The City of Brass

by S. A. Chakraborty

  “I believe the hope was that you would pass out drunk among a pile of meat dishes and embarrass yourself,” the woman said lightly. “But you needn’t worry. I arrived before any real damage was done.”

  What? Nahri pushed the cup away, suddenly less inclined to accept unknown drinks from strangers. “Why would she . . . who are you?” she demanded, bewildered.

  A gentle smile lit the woman’s face. “Nisreen e-Kinshur. I was the senior aide to your mother and uncle. I came as soon as I received word—though it took me some time to make my way through the crowds celebrating in the streets.” She pressed her fingers together, inclining her brow. “It is an honor to meet you, my lady.”

  Her head still spinning, Nahri wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. “Okay,” she finally managed.

  Nisreen motioned to the steaming cup. Whatever it was smelled bitter and a bit like pickled ginger. “That will help, I promise. Your uncle Rustam’s recipe, one that won him many fans among Daevabad’s merrymakers. And as for the first part of your question . . .” Nisreen lowered her voice. “You would be wise not to trust the princess; her mother Hatset never had much love for your family.”

  And what does that have to do with me? Nahri wanted to protest. She’d been in Daevabad barely a day; could she really have already earned herself an adversary at the palace?

  A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Nahri looked up as a very familiar—and very welcome—face peeked in.

  “You’re awake.” Dara smiled, looking relieved. “Finally. Feeling any better?”

  “Not really,” Nahri grumbled. She took a sip of the tea and then made a face, setting it down on a low mirrored table beside her. She swiped at a few of the wild strands of hair sticking to her face as Dara approached. She could only imagine what she looked like. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Since yesterday.” He sat down beside her. Dara certainly looked well rested. He’d bathed and shaved and was dressed in a long pine green coat that set off his bright eyes. He wore new boots, and as he moved she caught sight of the saddlebag he placed on the ground.

  The coat and shoes took on a new meaning. Nahri narrowed her eyes. “Are you going somewhere?”

  His smile faded. “Lady Nisreen,” he asked, turning to the older woman. “Forgive me . . . but would you mind perhaps giving us a moment alone?”

  Nisreen arched one black eyebrow. “Were things so different in your time, Afshin, that you’d be left alone with an unmarried Daeva girl?”

  He pressed a hand against his heart. “I promise I mean nothing scandalous.” He smiled again, a slightly rakish grin that made Nahri’s heart skip a beat. “Please.”

  Nisreen apparently wasn’t immune to the handsome warrior’s charms either. Something in her face collapsed even as her cheeks grew a bit pink. She sighed. “One moment, Afshin.” She rose to her feet. “I should probably go check on the workers restoring the infirmary. We’ll want to begin training as soon as possible.”

  Training? Nahri’s head pounded harder. She’d hoped to have at least a brief respite in Daevabad after their exhausting journey. Overwhelmed, she merely nodded.

  “But, Banu Nahida . . .” Nisreen paused at the door and glanced back, concern in her black eyes. “Please take better care around the Qahtanis,” she warned gently. “Around anyone not of our tribe.” She left, closing the door behind her.

  Dara turned back to Nahri. “I like her.”

  “You would,” Nahri replied. She gestured again to his boots and bag. “Tell me why you’re dressed like you’re going somewhere.”

  He took a deep breath. “I’m going after the ifrit.”

  Nahri blinked at him. “You’ve lost your mind. Being back in this city has actually driven you insane.”

  Dara shook his head. “The Qahtanis’ story about your origins and the ifrit doesn’t make sense, Nahri. The timeline, this supposed curse affecting your appearance . . . the pieces don’t fit.”

  “Who cares? Dara, we’re alive. That’s all that matters!”

  “It’s not all that matters,” he argued. “Nahri, what if . . . what if there was some truth in what Aeshma said about your mother?”

  Nahri gaped. “Did you not hear what the king said happened to her?”

  “What if he was lying?”

  She threw up her hands. “Dara, for the love of God. You’re looking for any reason to distrust these people, and for what? To go on some half-baked quest?”

  “It’s not half-baked,” Dara said quietly. “I didn’t tell the Qahtanis the truth about Khayzur.”

