The light faded from the Afshin’s eyes, leaving a calculating expression on his face. “I hear your father intends to marry Banu Nahri to your brother.”
Ali’s mouth fell open. Where had Darayavahoush learned that? He pressed his lips together, trying to hide the surprise in his face. Kaveh, it had to have been. Considering the way those fire worshippers were whispering together when they entered the training room, Kaveh was probably spilling every secret he knew. “Did the grand wazir tell you that?”
“No. You just did.” Darayavahoush paused long enough to enjoy the shock on Ali’s face. “Your father strikes me as a pragmatic man, and marrying them would be a most astute political move. Besides, you are rumored to be some sort of religious fanatic, but according to Kaveh, you’re spending a great deal of time with her. That would hardly be appropriate unless she was meant to join your family.” His eyes lingered on Ali’s body. “And Ghassan clearly doesn’t mind crossing tribal lines himself.”
Ali was speechless, his face warm with embarrassment. His father was going to murder him when he found out that Ali had let slip such information.
He thought fast, trying to come up with a way to undo the damage. “Banu Nahri is a guest in my father’s home, Afshin,” he started. “I’m simply trying to be kind. She wished to learn to read—I would scarcely say there’s anything inappropriate about that.”
The Afshin drew closer, but he wasn’t smiling now. “And what are you teaching her to read? Those same Geziri records that demonize her ancestors?”
“No,” Ali shot back. “She wanted to learn about economics. Though I’m sure you filled her ears with plenty of lies about us.”
“I told the truth. She had a right to know how your people stole her birthright and nearly destroyed our world.”
“And what of your part in such things?” Ali challenged. “Did you tell her that, Darayavahoush? Does she know why you’re called the Scourge?”
There was silence. And then—for the first time since the Afshin entered the room with his smug smile and laughing eyes—Ali saw a trace of uncertainty in his face.
She doesn’t know. Ali had suspected as much, though Nahri was always careful not to speak of the Afshin in his presence. Oddly enough, he was relieved. They’d been meeting for a few weeks now, and Ali was enjoying her company. He didn’t like thinking that his future sister-in-law would be loyal to such a monster had she known the truth.
Darayavahoush shrugged, but there was a flash of warning in his bright eyes. “I was just following orders.”
“That is not true.”
The Afshin lifted one of his dark eyebrows. “No? Then tell me what your sand-fly histories say of me.”
Ali could hear his father’s warning in his mind, but he didn’t hold back. “They speak of Qui-zi for one.” The Afshin’s face twitched. “And you were taking no orders once Daevabad fell and the Nahid Council was overthrown. You led the uprising in Daevastana. If you can call such indiscriminate butchery an uprising.”
“Indiscriminate butchery?” Darayavahoush drew himself up, his expression scornful. “Your ancestors slaughtered my family, sacked my city, and tried to exterminate my tribe—you have great nerve to judge my actions.”
“You exaggerate,” Ali said dismissively. “No one tried to exterminate your tribe. The Daevas survived just fine without you around to destroy mixed villages and bury innocent djinn alive.”
The Afshin snorted. “Yes, we survived to become second-class citizens in our own city, forced to bow and scrape to the rest of you.”
“An opinion formed after spending, what, two days in Daevabad?” Ali rolled his eyes. “Your tribe is wealthy and well-connected, and their quarter is the cleanest and most finely run in the city. You know who are second-class citizens? The shafit who—”
Darayavahoush rolled his eyes. “Ah, there it is. It’s not a discussion with a djinn until they start bemoaning the poor, sad shafit they can’t stop creating. Suleiman’s eye, find a goat if you can’t control yourselves. They’re comparable enough to humans.”
Ali’s hands tightened on the zulfiqar. He wanted to hurt this man. “Do you know what else the histories say about you?”
“Enlighten me, djinn.”
“That you could have done it.” Darayavahoush frowned, and Ali continued. “Most scholars believe you could have defended an independent Daevastana for a long time. Long enough to free a few of the surviving Nahids. Perhaps even long enough to retake Daevabad.”
