The Empire of Gold

by S. A. Chakraborty

  “I am weary of patience.” Bitterness creased Manizheh’s face. “Was Ghassan patient? The djinn tribes should be grateful for the mercy I’ve shown them. If they’d defied him like this, he would have slaughtered them. And when it comes to the Geziris and the shafit, we’re being naive. We’re never going to have peace with them. We might as well accept that and do what’s necessary to protect ourselves before they strike first.”

  Her words landed heavily in the tense air. They were not surprising—they were indeed what Dara suspected all three of them had quietly thought at one time or another.

  But that night at the hospital had changed him. Dara could not look at the other side of the city and see only shadows and weapons. There were people, tens of thousands of them. Families and children and soldiers as weary of war as he was. Elashia and Razu.

  “If you believe what is necessary is another massacre, you will need another Afshin,” he declared. “What happened to the palace Geziris was the last time. I won’t participate in another slaughter. And if you send the ifrit in, you will lose all credibility as our ruler.”

  Manizheh’s eyes blazed. “Then perhaps I’ll send in the soldiers you have trained.”

  “Then they would be the ones slaughtered. They’d be outnumbered and surrounded.”

  “So instead you’d have us sit back and wait to be attacked? And you wonder why I question your counsel?”

  “Manu.” Using a name Dara had not heard before, Kaveh reached out to take Manizheh’s hands. His voice was gentle. “Do not let this news shake you from your course. I know how worried you are about Jamshid. I am too. But trust me; it’s better he is in Hatset’s hands, regardless of her threats. Wajed might have killed him; Hatset will negotiate. I have no doubt she would trade her daughter for Jamshid if given the option.”

  “Except we still don’t have her daughter.” Manizheh continued ripping up the letter, letting the pieces fall to the ground, and then glared at Dara. “Can you assist with that or will it offend your new conscience?”

  Dara checked his temper. He was supposed to be finding ways to convince Manizheh to avoid bloodshed, not getting tossed out of her presence entirely. And perhaps finding Zaynab would do some good. Their enemies would lose their leader, and if the princess could be traded for Jamshid … Maybe with her son safely at her side, Banu Manizheh would be more merciful and patient with her subjects.

  Dara bowed his head. “Will there be any Ayaanle attending our meeting?”

  Kaveh nodded. “An ivory trader by the name of Amani ta Buzo. She’s one of Tamer’s business associates.”

  “The man who keeps his ancestor’s spear as a wall ornament?”

  “The very one.”

  “Then I will try to speak with her,” Dara promised. “Perhaps she might have some thoughts on luring Zaynab out.”

  “See?” Kaveh said, sounding like he was trying to cheer Manizheh up. “Progress.” Dara saw him squeeze her hand. “We’re going to get our son back,” he said fiercely. “I promise.”

  Manizheh’s gaze looked very faraway. “I wish I had your confidence.”

  Dara wordlessly stepped away as Kaveh brought Manizheh’s hand to his lips. “We will all be together again, my love. I know it.”

  THE DAY OF THE PEACE SUMMIT WAS NOT A PLEASANT one. Daevabad’s weather had always been erratic, but with no magic, it had gone into utter free fall—torrential rains bursting from cloudless skies, followed by afternoons of blistering heat. It was wreaking havoc on their crops, farmers losing the battle to protect their orchards and fields. Today Dara had woken to a cold fog that smelled like rot, the sky growing more and more mercurial until it finally opened, pelting with sleet those unfortunate enough to be outside. Despite the accumulating ice, a swarm of crickets had also descended, unexpected vermin being another side effect of the loss of Suleiman’s seal.

  “An excellent omen,” Muntadhir said drily at Dara’s side. The emir was in a great mood, clearly thrilled to be outside the palace walls for the first time in weeks. He crunched a cricket into the ice under his heel and then glanced sideways. “Tell me—in your more unsettling form, do you think you’d sizzle in the rain? That would be most entertaining. Like oil in a skillet.”

  “Al Qahtani, I am not above gagging you and stuffing you back in the carriage.” Dara gave the sleet a look of distaste. Cold rain. Why did it have to be cold rain? “I do not even know why you are here.”

