeep.” He lowered his voice. “And I don’t think the docks get much use. I’ve not seen another daeva in years; I assumed most people became too afraid to travel after the Nahids were wiped out.” He gave her a small smile. “Maybe now that will change.”
She didn’t return his smile. The idea that her presence might be reason enough to renew commerce was daunting.
The heavy iron doors opened as their group approached. A few men milled about the entrance, soldiers from the look of them. All wore white waist-wraps that went to their calves, black sleeveless tunics, and dark gray turbans. They shared the same bronze-brown skin and black beards as the boat captain. She watched as one nodded to the merchants and motioned them inside.
“Are they Geziris?” she asked, not taking her eyes off the long spears held by two of the men. Their scythed points had a coppery gleam.
“Yes. The Royal Guard.” Dara took a deep breath, self-consciously touching the muddied mark on his temple. “Let’s go.”
The guards seemed preoccupied with the merchants, poking through their salt tablets and scouring their scrolls with pursed lips. One guard glanced up at them, his gunmetal gray gaze briefly flickering past her face. “Pilgrims?” he asked, sounding bored.
Dara kept his gaze low. “Yes. From Sarq—”
The guard waved him off. “Go,” he said distractedly, nearly knocking Nahri over as he turned to help his fellows with the long-suffering salt traders.
Nahri blinked, surprised by how easily that had gone.
“Come on,” Dara whispered, tugging her forward. “Before they change their minds.”
They slipped through the open doors.
As the full force of the city hit her, Nahri realized the walls must have held sound in as well as magic because they were standing in the loudest, most chaotic place she’d ever seen, surrounded by waves of jostling people.
Nahri tried to peer over their heads to look down the crowded street. “What is this place?”
Dara glanced around. “The Grand Bazaar, I believe. We had ours in the same location.”
Bazaar? She gave the frenzied scene a dubious glance. Cairo had bazaars. This looked more like a cross between a riot and the hajj. And it wasn’t so much the number of people that astounded her, but the variety. Pureblooded djinn strode through the crowds, their odd and ephemeral grace marking their difference among the mob of more human-looking shafit. Their attire was wild—literally; in one case she saw a man pass by with an enormous python settled over his shoulders like a contented pet. People wore glowing robes the color of turmeric and dresses like wound-up sheets, held together by shells and razor-sharp teeth. There were headdresses of glittering stones and wigs of braided metals. Capes of bright feathers and at least one robe that looked like a skinned crocodile, its toothy mouth resting on its wearer’s shoulder. A spindly man with an enormous smoking beard ducked by, and a girl holding a basket swept past Nahri, bumping her with one hip. The girl briefly glanced back, letting her gaze linger appreciatively on Dara. A spark of annoyance lit in Nahri, and one of the girl’s long black braids let out a wriggle like a stretching snake. Nahri jumped.
Dara, meanwhile, just looked irritated. He eyed the bustling crowd with open displeasure, giving the muddy street an unimpressed sniff. “Come,” he said, pulling her forward. “We’ll attract attention if we just stand here gawking.”
But it was impossible not to gawk as they pushed their way through the crowd. The stone street wa
s wide, lined with dozens of market stalls and unevenly stacked buildings. A dizzying maze of covered alleys snaked off the main avenue, crowded with foul heaps of decaying garbage and stacked crates. The air was ripe with the smell of coal and cooking aromas. Djinn shouted and gossiped all around her; vendors hawked their wares while customers haggled.
Nahri couldn’t identify half of what was being sold. Hairy purple melons quivered and trembled beside ordinary oranges and dark cherries, while midnight black nuggets the size of fists were piled between cashews and pistachios. Bolts of giant folded rose petals scented the air between those of patterned silk and sturdy muslin, and a jewelry merchant swung a pair of earrings toward her, painted glass eyes that seemed to wink. A stout woman in a bright purple chador poured a smoking white liquid into several different braziers, and a little boy with fiery hair tried to coax a golden bird twice his size from a rattan cage. Nahri nervously edged away; she’d had her fill of large birds.
