“He’s not my lover,” Nahri insisted, hating the heat in her voice. “Were you spying on us?”
“It’s not spying if it’s my ship.” Fiza grinned. “My ship. What a glorious turn of phrase.”
“Better hope the crew is more loyal to you than it was to al Mudhib.”
“I could make it my life’s goal, and I’d still never be as much of a bastard as al Mudhib, so I expect I’ll be all right. But yes, I am spying on you, so why don’t you make things easier and join me up here where it will be harder for you to dodge my questions.”
You have no idea how capable I am of dodging questions. “I have to prepare some medicine for Ali.”
“If he hasn’t died yet, he can wait a few more minutes.”
Nahri glowered but climbed up. Save for the seaweed carpet of death, the top of the sandship offered a stunning view. The sails might not have shimmered with magic, but the massive canopies of amber and gold were beautiful against the wind. To her far right, the coast was a ribbon of pearly white beaches and lush green palms.
Nahri lifted her face to the sun’s heat. “This is nice.”
“It is,” Fiza agreed pleasantly. “I enjoy flying over the desert, but there’s something special about the sea. How fortunate we are to be in the company of someone who can compel it to race up a creek and seize a boat.”
“Maybe it was a lucky high tide.”
“Luck is a fairy tale we use to make people feel better about the world being unfair as shit. Is he dangerous?”
“Why would you ask that?”
Fiza gave her a pointed look. “Because I’ve sailed with Ayaanle and know they’ve got legends about the demons that live in the waters of this land, legends that rarely end happily.”
“The creative yarns of bored sailors.”
“Daeva, I am enjoying your company more than I imagined I would someone raised to despise my blood, but if you avoid my question again, I’m going to throw you overboard. Which, you might remember, your prince tried to do to himself last night until you knocked him out with an oar. So I’ll ask again: is he dangerous?”
I don’t know. Ali’s haunted confession and doomed eyes came back to her, and this time, there was no denying the rush of tenderness and worry that stole into Nahri’s heart.
She skirted the question. “He’s not dangerous. Not to you and your crew. He’s given you his word about Shefala, and he won’t go back on that. He’s a good man.”
“A good man who’s sworn to the marid?” Fiza gave Nahri a skeptical look. “Sailor, remember? I know the old stories about people making blood sacrifices to them in exchange for power. There’s little room for good men in those tales.”
“Ali would never do something like that,” Nahri insisted. “And you don’t need to worry about it either way. Just get us to Shefala, and then you can take your gold and wash your hands of us.”
“Forgetting something?” Fiza dragged down her shirt collar, revealing the iron snake beneath her skin. “You won’t be rid of us that quickly. I want this out.”
The sight of the brand made Nahri shudder. “Did you really choose to have that put it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” she couldn’t help but ask.
“Because crewing on a sandship for a decade sounded better than where I was.”
“Daevabad?”
Fiza shook her head. “No. I wasn’t living in Daevabad by then. I was stolen from the city when I was a kid.”
Nahri started. “Stolen?”
“Yes, stolen. And you needn’t sound so surprised. Maybe in the palace, you’re ignorant of it, but it happens to shafit all the time. Purebloods kidnap babies to pass off as their own kids. They grab older ones, claiming to be relatives and then forcing them into servitude. Most stay in Daevabad. I was … an exception. For reasons that are my own.”
Nahri found herself struggling for words. She had known these things happened in Daevabad, but hearing it out of the mouth of a woman who’d chosen to have iron put in her neck as an alternative to a worse fate was a stark slap of reality.
“I’m sorry, Fiza,” she said finally. “Truly.”
“So am I.” Fiza shrugged. “So were they, eventually. They ran afoul of al Mudhib’s crew, and I turned on them the first moment I could.”
She’d pulled her collar back up, but Nahri found herself still staring at Fiza’s throat. “I’ll get that brand out of you, I promise. I’ll find a way, magic or not.” She hesitated. “And if Ali and I make it to Daevabad, you’re welcome to come with us. If you have family—”
Fiza flinched. “I don’t know about that yet.” She drew her knees up to her chest, looking younger. “But I don’t need some Nahid’s pity. I know what your people think about ‘dirt-bloods.’”
