The Empire of Gold

by S. A. Chakraborty

  “You okay?” Nahri asked.

  Ali glanced down in surprise, catching her studying him. “Just pondering our reception,” he muttered, switching to Arabic. “I hope my mother is here.”

  “Even if she isn’t, won’t you have your grandfather? Cousins and the like?”

  “I’ve never met my grandfather, and last I heard, he hasn’t been well. As for the rest, I’ve kept my mother’s family at a distance. To come to them for help now, as a prince on the run …” Ali fingered the torn, stained tunic he was wearing, loaned from one of the crew. “It feels deceptive and humiliating.”

  Nahri reached out to squeeze his hand, and the press of her fingers made him warm all over. “I believe deceptive and humiliating are the norm for our families. Besides, you’re arriving with a bunch of shafit pirates and a scheming Banu Nahida. You’ll be the most welcome face in the bunch.”

  Ali started to smile, but then movement between the trees caught his eye—the glimmer of metal, not anything natural.

  He pulled his hand from Nahri’s, edging between her and their unseen arrival. “Fiza,” he called in a low voice. “We have company.”

  The pirate immediately halted, reaching for the pistol Ali had been unable to convince her to leave back at the ship.

  “Touch the gun and die,” a man, still hidden, warned in Ntaran-accented Djinnistani. “Drop your weapons, all of you.”

  Ali paused. Dressed in borrowed clothes, his hair and beard overgrown, he knew he looked more pirate than prince, but there would be no hiding his identity once he drew his zulfiqar.

  “We come in peace,” he greeted the man, saying the Ntaran words as clearly as he could and praying his accent wasn’t too childish. “We’re here to see Queen Hatset.”

  “The queen has little time for the scum raiding our coasts and even less for those who can’t follow orders. Your weapons. Now.”

  Fiza muttered something in Sahrayn that Ali suspected was a return insult, but the man’s warning had filled him with relief. His mother was here.

  So Ali drew his zulfiqar, letting the sun glint on the copper blade before laying it on the ground, then motioning for Fiza and her men to follow suit. “I guarantee you she’ll want to see us.”

  Ali’s hand had barely left the hilt when an Ayaanle warrior emerged from the trees as though stepping through a slit in the air. His golden gaze went wide as it traced Ali from his zulfiqar to his gray eyes to Suleiman’s mark on his cheek. He looked at Nahri, and he swore, calling back to the trees.

  “It’s the prince,” he declared. “And if I’m not mistaken, the Nahid girl.”

  His words were followed by three more Ayaanle warriors stepping out from the forest in unison. Each was taller than the next, dressed in softly shimmering cloth rippling with the exact colors of the greenery around them. They were ridiculously well armed, with throwing knives and sickle-swords, crossbows and slender axes.

  Fiza made a small sound between appreciation and alarm. “Well, if they don’t kill us, maybe a couple will join my crew.”

  One of the warriors stepped closer, a woman—no less muscled than the men and wearing even more knives. “They could be imposters,” she suggested. “Spies or assassins sent by Manizheh and her Afshin.”

  “I can probably tell if the prince is an imposter.”

  The voice was familiar, coming from behind them, and Ali spun to face the man who emerged from the trees.

  “Musa?” He gaped, recognizing the distant cousin he’d met in Am Gezira—the one who’d played a part in his sister’s scheme to return Ali to Daevabad. His cousin was armed far more lightly than the soldiers, his sickle-sword looking more like an accessory.

  “Ah, you remember me. I should hope so, considering the fighters you sent from your village chased me all the way to the Sea of Reeds.”

  “You sabotaged our well. You’re lucky they didn’t drag you back and force you to eat the salt you dumped upon us.”

  Musa smirked. “Oh, good, you’re just as charming as I remember.” He glanced at the soldiers. “You can lower your weapons. This is definitely my cousin.”

  THEY FOLLOWED MUSA THROUGH THE FOREST, MOVING so swiftly that Ali struggled to keep his bearings—which he suspected was the point. The Ayaanle originally intended to blindfold the others, and he’d had to talk them down, shushing Fiza when she described in graphic detail what the djinn could do to themselves instead. Exasperated, Musa had finally agreed, and when the shafit pirate snorted in triumph, Ali’s cousin pointed out that this meant they would more likely be killed without being released.

  It made for a tense walk.

