The Kingdom of Copper

by S. A. Chakraborty

  Awed, Nahri drew closer to the Qahtani siblings. “How did they get a ship here?” The only land beyond the magical threshold that embraced Daevabad’s vast lake and misty mountains was composed of immense stretches of rocky desert.

  “Because it’s not just any ship.” Zaynab grinned. “It’s a sandship. The Sahrayn invented them. They’re careful to keep the magic behind them a secret, but a skilled captain can fly across the world with one of those.” She sighed, her gaze admiring and rueful. “The Sahrayn charge the Ayaanle a fortune to use them, but they do make a statement.”

  Muntadhir didn’t look as impressed by the lovely ship. “Interesting that the Ayaanle can afford such a thing when Ta Ntry’s taxes have been chronically short.”

  Nahri’s gaze flickered to her husband’s face. Though Muntadhir had never directly spoken to her of Daevabad’s economic problems, they were obvious to everyone—especially the Banu Nahida who healed the training injuries of soldiers as they griped about reduced rations and undid the hexes the increasingly frazzled Treasury secretaries had begun hurling at one another. Fortunately, the downturn had yet to largely affect her Daevas—mostly because they’d cut themselves off from trading with the other tribes after Ghassan had tacitly allowed the Daeva stalls to be destroyed and their merchants harassed in the Grand Bazaar after Dara’s death. Why take the risk of trading with djinn if none would stand up to protect them?

  The Ayaanle ship drifted nearer, its sails fanning out as deckhands in brightly striped linen and thick gold ornaments dashed about the boat. On the top deck, a chimeralike creature with a feline body covered in ruby scales strained at a golden harness, flashing horns that shone like diamonds and whipping a serpentine tail.

  The ship had no sooner docked than a knot of passengers made their way toward the royal party. Among them was a man dressed in voluminous teal robes and a silver turban that wrapped his head and neck.

  “Emir Muntadhir.” He smiled and bowed low. “Peace be upon you.”

  “And upon you peace,” Muntadhir returned politely. “Rise.”

  The Ayaanle man did so, aiming what seemed to be a far sincerer grin at Zaynab. “Little princess, how you’ve grown!” He laughed. “You do this old coin-changer a great honor, coming to greet me yourself.”

  “The honor is mine,” Zaynab assured him with a grace Nahri would never have the patience to emulate. “I pray your journey went well?”

  “God be praised.” The man turned to Nahri, his gold eyes lighting in surprise. “Is this the Nahid girl?” He blinked, and Nahri didn’t miss the way he stepped back ever so slightly.

  “This is my wife,” Muntadhir corrected, his voice considerably cooler.

  Nahri met the man’s eyes, drawing up as she pulled her chador close. “I am the Banu Nahida,” she said through her veil. “I hear you are called Abul Dawanik.”

  He bowed. “You hear correctly.” His gaze didn’t leave her, the examination making her skin crawl. He shook his head. “Astonishing. I never imagined I’d meet a real Nahid.”

  Nahri gritted her teeth. “Occasionally we’re allowed out to terrify the populace.”

  Muntadhir cleared his throat. “I have made room for your men and your cargo at the royal caravanserai. I would be happy to escort you there myself.”

  Abul Dawanik sighed. “Alas, there’s little cargo. My people needed more time to prepare the tax caravan.”

  Muntadhir’s civil mask didn’t waver, but Nahri sensed his heartbeat pick up. “That was not the arrangement we agreed on.” The warning in his voice was so reminiscent of Ghassan, her skin prickled. “You are aware of how close Navasatem is, yes? It is a bit difficult to plan a once-in-a-century celebration when tax payments are consistently late.”

  Abul Dawanik threw him a wounded look. “Straight to all this talk of money, Emir? The Geziri hospitality I’m used to typically involves chattering about polite nonsense for at least another ten minutes.”

  Muntadhir’s response was direct. “Perhaps you would prefer my father’s company to mine.”

  Abul Dawanik didn’t look cowed; if anything, Nahri saw a hint of slyness in his expression before he responded. “No need for threats, Your Highness. The caravan is but a few weeks behind me.” His eyes twinkled. “No doubt you will enjoy what it brings you.”

