The City of Brass

by S. A. Chakraborty

  “They have that in common with our race,” Ali noted darkly. “With the marid and peri too, I’d imagine.”

  Nahri looked thoughtful for a moment, but then she frowned. “But the ifrit hate humans, don’t they? Why give them such powerful slaves?”

  “Because it’s not a gift. It’s raw, unchecked power,” Ali explained. “Few ifrit have dared to directly harm humans since Suleiman cursed us. But they don’t need to; a djinn slave in the hands of an ambitious human causes an immense amount of destruction.” He shook his head. “It’s revenge. That it eventually drives the djinn slave mad is merely an added benefit.”

  Nahri blanched. “But they can be freed, right? The slaves?”

  Ali hesitated, thinking about the Afshin’s relic hidden in the tomb far below his feet—the relic that had no business being there. How Darayavahoush had been freed without it was something not even his father knew. But there seemed little harm in answering her question; it wasn’t as if Nahri would ever see the tomb.

  “If they’re fortunate enough to have their slave vessel—their ring or lamp or whatnot—reunited with their relic by a Nahid, then yes,” Ali said.

  He could practically see the wheels turning in Nahri’s mind. “Their relic?”

  He tapped the steel bolt in his right ear. “We get them when we’re children. Each tribe has its own tradition, but it’s basically taking . . . well, a relic of ourselves: some blood, some hair, a baby tooth. We seal it all up with metal and keep them on our person.”

  She looked a little disgusted. “Why?”

  Ali hesitated, not certain how to put what he had to say delicately. “A djinn has to be killed to be made into a slave, Nahri. The curse binds the soul, not the body. And the ifrit . . .” He swallowed. “We’re the descendants of people they consider traitors. They take slaves to terrorize us. To terrorize the survivors who’ll come upon the empty body. It can be . . . messy.”

  She stopped in her tracks, her eyes lighting with horror.

  Ali spoke quickly, trying to allay the alarm in her face. “Either way, the relic is considered the best way to preserve a part of us. Especially since it can take centuries to track down a slave vessel.”

  Nahri looked sick. “So how did the Nahids free them, then? Did they just conjure up a new body or something?”

  He could tell from her tone that she thought the idea was ridiculous, which is likely why she paled when he nodded. “That’s exactly what they did. I don’t know how—your ancestors were not ones to share their secrets—but something like that, yes.”

  “And I can barely conjure up a flame,” she whispered.

  “Give yourself time,” Ali assured her, reaching for the door. “That’s one thing we’ve got a lot more of compared to humans.” He held the door for her, and then stepped out into the main rotunda of the library. “Are you hungry? I could have that Egyptian cook prepare some—”

  Ali’s mouth went dry. Across the crowded library floor, leaning against an ancient stone column, was Rashid.

  He was clearly waiting for Ali—he straightened up as soon as Ali spotted him and headed in their direction. He was in uniform, his face perfectly composed, the picture of loyalty. One would never think the last time he and Ali had laid eyes on each other was when Rashid tricked him into visiting a Tanzeem safe house, threatening Ali with damnation for pulling his support of the shafit militants.

  “Peace be upon you, Qaid,” Rashid said, greeting him politely. He inclined his head. “Banu Nahida, an honor.”

  Ali edged in front of Nahri. Whether to protect his secret from her or to protect her from the vaguely hostile way Rashid’s mouth curled when he said her title, Ali wasn’t certain. He cleared his throat. “Banu Nahida, why don’t you go ahead? This is Citadel business and won’t take but a moment.”

  Rashid raised a skeptical eyebrow at that, but Nahri stepped away—though not before giving them both an openly curious look.

  Ali eyed the rest of the library. Its main floor was a bustling place, filled at all hours with ongoing lectures and harassed scholars, but he was a Qahtani prince and tended to attract attention no matter his surroundings.

  Rashid spoke up, his voice colder. “I’d say you’re not pleased to see me, brother.”

  “Of course not,” Ali hissed. “I ordered you back to Am Gezira weeks ago.”

  “Ah, you mean my sudden retirement?” Rashid drew a scroll from his robe and shoved it at Ali. “You might as well add it to your torch. Thank you for the generous pension, but it’s not necessary.” He lowered his voice, but his eyes flashed with anger. “I risked my life to help the shafit, Alizayd. I’m not a man to be bought off.”

