The City of Brass

by S. A. Chakraborty

  Ali waited until the call to prayer was complete to respond. “Do you have a patient?”

  “No one new, but Nisreen wanted—” She paused as Ali reached for one of his books, the sleeve of his pale robe falling back to reveal a badly swollen wrist. “What happened to you?”

  “It’s nothing.” He pulled his sleeve down. “Just a training accident from the other day.”

  Nahri frowned. The djinn recovered quickly from nonmagical injuries; it must have been a hard blow to still look like that. “Would you like me to heal you? It looks painful.”

  He shook his head as he stood, although she noticed now that he was carrying his supplies with his left arm. “It’s not that bad,” he said, averting his eyes as she readjusted her chador. “And it was well earned. I made a stupid mistake.” He scowled. “Several, actually.”

  She shrugged, accustomed by now to the prince’s stubbornness. “If you insist.”

  Ali placed the lock in a velvet box and handed it back to the attendant. “A lock,” he mused again. “Daevabad’s most esteemed scholars have themselves convinced this thing can calculate the number of stars in the sky.”

  “Couldn’t they simply have asked another shafit from the human world?”

  He hesitated. “That is not quite how things are done here.”

  “It should be,” she replied as they left the library. “It seems a waste of time otherwise.”

  “I could not agree more.”

  There was an oddly fierce edge to his voice, and Nahri wondered whether or not to press him further. He’d answer, she knew; he answered all her questions. By God, sometimes he talked so much it could be difficult to get him to stop. Nahri normally didn’t mind; the taciturn young prince she’d first met had become her most enthusiastic source of information about the djinn world, and strangely enough, she was beginning to enjoy their afternoons together, the one bright spot in her monotonous, frustrating days.

  But she also knew the issue of the shafit was one which divided their tribes—the one which had led to the bloody overthrow of her ancestors at the hands of his.

  She held her tongue, and they kept walking. The white marble corridor shone with the saffron-hued light of sunset, and she could hear a few latecomers still singing the call to prayer from the city’s distant minarets. She tried to slow her steps, enjoying another few moments of peace. Returning to the infirmary each day—to inevitably fail at something new—was like donning weighted sackcloth.

  Ali spoke again. “I don’t know if you would be interested, but the traders who recovered that lock also found some sort of lens for observing the stars. Our scholars are attempting to restore it before the arrival of a comet in a few weeks.”

  “You’re sure it’s not just a pair of spectacles?” she teased.

  He laughed. “God forbid. They’d die of disappointment. But if you like, I can arrange a viewing.” Ali hesitated as a servant reached for the infirmary doors. “Perhaps my brother, Muntadhir, can join us. His expedition is due back by then and . . .”

  Nahri had stopped listening. A familiar voice caught her attention as the infirmary door opened, and she rushed in, praying her ears weren’t deceiving her.

  They weren’t. Sitting at one of her worktables, looking as harassed and handsome as always, was Dara.

  Her breath caught in her throat. Dara was bent low in conversation with Nisreen, but he abruptly straightened up when he caught sight of Nahri. His bright eyes met hers, filled with the same swirl of emotions she suspected was on her face. Her heart felt ready to leap out of her chest.

  By the Most High, get hold of yourself. Nahri shut her mouth, realizing it was hanging open as Ali entered the room behind her.

  Nisreen shot to her feet, pressing her palms together. She bowed. “My prince.”

  Dara stayed seated. “Little Zaydi . . . salaam alaykum!” he greeted in atrociously accented Arabic. He grinned. “How is your wrist?”

  Ali drew up, looking indignant. “You should not be here, Afshin. The Banu Nahida’s time is precious. Only those who are ill or injured—”

  Dara abruptly raised a fist and then smashed it through the heavy, sandblasted glass table. The top shattered, sparkling shards of hazy glass cascading over the Afshin and the floor. He didn’t even flinch; instead, he raised his hand and looked at the jagged pieces of glass embedded in his skin with mock surprise. “There,” he deadpanned. “I’m injured.”

