Nahri was having trouble containing her excitement. Shafit doctors who could do surgery and had medical books? “Who?” she asked eagerly. “Who are these doctors?”
He dropped his gaze. “We’re not supposed to talk about them.”
“I don’t mean them any harm.” She touched her heart. “I swear on my ancestors’ ashes. I’ll bring them some willow myself, and more. I have plenty of medicines that are safe for shafit in my apothecary.”
The man looked torn. Nahri studied him again, noting his bare feet and ragged galabiyya. His heavily calloused hands.
Hating herself a little, Nahri pulled a gold ring from her pocket. She’d forgotten to remove it before starting work in the infirmary and had settled for slipping it in there. Small rubies, set in a floral pattern, were embedded in its surface.
She placed it in his hand. “A name and a location.” His eyes went wide, locking on the ring. “I’m not going to hurt them, I promise. I want to help.”
Longing filled his face; Nahri imagined the money a ring like that could fetch would go a long way for a shafit laborer.
“Subhashini Sen,” he whispered. “The house with the red door on Sukariyya Street.”
Nahri smiled. “Thank you.”
A small army of servants was waiting for Nahri when she finished her work, and she’d no sooner set foot in the steamy hammam than they descended, taking her blood- and potion-splattered clothes away to be washed and then giving her a thorough scrub, rinsing her skin with rosewater, massaging her limbs with precious oils, and attempting to coax her wild curls into an elegant crown of braids.
Never one content to give up control, Nahri had, however, insisted on picking out her own clothes. Tonight she’d selected a gown cut from the finest linen she’d ever touched. It was sleeveless, falling to her ankles in a pale buttery sheath and held together by an ornate collar of hundreds of beads: lapis lazuli, gold, carnelian, and topaz. It reminded Nahri of home, the pattern looking like one that might have been copied from an ancient temple back in Egypt.
A servant had just finished clasping the delicate collar when another approached, bearing a discreet ivory cosmetics pot. “Would you like me to powder your skin, my lady?” she asked.
Nahri stared at the vessel. An innocent question, but one that always caused her stomach to tighten. Instinctively, she glanced up, catching sight of her reflection in the polished silver mirror perched on her dressing table.
Though the line between the shafit and the purebloods in Daevabad was a hard one, carved by centuries of violence and enshrined in law, the differences in their appearances were not as great as their divide in power suggested. The purebloods had their pointed ears and metal-toned eyes, of course, the color varying by tribe. And their skin had a gleam to it, a shimmer and a haze that reflected the hot, jet-colored blood that simmered in their veins. Depending on ancestry and luck, shafit had a mix of human and djinn features: human hazel eyes paired with perfectly pointed ears, or perhaps the tin-toned gaze of the Agnivanshi without the glimmer to their skin.
And then there was Nahri.
At first glance, there was nothing magical about Nahri’s appearance. Her ears were as rounded as a human’s and her skin an earthy matte brown. Her black eyes were dark, to be certain, but she’d always felt like they lacked the same shining ebony depths that marked one as Daeva. Hers was a face that had once convinced Dara she was a shafit with the barest drop of magical blood in her veins. And it was a face that was apparently a lie, the product of a marid curse—or so the ifrit who’d hunted her had claimed, a claim Ghassan had seized upon in order to publicly declare her a pureblood.
Privately, of course, he’d said something very different. Not that it mattered. Nahri suspected she would never fully discern the truth of her origins. But the laissez-faire approach to her appearance had changed when she married Muntadhir. The future queen of Daevabad was expected to look the part, and so hairdressers arranged her braids to cover the tips of her ears. Ash was mixed into her kohl to make her eyes look darker. And then the cursed ivory pot appeared. It contained an incredibly expensive powder made from the Creator only knew what that when brushed upon her skin gave Nahri the shimmer of a pureblood for hours.
It was an illusion, a waste of time and an utter facade—and all for a future queen who couldn’t even protect her tribesmen from being beaten and robbed in front of her. And the fact that it was her shafit servants who were forced to create an image of the blood purity that circumscribed their lives . . . it made Nahri feel ill. “No,” she finally replied, trying not to let her revulsion show. “I don’t need that.”