  Ali flinched, his fingers curling around the scroll. “It wasn’t meant in that manner.”

  “No?” Rashid stepped closer. “Brother, what are you doing?” he demanded in an angry whisper. “I take you to a home filled with shafit orphans, children who are sick and starving because we can’t afford to care for them, and in response you abandon us? You retreat to the palace to play companion to a Nahid? A Nahid who brought the Scourge of Qui-zi back to Daevabad?” He threw up his hands. “Have you lost all sense of decency?”

  Ali grabbed his wrist, holding it down. “Quiet,” he warned, jerking his head toward the darkened archive from which he and Nahri had just emerged. “We’re not doing this here.”

  Still glowering, Rashid followed him, but Ali had no sooner shut the door than the other man whirled on him again.

  “Tell me there’s something I’m missing, brother,” he demanded. “Please. Because I cannot reconcile the young man Anas sacrificed himself to save with one who would force shafit into the bronze boat.”

  “I’m the city’s Qaid,” Ali said, hating the defensiveness in his voice. “Those men attacked the Daeva Quarter. They were tried and sentenced under our law. It was my duty.”

  “Your duty,” Rashid scoffed, pacing away. “Being Qaid is not the only duty put upon you in this life.” He glanced back. “I suppose you’re not so different from your brother, after all. A pretty fire worshipper flutters her lashes and you—”

  “That’s enough,” Ali snapped. “I made clear my intention to stop funding the Tanzeem when I learned you were buying weapons with my money. I offered you the retirement to save your life. And as for the Banu Nahida . . .” Ali’s voice grew heated. “My God, Rashid, she’s a human-raised girl from Egypt—not some fiery preacher from the Grand Temple. My father’s guest. Surely you’re not so biased against the Daevas that you oppose my befriending—”

  “Befriending?” Rashid interrupted, looking incredulous. “You don’t take friends from among the fire worshippers, Alizayd. That’s how they trick you. Getting close to the Daevas, integrating them into the court and the Royal Guard—that’s what’s led your family astray!”

  Ali’s voice was cold. “Surely you see the hypocrisy in accusing another of tricking me into friendship.” Rashid flushed. Ali pressed on. “I’m finished with the Tanzeem, Rashid. I couldn’t help you even if I wanted to. Not anymore. My father found out about the money.”

  That finally shut down the other man’s tirade. “Does he suspect you of anything else?”

  Ali shook his head. “I doubt I’d be standing here if he knew about Turan. But the money was enough. I’m sure he has people watching my every move, not to mention my Treasury accounts.”

  Rashid paused, a bit of the anger gone. “Then we’ll lie low. Wait a year or so for the scrutiny to die down. In the meantime—”

  “No,” Ali cut in, his voice firm. “My father made it clear that it was innocent shafit who would pay if he caught so much as a whiff of betrayal from me. I won’t risk that. Nor do I need to.”

  Rashid frowned. “What do you mean you don’t need to?”

  “I made a deal with my brother,” Ali explained. “For now, I fall in line with my father’s plans. When Muntadhir’s king, he’ll let me take a stronger hand in managing issues with the shafit.” His voice rose with ex
citement; his mind had been spinning with ideas since that day. “Rashid, think what we could do for the shafit if we had a king who openly supported our goals. We could organize work programs, expand the orphanage with money from the Treasury . . .”

  “Your brother?” Rashid repeated in disbelief. “You think Muntadhir is going to let you help the shafit—with money from the palace, at that?” He narrowed his eyes. “You can’t possibly be that naive, Ali. The only thing your brother’s going to do to the Treasury is drain it to pay for wine and dancing girls.”

  “He won’t,” Ali protested. “He’s not like that.”

  “He’s exactly like that,” Rashid replied. “Besides which, you haven’t fallen in line, not really. If you were loyal, you would have had us arrested.” He nodded rudely at the retirement papers. “I’d be dead, not pensioned off.”

  Ali hesitated. “We have different views on how to help the shafit. That doesn’t mean I want you hurt.”