  Ali stepped forward with an angry expression, and Nahri sprang into action, Dara’s lunatic act snapping her into focus. Likely breaking at least a dozen rules of protocol, she grabbed the prince by the shoulders and spun him around toward the door. “I think Nisreen and I can handle this,” she said with forced cheer as she pushed him out. “You wouldn’t want to miss prayer!” The astonished djinn was opening his mouth to protest when she smiled and shut the door in his face.

  She took a deep breath to steady herself before turning back.

  “Leave us, Nisreen.”

  “Banu Nahida, that is not appropriate . . .”

  Nahri didn’t even look at the other woman, her gaze directed at Dara alone. “Go!”

  Nisreen sighed, but before she could leave, Dara reached out to touch her wrist. “Thank you,” he said with such sincerity that Nisreen blushed. “My heart is greatly lightened by knowing someone like you serves my Banu Nahida.”

  “It is my honor,” Nisreen replied, sounding uncharacteristically flustered. Nahri couldn’t blame her; she’d felt that way often enough in Dara’s presence.

  But she definitely was not feeling that way right now. She knew Dara could sense it; the moment Nisreen left, some of the bravado vanished from his face.

  He gave her a weak smile. “You’ve taken very quickly to ordering people around.”

  Nahri picked her way through the remains of her destroyed table. “Have you completely lost your mind?” she demanded as she reached for his hand.

  He stepped back. “I might ask you the same. Alizayd al Qahtani? Really, Nahri? Could you not find an ifrit to befriend?”

  “He’s not my friend, you fool,” she said, grabbing again for his hand. “He’s a mark. One I was having luck with until you sauntered into the palace and broke his wrist . . . stop wiggling away!”

  Dara held his arm above her head. “Did I really break it?” he asked with an impish grin. “I thought so. His bones made the most pleasant sound . . .” He broke away from his reverie to glance down at her. “Does he know he’s a mark?”

  Nahri thought back to Ali’s comment on her lock picking. “Probably,” she admitted. “He’s not as much of a fool as I hoped.” She didn’t dare mention the fact that their “friendship” had started when she learned Ali was reading up on Dara. That was not news she expected to be well received.

  “You do know he’s doing the same, yes?” There was a flicker of apprehension in Dara’s face. “You can’t trust him. I bet every other word out of his mouth is a lie meant to turn you toward their side.”

  “Are you suggesting my ancestral enemy has an ulterior motive? But I’ve spilled all my deepest secrets . . . what will I do?” Nahri touched her heart in mock horror and then narrowed her eyes. “Have you forgotten who I am, Dara? I can handle Ali just fine.”

  “Ali?” He scowled. “You’ve nicknamed the sand fly?”

  “I call you by a nickname.”

  She could not have replicated Dara’s reaction if she tried; his face twisted into a stormy mix of indignant hurt and pure outrage. “Wait.” Nahri felt herself starting to grin. “Are you jealous?” When his cheeks flushed, she laughed and clapped her hands together in delight. “By the Most High, you are!” She took in his beautiful eyes and muscular frame, awed as usual by his presence. “How does that even work for you? Have you looked in a mirror this century?”

  “I’m not jealous of the brat,” Dara snapped. He rubbed his brow, and Nahri winced at the sight of the glass sticking out of his hand. “He’s not the one they want you to marry,” Dara a
dded.

  “Excuse me?” Her humor vanished.

  “Did your new best friend not tell you? They want you to marry Emir Muntadhir.” Dara’s eyes flashed. “A thing which will not be happening.”

  “Muntadhir?” Nahri remembered very little about Ali’s older brother except thinking that he looked like the type of man she’d easily fleece. “Where did you hear such an absurd rumor?”

  “From Ali’s own mouth,” he replied, exaggerating the nickname. “Why do you think I broke his wrist?” Dara let out an annoyed huff and crossed his arms over his chest. He was dressed like a proper Daeva nobleman now, in a fitted dark gray coat that ended at his knees, wide embroidered belt, and baggy black pants. He cut a dashing figure, and as he shifted again, she caught a waft of the smoky cedar smell that always seemed to cling to his skin.