  “The sight of him will set the djinn at ease.” It was Tamer speaking now. “My acquaintances are nervous. They fear being abducted the moment they set foot in our quarter. I’ve told them the emir is working with us, but seeing him here is better.”

  Muntadhir grinned. “And without even a leash!”

  “That can still be arranged,” Dara muttered. They were underneath a canopied pergola, but water still beaded down his skin, offending something deep inside him.

  “Any sign of our guests?” Kaveh asked, joining them.

  Dara nodded in welcome. “Not yet.”

  Muntadhir’s mocking smile vanished at the sight of the grand wazir, replaced by open hostility. Dara guessed personally murdering his father was not something even the wily emir could move past. “Kaveh, I didn’t think to see you here. Did Manizheh let you out of her bed early?”

  “Watch yourself, al Qahtani,” Dara warned.

  “It’s all right, Afshin,” Kaveh replied, not taking his gaze off Muntadhir. “I lost what little respect I had for Muntadhir’s opinion a long time ago.” He lifted his chin. “Six years ago, to be precise. When you were too cowardly to stand up for my son after he saved your life.”

  “Oh, look, the djinn!” Dara said enthusiastically, moving between Kaveh and Muntadhir and pointing with as much excitement as he could muster at the two small groups approaching from the direction of the Tukharistani and Agnivanshi quarters. They were huddled under wet parasols and surrounded by Daeva soldiers. Dara had insisted on meeting the envoys first, before bringing them deeper in Daeva territory, let alone anywhere near Manizheh.

  Tamer coughed. “It may be best if you don’t do that,” he said delicately. “They’re already frightened of you.”

  Dara followed his gaze to see that, as usual, he was resting his hand on the hilt of his knife. He grunted, glancing again at Muntadhir, who was still glaring at Kaveh, but dropped his hand.

  He surveyed their new arrivals—a single representative each from the Ayaanle, Tukharistani, and Agnivanshi tribes. They’d had no luck with the Sahrayn and hadn’t bothered reaching out to the Geziri and shafit confederation of vengeance. The djinn representatives each had their own personal guards, and every eye—gold and tin and tawny sand—was on Dara.

  At his side, Tamer bowed. “Greetings, my friends. And thank you for joining us. I pray today takes us all on a new path.” He paused. “I am not sure my companions need an introduction, but may you be pleased to meet Darayavahoush e-Afshin, Grand Wazir Kaveh e-Pramukh, and Emir Muntadhir al Qahtani.”

  Muntadhir swept in. “Ah, Tamer, you speak as though we’re all strangers and did not pull Naqtas from the lap of a singing girl with a reputation for leaving her patrons tied to the bed with their jewelry missing.” He winked at an extremely straitlaced-looking Agnivanshi man who instantly flushed. “Peace be upon you all, my friends.”

  “May the fires burn brightly for you,” Dara added, forcing a smile that seemed to provoke even more fear. Two of the djinn edged back.

  “For you as well, Afshin,” It was an older Ayaanle woman who’d spoken, in flawless Divasti. “You’ll forgive me, Emir, for we haven’t met. The laps of singing girls are not my natural environment.”

  Muntadhir’s voice took on the slightest chill. “Amani ta Buzo, I assume.”

  “You assume correctly. Though I would not have thought my family illustrious enough to be known by the emir.”

  “Oh, have no worries of illustriousness, my lady.” Muntadhir smiled, the expression dagger sharp. “I only know of your family’s n
ame because I’ve heard my stepmother referring to it as belonging to a pack of vipers.”

  Amani returned his smile. “And yet now the queen is gone, and you and I are at the side of your father’s murderers. Perhaps neither of us should be so judgmental.”

  Dara intervened. “Let’s not make our guests wait in the rain. Gushtap, you have searched the men for weapons?”

  “Yes, Afshin. Those wearing weapons have already handed them over; however …” Gushtap lowered his voice. “There is an issue.”

  “I take it he’s referring to my gift for the Banu Nahida,” Amani explained, pointing to a large teak trunk two of her men were carrying. “You might as well take a peek, Afshin. You can have first pick.”

  Apprehensive, Dara motioned for the trunk to be opened. The earthy smell of iron hit his nose, and then he narrowed his eyes.