  “Or you know we’re right. At least part of you does.” Rashid let the words hang in the air and then sighed, suddenly looking a decade older. “You won’t be able to continue like this, Alizayd,” he warned. “To keep walking a path between loyalty to your family and loyalty to what you know is right. One of these days, you’re going to have to make a choice.”

  I’ve made my choice. Because as much as Ali had initially disagreed with his father’s plans regarding Nahri, he was starting to see where they could lead. A marriage between the emir and the Banu Nahida could bring true peace between the Daevas and the Geziris. And a Banu Nahida raised in the human world—who still looked human—might she not be able to nudge her tribe into being more accepting of the shafit? Ali sensed an opportunity, a true opportunity, to shake matters up in Daevabad and to make sure they landed right.

  But he couldn’t do it from a jail cell. Ali handed the retirement papers back. “You should take these. Go home, Rashid.”

  “I’m not going back to Am Gezira,” the other man said cuttingly. “I’m not leaving Daevabad, Sister Fatumai isn’t leaving the orphanage, and Hanno isn’t going to stop freeing shafit slaves. Our work is larger than any of us. I would have thought Sheikh Anas’s death taught you that.”

  Ali said nothing. In truth, Anas’s death—what had led to it, what had come after—had taught Ali plenty. But they weren’t lessons he suspected Rashid would appreciate.

  Something cracked in the other man’s face. “You were my idea, you know. My hope. Anas was reluctant to recruit you. He believed you were too young. I convinced him.” Regret filled his voice. “Maybe he was right.”

  He turned away, heading for the door. “We won’t bother you again, Prince. If you change your mind, you know where to find me. And I hope you do. Because on the day of your judgment, Alizayd . . . when you’re asked why you didn’t stand up for what you knew was just . . .” He paused, his next words finding Ali’s heart like an arrow. “Loyalty to your family won’t excuse you.”

  22

  Nahri

  The palanquin that carried Nahri from the palace was a far cry from the one in which she had arrived, the cozy “floral box” she’d shared with an irritated Afshin. A symbol of her elevated station, it could have fit a half-dozen people, and was supported by twice that number. The inside was embarrassingly sumptuous, stuffed with brocaded pillows, an untouched cask of wine, and hanging silk tassels fragrant with frankincense.

  And thoroughly covered windows. Nahri tried tearing at the silk panel again, but it was sewn tight. She glanced at her hand, struck by another possibility. She opened her mouth.

  “Don’t,” Nisreen said sharply. “Don’t even think of burning the curtains down. Especially not in that human language of yours.” She clucked her tongue. “I knew that Qahtani boy was going to be a bad influence.”

  “He’s proving a most useful influence.” But Nahri sat back, throwing the covered windows an annoyed look. “This is the first time I’ve been able to leave the palace in months. You’d think I could actually look upon the city my ancestors built.”

  “You can see the Grand Temple when we arrive. Nahids are not expected to mix with the general populace; such a thing would disgrace you.”

  “I doubt that very much,” Nahri muttered, crossing her legs and tapping a foot against one of the palanquin’s support poles. “And if I’m in charge of the Daevas, can’t I change the rules? Meat is now permitted,” she intoned. “The Banu Nahida is allowed to interact with whomever she wants in whatever manner she wants.”

  Nisreen went a little pale. “That’s not how we do things here.” She sounded even more nervous than Nahri. The invitation to the Grand Temple had come yesterday without warning, and Nisreen had spent every minute of the past day trying to prepare Nahri with rushed lectures on Daeva etiquette and religious rituals that had mostly gone in one ear and out the other.

  “My lady . . .” Nisreen took a deep breath. “I would beg—again—that you reflect on what this moment means to our people. The Nahids are our most cherished figures. We spent years mourning them, years believing their loss meant the end of everything until your—”

  “Yes, until my miraculous return, I know.” But Nahri didn’t feel like much of a miracle. She felt like an imposter. She fidgeted, uncomfortable in the ceremonial clothes she’d been forced to don: a pale blue gown finely worked in silver thread and pants of spun gold, the hems heavy with seed pearls and lapis lazuli beads. White silk veiled her face, and a white chador—as light and fine as a puff of smoke—covered her hair, drifting to her feet. She didn’t mind the chador, but the headpiece that held it in place—a heavy diadem of gold, glittering with sapphires and topaz and a band of tiny gold disks hanging over her brow—made her head ache.

