Ali leaped onto her desk, as graceful as a cat, using its height to strike Dara from above, but the Afshin ducked away in the nick of time. He smashed his hands together, and the desk burst into flames, collapsing under Ali’s weight and tossing the prince to the burning ground. Dara aimed a kick at his head, but Ali rolled away, slashing the backs of Dara’s legs as he went.
“Stop!” she cried as Dara hurled one of the desk’s burning legs at Ali’s head. “Stop it, both of you!”
Ali ducked the chunk of flying debris and then charged the Afshin, bringing the zulfiqar down at his throat.
Nahri gasped, her fears for the men abruptly reversing. “No! Dara, watch–” The warning wasn’t out of her mouth before Dara’s ring blazed with emerald light. Ali’s zulfiqar shuddered and dimmed, the copper blade twisting and then wriggling. It let out an angry hiss, melting into the shape of a fiery viper. Ali startled, dropping the snake as it reeled back to snap at him.
Dara didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the djinn prince by the throat and slammed him into one of the marble columns. The entire room shook. Ali kicked him, and Dara smashed him into the column again. Black blood dripped down his face. Dara tightened his grip, and Ali gasped, clawing at Dara’s wrists as the Afshin strangled him.
Nahri raced across the room. “Let him go!” She grabbed Dara’s arm and tried to wrest him off, but it was like fighting a statue. “Please, Dara!” she screamed as Ali’s eyes darkened. “I beg you!”
He dropped the prince.
Ali crumpled to the ground. He was a wreck, his eyes dazed, blood dripping down his face, more blossoming through his dishdasha. For once, Nahri didn’t hesitate. She dropped to her knees, knocked his turban away, and ripped the neckline of his dishdasha to the waist. She pressed a hand against each wound and closed her eyes.
Heal, she commanded. The blood instantly clotted beneath her fingers, the skin smoothing into place. She hadn’t even realized how immediate, how extraordinary it was until Ali groaned and started coughing for air.
“Are you okay?” she asked urgently. From across the room, she was aware of Dara staring at them.
Ali managed a nod, spitting a stream of blood. “Did . . . did he hurt you?” he wheezed.
By the Most High, is that what he thought he was interrupting? She pressed one of his hands. “No,” she assured him. “Of course not. I’m fine.”
“Nahri, we need to go,” Dara warned in a low voice. “Now.”
Ali looked between them, and shock bloomed in his face. “You’re running away with him? But you . . . you told my father—”
There was a loud knock on the door leading to the outer corridor. “Banu Nahida?” a muffled male voice called. “Is everything all right?”
Ali straightened up. “No!” he boomed. “It’s the Af—”
Nahri clapped her hand over his mouth. Ali jerked back, looking betrayed.
But it was too late. The banging on the door grew louder. “Prince Alizayd!” the voice shouted. “Is that you?”
Dara swore and rushed to the door to lay his hands on the door pulls. The silver instantly melted, winding across the doors in a lacelike pattern to lock them together.
But Nahri doubted it would keep anyone out for long. He has to go, she realized, something breaking in her heart.
And though she knew he had no one to blame but himself, Nahri still choked on the words. “Dara, you need to go. Run. Please. If you stay in Daevabad, the king will kill you.”
“I know.” He snatched Ali’s zulfiqar as the coppery snake tried to slither past, and it instantly re-formed in his hands. He crossed to her desk and emptied a glass cylinder containing some of her instruments. He rifled through the random tools and plucked out a bolt of iron. It melted in his hands.
Nahri stilled. Even she knew he shouldn’t have been able to do that.
But Dara barely winced as he reshaped the soft iron into a skinny length of rope. “What are you doing?” she demanded as he bent and yanked Ali’s hands away from hers. He wrapped the soft metal around the prince’s wrists, and it instantly hardened. The banging outside grew louder, smoke seeping under the door.
Dara beckoned to her. “Come.”
“I already told you: I’m not leaving Daevabad—”
Dara pressed the zulfiqar to Ali’s throat. “You are,” he said, his voice quietly firm.
Nahri went cold. She met Dara’s eyes, praying she was wrong, praying that the man she trusted above all others was not really forcing this choice upon her.