  Nahri went cold. “What do you mean?”

  “Khayzur didn’t free me. He found me.” Dara’s bright eyes met her shocked ones. “He found me twenty years ago, covered in blood, barely aware, and wandering the same part of Daevastana in which your relatives supposedly met their end . . . an end you must have just escaped.” He reached his hand out, grasping hers. “And then twenty years later—using a magic I still don’t understand—you called me to your side.”

  He squeezed her hand, and she was acutely aware of his touch, his palm hard and calloused against her own. “Maybe the Qahtanis aren’t lying, maybe that’s the truth as far as they are aware. But the ifrit knew something—and right now that’s all we have.” There was a hint of pleading in his voice. “Someone brought me back, Nahri. Someone saved you. I have to know.”

  “Dara, do you not remember how easily they defeated us at the Gozan?” Her voice broke in fear.

  “I’m not going to get myself killed,” he assured her. “Ghassan’s giving me two dozen of his best men. And as much as it pains me to say this, the Geziris are good soldiers. Fighting seems to be the only thing they do well. Trust me when I say I wish I did not have the experience to know this.”

  She threw him a dark look. “Yes, you might have mentioned your past in a bit greater detail before we got here, Dara. A rebellion?”

  He flushed. “It’s a long story.”

  “It always seems to be, with you.” Her voice grew bitter. “So that’s it, then? You’re just going to leave me here with these people?”

  “It won’t be long, Nahri, I swear. And you’ll be perfectly safe. I’m taking their emir.” His face twisted. “I made it quite clear to the king that if something happened to you, his son would suffer the same.”

  She could only imagine how well that conversation had gone over. And she knew part of what Dara was saying made logical sense, but God, did the thought of being alone in this foreign city, surrounded by scheming djinn with unknown grievances, terrify her. She couldn’t conceive of doing this alone, of waking without Dara beside her, of passing her days without his gruff advice and obnoxious comments.

  And surely he was underestimating the danger. This was the man who’d jumped down the gullet of a rukh with the vague notion of killing it from the inside. She shook her head. “What of the marid, Dara, and the peris? Khayzur said they were after you.”

  “I’m hoping they’re already gone.” Nahri raised her brow, incredulous, but he continued. “They’re not going to come after a large party of djinn. They can’t. There are laws between our races.”

  “That didn’t stop them before.” Her eyes stung. This was all too much, too fast.

  His face fell. “Nahri, I have to do this . . . oh, please don’t cry,” he begged as she lost the fight against the tears she was trying to hold in check. He brushed them from her cheek, his fingers hot against her skin. “You won’t even know I’m gone. There’s so much to steal here that your attention will be thoroughly occupied.”

  The joke did little to improve her mood. She averted her gaze, suddenly embarrassed. “Fine,” she remarked flatly. “After all, you brought me to the king. That’s all you promised—”

  “Stop.” Nahri startled as his hands suddenly cupped her face. He leveled his gaze on hers, and her heart skipped a beat.

  But Dara went no further—though there was no denying the flash of regret in his eyes as his thumb lightl
y brushed her lower lip. “I’m coming back, Nahri,” he promised. “You’re my Banu Nahida. This is my city.” His expression was defiant. “Nothing will keep me from either of you.”

  17

  Ali

  The boat before Ali was made of pure bronze and large enough to hold a dozen men. Beams of sunlight undulated across its gleaming surface, reflected off the distant lake below. The hinges holding the boat to the wall creaked hoarsely as it swayed in the breeze. They were ancient; the bronze boat had been hanging here for nearly two thousand years.

  It was one of the execution methods of which the Nahid Council had been most fond.

  The shafit prisoners in front of Ali must have known they were doomed, had likely realized it as soon as they were arrested. There was little begging as his men forced them into the bronze boat. They knew better than to expect mercy from purebloods.

  They confessed. These are no innocent men. Whatever rumor incited them, they had taken up weapons with the intent of sacking the Daeva Quarter.

  Prove your loyalty, Zaydi, Ali heard his brother say. He hardened his heart.

  One of the prisoners—the smallest—suddenly broke away. Before the guards could grab him, he threw himself at Ali’s feet.