  The trunk was entirely packed with weapons. Ivory-handled iron daggers and straight knives, short steel swords and throwing blades.

  “This is your gift to Banu Manizheh?” he asked.

  “I figured she’d appreciate the practical application. You’ll be moving on the Geziri Quarter soon enough, won’t you?”

  Muntadhir’s eyes flashed, and Dara made several quick decisions, trusting only himself to deal with the giant trunk of weapons, the prickly emir, and the arms-trading old woman. “Both of you are coming with me,” he ordered, pointing to Amani and the emir. “As is that trunk.”

  Tamer gave him a nervous look. “It might be wise if I go with you as well, Afshin.”

  A diplomat could only help. “That sounds like a plan,” Dara agreed.

  “May my brother join us?” Tamer pointed to the knot of recruits loading the waiting carriages. “We have an extra seat.”

  Dara made a sound of assent, his gaze still on Amani and Muntadhir. They’d climbed into the carriage and were conversing in extremely angry-sounding, rapid-fire Djinnistani.

  Kaveh turned to follow them.

  Dara stopped him. “I don’t think you and Muntadhir should be confined together in any small spaces.” He pointed in the direction of Gushtap’s carriage. “Trust when I say you’ll find better company with my man.”

  Kaveh glanced skeptically at Muntadhir and Amani. “You can handle them?”

  “I’m told I’m very frightening. Go. I will see you at the palace.”

  Tamer’s brother ended up being one of the young men Dara had berated during training, and as the carriage door shut and Muntadhir started looking even more rebellious, Dara found himself regretting not taking a more experienced warrior. He sat on the box of weapons, fully meaning to divest the emir of a limb if he made any sudden movements.

  Amani peeked out the window. “Such a gloomy day. I was curious to see how the Daevas were adjusting to the loss of magic. I see you have horses pulling your carriages now.”

  “Perhaps you might tell us how the Ayaanle are faring,” Tamer suggested pleasantly.

  “You mean, have we exhausted our food stores, and are we ready to fall at the feet of your Banu Nahida begging for help? No, not yet, Tamer.”

  “But I take it you wish to be the first in line once power shifts,” Muntadhir accused. “Even offering up weapons to help that shift occur a bit faster.”

  Amani leaned back. “I must say I did expect more from a Qahtani prince. Oh, I know they say you are a drunk and a wastrel, but where is that fierce Geziri honor? I’d have thought you’d throw yourself on your own zulfiqar before aiding the people who murdered your father. Oh, forgive me,” she corrected. “You were not the one who knew how to wield a zulfiqar.”

  At that Muntadhir flinched, murder simmering in his eyes. But he held his tongue when Dara threw him a look of warning and drew up, staring out the curtained window like they were all beneath him.

  The carriage continued, rain beating steadily upon the canopy. Dara wrinkled his nose, fanning a hand in front of his face to alleviate the iron tang of the weapons that had grown thick in the close air. At the motion of his hand, Tamer’s young brother—whose name Dara didn’t remember—jumped.

  And I am to make warriors of such men? Exasperated, Dara leaned back to glance through the curtain. He could see one of the other three carriages ahead, but otherwise the gray, misty street was empty. They were traveling along the avenue that led past Daevabad’s finest estates—the homes of people like the Vaigas brothers—and none save an unfortunate servant dared go out in such unpleasant weather.

  He studied the thick walls protecting the villas around them. A jagged crack ran down the paved road, but that was the only sign of Daevabad’s decay. Wet roses and lush vines climbed the buildings, marble and brass accents marking their wealth.

  Perhaps Dara should have taken solace in their existence, proof that his Daevas had survived worse. But he didn’t. Instead, he now wondered at the cost, at the compromises that had been made to ensure the quiet power of the people who lived here.

  A crack drew his attention, the noise not entirely dissimilar to the horse’s clopping hooves, but enough to make him frown. There was a muffled cry from the carriage ahead.

  Dara jerked up. That sounded like Kaveh. “Stop the horses!” he ordered. “Tell the men—”

  A sharp pinch in his leg, like the bite of a particularly nasty bug. Bewildered, Dara glanced down to see some sort of small glass and metal tube sticking out of his thigh. It looked like a tool that might have been found in the infirmary, and Dara was so utterly baffled he only noticed a half second too late that it was filled with a dark liquid that sparkled with metal fragments.