“It’s not what I think.”
“Why? Because you grew up in the human world? Because you’re supposedly cursed to look like us?” Fiza snorted, taking a drag of her pipe. “I’ve heard your story.”
Nahri’s throat was suddenly thick. “You don’t know my story.”
“Ah, yes. Poor little rich girl. Plucked off the streets by the Scourge and taken to Daevabad. What was harder, becoming a princess or marrying a handsome emir?”
“I’m not a princess, I’m a Nahid healer,” Nahri snapped. “And a shafit, for that matter.”
Fiza dropped her pipe. It fell off the roof, rolling down the deck.
She didn’t seem to notice. “Bullshit. The Daevas don’t go near humans.”
“Why in the name of God would I lie about something like that?” Nahri had finally let go of the secret she’d held tight for six years, and now Fiza didn’t even believe her? “Do you know what my people would do if they learned the truth?”
The pirate gaped. “Wait, you’re telling the truth? You’ve got human blood? And no one knows?”
You fool, what are you doing? But strangely enough, Nahri felt relieved, almost dizzy with this small release. “Ali knows.”
“Pillow talk?”
“You’re not the only one who can shove someone overboard.”
“Well, don’t you have some pointy edges?” Fiza whistled. “A Nahid shafit. Damn, how scandalous.”
Nahri’s head began to pound. “Yes,” she said weakly, going from dizzy to nauseous. “I’m aware.”
“So why are you telling me? You know I’m a criminal, yes? We sell scandalous information.”
Why was Nahri telling Fiza? She’d just given Ali a lecture on safety and now here she was, spilling her most dangerous secret to an even more dangerous person.
“I don’t know,” she muttered. “I think I find you a kindred spirit.” Then she shrugged, considering. “Though I guess you’re a good test for coming clean with others.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because no one would believe a criminal if I said you were lying.”
Fiza smacked her shoulder. “You were the one who picked the locks, weren’t you?” When Nahri offered a wry grin, Fiza laughed. “I’d be tempted to offer you a place on my crew if I wasn’t worried you’d turn on me the second the wind shifted.”
“And I might be tempted to take you up on the offer if my mother wasn’t slaughtering innocents in Daevabad. But I have to go back. It’s the right thing to do.”
“What the hell is the right thing to do?”
“Believe me, you don’t want to find out.”
21
DARA
Creator forgive him, Muntadhir al Qahtani might have been right.
Dara dodged a pack of excited children as they raced one another across the throne room, shaking brass noisemakers and swinging sparklers. Following them was a troupe of entertainers—acrobats walking on their hands or on stilts and dark-eyed beauties whirling, their braids snapping across the air. Men in brilliant silks, wearing enough jewelry to pay for Dara’s threadbare army, were laughing uproariously in gathered groups, jade cups of expensive wine splashing beaded cushions.
The throne room i
n which his life had been knocked off course was unrecognizable, its solemn air of history giving way to a spectacular feast that Dara suspected would soon not be fit for the pious ladies who’d already set up a formidable wall of sterneyed elders between their pretty, marriageable daughters and any lovelorn young men. In one corner, a storyteller was regaling an enthralled group of wide-eyed youngsters with glamorous puppets set against painted backdrops. Seeing a wooden archer with green coin eyes, Dara grimaced and turned away.
Still, it was the kind of scene he had dreamed of for centuries. Daeva music filled the air, songs whose lyrics and rhythms had changed from his time but were still recognizable, and a banquet to feed hundreds had been laid out, copper platters and carved quartz bowls upon a bright aquamarine cloth that ran the entire length of the eastern wall. An atmosphere of wild relief gripped the crowd.
Of course they’re relieved. The rich are once again dancing and feasting while the rest of the city starves in fear. For though Dara could not help but enjoy this small sign of celebration, he suspected the laughing Daeva nobles around him had once bowed to Ghassan with the same smiles they now presented to Banu Manizheh. This was not a holiday for the common people of his tribe: it was a very pretty bribe—designed by Muntadhir, of all people—to convince the nobles who had sidled up to the Qahtanis for generations that they should instead throw their support to the Banu Nahida.