  “Please, my lord! I didn’t do anything, I swear! I sell flowers in the midan. That’s all!” The man looked up, pressing his palms together in respect.

  Except that he wasn’t a man at all. Ali startled; the prisoner was a boy, one who looked even younger than himself. His brown eyes were swollen from crying.

  Perhaps sensing Ali’s uncertainty, the boy continued, his voice desperate. “My neighbor just wanted the ransom! He gave my name, but I swear I did nothing! I have Daeva customers . . . I would never hurt them! Zavan e-Kaosh! He would vouch for me!”

  Abu Nuwas yanked the boy to his feet. “Get away from him,” he growled as he shoved the sobbing shafit into the boat with the rest. Most were praying, their heads lowered in prostration.

  Shaken, Ali turned over the scroll in his hands, the paper worn thin. He stared at the words he was supposed to recite, the words he’d said too many times this week.

  One more time. Just do this one more time.

  He opened his mouth. “You have all been found guilty and sentenced to death by the noble and illuminated Ghassan al Qahtani, king of the realm and . . . Defender of the Faith.” The title felt like poison in his mouth. “May you find mercy in the Most High.”

  One of his father’s metallurgists stepped forward and cracked his charcoal-colored hands. He gave Ali an expectant look.

  Ali stared at the boy. What if he’s telling the truth?

  “Prince Alizayd,” Abu Nuwas prompted. Flames twisted around the metallurgist’s fingers.

  He barely heard Abu Nuwas. Instead he saw Anas in his mind.

  It should be me up there. Ali dropped the scroll. I’m probably the closest thing to the Tanzeem here.

  “Qaid, we are waiting.” When Ali said nothing, Abu Nuwas turned to the metallurgist. “Do it,” he snapped.

  The man nodded and stepped forward, his smoldering black hands turning the hot crimson of worked iron. He grabbed the edge of the boat.

  The effect was instantaneous. The bronze began to glow, and the barefoot shafit started to shriek. Most immediately jumped in the lake; it was certain to be a quicker death. A few lasted another moment or two, but it didn’t take long. It rarely took long.

  Except this time. The boy his age, the one who had begged for mercy, didn’t move fast enough and by the time he tried to jump overboard, the liquid metal had licked up his legs and trapped him in the boat. In desperation, he grabbed for the side, likely meaning to heave himself over.

  It was a mistake. The boat’s sides were no less molten than its deck. The bewitched metal snatched his hands tight, and he shrieked as he tried to pull free.

  “Ahhh! No, God, no . . . please!” He screamed again, an animal-like howl of pain and terror that tore at Ali’s soul. This was why men immediately jumped in the lake, why this particular punishment struck such terror in the hearts of the shafit. If you did not find the courage to face the merciless water, you would slowly be burned to death by the molten bronze.

  Ali snapped. No one deserved to die like this. He yanked his boots off and freed his zulfiqar, pushing the metallurgist out of the way.

  “Alizayd!” Abu Nuwas shouted, but Ali was already climbing into the boat. He hissed; it burned far worse than he expected. But he was a pureblood. It would take a lot more than liquid bronze to harm him.

  The shafit boy was pinned on all fours, his gaze forcibly directed on the hot metal. He wouldn’t have to see the blow. Ali raised his zulfiqar high, meaning to bring it down through the doomed boy’s heart.

  But he was too late. The boy’s knees gave way, and a wave of liquid metal washed onto his back, instantly hardening. Ali’s blade thudded uselessly against it. The boy screamed louder as he jerked and twisted in a desperate attempt to see what was happening behind him. Ali reeled in horror as he raised his zulfiqar.

  The boy’s neck was still bare.

  He didn’t hesitate. The zulfiqar flared to life as he brought it down again, and the fiery blade sliced through the boy’s neck with an ease that twisted his stomach. His head dropped, and there was merciful silence, the only sound the thudding of Ali’s heart.

  He took a ragged breath, fighting a swoon. The bloody scene before him was unbearable. God forgive me.

  Ali staggered out of the boat. Not a single man met his eyes. Shafit blood drenched his uniform, the crimson stark against his white waist-wrap. The hilt of his zulfiqar was sticky in his hand.