“Where’s the Grand Temple?” she asked, dodging a puddle of iridescent water.
Before Dara could answer, a man peeled off from the crowd and planted himself in front of them. He was dressed in stone-colored trousers and a close-fitting crimson tunic that reached his knees. A matching flat cap was perched upon his black hair.
“May the fires burn brightly for you both,” he greeted them in Divasti. “Did I hear you say the Grand Temple? You are pilgrims, yes? Here to pay devotion to the glory of our dear, departed Nahids?”
His flowery words were so obviously recited that Nahri could only smile in recognition. A fellow hustler. She looked him over, noting his black eyes and sharp golden cheekbones. He was clean shaven save for a neat black mustache. A Daeva con artist.
“I can take you to the Grand Temple,” he continued. “I have a cousin with a little tavern. Very fair prices for the rooms.”
Dara shoved past the man. “I know the way.”
“But there is still the matter of accommodation,” the man persisted, hurrying to keep up with them. “Pilgrims from the countryside tend not to realize how dangerous Daevabad can be.”
“Ah, and I bet you get a handsome cut from this cousin of yours with such fair prices,” Nahri said knowingly.
The man’s smile vanished. “Are you working with Gushnap?” He planted himself in front of them again and squared his shoulders. “I told him,” he said, wagging a finger in her face. “This is my territory and . . . ah!” He shrieked as Dara seized him by his collar and yanked him away from Nahri.
“Let him go,” she hissed.
But the Daeva man had already caught sight of the muddied mark on Dara’s cheek. The color left his face, and he let out a muffled squeal as Dara lifted him off the ground.
“Dara.” Nahri felt a sudden prick behind her ears, the sensation of being watched. She abruptly straightened up and looked over her shoulder.
Her eyes met the curious gray gaze of a djinn across the street. He appeared to be Geziri and was dressed casually in a simple gray robe and turban, but there was a certain erectness to his posture that she didn’t like. As she stared at him, he turned to a nearby stall as if browsing its wares.
It was then that Nahri saw the bazaar crowd was thinning. A few nervous faces disappeared down adjoining alleys, and a copper merchant across the way slammed his metal screen shut.
Nahri frowned. She’d lived through enough violence—the power struggles of various Ottomans, the French invasion—to recognize the quiet tension that overtook a city before it erupted. Windows were being latched and doors pulled closed. A woman shouted for a pair of dawdling children, and an elderly man limped down an alley.
Behind her, Dara was threatening to rip the con artist’s lungs from his chest if he ever saw him again. She touched his shoulder. “We need to—”
Her warning was interrupted by a sudden clang. Down the avenue, a soldier used his scythe to strike a large set of brass cymbals strung from two opposing rooftops. “Curfew!” he cried.
Dara let go of the hustler, and the man fled. “Curfew?”
Nahri could feel the tension of the remaining crowd with every hurried heartbeat. Something’s going on here, something we know nothing about. A quick glance showed her that the Geziri man she’d caught spying was gone.
She grabbed Dara’s hand. “Let’s go.”
She caught snatches of whispers as they hurried through the emptying bazaar.
“That’s what people are saying . . . kidnapped in the dead of night from their marriage bed . . .”
“. . . gathering in the midan . . . the Most High only knows what they think they’re going to accomplish . . .”
“The Daevas don’t care,” she heard. “The fire worshippers get whatever they want. They always do.”
Dara tightened his grip on her hand, pulling her through the crush of people. They crossed through a tall ornamental gate to enter a large plaza enclosed by copper walls gone green with age. It was less crowded than the bazaar, but there were at least a few hundred djinn milling about the simple fountain of black and white marble blocks at the plaza’s center.
The massive archway they had passed under was unadorned, but six other, smaller gates fronted the plaza, each decorated in a widely different style. Djinn, looking far better dressed and wealthier than the shafit in the bazaar, were vanishing through them. As she watched, a pair of flame-haired children chased each other through a gate of fluted columns with grapevines winding its length. A tall Ayaanle man pushed past her, headed for a gate marked by two narrow, studded pyramids.