The absence of magic was unsettling as well. Though Dara had done what he could—conjuring jewel-bright lanterns to float overhead and butter-soft roses that climbed the walls and continuously blossomed, their perfumed petals showering the floor and guests—there should have been more, and it was eerie to see something so essential to his people stripped from them.
Suleiman’s eye, this is why people call you brooding.
Forcing a more pleasant expression onto his face, Dara abruptly helped himself to the blue glass bottle of wine nearest him, feeling a sudden desire to get drunk and not particularly caring that it clearly belonged to a circle of pearl-draped noblemen, whose protesting mouths snapped shut the moment they looked up from their game of dice to see who’d stolen their wine.
Taking a long swig, Dara turned away to study Manizheh, dressed in ceremonial garments and sitting upon the sparkling shedu throne, Kaveh at her side. A long line of people waited to greet them.
The sight of her sent more apprehension creeping over him. Manizheh had consented to his working with Muntadhir—seeming surprised but pleasantly so—but she had yet to invite him back to court, and seeing her now, a perfect portrait of the noble and sacred Nahids, Dara wondered if she ever would. Their years together in the sparse mountain camp, surviving brutal winters and dreaming of a less bloody conquest, suddenly seemed very far away. Dara had seen Manizheh at her worst; forget his insubordination, he must be an unwelcome reminder of the true cost of all this spectacle. The weapon that, if she was wise, Manizheh would keep stashed away until needed.
But Dara didn’t want to only be a weapon anymore. So, the wine buzzing pleasantly in his veins, he decided to join her. Ignoring the queuing nobles, he strode up, prostrating himself on the carpet. “May the fires burn brightly for you, my lady.”
“And for you, Afshin,” Manizheh said, her voice warm. “Please rise.”
He did so, catching Kaveh look askance at the wine bottle Dara was doing a poor job of concealing in the folds of his tunic.
The grand wazir raised his eyebrows. “You really have taken to partnering with Muntadhir.”
“Oh, let him be, Kaveh,” Manizheh chided. “I have no doubt our Afshin has already patrolled this place himself a dozen times.” Dara caught what might have been a smile through the shimmering cloth of her veil. “And we could all use a break for a night.”
It was the kindest thing she’d said to him in weeks, and despite everything, a light blossomed in Dara’s heart. “Thank you, my lady,” he said reverently. “I pray you are enjoying yourself as well.”
Manizheh motioned for the servants to hold the line of waiting guests and then turned back to him. “It is a singular experience to provide a warm welcome to people I know kissed the hands of the kings who locked me away. But it’s nice to hear laughter in the palace again.” Her gaze fell on the children surrounding the storyteller. “Perhaps we may still wrest some good from all this.”
Despite her optimistic word, her voice was melancholy. Manizheh had obviously nursed her own quiet dreams of returning to Daevabad, of arriving as a savior and being reunited with her children, instead of struggling to hold a broken, bloody city.
Dara ventured carefully. “Has there been any further word of your children?”
Manizheh’s expression fell, and glancing at her, Kaveh answered. “Just the same rumors about Wajed and Jamshid—all of which contradict one another. Some people say the Tukharistanis have given Wajed safe passage, others that he’s recruiting troops in Am Gezira or has boarded a stolen human boat for Ta Ntry.” He shook his head, reaching out to squeeze Manizheh’s hand. “It’s impossible to say which is true. And of Nahri and Alizayd, nothing at all.”
“It is still very early,” Dara offered, trying to hold on to hope himself. Manizheh nodded silently, but he didn’t miss the worry in her eyes.
Or the rather open display of affection between her and Kaveh. Manizheh didn’t seem to care what people might think about their unmarried Banu Nahida sharing a bed with the grand wazir, and it slightly concerned him. Dara wasn’t a politician, but even he knew it might have been more pragmatic for Manizheh to form a marriage alliance with someone not already in her camp.
There was also not a chance in hell he was saying that—not when he’d just started to return to her good graces.
“No smiles from the triumphant conquerors?”