  From behind the city walls, the adhan sounded, calling the faithful to noon prayer. It rose and fell in distant waves as new muezzins picked it up, and Nahri fought a familiar twinge of homesickness. The adhan always made her think of Cairo.

  “Dhiru, surely this can wait,” Zaynab said, clearly trying to alleviate the tension between the two men. “Abul Dawanik is our guest. He has had a long journey. Why don’t the two of you go pray together and then visit the caravanserai? I can take Nahri back to the palace.”

  Muntadhir didn’t look pleased, but he didn’t protest. “Do you mind?” he asked Nahri courteously.

  Do I have a choice? Zaynab’s bearers were already bringing their litter over, the pretty cage that would return Nahri to her gilded prison. “Of course not,” she muttered, turning away from the lake to follow her sister-in-law.

  They didn’t talk much on the way back. Zaynab appeared absorbed in her thoughts, and Nahri was happy to rest her eyes before returning to the bustling infirmary.

  But the litter shuddered to a stop too soon. Nahri jolted from her half doze and rubbed her eyes, frowning as she caught sight of Zaynab hastily pulling off some of her jewelry. Nahri watched as she piled it on the cushion beside her, and then from beneath the brocade-covered seat, retrieved two plain cotton abayas, pulling one over her silk gown.

  “Are we being robbed?” Nahri asked, half-hoping it might be true. Being robbed would mean a delay in returning to the palace and Ghassan’s constant, watchful presence.

  Zaynab neatly wrapped a dark shawl around her hair. “Of course not. I’m going for a walk.”

  “A walk?”

  “You’re not the only one who wants to escape sometimes, and I take my opportunities when they arise.” Zaynab tossed the second abaya at Nahri. “Quick, put this on. And keep your face veiled.”

  Nahri stared at her in surprise. “You want me to come?”

  Zaynab eyed her. “I’ve known you for five years. I am not leaving you alone with my jewelry.”

  Nahri hesitated, tempted. But the terrified faces of the people Ghassan had punished in her place immediately flooded her mind, and her heart seized in fear. “I can’t. Your father—”

  Zaynab’s expression softened. “He hasn’t caught me yet. And I’ll take the responsibility if he does today, I swear.” She beckoned Nahri forward. “Come. You look like you need this even more than I do.”

  Nahri quickly considered her options. Ghassan did have a soft spot for his only daughter, so after another moment of indecision, temptation won out. She pulled free her most visibly royal jewels, slipped into the garment Zaynab had offered her, and followed her out of the litter.

  With a quiet word and a knowing wink between the princess and one of her guards—Nahri sensed this was a well-honed routine—the two women were pulled into the crush of pedestrians. Nahri had been to the Geziri Quarter plenty of times with Muntadhir to visit his relatives, but she hadn’t seen anything beyond the curtains of the litters in which they traveled and the sumptuous interiors of mansions. Palace women were not expected to mix with commoners, let alone wander the city streets.

  At first glance, the Quarter looked small—despite a Geziri family ruling the city, most of their tribesmen were said to prefer the rugged terrain of their homeland. But it was a pleasant glance, nonetheless. Windtowers loomed far above, sending lake-fresh breezes past neat rows of tall brick buildings, their pale facades adorned with copper shutters and white stucco filigree. Ahead was the market, protected from the hot sun by woven reed mats and a glistening water channel cut into the main street, filled with enchanted ice. Across from the market was the quarter’s main mosque, and next to the mosque was a large floating pavi
lion, shaded by date and citrus trees, where families feasted on dark halwa, coffee, and other treats from the market.

  And over it all loomed the stark tower of the Citadel. The home of the Royal Guard, the Citadel threw shadows over the Geziri Quarter and the neighboring Grand Bazaar, jutting up against the brass walls that separated Daevabad from its deadly lake. Nisreen had once told her—in one of her many dark warnings about the Geziris—that the Citadel had been the first structure Zaydi al Qahtani built upon seizing Daevabad from the Nahid Council. He’d ruled from there for years, leaving the palace a deserted ruin stained with the blood of her ancestors.