Six gates for six tribes, she realized, as well as a gate for the bazaar. Dara pushed her toward the one directly across the plaza. The Daeva Gate was painted pale blue and held open by two brass statues of winged lions. A single Geziri guard stood there, clutching his coppery scythe as he tried to shepherd the nervous crowd through.
An angry voice caught her attention as they approached the fountain. “And what do you get for standing up for the faithful? For helping the needy and oppressed? Death! A gruesome death while our king hides behind the trousers of his fire-worshipping grand wazir!”
A djinn man dressed in a dirty brown robe and sweat-stained white turban had climbed on top of the fountain and was shouting to a growing group of men gathered below. He gestured angrily at the Daeva Gate. “Look, my brothers!” the man shouted again. “Even now, they are favored, guarded by the king’s own soldiers! And this, after they’ve stolen an innocent new bride from the bed of her believing husband . . . a woman whose only crime was leaving her family’s superstitious cult. Is this just?”
The crowd waiting to enter the Daeva Quarter grew, edging out toward the fountain. The two groups were mostly staying apart and giving each other wary glances, but Nahri saw a young Daeva man turn, looking annoyed.
“It is just!” the young Daeva argued back loudly. “This is our city. Why don’t you leave our women alone and crawl back to whatever human hovel your dirt blood came from?”
“Dirt blood?” the man on the fountain repeated. He climbed to a higher block so that he was more visible to the crowd. “Is that what you think I am?” Not waiting for an answer, he produced a long knife from his belt and dragged it down his wrist. Several people in the crowd gasped as the man’s dark blood dripped and sizzled. “Does this look like dirt to you? I passed the veil. I am as djinn as you!”
The Daeva man was not deterred. Instead, he stepped closer to the fountain, anger brewing in his black eyes. “That foul human word has no meaning for me,” he snapped. “This is Daevabad. Those who would call themselves djinn have no place here. Nor do their shafit spawn.”
Nahri pressed closer to Dara. “Sounds like you have a friend,” she muttered darkly. He scowled but said nothing.
“Your people are a disease!” the shafit man yelled. “A degenerate bunch of slavers still worshipping a family of inbred murderers!”
Dara hissed, and his fingers grew hot on her wrist. “Don’t,” Nahri whispered. “Just keep going.”
The shafit man opened his mouth to respond and then stopped, raising a hand to his ear. “Do you hear that?” He grinned, and the crowd went quiet. In the distance, she could hear chanting coming from the direction of the bazaar. The ground started to tremble, echoing with the pounding feet of a growing throng of marchers.
The man laughed as the Daevas started to nervously back away, the threat of a mob apparently enough to convince them to flee. “Run! Go huddle at your fire altars and beg your dead Nahids to save you!” More men poured into the plaza, anger in their faces. Nahri didn’t see many swords, but enough were armed with kitchen knives and broken furniture to alarm her.
“This will be your day of reckoning!” the man shouted. “We will tear through your homes until we find the girl! Until we find and free every believing slave you infidels hold!”
She and Dara were the last through the gate. Dara made sure she was past the brass lions and then turned to argue with the Geziri guard. “Did you not hear them?” He gestured at the growing mob. “Close the gate!”
“I cannot,” the soldier replied. He looked young, his beard little more than black fuzz. “These gates never close. It’s against the law. Besides, reinforcements are coming.” He swallowed nervously, clutching his scythe. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
Nahri didn’t buy his false optimism, and as the chanting grew louder, the soldier’s gray eyes widened. Though she couldn’t hear the djinn instigator over the shouts of the crowd, she saw him gesticulate to the mob of men below. He pointed defiantly at the Daeva Gate, and a roar went through them.
Nahri’s heart raced. Daeva men and women, young and old, were rushing down the manicured streets and vanishing into the pretty stone buildings surrounding them. About a dozen men worked to quickly seal doors and windows, their bare hands the bright crimson of a blacksmith’s tools. But they’d only completed about half the buildings, and the mob was close. Farther down the street, a toddler wailed as its mother pounded desperately on a locked door.
The City of Brass Page 25
