The Kingdom of Copper

by S. A. Chakraborty

  Before Nahri could respond, Ali leapt down to join them, landing so silently that she jumped and Subha yelped.

  His expression didn’t inspire much hope. “Well . . . the good news is, it does indeed look like this was a surgical wing. There are even some tools scattered about.”

  “What sort of tools?” Nahri asked, her curiosity kindled.

  “Hard to say. Much of it is underwater. It appears that a basement collapsed.” Ali paused. “And there are snakes. Lot of them.”

  Subha sighed. “This is madness. You are never going to be able to restore this place.”

  Nahri hesitated, resignation beginning to seep through her. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Nonsense,” Ali declared, drawing up when Subha glared at him. “Don’t tell me the two of you are ready to give up so soon. Did you think this would be easy?”

  “I didn’t think it would be impossible,” Nahri countered. “Look around, Ali. Do you have any idea how many people we would need to even get started?”

  “I will by the end of the week,” he said confidently. “And lots of work is not a bad thing—it means we need lots of workers. It means new jobs and training for hundreds, people who will then have money for food and school and shelter. This project is an opportunity. One we haven’t had in generations.”

  Subha made a face. “You sound like a politician.”

  He grinned. “And you sound like a pessimist. But that doesn’t mean we can’t work together.”

  “But the money, Ali,” Nahri replied. “And the timing . . .”

  He made a dismissive gesture. “I can get the money.” An eager glint entered his eye. “I could have trade guilds built around waqfs and increase the tax on luxury imports . . .” Perhaps seeing that the two healers looked lost, he stopped. “Never mind. The two of you tell me what a hospital needs, and I’ll worry about getting it done.” He turned around without waiting for a response. “Now come. The plans say that building ahead was once the apothecary.”

  Subha blinked, looking a little bewildered, but she followed Ali, muttering under her breath about youth. Nahri was equally taken aback—but also grateful. Their personal history aside, maybe partnering with Ali wasn’t the worst idea. He certainly seemed confident.

  They continued down the weed-covered path, pushing aside wet palm fronds and glistening spider webs. Columns lay smashed on the ground, half swallowed by thick, twisting vines, and a large black snake sunned itself on the remains of a small pavilion.

  They crossed under a forbidding arch and into the darkened chamber of the ancient apothecary. Nahri blinked as her eyes adjusted to the loss of light. Whatever floor had been there was long gone, swallowed by dirt, and only scattered sections of broken masonry were left behind. The distant ceiling had likely once been beautiful; blue and gold bits of tile still clung to its delicately carved and stuccoed surface. A swallow’s nest had been built into one elaborate cornice.

  A burst of light briefly blinded her. Nahri glanced back to see that Subha had conjured a dancing pair of flames in one hand.

  A challenge lit her face at Nahri’s astonishment. “Surely you know there are shafit capable of magic?”

  Better than you would imagine. “Ah, of course,” Nahri said weakly. “I’d been told that.” She turned to study the room. The opposite wall was covered in hundreds of drawers. Though rusted over now, they were linked in a clever structure of metal and marble, their contents held behind securely fastened brass doors. Dozens were still clamped shut, their scrollwork surfaces tarnished by green and red rust.

  “Care to see what mysterious magical ingredients look like after being locked away for fourteen centuries?” Nahri jested.

  “I would rather not,” Subha replied, knocking Ali’s hand away when the prince reached for one of the handles. “No. The two of you can sate your curiosity when I’m gone.”

  Nahri hid a smile. The doctor still looked exasperated, but Nahri would take that over openly hostile. “I think there will be more than enough room for all our supplies here.”

  “I suspect so, considering my pharmaceuticals fit inside a single chest,” Subha replied. “I usually have to send patients to buy their own medicines for me to prepare. It’s an expense we can’t spare.”

  “You won’t have to pay another coin yourself,” Nahri said smoothly. “Well, as long as our royal backer remains so sure of himself.” She smiled sweetly at him, relishing his glower.

  A metal glint caught her eye from the ground. Remembering Ali’s comments about seeing tools in the surgical wing, Nahri knelt. Whatever it was was partially buried, half hidden behind a tree root that had burst through the floor and littered the broken tile with mounds of dark soil.

  “What’s that?” Subha asked when Nahri reached for it.

  “It looks like a scalpel,” Nahri replied, brushing the dirt away. “But it’s stuck.”

  Ali leaned over her. “Pull a bit harder.”

  “I am pulling hard.” Nahri gave another determined yank, and the blade abruptly came free, bursting out of the dirt with a spray of dark soil—and the skeletal hand still holding it.

