The Kingdom of Copper

by S. A. Chakraborty

  Jamshid paled. “I . . . I’ll try to find them again.”

  Nahri grinned. “Then I think this would be perfect for you! Though it won’t be easy,” she warned. “I don’t have a lot of time, and neither will you. You’ll need to all but take up residence in this place, reading and studying every second you’re not working. You might hate me by the end.”

  “Never.” He gripped her hand. “When do I start?”

  “There’s one more thing before you say yes.” She glanced at Nisreen. Her assistant looked like she was fighting panic, which Nahri thought a complete overreaction—Nisreen couldn’t hate the Qahtanis so much that she wouldn’t want a hospital. “Nisreen, would you mind leaving us? I’d like to speak with Jamshid alone for a moment.”

  Nisreen let out a huffed sound. “Would it matter if I did mind?” She rose to her feet. “A hospital with the Qahtanis before Navasatem . . . The Creator have mercy . . .”

  “What is this ‘one thing’?” Jamshid asked, pulling her attention back to him. “Not sure I like the sound of it,” he teased.

  “It’s a sizable one thing,” she confessed. “And I’ll need you to keep it to yourself for now.” She lowered her voice. “I intend to open the hospital to all. Regardless of their blood.”

  Confusion wrinkled Jamshid’s brow. “But . . . that’s forbidden. You . . . you can’t mean to heal mixed-bloods, Banu Nahida. You could lose your magic that way.”

  The remark—a prejudice she’d heard uttered by many a fearful Daeva—stung no less for having been said in earnest ignorance. “That’s not true,” she said firmly. “I’m proof that it isn’t. I healed humans for years in Egypt before coming to Daevabad, and it never affected my magic.”

  He must have heard the heat in her response, for he drew back. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to doubt you.”

  She shook her head. If she couldn’t handle Jamshid’s doubt, she wouldn’t survive the reactions from the priests at the Grand Temple. “No, I want you to question me. I’m hoping you can help me convince the rest of our tribe. You’re a Temple-trained noble, the son of the grand wazir . . . what could sway someone like you to support this?”

  He drummed his fingers against his leg. “I’m not certain you could. Let alone what Suleiman’s law says about sharing magic with them . . . the shafit despise us. You know what they did to the Daevas they caught after Dara’s death. They’d probably murder us all in our beds if they could.”

  “Does that not make peace sound rather desirable?”

  He sighed. “I don’t see how that’s possible. Look to our history. Whenever the shafit rise, we’re the ones who pay a price.”

  “Jamshid, have you ever even had a conversation with a shafit lasting longer than ten minutes?”

  He had the grace to blush. “We’re not supposed to interact with the human-blooded.”

  “No, what we’re not supposed to do is creep through the human world, seducing virgins and starting wars. It doesn’t say anywhere that we can’t talk to them.” He fell silent but didn’t look convinced. “Speak, Jamshid,” she pressed. “Call me a fool, a tyrant, but say something.”

  She saw him swallow. “Why should we have to?” he burst out. “This is our home. We’re not the ones responsible for the shafit. Let the djinn build them hospitals. Why should we be the ones to offer this peace when they’ve done nothing to deserve it?”

  “Because it is our home,” she said gently. “And there’s got to be a better way to protect it, to protect all of us. Do you have any idea the size of the shafit neighborhoods, Jamshid? How crowded they are? There are probably more shafit in Daevabad than the rest of the djinn tribes put together, and we can’t rely on the Qahtanis to keep us from each other’s throats forever.” These were thoughts that had been swirling in her head for five years, solidifying more and more each day. “Doing so leaves us vulnerable.”

  He seemed to contemplate that. “That’ll be your argument,” he finally said. “People are afraid. Convince them that this is the best way to ensure our safety.”

  I can do that. “Excellent. Now, I should be starting my rounds.”

  His face lit up. “Wonderful! May I . . .”

  She laughed. “Oh, no.” She pointed to the nearest desk. Well, Nahri knew it was a desk. At the moment, its surface wasn’t visible: it was entirely covered in stacks upon stacks of books, messy notes, pens, inkpots, and empty teacups. “You aren’t touching any of my patients. Work your way through those books first and then we’ll talk.”