  Zaynab chose that moment to take her arm, pulling her toward the market, and Nahri happily let herself be towed. Almost unconsciously, she palmed a ripe orange from a fruit stand as they passed. Stealing it was probably reckless, but there was something so freeing about strolling crowded city streets. It might not be Cairo, but the rustle of impatient passersby, the aroma of street food, and knots of men emerging from the mosque were familiar enough to briefly ease her homesickness. She was anonymous again for the first time in years, and it was delightful.

  They slowed to a stroll once they entered the shadowed depths of the market. Nahri looked around, dazzled. A glassworker was turning hot sand into a speckled bottle with her fiery hands while across the lane a wooden loom worked by itself, bright woolen threads wrapping and twisting to pattern a half-completed prayer mat. From a stall packed with flowers came a rich aroma, a perfumer sprinkling rosewater and musk over a glittering tray of molten ambergris. Next door, a pair of hunting cheetahs in jeweled collars lounged on elevated cushions, sharing a storefront with squawking firebirds.

  Zaynab stopped to stroke the large cats while Nahri wandered ahead. Down an adjacent lane was a row of booksellers, and she immediately headed for them, captivated by the volumes laid out in rows on rugs and tables. While a few books had an aura of magic, their covers bound in scales and pages shimmering gently, the majority looked human-made. Nahri wasn’t surprised; of all the djinn tribes, the Geziris were said to be closest to the humans with whom they silently shared their land.

  She browsed the nearest stall. Most of the books were in Arabic, and the sight sent an odd pang through her. It was the first language she’d learned to read, and a skill she could never entirely divorce in her mind from the young prince who’d taught her. Not wanting to think of Ali, she glanced idly at the next table. A book with a sketch of a trio of pyramids rested in its center.

  Nahri was there the next moment, reaching for the book like she might have grabbed a long-lost friend in an embrace. They were Giza’s famed Pyramids, all right, and as she flipped through the pages, she recognized more of Cairo’s distinctive landmarks: the twin minarets of the Bab Zuweila gate and the vast interior of the Ibn Tulun mosque. There were women in the black dresses Nahri had once worn gathering water from the Nile, and men sorting piles of sugarcane.

  “You have a good eye, miss.” An older Geziri man ambled forth. “That’s one of my newest human acquisitions, and I’ve never seen anything like it. A Sahrayn trader picked it up crossing the Nile.”

  Nahri ran her hands over the first page. The book was written in a script she’d never seen. “What language is this?”

  The man shrugged. “I’m not certain. The lettering appears similar to some of the old Latin texts I have. The trader who picked it up didn’t stay in Egypt long; he said it looked as though the humans were engaged in some sort of war.”

  Some sort of war. Her fingers pressed harder on the book. Egypt had been freshly subjugated by the French when Nahri left, ruled by the Ottomans before that—it was seemingly Nahri’s destiny to belong to an occupied people wherever she went. “How much do you want for this?”

  “Three dinars.”

  Nahri narrowed her eyes at him. “Three dinars? Do I look as though I’m made of gold?”

  The man seemed shocked. “That . . . that is the price, miss.”

  “Maybe for someone else,” she said scornfully, masking her glee while feigning insult. “I won’t give you a coin over ten dirhams.”

  He gaped. “But that’s not how we—”

  Zaynab was suddenly there, seizing Nahri’s arm in a tight grip. “What are you doing?”

  Nahri rolled her eyes. “It’s called bargaining, sister dear. I’m sure you’ve never had to do such a thing but—”

  “Geziris do not bargain in our community markets.” Zaynab’s words dripped with revulsion. “It breeds discord.”

  Nahri was scandalized. “So you just pay whatever they ask?” She couldn’t believe she’d married into such a naive people. “What if they’re cheating you?”

  Zaynab was already handing three gold coins to the bookseller. “Perhaps it would be better to stop thinking that everyone is cheating you, no?” She pulled Nahri away and pushed the book into her hands. “And stop making a scene. The point is to not get caught.”