  “Stop fiddling with that,” Nisreen advised. “You’re liable to send the whole thing crashing down.” The palanquin shuddered to a stop. “Good, we’re here . . . oh, child, don’t roll your eyes. That is hardly inspiring.” Nisreen opened the door. “Come, my lady.”

  Nahri peeked out, stealing her first look at Daevabad’s Grand Temple. Nisreen said it was one of the oldest buildings in Daevabad and it looked it, as imposing and massive as the Great Pyramids back in Egypt. It was a ziggurat like the palace, but smaller and steeper, a flat-topped step pyramid of three levels, brickwork covered by marble faience in a dazzling rainbow of colors and trimmed in brass. Behind the temple was a tower about twice its height. Smoke rose from its crenellated top.

  A large courtyard stretched between the two buildings. A garden—far more orderly than the feral jungle of the palace—had been designed by a clearly discerning eye, with two long rectangular pools meeting to form a cross, outlined by lush flower beds in a riot of color. On either side of the pools, wide pathways stretched, inviting the visitor to linger, to amble slowly through the fragrant shade, past ancient trees with broad fan-shaped leaves. The entire complex was walled, the massive stones hidden by trellises dripping with roses.

  It seemed a peaceful place, designed to encourage reflection and prayer—had a crowd of at least two hundred people not been excitedly swarming a single figure.

  Dara.

  Her Afshin stood at the heart of the garden, surrounded by a mob of admirers. Daeva children, many with imitations of his marks drawn on their cheeks, had dragged him to his knees and were pushing past each other to show the legendary warrior their skinny muscles and miniature fighting stances. Dara grinned as he replied to whatever it was they were saying. Though Nahri couldn’t hear his words over the buzz of the crowd, she watched as he tugged affectionately on a small girl’s braid, placing his cap on the head of the little boy standing next to her.

  The adults looked just as mesmerized, awe on their faces as they pressed closer to the Afshin whose long-ago demise and defeated rebellion, Nahri realized, probably made him a rather romantic figure. And not just awe; as Dara smiled his all-too-charming grin, Nahri heard an audible—and distinctly female—sigh from the assembled crowd.

  Dara glanced
up, noticing Nahri before his admirers did. His smile grew more dazzling, which in turn sent her heart into an idiotic dance. A few of the other Daevas looked over, then more, their faces brightening at the sight of the palanquin.

  Nahri cringed. “You said it would be only a few dozen people,” she whispered to Nisreen, fighting the urge to duck back inside.

  Even Nisreen looked taken aback by the size of the crowd headed in their direction. “I suppose some of the priests had friends and family begging to tag along, and then they had friends and family . . .” She made a sweeping gesture at the Grand Temple complex. “You are somewhat important to all this, you know.”

  Nahri muttered a curse in Arabic under her breath. Noticing the rest of the women had pulled their veils from their lower faces, she reached for hers.

  Nisreen stopped her. “No, you keep yours on. Nahids—both men and women—always veil in the Grand Temple. The rest of us remove them.” She dropped her hand. “That’s the last I’ll touch you, as well. No one is to touch you here, so don’t reach out to your Afshin. In his day, a man would have gotten his hand lopped off for touching a Nahid in the Grand Temple.”

  “I’d wish them luck trying to do that to Dara.”

  Nisreen gave her a dark look. “He would have been the one doing the lopping, Nahri. He’s an Afshin; his family has served yours in such a manner since Suleiman’s curse.”

  Nahri felt the blood leave her face at that. But she stepped out, Nisreen behind her.

  Dara greeted her. He appeared to be in some sort of ceremonial dress, a finely stitched felt coat dyed in the shimmering colors of a smoldering fire, loose charcoal pants tucked into tall boots. His uncovered hair fell in glossy black curls to his shoulders, his hat still being passed among his small fans.

  “Banu Nahida.” Dara’s tone was solemn and reverent, but he winked before abruptly falling to his knees and pressing his face to the ground as she approached. The rest of the Daevas bowed, bringing their hands together in a gesture of respect.