  A low heat sparked in her chest even as he pressed his mouth in an irritated line. She remembered all too well the sensation of that mouth against hers and it was making her mind spin in reckless directions.

  “What, nothing to say?” he challenged. “No thoughts on your impending nuptials?”

  She had plenty of thoughts. Just not about Muntadhir. “You seem to object,” she said mildly.

  “Of course I object! They have no right to interfere in your bloodline. Your heritage is already suspect. You should be marrying the most high-caste Daeva nobleman they can find.”

  She gave him an even look. “Like you?”

  “No,” he said, flustered. “I didn’t say that. I . . . it has nothing to do with me.”

  She crossed her arms. “Perhaps if you felt so concerned about my future in Daevabad, you might have stayed in Daevabad instead of running after ifrit.” She threw up her hands. “So? What happened? You didn’t ride in triumphantly with their heads in a bloody bag, so I’m guessing you didn’t have much luck.”

  Dara’s shoulders dropped—whether due to disappointing her or losing out on the chance to participate in the above scenario, she wasn’t sure. “I’m sorry, Nahri.” The anger had vanished from his voice. “They were long gone.”

  A tiny hope Nahri hadn’t quite known she had been nursing snuffed out in her chest. But considering how dejected Dara sounded, she masked her own reaction. “It’s all right, Dara.” She reached for his good hand. “Come here.” She plucked a long pair of tweezers from the worktable that was still standing and then pulled him toward a pile of floor cushions. “Sit. We can talk while I remove the pieces of furniture stuck in your hand.”

  They sank into the cushions, and he obediently held out his palm. It didn’t look as bad as she feared: there were only about a half-dozen fragments in his skin and all were fairly large. There was no blood, a fact she didn’t want to dwell on. Dara’s hot skin was real enough for her.

  She pulled free one of the shards and dropped it into a tin pan at her side. “So we know nothing more?”

  “Nothing,” he replied, his voice bitter. “And I have no idea where to turn next.”

  Her mind went to Ali’s books—and to the millions crowding the library. There might be answers there, but Nahri couldn’t even imagine where to start without help. And it seemed too risky to involve anyone else, even someone like Nisreen, who would probably be willing to help.

  He looked crushed, far more than she would have expected. “It’s all right, Dara, really,” she insisted. “Whatever happened in the past is just that: past.”

  A dark look crossed his face. “It’s not,” he muttered. “Not at all.”

  An aggrieved squawk suddenly sounded from behind the drawn curtain on the opposite side of the room. Dara jumped.

  “Don’t worry.” Nahri sighed. “It’s a patient.”

  Dara looked incredulous. “Are you treating birds?”

  “By next week I might be. Some Agnivanshi scholar opened the wrong scroll, and now he has a beak. Every time I try to help, he sprouts more feathers.” Dara drew up in alarm, casting a glance behind him, and she quickly held up a hand. “He can’t hear us. He blew out his eardrums—and briefly mine—with all his carrying on.” Nahri dropped another shard in the pan. “As you see, I have enough to occupy my mind here without fretting over my origins.”

  He shook his head but settled back down. “And how is that?” he asked, his voice gentler. “How are you doing here?”

  Nahri started to toss off a flippant answer and then stopped. This was Dara, after all.

  “I don’t know,” she confessed. “You know the life I lived before . . . in many ways this place is like a dream. The clothes, the jewels, the food. It’s like Paradise.”

  He smiled. “I had a feeling you’d take a liking to royal luxury.”

  “But I feel as though it’s an illusion, like I’m one mistake from having it all stripped away. And, Dara . . . I’m making so many of them,” she confessed. “I’m a terrible healer, I’m outmatched when it comes to all these political games, and I’m just so . . .” She took a deep breath, aware she was rambling. “I’m tired, Dara. My mind is being pulled in a thousand directions. And my training, by God—Nisreen is trying to condense what seems like twenty years of study into two months.”