The Afshin went still, and Ali could tell he had struck a nerve. He stared at the prince, and when he spoke his voice was soft, his words intent. “It sounds like your family was very lucky the ifrit killed me when they did, then.”
Ali didn’t break away from the other man’s cold gaze. “God provides.” It was cruel, but he didn’t care. Darayavahoush was a monster.
Darayavahoush lifted his chin and then smiled, a sharp smile that reminded Ali more of a snarling dog than a man. “And here we are discussing ancient history again when I promised you a challenge.” He raised the zulfiqar.
It burst into flames, and Ali’s eyes went wide.
No non-Geziri man should have ever been able to do that.
The Afshin looked more intrigued than surprised. He gazed at the flames, the fire reflected in his bright eyes. “Ah . . . now isn’t that fascinating?”
It was the only warning Ali got.
Darayavahoush charged him, and Ali whirled away, flames licking down his own zulfiqar. Their weapons met with a crash, and Darayavahoush shoved his blade up and along Ali’s until the hilt caught his hands. Then he kicked him hard in the stomach.
Ali fell back, rolling quickly away when Darayavahoush slashed down in a motion that would have sliced his chest open if he hadn’t moved fast enough. Well, I suppose Abba was right, he thought, jumping up as the Afshin swept his zulfiqar at his feet. Darayavahoush and I probably wouldn’t have made very good travel companions.
The Afshin’s calm was gone and with it, much of the reserve Ali now realized the other man had been showing. He was actually an even better fighter than he’d let on.
But the zulfiqar was a Geziri weapon, and Ali would be damned if some Daeva butcher was going to beat him with it. He let the Afshin pursue him across the training room, their fiery blades clashing and sizzling. Though he was taller than Darayavahoush, the other man was probably twice his bulk, and he was hoping his youth and agility would eventually turn the duel in his favor.
And yet that didn’t appear to be happening. Ali dodged blow after blow, becoming increasingly exhausted—and a little afraid.
As he blocked another charge, he caught sight of a khanjar glinting on a sunny window shelf across the room. The dagger peeked out among a pile of random supplies—the training room was notoriously messy, overseen by a kindly yet absentminded old Geziri warrior no one had the heart to replace.
An idea sparked in Ali’s head. As they fought, he started letting his fatigue show—along with his fear. He wasn’t acting, and he could see a glimmer of triumph in the Afshin’s eyes. He was clearly enjoying the opportunity to put the stupid young son of a hated enemy in his place.
Darayavahoush’s forceful blows shook his entire body, but Ali kept his zulfiqar up as the Afshin followed his lead toward the windows. Their fiery blades hissed against each other as Ali was pushed hard against the glass. The Afshin smiled. Behind his head, the torches flared and danced against the wall like they’d been doused in oil.
Ali abruptly let go of his zulfiqar.
He snatched the khanjar and dropped to the ground as Darayavahoush stumbled. Ali rolled to his feet and was on the Afshin before the other man recovered. He pressed the dagger to his throat, breathing hard, but went no further. “Are we done?”
The Afshin spat. “Go to hell, sand fly.”
And then every weapon in the room flew at him.
Ali threw himself to the floor as the weapons wall purged itself. A spinning mace whooshed over his head, and a Tukharistani pole ar
m speared his sleeve to the ground. It was over in a matter of seconds, but before Ali could process what had happened, the Afshin stomped hard on his right wrist.
It took every bit of self-control not to scream as Darayavahoush ground the heel of his boot into the bones of Ali’s wrist. He heard something crack and a searing pain rushed through him. His fingers went numb, and Darayavahoush kicked the khanjar away.
The zulfiqar was at his throat. “Get up,” the Afshin hissed.
Ali did so, cradling his injured wrist through the ripped sleeve. Weapons littered the floor, the chains and hooks that had held them dangling broken on the opposite wall. A chill went down Ali’s back. It was the rare djinn who could summon a single object—and that was with far more focus over a shorter distance. But this? And so soon after drawing flames from the zulfiqar?
He shouldn’t be able to do any of this.
Darayavahoush didn’t seem bothered. Instead, he gave Ali a coolly appraising look. “I wouldn’t have thought such a trick your style.”