There was a knock on the door and then Nisreen entered.
Nahri groaned. “No. I need a night off. Tell whoever it is to heal themselves.”
Her mentor gave her a wounded smile. “It is not always work that I seek you for.” She glanced at Nahri’s maids. “Would you mind leaving us?”
They obeyed at once, and Nisreen joined her at the dressing table. “You look very pretty,” she said. “That dress is beautiful. Is it new?”
Nahri nodded. “A gift from a Sahrayn seamstress happy to no longer have silver-pox.”
“Your husband will be hard-pressed to take his eyes off you in that.”
“I suppose,” Nahri said, fighting embarrassment. She wasn’t sure why she was even bothering. Muntadhir had married her for her name, not her face, and her husband was so constantly surrounded by djinn who were breathtakingly gorgeous—men and women who had voices like angels and smiles that could lure humans to madness—that it seemed a waste of time to even attempt to attract his eye.
Nisreen’s gaze darted to the door before she set down the small silver chalice that had been casually concealed in the folds of her shawl. “I’ve prepared your tea.”
Nahri stared at the chalice, the sharp scent of herbs wafting from pale green liquid. They both knew what kind of “tea” it was: the kind Nahri drank only when she visited Muntadhir. “I still worry we’re going to get caught.”
Nisreen shrugged. “Ghassan probably has his suspicions, but you’re a Nahid healer. On this, he’s going to have a hard time outmaneuvering you, and it’s worth the risk to buy you a bit of time.”
“A bit of time is all it’s buying.” Ghassan hadn’t overly pressed on the topic of grandchildren yet. Djinn didn’t conceive easily, and it was entirely reasonable the emir and his wife had yet to be blessed with an heir. But she doubted he’d hold his tongue for long.
Nisreen must have heard the uncertainty in her voice. “That is enough for now.” She pushed the cup into Nahri’s hands. “Take things here day by day.”
Nahri gulped the tea and then stood, pulling a hooded robe over her dress. “I should go.” She was early, but if she left now, she could sneak through the back passages and have a few minutes to herself rather than being escorted by one of Muntadhir’s stewardesses.
“I won’t delay you.” Nisreen stood as well, and when she met Nahri’s eyes, there was conviction in her gaze. “Have faith, my lady. Your future here is brighter than you realize.”
“You always say that.” Nahri sighed. “I wish I had your confidence.”
“You will one day,” Nisreen promised. She shooed her off. “Go on then. Don’t let me keep you.”
Nahri did, taking one of the private corridors that led from the harem garden to the royal apartments on the upper level of the palatial ziggurat, a level with an excellent view of Daevabad’s lake. All the Qahtanis had quarters up there save Zaynab, who preferred the garden below.
Just as Ali had. The thought came to her unbidden—and unwelcome. She hated thinking about Ali, hated that five years after that night, a sting of humiliation still pierced her when she recalled how her supposed friend had quietly led her and Dara into a deadly trap. The naive young prince should have been the last one capable of duping her, and yet he had.
And she hated that despite everything, part of her still worried about him. For it was damnably cle
ar—no matter what the Qahtanis pretended—that Ali was not merely “leading a garrison” in the peace of his ancestral land. He’d been cast out, and under terms Nahri suspected were rather dire.
She emerged onto the expansive balcony that ran the length of Muntadhir’s apartment. Like everything he owned, it was achingly sophisticated, its trellised wooden railings and screens carved in the semblance of a garden, with embroidered panels of silk draped to mimic a tent. Frankincense smoldered inside a fiery brazier across from a pile of brocaded cushions that sat angled toward the best view of the lake.
Cushions that were very much not empty. Nahri abruptly stilled, catching sight of Jamshid and Muntadhir sitting across from each other. Jamshid’s presence there didn’t surprise her—but the fact that they were clearly arguing did.
“Tell your father to send him back!” Jamshid was insisting. “Is there any reason he can’t drop his damned cargo on the beach and turn right around?”