Dara twitched at Muntadhir’s mocking voice behind him but held his tongue as he turned around.
He was instantly glad he’d done so, for Muntadhir wasn’t alone—he stood with three Daeva companions. They were all richly dressed, but the emir stood out. The only Geziri in the room, he’d dressed the part in a robe so black it looked as though a starless night had arranged itself around his shoulders, and a brilliant blue-and-copper turban pinned at a rakish angle with a pearl ornament. A patterned silk sash was tied at his waist, a khanjar tucked beneath.
“I don’t recall saying you could have a weapon,” Dara warned.
Muntadhir gave him a dangerous smile and turned to Manizheh, touching his heart and brow so politely one would never have imagined they’d faced off in a dungeon only weeks ago. “Peace be upon you, Banu Manizheh. If I may approach, I’d like to introduce you to a few of my companions.”
Manizheh’s greeting to the son of the king she’d killed was no less gracious. “If they are the companions you say have been in talks with the other tribes, by all means …” Manizheh motioned the group forward. “May the fires burn brightly for you, gentlemen.”
The men brought their fingers together in smooth unison, bowing as Muntadhir introduced them. “Tamer e-Vaigas, Sourush Aratta, and Arta Hagmatanur … I’m sure you know well your Banu Manizheh e-Nahid and Darayavahoush e-Afshin.”
Vaigas. Dara blinked in surprise. A familiar name. “I had a Vaigas in my command. One of my closest advisors,” he added, remembering his long-dead friend. “Bizvan. He was a demon with a spear. Clever tactician as well.”
Tamer’s face shone with awe. “I’m his descendant,” he gushed. “I heard growing up that he’d fought at your side in the rebellion but thought it might just be a story.”
“Not a story at all.” Dara grinned, happy to learn Bizvan had survived long enough to sire children—even if it was troubling to learn his descendants had flocked to the Qahtani’s side. Dara clapped the young man’s shoulder, nearly knocking him over. “Why have you not joined my army? You come from good fighting stock!”
A look of sheer terror crossed Tamer’s visage before he let out a forced laugh. “Maybe a thousand years ago. Bizvan’s spear hang
s on the wall of our guest room. We’re merchants now.” He turned back to Manizheh. “Which is what brings me here tonight. My family has deep ties with some of the leading Agnivanshi traders; Sourush and Arta”—he nodded to the other Daevas—“with the Tukharistanis. Those trapped in the city are beginning to reach out. They’re afraid to do so publicly, but I believe there’s hope.”
“Then I am even happier to meet you.” Manizheh gestured to the cushions below her. “Sit.” She glanced at Dara, a knowing look in her eyes. “Why don’t you celebrate with your men? Watching nobles bow doesn’t strike me as the way you’d like to spend your evening.”
Oh, thank the Creator. Dara brought his hands together in blessing. “Your mercy is appreciated.”
He was barely out of eyesight when he took another glug from the wine bottle. “They’re using his spear as wall decor,” he muttered to himself, his desire to get drunk growing deeper with each haughty fake laugh he heard from the rich snobs around him. Suleiman’s eye, where were his fellows?
He finally found them in a sunken iwan near the back of the throne room, lounging on pillows and appearing to already be in the state of intoxication Dara hoped to achieve.
“Afshin!” Gushtap shot up unsteadily. “We’re not on duty, I swear.”
“Good, neither am I.” Dara tossed his wine bottle to Gushtap before dropping to an adjacent cushion. “Relax,” he added, trying to assuage the nervous expressions of his warriors. “We could all use a night off, and I have had enough of the fancy people back there.”
Irtemiz offered a wan smile. “I had a man actually gasp when I said I was an archer.” She clutched at an invisible strand of pearls. “But how can you draw a bow? Does your form not impede you?” She rolled her eyes. “I told him if he didn’t take his eyes off my form, I would shove an arrow up his ass.”
That was probably language Dara should curtail, but alas, Manizheh had given away his responsibilities. “You can have one of mine,” he replied, taking his wine back from Gushtap. “How are you feeling, by the way? The leg and arm healing?”
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