  Jamshid’s eyes went wide. “All of them?”

  “All of them.” She pulled over a blank piece of parchment. “Write your attendants and have them send over some of your things.” She nodded to the couch. “That’s yours. Feel free to make yourself comfortable here.”

  He looked dazed, but still eager. “Thank you, Banu Nahida. I hope you know how much this means to me.”

  She winked. “We’ll see if you’re still saying that in a month.” She moved toward the curtain, but then stopped and looked back. “Jamshid?”

  He glanced up.

  “You . . . you should know that Muntadhir doesn’t support this. He thinks I’m being reckless, and I’m sure he’ll have words about how I’m going to be the downfall of Daevabad the next time you see him.” She paused. If Muntadhir had turned to Jamshid when he found out his brother was returning, she had no doubt he’d do the same after their conversation on the terrace. “If that puts you in an awkward position . . .”

  “You’re my Banu Nahida.” He hesitated, and Nahri could see warring loyalties play across his face. Oddly enough, the way it made his dark eyes crease struck her as familiar. “And I’m Daeva first. You have my support.” He gave her a hopeful smile. “Maybe I can convince him to do the same.”

  A mix of relief and guilt flared in her. Nahri didn’t want to put Jamshid in the middle of her marriage, but she would take every advantage she could get. And truthfully, it was clear he was already there. “That would be appreciated.” She nodded at the books and grinned. “Now get to work.”

  18

  Nahri

  Two weeks after her barbed family breakfast, Nahri found herself back in the hospital, watching Razu with rapt attention. “Beautiful,” she said admiringly, as the ancient Tukharistani gambler swapped the jewels again, a sleight of hand that betrayed nothing as Razu set down a brilliant glass gem in front of her—a pretty bauble, but certainly not the ruby that had vanished. “And it’s not magic?”

  “Not at all,” Razu replied. “One cannot overly rely on magic. What if your hands were bound in iron, and you needed to hide away the key you’d snatched?”

  “Is that a situation you’ve found yourself in?”

  The other woman gave her a cryptic smile. “Of course not. I am a . . . what are we telling your law-abiding friends again?”

  “A former trader from Tukharistan who ran a respectable inn.”

  Razu laughed. “Respectability was the last thing my old tavern was known for.” She sighed. “I am telling you . . . a couple glasses of my soma and your doctor and prince will be agreeing to your every suggestion.”

  Nahri shook her head. She was fairly certain a single sip of Razu’s soma would knock Ali out cold, and Subha would probably think they were poisoning her. “Let’s try a more orthodox approach first. Though I would not be averse to you teaching me how to do that,” she said, pointing to the glass gem.

  “I am at my Banu Nahida’s service,” Razu replied, placing the gem in Nahri’s palm and adjusting her fingers. “So you twist your hand like this and . . .”

  From the other side of the courtyard came a disapproving cluck. Elashia, the freed djinn from Qart Sahar, was painting a turtle she’d carved from cedarwood. Nahri had brought her the paints, an act that had been greeted with wet eyes and a fierce hug.

  But right now Elashia was looking at Razu with open disapproval. “What?” Razu asked. “The child wants to learn a skill. Who am I to deny her?” When Elashia turned bac
k around with a sigh, Razu flashed Nahri a conspiratorial smile. “When she is out of sight, I will teach you a spell to give even a rock the appearance of a jewel.”

  But Nahri’s gaze was still on the Sahrayn woman. “Does she ever speak?” she asked softly, switching to Razu’s archaic dialect of Tukharistani.

  Sadness swept the older djinn’s face. “Not often. Sometimes with me, when we are alone, but it took years. She was freed decades ago, but she never speaks of her time in slavery. A companion of mine brought her to my tavern after finding her living on the streets, and she’s been with me since. Rustam told me once he believed his grandfather freed her, and that she had been enslaved for nearly five hundred years. She is a gentle soul,” she added as Elashia blew on the turtle and then let it go, smiling as it came to life and tottered along the edge of the fountain. “I cannot imagine how she survived.”