“I tried.” Muntadhir sounded nearly hysterical. “I begged my father, and do you know what he told me?” He let out a choked, humorless laugh. “To go put an heir in my Nahid wife if I was so worried about my position. That’s all we are to him. Pawns in his damned political game. And now his favorite, sharpest piece is returning.”
Nahri frowned in confusion. Pushing aside the guilt she felt for eavesdropping—more on account of Jamshid, her friend, than for the sake of her politician of a husband, who almost certainly had a loyal spy or two installed in her infirmary—she crept closer, tucking herself into a niche between a potted fern and an ornamental carved screen.
She took a deep breath. The palace’s magic was as unpredictable as it was powerful, and though Nahri had been quietly working to learn how to better call upon it, doing so was always a risk—she had no doubt that if Ghassan got an inkling of what she was up to, she’d be promptly punished.
But sometimes a little risk was worth it. Nahri focused on the shadows at her feet. Grow, she urged, beckoning them closer and allowing her fear of getting caught to expand. Protect me.
They did so, the shadows sweeping up to envelop her in a cloak of darkness. Breathing a bit easier, Nahri moved closer to the screen to peer through the cutouts in the wood. The two men were alone, Jamshid seated on the edge of a cushion as he watched Muntadhir with open concern.
Muntadhir shot to his feet, visibly trembling. “His mother’s going to kill me.” He paced, pulling anxiously at his beard. “The Ayaanle have wanted this for years. He’ll no sooner be back in Daevabad than I’ll be waking up with a cord around my neck.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Jamshid said sharply. “Muntadhir, you need to calm down and think this—no.” His hand shot out to grab Muntadhir’s as her husband lunged for the bottle of wine on the table. “Stop. That’s not going to help you.”
Muntadhir offered a broken smile. “I disagree,” he said weakly. He looked close to tears. “Wine is reportedly an excellent companion during one’s downfall.”
“There’s not going to be any downfall.” Jamshid pulled Muntadhir onto the cushion beside him. “There’s not,” he repeated when Muntadhir looked away. “Muntadhir . . .” Jamshid hesitated, and when he spoke again, there was a wary edge to his voice. “It’s a long journey back to Daevabad. A dangerous one. Surely you have people who—”
Muntadhir violently shook his head. “I can’t. I don’t have that in me.” He bit his lip, staring in bitter resignation at the floor. “Not yet anyway.” He wiped his eyes and then took a deep breath, as if to compose himself before speaking again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t burden you with this. God knows you’ve suffered enough for my family’s politics.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Jamshid touched Muntadhir’s cheek. “I want you to come to me with things like this.” He smiled. “To be honest . . . the rest of your companions are fairly useless sycophants.”
That drew a laugh from her husband. “Whereas I can always rely on you to honestly insult me.”
“And keep you safe.” Jamshid’s hand had moved to cradle Muntadhir’s jaw. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, I swear. I won’t let it, and I’m obnoxiously honorable about these things.”
Muntadhir laughed again. “That I know.” He took another breath and then suddenly closed his eyes as if in pain. When he spoke again, his voice was heavy with sorrow. “I miss you.”
Jamshid’s face twisted, the humor vanishing from his expression. He seemed to realize what he was doing with his hand, his gaze falling to her husband’s mouth. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to—”
The rest of his explanation didn’t leave his lips. Because Muntadhir was suddenly kissing him, doing so with a desperation that was clearly returned. Jamshid tangled his hand in Muntadhir’s dark hair, pulling him close . . .
And then he pushed him away. “I can’t,” Jamshid choked out, his entire body shaking. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. Not anymore. I told you when you got married. She’s my Banu Nahida.”
Nahri stepped back from the screen, stunned. Not by the allusion to past intimacy between them—there were times it seemed Muntadhir had literally slept with half the people he knew. But those affairs all seemed so casual—flirtations with various foreign ministers, dalliances with poets and dancing girls.
The anguish radiating off her husband now was not casual. Gone was the emir who’d confidently pulled her into his lap in the garden. Muntadhir had rocked back like he’d been punched when Jamshid had pushed him away, and it looked like he was struggling not to cry. Sympathy stole through her. For all the trappings of power and glamour of the court, she could not help but be struck by how utterly lonely this place had made them all.