  Ignoring his men, he silently headed back toward the stairs that led to the street. He didn’t make it halfway down before his nausea got the better of him. Ali fell to his knees and vomited, the boy’s screams echoing in his head.

  When he was done, he sat back against the cool stone, alone and shaking on the dark staircase. He knew he’d be shamed if someone came across him, the city’s Qaid sick and trembling simply because he’d executed a prisoner. But he didn’t care. What honor did he have left? He was a murderer.

  Ali wiped his wet eyes and rubbed an itchy spot on his cheek, horrified to realize it was the boy’s blood drying on his hot skin. He rubbed his hands and wrists furiously on the rough cloth of his waist-wrap and then wiped the blood from his face with the tail of his red Qaid’s turban.

  And then he stopped, staring at the cloth in his hands. He had dreamed of wearing this for years, had trained for this position his entire life.

  He unwound the turban and let it drop in the dust.

  Let Abba take my titles. Let him banish me to Am Gezira. It matters not.

  Ali was done.

  Court was long adjourned by the time Ali reached the palace, and though his father’s office was empty, he could hear music from the gardens below. He made his way down and spotted his father reclining on a cushion next to a shaded pool. A glass of wine was at hand, as was his water pipe. Two women were playing lutes, but a scribe was there as well, reading from an unfurled scroll. A scaled bird with smoking feathers—the magical cousin of the homing pigeons humans used to send messages—was perched on his shoulder.

  Ghassan glanced up as Ali approached. His gray eyes swept from Ali’s uncovered head to his blood-spattered clothes and bare feet. He raised a dark eyebrow.

  The scribe looked up and then jumped at the sight of the bloody prince, sending the startled pigeon into a nearby tree.

  “I-I need to talk to you,” Ali stammered, his confidence vanishing in his father’s presence.

  “I imagine so.” Ghassan waved off the scribe and musicians. “Leave us.”

  The musicians quickly packed away their lutes, edging carefully past Alizayd. The scribe wordlessly placed the scroll back in his father’s hand. The broken wax seal was black: a royal seal.

  “Is that from Muntadhir’s expedition?” Ali asked, worry for his brother outweighing anything else.<
br />
  Ghassan beckoned him closer and handed him the scroll. “You’re the scholar, aren’t you?”

  Ali scanned the message, both relieved and disappointed. “There’s no sign of these supposed ifrits.”

  “None.”

  He read further and let out a sigh of relief. “But Wajed has finally met up with them. Thank the Most High.” The grizzled old warrior was more than Darayavahoush’s match. He frowned when he reached the end. “They’re headed to Babili?” he asked in surprise. Babili was near the border with Am Gezira, and the idea of the Afshin Scourge so close to their homeland was unsettling.

  Ghassan nodded. “Ifrit have been spotted there in the past. It’s worth exploring.”

  Ali scoffed and tossed the scroll on a small side table. Ghassan leaned back on his cushion. “You disagree?”

  “Yes,” Ali said vehemently, too upset to keep his temper in check. “The only ifrit they’re going to find are figments of the Afshin’s imagination. You should never have sent Muntadhir off with him on this useless campaign.”

  The king patted the seat next to him. “Sit, Alizayd. You look ready to collapse.” He poured a small ceramic cup of water from a nearby pitcher. “Drink.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Your appearance would beg to differ.” He pushed the cup into Ali’s hand.

  Ali took a sip but remained stubbornly on his feet.

  “Muntadhir is perfectly safe,” Ghassan assured him. “I sent two dozen of my best soldiers with them. Wajed’s there now. Besides, Darayavahoush would not dare harm him while the Banu Nahida is under my protection. He wouldn’t risk her.”

  Ali shook his head. “Muntadhir is no warrior. You should have sent me instead.”

  His father laughed. “Absolutely not. The Afshin would have strangled you by day’s end, and I’d be obliged to go to war, no matter what you said to deserve it. Muntadhir is charming. And he’s going to be king. He needs to spend more time leading men and less time leading drinking songs.” He shrugged. “Truthfully, what I wanted most was Darayavahoush away from the girl, and if he was willing to run off on his own accord?” He shrugged. “All the better.”