Ali gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the pain in his wrist. “I suppose I’m full of surprises.”
Darayavahoush looked at him for a long moment. “No,” he finally said. “You’re not. You’re exactly what I would expect.” He picked up Ali’s zulfiqar and tossed it over; surprised, Ali caught it with his good hand. “Thank you for the lesson, but sadly, the weapon did not live up to its fearsome reputation.”
Ali sheathed his zulfiqar, offended on its behalf. “Sorry to disappoint you,” he said sarcastically.
“I didn’t say I was disappointed.” Darayavahoush ran his hand over a war ax protruding from one of the stone columns. “Your charming and cultured brother, your pragmatic father . . . I was starting to wonder what happened to the Qahtanis I knew . . . starting to fear my memories of the zulfiqar-wielding fanatics who destroyed my world were wrong.” He eyed Ali. “Thank you for this reminder.”
“I . . .” Ali was lost for words, suddenly fearing he’d done far worse than reveal his father’s plans regarding Nahri. “You misunderstand me.”
“Not at all.” The Afshin gave him another sharp smile. “I was also once a young warrior from the ruling tribe. It’s a privileged position. Such utter confidence in the rightness of your people, such unwavering belief in your faith.” His smile faded; he sounded wistful. Regretful. “Enjoy it.”
“I am nothing like you,” Ali shot back. “I would never do the things you did.”
The Afshin pulled open the door. “Pray you’re never asked to, Zaydi.”
20
Nahri
“It’s a lock.”
“A lock? No, it cannot be. Look at it. It’s obviously some advanced mechanism. A scientific tool . . . or, considering the fish, perhaps a navigational aid for the sea.”
“It’s a lock.” Nahri took the metal object from Alizayd’s hands. It was made of iron and shaped like an ornate fish with fluttering fins and a curved tail, and it had a series of boxy pictograms carved into one side. She pulled free a pin from her headscarf and turned the lock over to find the keyhole. Holding it close to her ear, she expertly picked it, and the bar swung open. “See? A lock. It’s just missing its key.”
Nahri triumphantly handed the ornamental lock back to Ali and leaned into her cushion, propping her feet up on a plump silk ottoman. She and her overqualified tutor were in one of the upper balconies of the royal library, the same place they’d been meeting every afternoon for the past few weeks. She took a sip of tea, admiring the intricate glasswork of the nearby window.
The impressive library had quickly become her favorite place in the palace. Even bigger than Ghassan’s throne room, the huge roofed-over courtyard was filled with bustling scholars and arguing students. On the balcony across from them, a Sahrayn instructor had conjured up smoke into an even larger map than the one Dara had made for her during their desert crossing. A miniature boat of spun glass floated in its sea. The instructor raised his hands and a gust of wind filled its silken sails, sending it racing along a chart marked by tiny burning embers as several students watched. In the alcove above him, an Agnivanshi scholar was teaching mathematics. With each snap of her fingers, a new number appeared scorched on the whitewashed wall before her, a veritable map of equations her pupils were diligently copying.
And then there were the books themselves. The shelves soared out of sight to meet the dizzyingly high ceiling; Ali—who seemed utterly delighted by her interest in the library—had told her that its vast inventory contained copies of just about every work ever written, both human and djinn. Apparently there was an entire class of djinn who spent their lives traveling from human library to human library, meticulously copying its works and sending them back to be archived in Daevabad.
The shelves were also crowded with glittering tools and instruments, murky preservation jars, and dusty artifacts. Ali warned her away from the majority; apparently small explosions were not uncommon. The djinn had a propensity for exploring the properties of fire in every form.
“A lock.” Ali’s words pulled her attention back. The prince sounded disappointed. Two library attendants flew through the air behind him on carpets the size of prayer rugs, retrieving books for the scholars below.
“Efl,” she corrected his Arabic. “Not qefl.”
He frowned, pulling over a piece of parchment from the stack they’d been using to practice letters. “But it is written like this.” He wrote out the word and pointed to its first letter. “Qaf, no?”
Nahri shrugged. “My people say efl.”
“Efl,” he repeated carefully. “Efl.”