  Nahri clutched the book to her chest, a little abashed. “I’ll pay you back.”

  “Don’t insult me.” Zaynab’s voice turned gentler. “You’re not the first outspoken fool for whom I’ve bought overpriced human books on this street.”

  Nahri darted a look at the princess. She wanted to press her as much as she wanted to change the subject. And that, in essence, was how she felt about Alizayd al Qahtani.

  Let it go. There were plenty of other ways to pester her sister-in-law. “I’m hearing rumors you’re being courted by a noble from Malacca,” she said brightly as they resumed walking.

  Zaynab drew to a stop. “Where did you hear that?”

  “I like to converse with my patients.”

  The princess shook her head. “Your patients should learn to hold their tongues. You should learn to hold your tongue. Surely, I deserve that much for buying your book about odd human buildings.”

  “Do you not want to marry him?” Nahri asked, peeling the orange she’d stolen.

  “Of course, I don’t want to marry him,” Zaynab replied. “Malacca is across the sea. I’d never see my family.” Disdain entered her voice. “Besides which, he has three other wives, a dozen children, and is approaching his second century.”

  “So refuse the match.”

  “That’s my father’s decision.” Zaynab’s expression tightened. “And my suitor is a very wealthy man.”

  Ah. Muntadhir’s concerns about the state of the city’s treasury suddenly made more sense. “Can’t your mother object?” she asked. Queen Hatset thoroughly intimidated Nahri, and she couldn’t imagine the woman allowing her only daughter to be packed off to Malacca for any amount of gold.

  Zaynab seemed to hesitate. “My mother has a more important battle to fight right now.”

  They’d wandered down a quieter street that ran past the Citadel. Its heavy stone walls loomed high overhead, blocking the blue sky in a way that made Nahri feel nervous and small. Through a pair of open doors came the sound of laughter and the distinctive sizzling clash of zulfiqar blades.

  Not certain how to respond, she handed Zaynab half of her orange. “I’m sorry.”

  Zaynab stared at the fruit, uncertainty blooming in her gray-gold eyes. “You and my brother were enemies when you married,” she said haltingly. “Sometimes it seems like you still are. How . . . how did you . . . ?”

  “You find a way.” The words unfurled from a hard place within Nahri, one that she’d retreated to countless times since she’d been plucked from the Nile and dropped in Cairo, alone and afraid. “You’d be amazed by the things a person can do to survive.”

  Zaynab looked taken aback. “You make me feel as though I should tell Muntadhir to keep a blade under his pillow.”

  “I’d advise against your brother keeping anything sharp in his bed,” Nahri said as they continued walking. “Considering the number of visitors—” She choked, the orange falling from her fingers as a wave of coldness stole through her.

  Zaynab instantly stopped. “Are you all right?”


  Nahri barely heard the question. It felt as though an unseen hand had grasped her chin, turning her head to stare down the gloomy street they’d just passed. Tucked between the Citadel and the mottled brass of the city’s outer walls, it looked as though the block had been razed centuries ago. Weeds and dirt covered the broken paving stones and scorch marks scarred the bare stone walls. At the very end was a crumbling brick complex. Broken windows faced the street, the black spaces looking like missing teeth in a gaping mouth. Beyond the front portico were the lush tops of wildly overgrown trees. Ivy covered the buildings, strangling columns and dangling over smashed windows like so many nooses.

  Nahri took a few steps in and then inhaled sharply, a buzz racing down her skin. She’d swear the heavy shadows had lifted slightly when she moved.

  She turned to see Zaynab had followed her. “What is this place?” she asked, her voice echoing against the stone.

  Zaynab gave the complex a skeptical glance. “A ruin? I’m not exactly an expert when it comes to moldering buildings in a three-thousand-year-old city.”

  The street warmed beneath Nahri’s feet, hot enough to feel through her sandals. “I need to go in there.”

  “You need to do what?”

  But Nahri was already walking, thoughts of the princess, even fears of Ghassan’s gruesome punishments all falling away. She felt almost compelled, her gaze locked on the mysterious complex.