  Worse, Nahri had yet to say a word, unnervingly and uncharacteristically silent at his side. Her expression gave nothing away, the guarded mask Ali remembered from the palace. After so many weeks traveling together, he was taken aback to see it now, and he found himself resisting the urge to take her hand lest she bolt, vanishing into the greenery around them, probably finding a way to take Musa’s gold cuff and lapis earrings with her.

  They came upon the town rather suddenly. Ali had been expecting cleared land and forbidding walls, a mighty fortress to match Ta Ntry’s wealth. But Shefala was not that at all. Nestled in the ruins of an older human settlement, the djinn town seemed to bloom naturally from the earth and human past. What might have been the foundation of an ancient hilltop fort had been dug out and opened to shelter a marketplace, and large, airy homes had been built around the trees, utilizing recovered bricks, thatch, and coral walls. There were no straight, paved streets, but rather sandy paths that wound naturally around shade trees and freestanding gardens. A pleasant setting for the thriving merchant port Shefala was said to be.

  Except it was virtually empty.

  A plaza of teak benches with room for hundreds now sheltered only two women weaving on hand looms. Besides a fruit seller dozing in front of an open-air mosque and a handful of Agnivanshi traders, Ali saw no one. Granted, Musa was keeping them on an outer path that skirted the town’s edge, perhaps in an effort to keep news of Ali and Nahri contained, but the sounds Ali would have expected of a bustling entrepôt—chatter in a half dozen different languages, the banging of tools and shouts of children—were nowhere to be heard.

  Nahri finally spoke. “Where is everyone?” she asked as they passed a fishpond beneath the canopy of a massive baobab tree.

  “Gone or in the castle,” Musa explained. “For now, anyway. When word came of what happened to Daevabad, Queen Hatset ordered most of the women, children, and old folks away. We have some holdouts, as well as merchants and sailors from the other tribes who were passing through on magical means and got stuck. But the queen said she’d be better prepared to take a stand against Manizheh if she knew a thousand innocents couldn’t be wiped out in response.”

  That sounds like Amma. Shefala’s stone castle came into view then, and Ali had to resist the urge to break into a run. Though traveling here had been his idea, part of Ali hadn’t allowed himself to envision seeing his mother, not wanting to be crushed if his plan fell apart.

  He admired the castle as they drew nearer. Though far smaller than Daevabad’s palace, the castle was lovely, its lime-plastered coral walls shining in the sun. The human ruins had been incorporated wherever possible, an old minaret turned into a wind tower, a broken wall given over to flowers. It conveyed age with warmth, whereas Daevabad had seemed brutal, a palace stolen multiple times.

  Musa stopped them at a set of grand doors, carved in a pattern of scrollwork and set with bronze ornaments. “I will take them to the majlis,” he told the female warrior. “Please tell the queen she has guests.” He lowered his voice, but Ali heard him add softly, “Would you see how my grandfather is doing as well?”

  My grandfather. Ali followed Musa, gawking at everything and feeling out of place.

  The majlis was elegant and majestic, a place fit for entertaining royalty, with high windows of ebony wood; checkered marble walls in dark silver and glittering white; and soft,
imported Daeva rugs. Agnivanshi tapestries depicting musicians and dancers hung from the walls, and a white jade and carnelian screen from Tukharistan sectioned off cushioned sofas surrounding a tiled fountain that looked like it had been plucked from Qart Sahar. Fine ceremonial weapons were displayed above a carved ivory platform: a zulfiqar and an Ayaanle shield in a place of prominence.

  Fiza and her men had gone immediately for the fruit and sweets left for guests, but Nahri hadn’t joined them, eyeing the room like she was expecting a rukh to jump out and eat her.

  “Are you all right?” Ali asked.

  “Fine,” she muttered. “Noting the symbolism.”

  “The symbolism?”

  She gestured to the crossed Ayaanle and Geziri weapons behind the raised stage of seat cushions. “The Geziri and Ayaanle, allied and powerful …” Her finger lowered to point at the Daeva rug. “My people underfoot.”

  Ali tried to give her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Maybe they just liked the carpet?”

  “You look displeased, Daeva,” Musa said. He’d followed them into the majlis. “Is something wrong?”

  Nahri’s eyes flashed. “Yes. You’ve now referred to me as the ‘Nahid girl’ and ‘Daeva’ when I’m confident you know both my name and my title. So are you just being rude, or is this an Ayaanle custom I’m misinterpreting?”