Muntadhir stared at the ground. “Of course.” It sounded like he was fighting to regain his composure. “Then maybe you should go,” he added, his voice stiff. “I’m expecting her and I would hate to put you in an uncomfortable position.”
Jamshid sighed, pulling himself slowly to his feet. He leaned on his cane, looking resignedly down upon Muntadhir. “Have you had any luck freeing the Daeva men Nahri and I told you about?”
“No,” Muntadhir replied, his response far flatter than it had been with her on the topic. “It’s difficult to free people when they’re guilty of the crime they’re charged with.”
“It’s a crime now to discuss the implications of your father’s financial policies in a public setting?”
Muntadhir’s head jerked up. “Daevabad is restless enough without such gossip being spread. It hurts morale and causes people to lose faith in their king.”
“So does arbitrarily arresting people who happen to have wealth and land that can be confiscated for the Treasury.” Jamshid’s eyes narrowed. “Of course, by ‘people’ I mean ‘Daevas.’ We all know the rest of the tribes aren’t suffering the same treatment.”
Muntadhir was shaking his head. “He’s trying to keep the peace, Jamshid. And let’s not pretend your people make that easy.”
Jamshid’s mouth pressed into a disappointed line. “This isn’t you, Muntadhir. And since we’ve established I’m the only one who’s honest with you . . . let me warn you that you’re going down the same path you say ruined your father.” He turned away. “Give my greetings to Nahri.”
“Jamshid—”
But he was already leaving, making his way toward the place where Nahri was hiding. Quickly, she retreated to edge of the steps as though she’d just arrived.
“Jamshid!” she said, greeting him with false cheer. “What a lovely surprise!”
He managed a smile, though it didn’t meet his eyes. “Banu Nahida,” he replied, his voice a little hoarse. “Apologies. I didn’t mean to intrude upon your evening.”
“It’s all right,” she said gently, hating the heartbreak still writ clearly across his face. Muntadhir wasn’t looking at them; he’d walked to the edge of the balcony, his attention focused on the twinkling fires of the city below. She touched Jamshid’s shoulder. “Come see me tomorr
ow. I have a new poultice I want to try on your back.”
He nodded. “Tomorrow.” He moved past her, disappearing down into the palace.
Nahri took a few steps forward, feeling uncertain. “Peace be upon you,” she called out to her husband. “If it’s a bad time . . .”
“Of course not.” Muntadhir turned around. Nahri had to give him credit: though he was pale, his face was swept of the emotion that had been there only moments ago. She supposed a few decades in Daevabad’s royal court taught one that ability. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I was not expecting you so soon.”
Obviously. She shrugged. “I finished early.”
Muntadhir nodded. “Let me call a servant,” he suggested, crossing the balcony. “I’ll have them bring some food.”
Nahri caught his wrist. “Why don’t you sit?” she suggested softly. “I’m not hungry and I thought we could talk first.”
They’d no sooner sunk into the cushions than Muntadhir was reaching for the wine bottle. “Would you like some?” he asked, filling his cup to the top.
Nahri watched. She wasn’t Jamshid, and she didn’t feel comfortable stopping him. “No . . . thank you.” He drank back most of his cup and then refilled it. “Is everything well?” she ventured. “The meeting with your father . . .”
Muntadhir winced. “Can we talk about something else? For a little while at least?”
She paused. Nahri was madly curious to discover what he’d been discussing with Ghassan that had led to his fight with Jamshid, but perhaps a change in subject would pull him from his dark mood.
And she certainly had a subject ready to discuss. “Of course. Actually, I came across someone interesting in the garden after you left. A shafit man with a hole in his skull.”
Muntadhir choked, coughing a spray of wine into his hand. “You found a dead shafit in your garden?”
“Not dead,” Nahri corrected lightly. “He looked quite well otherwise. He said a surgeon had done the procedure to save his life. A shafit surgeon, Muntadhir.” Admiration crept into her voice. “Someone skilled enough to bore a hole in a man’s skull, sew it back up, and keep him alive. And it looked perfect. I mean, it felt a bit spongy where the bone was gone, but—”
The Kingdom of Copper Page 12