  “You’re not a terrible healer.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “You’re not. You healed me after the rukh attack, didn’t you? You just need to focus. Scattered minds are the enemy of magic. And give yourself time. You’re in Daevabad now. Start thinking in terms of decades and centuries instead of months and years. Don’t worry yourself over these political games. Playing them is not your place. There are those of our tribe far more qualified to do so on your behalf. Focus on your training.”

  “I suppose.” The answer was typical of Dara: practical advice with a side of condescension. She changed the subject. “I didn’t even know you were back; I take it you’re not staying at the palace?”

  Dara snorted. “I would sleep on the street before sharing a roof with these people. I’m staying with the grand wazir. He was a companion of your mother’s; she and her brother spent much of their childhood on his family’s estates in Zariaspa.”

  Nahri wasn’t sure what to make of that. There was an eagerness about Kaveh e-Pramukh that unsettled her. When she first arrived, he was constantly dropping by the infirmary, bringing gifts and staying for hours to watch her work. She finally asked Nisreen to discreetly intervene, and she hadn’t seen much of him since. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Dara. I don’t trust him.”

  “Is that because your sand-fly prince told you not to?” Dara eyed her. “Because let me tell you, Kaveh has a great deal to say on the subject of Alizayd al Qahtani.”

  “None of it good, I suppose.”

  “Not in the slightest.” Dara lowered his voice. “You need to be careful, little thief,” he warned. “Palaces are dangerous places for second sons, and that one strikes me as a hothead. I don’t want you caught up in any political feuds if Alizayd al Qahtani ends up with a silk cord around his neck.”

  That image bothered her more than she cared to admit. He’s not my friend, she reminded herself. He’s a mark. “I can take care of myself.”

  “But you don’t need to,” Dara replied, sounding annoyed. “Nahri, did you not hear what I just said? Let others play politics. Stay away from these princes. They are beneath you anyway.”

  Says the one whose political knowledge is a millennium outdated. “Fine,” she lied; she had no intention of turning away her best source of information, but she didn’t feel like fighting. She dropped a final shard in the pan. “That’s the last of the glass.”

  He offered a wry smile. “I’ll find a less destructive way to see you next time.” He tried to pull his hand away.

  She held firm. It was his left hand, the same hand marked by what she now knew was a record of his time as a slave. The tiny black rungs spiraled out from his palm like a snail, twisting around his wrist and vanishing underneath his sleeve. She rubbed her thumb against the one at the base of his hand.

  Dara’s face darkened. “I take it yo
ur new friend told you what they mean?”

  Nahri nodded, keeping her expression neutral. “How many . . . how far do they go?”

  For once he gave up an answer without fighting. “Up my arm and all over my back. I stopped counting after about eight hundred.”

  She squeezed his hand and then let go. “There’s so much you didn’t tell me, Dara,” she said softly. “About slavery, about the war . . .” She met his gaze. “About leading a rebellion against Zaydi al Qahtani.”

  “I know.” He dropped his gaze, twisting his ring. “But I spoke truthfully to the king . . . well, about slavery, anyway. Save what you and I saw together, I remember nothing of my time as a slave.” Dara cleared his throat. “What we saw was enough for me.”

  She had to agree. To her, it seemed a mercy that Dara couldn’t remember his time in captivity—but it didn’t answer the rest. “And the war, Dara? The rebellion?”

  He looked up, apprehension in his bright eyes. “Did the brat tell you anything?”

  “No.” Nahri had been avoiding the darker rumors of Dara’s past. “I’d like to hear it from you.”

  He nodded. “All right,” he said, soft resignation in his voice. “Kaveh is trying to arrange a reception for you at the Grand Temple. Ghassan is being resistant . . .” His tone made it clear he didn’t think much of the king’s opinion. “But it would be a good place to talk without interruption. The rebellion . . . what happened before the war, it . . . it’s a long story.” Dara swallowed, visibly nervous. “You’ll have questions, and I want to have time to explain, to make you understand why I did the things I did.”

  The birdman let out another screech, and Dara made a face. “But not today. You should check on him before he flies away. And I need to go. Nisreen is right about us being alone together. The sand fly knows you are here with me, and I would not wish to harm your reputation.”