“There. Now you sound like a proper Egyptian.” She smiled at Ali’s serious expression as he turned the lock over in his hands. “The djinn don’t use locks?”
“Not really. We find curses to be a better deterrent.”
Nahri made a face. “That sounds unpleasant.”
“But effective. After all . . .” He met her gaze, a slight challenge in his gray eyes. “A former maidservant just picked one rather easily.”
Nahri cursed herself for the slip. “I had a lot of cupboards to open. Cleaning supplies and such.”
Ali laughed, a warm sound she rarely heard that always took her a bit by surprise. “Are brooms so valuable among humans?”
She shrugged. “My mistress was stingy.”
He smiled, peering into the lock’s exposed keyhole. “I think I should like to learn to do this.”
“Pick a lock?” She laughed. “Are you planning a future as a criminal in the human world?”
“I like to keep my options open.”
Nahri snorted. “Then you’ll need to work on your accent. Your Arabic sounds like something spoken by scholars in the ancient courts of Baghdad.”
He took the jab in stride, returning it with a compliment. “I suppose I’m not making as much progress as you in our respective studies,” he confessed. “Your writing has truly come a long way. You should start thinking about what language you’d like to tackle next.”
“Divasti.” There was no question. “Then I can read the Nahid texts myself instead of listening to Nisreen drone on.”
Ali’s face fell. “I fear you’ll need another tutor for that. I barely speak it.”
“Truly?” When he nodded, she narrowed her eyes. “You told me once that you know five different languages . . . and yet you couldn’t find time to learn that of Daevabad’s original people?”
The prince winced. “When you put it that way . . .”
“What about your father?”
“He’s fluent.” Ali replied. “My father is very . . . taken with Daeva culture. Muntadhir, as well.”
Interesting. Nahri filed that information away. “Well, that settles it. You’ll join me when I start. There’s no reason for you not to learn.”
“I look forward to being outmatched,” Ali said. Just then, a servant approached bearing a large covered platter, and the prince’s face lit up. “Salaams, brother, thank you.”
He smiled at Nahri. “I have a surprise for you.”
She raised her eyebrows. “More human artifacts to identify?”
“Not exactly.”
The servant pulled away the top of the platter, and the rich smell of sizzling sugar and buttery dough wafted past her. Several triangles of flaky sweet bread sprinkled with raisins, coconut, and sugar were stacked on a plate, the aroma and sight immediately familiar.
“Is that . . . feteer?” she asked, her stomach immediately grumbling at the delicious scent. “How did you get this?”
Ali looked delighted. “I heard there was a shafit man from Cairo working in the kitchen and requested that he prepare a treat from your home. He made this as well.” He nodded at a chilled carafe of bloodred liquid.
Karkade. The servant poured her a cup of the cold hibiscus tea, and she took a long sip, savoring its sweetened tang before tearing off a strip of the buttery pastry and popping it in her mouth. It tasted exactly like she remembered. Like home.
This is my home now, she reminded herself. Nahri took another bite of feteer. “Try some,” she urged. “It’s delicious.”
He helped himself while she sipped her karkade. Though she was enjoying the snack, there was something about the combination that was troubling her . . . and then it hit her. This was the same meal she’d eaten in the coffeehouse before she entered the cemetery in Cairo. Before her life was abruptly upended.
Before she met Dara.
Her appetite vanished, and her heart gave its usual lurch, whether from worry or longing she didn’t know and had given up trying to sort out. Dara had been gone for two months—longer than their original journey together—and yet she woke every morning still half-expecting to see him. She missed him: his sly grin, his unexpected sweetness, even his constant grumbling—not to mention the occasional, accidental press of his body against hers.
Nahri pushed away the food, but the call to sunset prayer sounded out before Alizayd noticed. “Is it maghrib already?” she asked as she wiped the sugar off her fingers; the time always seemed to fly when she was with the prince. “Nisreen is going to kill me. I told her I’d be back hours ago.” Her assistant—although she occasionally felt more like a disapproving schoolmistress or scolding aunt to Nahri—had made her distaste for both Prince Alizayd and these tutoring sessions quite clear.
The City of Brass Page 34