But in his face—his beautiful face—she saw intent. A little regret, but intent.
Ali chose that particularly ill-advised moment to open his mouth. “Go to hell, you child-murdering, warmongering—”
Dara’s eyes flashed. He pressed the zulfiqar harder against Ali’s throat.
“Stop,” Nahri said. “I . . .” She swallowed. “I’ll go. Don’t hurt him.”
Dara moved the zulfiqar away from the prince, looking relieved. “Thank you.” He jerked his head at Ali. “Watch him a moment.” He quickly crossed the room, heading toward the wall behind her desk.
Nahri felt numb. She sat beside Ali, not trusting her legs.
He stared at her with open bewilderment. “I’m not sure whether to thank you for just saving my life or accuse you of betrayal.”
Nahri sucked in her breath. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”
Ali dared a glance at Dara and then lowered his voice. “We’re not going to get away,” he warned, his worried eyes meeting hers. “And if my father thinks you’re responsible . . . Nahri, you gave him your word.”
A heavy grinding sound interrupted them. Nahri looked up to see Dara painstakingly pulling apart the stone wall along its decorative edges, smoke and bright white flames licking at his hands. He stopped once the gap was large enough to squeeze through.
“Let’s go.” Dara grabbed Ali by the back of his robe and dragged him along, pushing him through first. The prince fell hard, to his knees.
Nahri flinched. She couldn’t tell herself that Ali was just a mark anymore; he’d become a friend, there was no denying it. And he was a kid in comparison to Dara, decent-hearted and kind, whatever his faults.
“Give me your robe,” she said curtly as Dara turned back to her. Nahri hadn’t had time to dress, and she would be damned if she was going to be dragged through Daevabad in her bedclothes.
He handed it over. “Nahri, I . . . I’m sorry,” he said in Divasti. She knew his words were sincere, but they didn’t help. “I’m just trying to—”
“I know what you’re trying to do,” she rebuked him, her tone sharp. “And I’m telling you: I’ll never forgive you if something happens to him—and I’ll never forget what you did here tonight.”
She didn’t wait for a response; she didn’t expect one. Instead, she stepped through the gap. She got one last glimpse of her infirmary, and then the wall sealed behind her.
They walked for what felt like hours.
The narrow passageway Dara led them through was so tight that they had to literally squeeze through at points, scraping their shoulders on the rough stone walls. Its ceiling soared and dipped, rising to towering heights before plunging so low they were forced to crawl.
Dara had conjured up small fireballs that danced overhead as they journeyed through the otherwise pitch-black tunnel. No one spoke. Dara seemed intensely focused on sustaining whatever magic held the passage open while Ali drew increasingly ragged breaths. Despite being healed, the prince didn’t look well. Nahri could hear his heart racing, and he kept bumping into the close walls like a dizzy drunk.
He finally stumbled to the ground, crashing hard into the backs of Dara’s legs. The Afshin swore and turned around.
Nahri swiftly stepped between them. “Leave him alone.” She helped Ali to his feet. He was sweating ash and seemed to have trouble focusing on her face. “Are you okay?”
He blinked and swayed slightly. “Just having some issues with the air.”
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“The air?” She frowned. The tunnel smelled a bit stale for sure, but she could breathe just fine.
“It’s because you do not belong here,” Dara said darkly. “This is not your city, not your palace. The walls know that even if you Geziri dogs do not.”
Nahri glared at him. “Then let’s hurry.”
As they walked, the tunnel widened and grew steep, eventually shifting into a long set of crumbling steps. She braced herself against the wall, flinching when it turned damp beneath her hands. In front of her, she heard Ali take a deep breath of the humid air. As the stairs grew slippery with moisture, she would swear his steps looked surer.
Dara stopped. “It’s flooded ahead.”
The flames above their heads brightened. The steps ended in a pool of still black water that smelled as vile as it looked. She drew to a stop at the edge, watching the flickering lights reflect on the water’s oily surface.
“Afraid of a little water?” Ali pushed past Dara and strode confidently into the dark pool, stopping when it reached his waist. He turned back. His ebony robe melted so easily into the black water that it looked like the liquid itself was draped over his shoulders. “Worried the marid will get you?”