  “You’ll forgive me. We don’t have an established tradition for welcoming the daughters of mass murderers.”

  Ali’s temper snapped. “Is there a tradition for getting punched in the majlis? Because between sabatoging my village’s well and insulting my friend—”

  “Alu?”

  Thoughts of brawling with his cousin fled Ali’s mind. Hatset stood at the door in widow’s ash gray, her adornments gone.

  “Is it really you?” his mother whispered. Her golden eyes had locked on his, but she didn’t move. She looked as worried as Ali did that this might all be a mirage.

  “Amma.” The choked word left his lips, and then Ali was across the room.

  Hatset grabbed him as he fell at her feet. “Oh, baba,” she wept, pulling him into an embrace. “I was so worried.”

  Ali hugged her close. She felt thinner, frail in a way she never had before. “I’m okay, Amma. God be praised, I’m okay.” Gently taking her arm, he led his mother to one of the couches, giving Fiza a grateful look as the pirate motioned for her men to fall back.

  Hatset had yet to let him go, only releasing Ali long enough to take his face in her hands. She lightly touched the bruise still marring his temple and traced the seal on his cheek.

  Sorrow filled her eyes. “I would be lying if I said I didn’t hope to see Suleiman’s mark on you one day, but God, not at such a cost.”

  “I know.” Ali fought to keep the emotion from his voice, his throat thick. He was not on a lonely riverbank with Nahri where he could openly grieve—he was a politically compromised prince in a foreign court that, though familiar, had its own interests, and there were a lot of people watching him. “But those we have lost are with God now. All we can do is ensure they get justice.”

  Hatset gazed at him, and he caught a glimpse of both pride and sadness in her eyes. “But of course, Alizayd.” She straightened up, steel entering her voice as she glanced over Ali’s shoulder. “Banu Nahri, welcome to Shefala.”

  “Thank you,” Nahri deadpanned. “I’ve always wanted to travel.”

  “Amma,” Ali spoke quickly. “Nahri and I were blessed to make the acquaintance of Captain Fiza and her crew”—he inclined his head toward the shafit pirate—“to whom we owe our lives. Could rooms be prepared for them to rest? Cousin, you appear to be doing nothing. Can you make welcome our guests?”

  Musa gave him an incredulous look. “Oh, is it ‘our’ already?”

  “Yes,” Hatset said firmly. “Captain Fiza, I am honored to meet you. Please be assured you and your crew will be shown every welcome—and reward for aiding my son.” She glanced at Musa, her gaze a bit more chiding. “Please, nephew, if you wouldn’t mind seeing to our guests.”

  Musa bowed his head. “Of course, my queen.”

  His cousin and the sailors filed out of the room, leaving Ali alone with Nahri and his mother. The sound of the door closing echoed through the vast space.

  His mother immediately pulled Ali back into a hug, clutching him tight. “Thanks be to God,” she said, kissing his head. “I thought for certain you were dead. I feared Manizheh murdered you both and was spreading this lunatic story to buy herself time.”

  Ali released her. “Has there been any more news of Daevabad? Anything from Zaynab?”

  Hatset paused. “No. Not yet.” She cleared her throat. “But I did send a message to Manizheh.”

  Nahri drew up. “What kind of message?”

  “I will absolutely see him,” a man insisted outside the majlis door. “He is my prince, we are at war, and I don’t need the permission of some trumped-up—”

  Ali shot to his feet. “Is that Wajed?”

  “Yes,” Hatset said. “He came to Shefala when he heard Daevabad fell. He apparently believed me the next authority—not that he’s always been acting that way,” she grumbled. “Come in, Qaid!”

  Wajed entered with what looked like barely controlled haste, two Geziri soldiers nipping at his heels.

  “Zaydi,” the old warrior greeted him, relief in his voice. “Thank God.”

  Nahri flew up before Ali could respond. “Thank no one,” she snapped. “What have you done with Jamshid?”

  THE WARRIORS ACCOMPANYING WAJED HAD THEIR weapons drawn before Jamshid’s name had even left Nahri’s lips.

  “Stop!” Ali rushed between them. “Lower your weapons!”

  “I’ve done nothing to Jamshid,” Wajed spat out, scowling at Nahri with undisguised hostility. “He’s here, alive and confined below.”