  Nahri watched her, but it wasn’t Elashia she saw in her mind’s eye. It was Dara, whose captivity had been three times as long as Elashia’s. However, Dara had remembered almost nothing of his imprisonment—and the few recollections they’d shared together had been ghastly enough that he’d confessed to being relieved such memories were gone. Nahri hadn’t agreed at the time—it seemed appalling to lose such a huge portion of one’s life. But maybe there had been a mercy in it she hadn’t realized, one of the few Dara had enjoyed.

  A crashing came from the entrance. “I take it your friends are here,” Razu said.

  Nahri rose to her feet. “I would not call us friends.”

  Ali and Subha entered the courtyard. They couldn’t have looked more different: the djinn prince was smiling, his eyes bright with anticipation as he gazed about the ruins. In contrast, apprehension was written in every line of Subha’s body, from her pursed lips to her tightly crossed arms.

  “Peace be upon you all,” Ali said in greeting, touching his heart as he caught sight of them. He was in plain Geziri dress today: a white dishdasha that fell to his sandaled feet and a charcoal-colored turban, his zulfiqar and khanjar tucked into a pale green belt. On one shoulder, he was carrying a leather bag full of scrolls.

  “And upon you peace.” Nahri turned to Subha, offering a polite bow. “Doctor Sen, it is lovely to see you again. Razu, this is Doctor Subhashini Sen and Prince Alizayd al Qahtani.”

  “An honor,” Razu said, bringing her left hand to her brow. “I am Razu Qaraqashi, and this is Elashia. You’ll excuse our third companion for hiding in his room. Issa does not do well with guests.”

  Ali made his way forward. “Did you see the seals on the door?” he asked eagerly.

  Nahri thought back to the carved pictograms she’d noticed when she first found the hospital. “Yes. Why? What are they?”

  “The old tribal sigils,” Ali explained. “They were used before we had a shared written language. The great scholar Grumbates once said—”

  “Can we not have a history lesson right now? Another one?” Subha clarified, in a tone that made Nahri suspect the walk to the hospital in the company of the chatty prince had been a long one. Her gaze darted around the courtyard like she expected some sort of magical beast to leap out and attack. “Well . . . it certainly looks like this place has been abandoned for fourteen centuries.”

  “Nothing we can’t fix.” Nahri plastered a grin on her face. She was determined to win over the other healer today. “Would you like some refreshments before we take a tour? Tea?”

  “I’m fine,” Subha replied, her expression displeased. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  The blunt refusal of her hospitality ruffled something very deep in the Egyptian part of her heart, but Nahri stayed polite. “Certainly.”

  Ali stepped in. “I tracked down the hospital’s old plans and had a Daeva architect at the Royal Library go through them with me to draw up notes for us to follow.”

  Nahri was taken aback. “That was a good idea.”

  “Yes. It is almost as if history lessons are useful,” he sniffed, plucking out one of his scrolls and spreading it before them. “This was always a courtyard. The architect said there were notes about it containing a garden.”

  Nahri nodded. “I’d like to keep it that way. I know my patients in the infirmary enjoy the occasional chance to walk around my gardens now. It lifts their spirits.” She glanced at Subha. “Does that seem correct to you?”

  The doctor narrowed her eyes. “You did see where I worked, yes? Do you imagine us getting some air near the local uncollected trash piles?”

  Nahri flushed. She was itching to find a commonality with this fellow female healer, a physician who, in the brief time Nahri had watched her, seemed to have an abundance of the professional confidence Nahri was still pretending at. She doubted Subha shook like a leaf before new procedures, or desperately prayed she didn’t kill someone every time she performed surgery.

  Ali was peering at his notes. “According to this . . . that domed chamber there was used for humoral disorders of air. It says that tethers were set in the floor to prevent people from injuring themselves while floating . . .”

  “And that?” Nahri prompted, pointing to a line of crumbling columns. She suspected Subha was not ready to discuss rooms designed to enclose flying djinn. “It looks like a corridor.”

  “It is. It leads to a surgical wing.”

  That sounded more promising. “Let’s start there.”