“At home in there, aren’t you, little crocodile?” Dara mocked. “Does it remind you of Ta Ntry’s fetid swamps?”
Ali shrugged. “Sand fly, dog, crocodile . . . Are you just working your way through the animals you can name? How many can be left? Five? Six?”
Dara’s eyes flashed, and then he did something Nahri had never seen him do.
He stepped into the water.
Dara raised his hands, and the water fled, rushing over rocks and dashing through crevices. The drops that didn’t make it sizzled underfoot as he passed through.
Nahri’s mouth fell open. His ring was glowing, a bright green light, like the sun shining upon a wet leaf. She thought back to what he’d done to the shedu, to Ali’s zulfiqar, to the iron bindings.
And suddenly she wondered just how many secrets Dara was holding back from her. Their kiss in the cave seemed very long ago.
The Afshin shoved a visibly shocked Ali forward. “Keep walking, djinn, and watch your mouth. It would greatly upset the Banu Nahida if I cut out your tongue.”
Nahri quickly caught up to Ali.
“So his very presence boils water now?” Ali whispered, giving Dara’s back a nervous look. “What manner of horrors is that?”
I have no idea. “Maybe it’s just part of being a slave,” she said weakly.
“I’ve known freed slaves. They don’t have that kind of power. He probably went the way of the ifrit and gave himself over to demons long ago.” He grimaced and looked down at her, lowering his voice even further. “Please, in the name of the Most High, tell me you don’t truly intend to go off with him.”
“You do remember the zulfiqar at your throat?”
“I will throw myself in the lake before I let that monster use my life to steal yours.” He shook his head. “I should have just given you that book in the garden. I should have told you about the cities he destroyed, the innocents he murdered . . . you’d have stuck a knife in his back yourself.”
Nahri recoiled. “I would never.” She knew Dara had a bloody past, but surely Ali exaggerated. “It was a war—a war your people started. Dara was only defending our tribe.”
“Is that what he told you?” Ali drew in his breath. “Defending . . . Nahri, do you know why people call him the Scourge?”
Something very cold crept down her spine, but she pushed it away. “I don’t. But might I remind you that you were the one who came to me the other night covered in another man’s blood,” she pointed out. “Dara’s hardly the only one keeping secrets.”
Ali abruptly stopped. “You’re right.” He turned to her, his expression resolved. “It was the blood of a shafit assassin. I killed him. He was a member of a political group called the Tanzeem. They advocate—sometimes violently—for the rights of the shafit and are considered criminals and traitors. I was their primary benefactor. My father found out and ordered me to befriend you and convince you to marry my brother as penance.” He raised his dark eyebrows, blood crusted at his hairline. “There. Now you know.”
Nahri blinked, taking it all in. She had known Ali had his own agenda, the same as she did—but it stung to hear it laid out so plainly. “The interest in my country, in improving your Arabic . . . I take it that was all pretense?”
“No, it wasn’t. I swear. However our friendship started, however I felt about your family . . .” Ali looked embarrassed. “It’s been a dark few months. My time with you . . . it was a light.”
Nahri looked away; she had to, she could not bear the sincerity in his face. She caught sight of his bloody wrists still bound in iron. He survives this, she swore to herself. No matter what.
Even if it meant running off with Dara.
They kept walking, Ali throwing the occasional hostile glance at Dara’s back. “Perhaps now it’s your turn.”
“What do you mean?”
“Rather adept at picking locks and negotiating contracts for a maidservant, aren’t you?”
She kicked at the ground, sending a few pebbles flying. “I’m not sure you’d still think of me as a light if I told you about my background.”
“Nahri,” Dara called out, interrupting their quiet conversation.
The cavern had ended. They joined Dara at a rocky ledge overlooking a low drop to a narrow sandy beach that surrounded a still lagoon. In the distance, she could see stars through a slice of sky. The lagoon was strangely luminous, the water a coppery blue that shimmered as if under a tropical sun.
Dara helped her onto the beach and handed her his knife as he dragged Ali down to join them. “I’ll need your blood,” he said, sounding apologetic. “Just a bit on the blade.”