  And that Tamer’s brother—the useless one whose name Dara hadn’t bothered trying to recall—was holding it, pressing down on a plunger before Dara could stop him.

  Dara ripped the instrument from his leg, grabbed the boy, and broke his neck before the others could even cry out. He shot to his feet, fire burning down his skin as he let his magic consume him.

  And then it stopped. Dara collapsed as the carriage crashed to a halt, his leg giving out.

  “Tur!” Tamer wailed, reaching for his brother. “No!”

  Pain scorched through Dara’s thigh, coming in waves from the spot where the boy had injected him. He was aware of screams coming from the other carriages, of Gushtap shouting his name before being cut off, but Dara couldn’t focus. Silver stars were blossoming before his eyes, a horrible, paralyzing burn creeping through his body. He spasmed, writhing on the floor and trying to get his hand to obey him. The knife at his waist—if he could just …

  A sandaled foot stomped hard on his wrist, and then Muntadhir was leaning over him, the emir’s ruthless expression coming in broken pieces as he ripped the knife from Dara’s hand. Distantly he heard another clap, a flash of light coming against the dark interior.

  And then a white-hot burst of pain as Muntadhir plunged the knife into Dara’s stomach.

  “You were right, Lady ta Buzo,” Muntadhir said, his voice flat. “I would never work with the people who killed my father.” From the corner of his eye, Dara watched Muntadhir flick open the teak chest. “I thank you for these,” he added, running a hand over the weapons. “I’m glad to know we can still rely on the Ayaanle.”

  Amani bowed. “But of course, my emir.” All traces of their enmity—of the stupid act Dara had fallen for—were gone. “Is there anything else you need?”

  “Afshin!”

  Kaveh. But Dara couldn’t respond. He was frozen; whatever poison he’d been injected with made it feel as though he were watching all this from the prison of his own eyes.

  “No, my lady,” Muntadhir replied. “One of my men will take you back to your quarter. You should hurry.”

  Amani was gone the next moment, vanishing out the carriage. The wind snatched the door, pulling it wide open. Frozen rain pattered on Dara’s face.

  “Afshin!”

  Dara managed to shift his head enough to see Kaveh. The grand wazir was surrounded by the other Daeva nobles. He looked terrified, his hands outstretched as i
f to ward them off. Gushtap was dead, his throat opened on the muddy street.

  Muntadhir shoved the trunk of weapons out of the carriage. Dara heard it smash on the street, a cheer going up from the men.

  He reached frantically for his magic, for his body, for anything, but the iron coursing through his blood had left him immobilized. Racked with pain, his body and mind disjointed, Dara could only witness the mob of noblemen fighting for weapons, Kaveh being dragged, bellowing in rage. And then other sounds. Awful, guttural rips and howls.

  “Jamshid,” Dara croaked. “His father. Don’t—don’t …” Don’t let him die like this.

  Muntadhir whirled on him, but the emotion on the emir’s face wasn’t the cruel vengeance Dara expected, but lost, dazed grief. The look of a man who’d been broken more thoroughly than Dara had realized and could no longer hide it.

  “Jamshid is dead,” Muntadhir whispered. “Ali is dead. Nahri is dead. We are all of us dead, because of you.” He raised the short sword in his hands, leveling the point at Dara’s heart.

  There was a crack of thunder … and the entire carriage blew apart.

  Dara saw flashing light, fire, and then hit the ground hard and saw nothing at all.

  28

  NAHRI

  Nahri shoved the book in front of her aside. “Useless. This might as well be in Geziriyya.”

  Jamshid grabbed the text before it went tumbling to the ground. “Careful! That’s two-thousand-year-old family history you’re tossing around.”

  “It’s two-thousand-year-old scribble to me.” Nahri rubbed her temples, her head beginning to pound. “Every time I think I’m getting better at this …”

  “You are getting better,” Jamshid assured her. “By the Creator, Nahri, give yourself more than a couple of days to learn how to read an ancient dialect of Divasti known only to scholars.”

  “And former Temple acolytes,” she grumbled. “You certainly don’t seem to be having any problems.”

  “Queen Hatset did say she could put a call out for linguists.”