  The three of them headed down the twisting path. The dirt was soft underfoot, the sun shining in bright swaths through the overgrown trees. The air smelled of old stone and fresh rain. It was humid, and Nahri fanned herself with an edge of her linen chador.

  The silence between them was heavy. Awkward. And try as she might, Nahri couldn’t forget that the last time Daevas, Geziris, and shafit had been together in this place, they had all been brutally killing one another.

  “I’ve been discussing funding options with the Treasury,” Ali said, an oddly pleased smile playing across his mouth. “And after a visit from my companion Aqisa, I find the Ayaanle trade envoy suddenly far more eager to offer financial assistance.”

  Subha shook her head, glancing about in dismay. “I cannot imagine turning this into a functioning hospital in six months. With several miracles, perhaps you could do it in six years.”

  A golden-brown monkey chose that particular moment to leap over their heads with a screech, jumping from the trees to land upon a broken pillar. It glared at them as it munched a mushy apricot.

  “We’ll, ah, have the monkeys cleared out right away,” Nahri said, mortified.

  The corridor came to an abrupt stop. The surgical wing was enclosed by thick brass walls that towered overhead, and the one in front of them was covered in scorch marks, the brass melted into an impenetrable barrier.

  Nahri touched one of the marks. “I don’t think we’ll be getting in there.”

  Ali stepped back, shading his eyes. “It looks as though part of the roof has collapsed. I can climb up and see.”

  “You’re not going to be able to—” But Ali was gone before the words left her mouth, his fingers hooking around handholds she couldn’t see.

  Subha watched him scale the wall. “If he breaks his neck, I am not taking responsibility.”

  “You were never here.” Nahri sighed as Ali pulled himself on the roof and vanished out of sight. “Your daughter is with your husband today?” she asked, determined to continue the conversation.

  “I do typically advise that infants steer clear of decaying ruins.”

  Nahri had to bite her tongue to keep from saying something sarcastic in return. She was reaching the end of her diplomatic rope. “What’s her name?”

  “Chandra.” Subha said, her face softening slightly.

  “That’s very pretty,” Nahri replied. “She looked healthy too. Strong, mashallah. She’s doing all right?”

  Subha nodded. “She was born earlier than I’d like, but she’s thriving.” Her eyes dimmed. “I’ve seen it go the other way too many times.”


  Nahri had too, both in Cairo and in Daevabad. “I had one last week,” she said quietly. “A woman from out in northern Daevastana rushed here after being bitten by a basilisk. She was in her last month of pregnancy, and she and her husband had been trying for decades. I was able to save her, but the child . . . a basilisk bite is terribly poisonous and I had no good way to administer the antidote. He was stillborn.” Her throat tightened at the memory. “The parents . . . I don’t think they quite understood.”

  “They never do. Not really. Grief clouds the mind, makes people say terrible things.”

  Nahri paused. “Does . . .” She cleared her throat, suddenly embarrassed. “Does it get easier?”

  Subha finally met her gaze, her tin-toned eyes understanding if not warm. “Yes . . . and no. You learn to distance yourself from it. It’s work; your feelings don’t matter. If anything, they can interfere.” She sighed. “Trust me . . . one day you’ll go from witnessing the worst of tragedies to smiling and playing with your child in the space of an hour, and you’ll wonder if that’s for the best.” She gazed upon the ruined hospital. “The work is what matters. You fix what you can and keep yourself whole enough to move on to the next patient.”

  The words resonated through Nahri, her mind drifting to another patient: the only one she couldn’t heal. “Could I ask you something else?”

  Subha nodded briefly.

  “Is there anything you recommend for spinal injuries? For a man struggling to walk?”

  “Is this about your friend, the grand wazir’s son?” When Nahri’s eyes widened in surprise, Subha tilted her head. “I do my research before agreeing to work with someone.”

  “It’s about him,” Nahri admitted. “Actually, you’ll probably meet him soon. He’s my apprentice now. But he took several arrows to the back five years ago, and I haven’t been able to heal him. He’s getting better slowly with exercise and rest but . . .” She paused. “It feels like a failure on my part.”

  Subha looked contemplative, perhaps the medical nature of the conversation drawing her out. “I can examine him if he’s willing. There are some therapies I know that might work.”