Nahri ran the knife over her palm, getting only a few drops before her skin stitched together. Dara took the knife back and whispered a prayer under his breath. The crimson blood burst into flames as it dripped off the blade.
The lagoon began to churn, a great sucking sound coming from its pit as the water rushed away, and something metallic rose in its center. As Nahri watched, an elegant copper boat burst from the pool’s surface, beads of water skittering off its glimmering hull. It was fairly small, probably built to hold no more than a dozen passengers. There was no sail to be seen, but it looked fast, its stern tapering to a sharp point.
Nahri stepped forward, transfixed by the beautiful boat. “Has this been here all this time?”
Dara nodded. “Since before the city fell. The Qahtani siege was so brutal that no one had a chance to escape.” He shoved Ali into the shallows. “Climb aboard, sand fly.”
Nahri went to follow, but Dara caught her wrist. “I’ll let him go,” he said quietly in Divasti. “I promise. There are supplies waiting for us on the other side of the lake, a carpet, provisions, weapons. I’ll leave him on the beach unharmed, and we’ll fly away.”
His words only worsened her feeling of betrayal. “I’m glad to know we’ll be well-provisioned when the ifrit murder us.”
She tried to pull away, but Dara held her tight. “The ifrit aren’t going to murder us, Nahri,” he assured her. “Things are different now. You’ll be safe.”
Nahri frowned. “What do you mean?”
In the distance, there came the sound of a shout, followed by an inaudible command. The voices were far, belonging to men still unseen, but Nahri knew how quickly the djinn could move.
Dara released her wrist. “I’ll tell you when we’re out of the city. I’ll tell you everything you want to know. I should have before.” He touched her cheek. “We’ll get past this.”
I don’t know about that. But she let him help her onto the boat. Dara retrieved a copper pole that ran down the center of the deck. He jabbed it into the sandy bank, and they were off.
The boat slipped past the cavern’s edge with a sizzle. When she glanced back, the rocky fac
e appeared smooth and unblemished. She spotted the docks in the distance, swarmed by tiny figures with flickering torches and gleaming blades.
Ali gazed at the soldiers as the boat raced through the still water toward the dark mountains.
Nahri edged closer to him. “What you told me about your agreement with your father—do you think he’ll punish you if I leave?”
Ali dropped his gaze. “It doesn’t matter.” She watched him tick off his knuckles—praying, counting, maybe just a nervous gesture. He looked miserable.
The words were out of her mouth before she could think better of them. “Come with us.”
Ali stilled.
Stupidly, Nahri pressed on, keeping her voice low. “You might as well escape what comes next. Cross the Gozan with us and then go see that human world you’re so fascinated with. Go pray in Mecca, study with the scholars of Timbuktu . . .” She swallowed, emotion stealing into her voice. “I have an old friend in Cairo. He could probably use a new business partner.”
Ali kept his gaze on his hands. “You really mean that, don’t you?” he asked, his voice oddly hollow.
“I do.”
He briefly squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh, Nahri . . . I’m so sorry.” He turned to look at her, guilt radiating from every line in his face.
Nahri backed away. “No,” she whispered. “What have you—” The air flashed around her, and the words caught in her throat. She clutched the ship’s railing and held her breath through the smothering embrace of the lake’s veil. As with her first crossing, it lasted only a moment, and then the world readjusted. The dark mountains, the star-dappled sky . . .
The dozen or so warships loaded with soldiers.
They nearly crashed right into the closest one, a hulking wooden trireme that sat heavy in the water. The small copper boat slid by and smashed a few oars, but the men onboard were ready. The deck was loaded with archers, their bows drawn, while other soldiers threw down chains of spiked anchors to snag their vessel. One of the archers let loose a single flaming arrow high in the sky. A signal.
Ali climbed awkwardly to his feet. “My ancestors found the copper boat shortly after the revolution,” he explained. “No one could raise it, so it stayed. And we learned how to conceal things on the other side of the veil centuries ago.” He lowered his voice. “I’m sorry, Nahri, I really am.”
The City of Brass Page 45