  “Jamshid e-Pramukh is here?” Ali asked, keeping himself between Nahri and the Geziri soldiers. The soldiers might have dropped their weapons, but Nahri still looked murderous. “How?”

  “He was in my custody the night of the attack,” Wajed explained. “Your father ordered me to arrest Nahri and the Pramukh men after the Navasatem attack. I was to deliver Nahri and Kaveh to the palace and take Jamshid to one of our strongholds in Am Gezira. He’s been with me since.”

  “Why?” Ali looked wildly between Wajed and Nahri, each of whom was glaring daggers at the other. “Why would my father arrest three Daevas for the attack on their parade? He knew they had nothing to do with it. He was already preparing to punish the shafit!”

  “That’s not why he arrested us.” Nahri still sounded heated, but there was a new hesitation in her voice.

  Ali was growing more baffled by the moment. “Then why did he arrest you?”

  Nahri’s dark eyes met his, an apology in them. “Because of you, Ali. Ghassan was going to use me to end your rebellion. He planned to charge me as your co-conspirator and threaten to have me executed if you didn’t surrender.”

  Ali reeled, lost for words, but Wajed was already responding.

  “That’s a lie,” the Qaid declared, sounding appalled. “The king would never have treated a woman under his protection in such a way!”

  “Yes, he would,” Ali whispered, hating the truth of it. “If he thought I was a true risk to his throne, to Daevabad’s stability, there is nothing my father wouldn’t have done.”

  Hatset had stayed quiet, observing their fight from a distance, but she spoke up now. “Why were the Pramukh men involved?”

  Wajed still seemed aggrieved. “I don’t know.”

  “I wasn’t asking you.” Hatset’s gaze fixed on Nahri. “I’m talking to the Banu Nahida. Why were Kaveh and Jamshid involved?”

  “I didn’t ask,” Nahri said through her teeth. “You’ll forgive me for not thinking to pry into your evil husband’s convoluted plots while he was threatening to kill me.”

  Hatset was undeterred. “So you have no thoughts, none at all, as to why Ghassan believ
ed Jamshid valuable?”

  Ali interceded. “We’re not doing whatever this is. I owe my life to Nahri ten times over. She is my ally and my friend, and we did not come here so she could be attacked and interrogated the moment she stepped through the door.”

  “I’m not attacking her,” Hatset said calmly. “I already know why Ghassan believed Jamshid so valuable. I am merely curious if Banu Nahri does as well.”

  Banu Nahri looked like she was about to stab everyone in the room. “Why don’t you enlighten me,” she said, her voice as cool and lethal as Manizheh’s had been on the palace roof back in Daevabad.

  Ali touched her wrist. This had been the exact kind of reception she’d feared. “Nahri—”

  “It’s fine. Your mother clearly has some things she’d like to say to me.”

  The men in the room may have been the armed ones, but they had nothing on the battle brewing between the two women. Even Wajed had stepped back, looking newly apprehensive.

  Hatset nodded at the soldiers. “Would you leave us?”

  With a glance at Wajed and Ali, the guards complied. Only when the door was shut did his mother speak again.

  “Shortly after Manizheh supposedly died, a Daeva noble from the hinterland arrived. An inconsequential man, from a family that was more farmer than sophisticate, but one that had served the Nahids for centuries—the Pramukhs. When Ghassan heard he was in the city, he invited the noble to court out of sympathy—he’d been a friend to Manizheh and Rustam, you see, the unfortunate person who’d discovered their bodies when they were slain.”

  A chill went down Ali’s back. He’d heard the stories growing up of the blood-soaked, smoldering plain in Daevastana where the last Nahids had supposedly been slaughtered by the ifrit. “Kaveh.”

  “But not just Kaveh,” Hatset continued. “Jamshid too. I occasionally attended court in those days, and I still remember the way the color drained from your father’s face when Kaveh formally presented himself and his son, a little boy who barely reached his waist. Ghassan shot to his feet, furious, and charged out. I immediately followed, the worried wife, to overhear my husband ranting to his Qaid about the ‘ungrateful whore’—how the Nahid he’d desired had used the leave he’d granted her to rut with a country noble and how the man had to be a fool to turn up in his city. About how he planned to kill the boy and make Kaveh watch before throwing both their bodies in the lake.”