  Nahri dropped it, falling backward with a startled shriek. Ali grabbed her arm, yanking her back as his other hand went to his zulfiqar.

  Subha peered past them. “Is that a hand?” Her eyes went wide with horror.

  Ali quickly let Nahri go. “This place was destroyed during the war,” he said haltingly. Guilt flashed in his eyes. “Maybe . . . maybe not all those killed were put to rest.”

  “Obviously not,” Nahri said acidly. Had Subha not been there, she would have had far sharper words, but Nahri didn’t dare start fighting about the war in front of the already apprehensive doctor.

  It was Subha, however, who continued. “It seems a terrible thing to attack a place like this,” she said grimly. “No matter how just a war’s cause.”

  Ali was staring at the bones. “Maybe that’s not all that happened here.”

  “And what exactly do you think happened here that justified destroying a hospital and slaughtering its healers?” Nahri shot back, infuriated by his response.

  “I didn’t say it was justified,” Ali defended. “Just that there might be more to the story.”

  “I think I’ve had enough of this particular story,” Subha interrupted, looking ill. “Why don’t we move on and leave digging in the floors to people who can properly take care of these remains?”

  Remains. The word seemed cold, clinical. Family, Nahri silently corrected, knowing there was a good chance the person murdered here still clutching a scalpel had been a Nahid. She removed her chador, draping it carefully over the bones. She’d come back here with Kartir.

  By the time she straightened up, Subha was already through the apothecary door, but Ali was not.

  Nahri grabbed his wrist bfore he could leave. “Is there something about this place you’re not telling me?”

  His gaze darted away. “You’re better off not knowing.”

  Nahri tightened her grip. “Don’t you dare condescend to me like that. Wasn’t that your reasoning when it came to Dara as well? All those books I wasn’t ‘prepared’ for? How did that turn out for you?”

  Ali jerked free. “Everyone knew about Darayavahoush, Nahri. They just couldn’t agree if he was a monster or a hero. What led to this?” He tilted his head to take in the dim room. “It was buried. And if you want a new beginning, it should stay buried.”

  19

  Dara

  “We’ll attack the second night of Navasatem,” Dara said as they gazed at the map he’d conjured: a section of Daevabad’s narrow beach, the city walls and looming Citadel tower just behind it. “It is a new moon then and will be lightless. The Royal Guard will not see us coming until their tower is crashing through the lake.”

  “That’s the night after the parade, correct?” Mardoniye asked. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

  Kaveh nodded. “I may not have witnessed a Navasatem in Daevabad, but I’v
e heard plenty about the first day of celebrations. The drinking starts at dawn and doesn’t stop until after the competitions in the arena. By midnight, half the city will be passed out in their beds. We’ll take the djinn unaware and the majority of the Daevas will be at home.”

  “And Nahri will be in the infirmary, yes?” Dara asked. “You are certain Nisreen can keep her safe?”

  “For the twentieth time, yes, Afshin,” Kaveh sighed. “She will bar the infirmary doors at the first sight of your rather . . . creative sign.”

  Dara wasn’t convinced. “Nahri is not the type to be confined against her will.”

  Kaveh gave him an even stare. “Nisreen has spent years at her side. I’m certain she can handle this.”

  And I’m certain she has no idea the Nahid under her charge once made a living getting in and out of locked places undetected. Uneasy, Dara glanced at Mardoniye. “Would you go see if Banu Manizheh is ready to join us?” he asked. She had barely left her tent in the past few days, working at a feverish pace on her experiments.

  The young soldier nodded, rising to his feet and heading off across the camp. The sky was a pale pink through the dark trees. The snows had finally melted and the dew-damp earth glistened under the sun’s first rays. His archers had already left to go practice with their horses in the valley below, and another pair of warriors was leading a yawning Abu Sayf out to their sparring ring. Dara quickly checked to make sure the zulfiqars were still sheathed on the other side of the ring. He had made it clear to his soldiers they were only to practice with Abu Sayf in his presence.

  Aeshma snorted, drawing Dara’s attention. “I still cannot believe they celebrate what Suleiman did to us,” he said to Vizaresh.

  Dara’s mood instantly darkened. The ifrit had returned to their camp yesterday, and each hour in their presence was more trying. “We celebrate freedom from his bondage,” he shot back. “You remember . . . the part where our ancestors obeyed and thus didn’t have their magic permanently taken away. And surely you must have once celebrated some sort of festivities.”

  Aeshma looked wistful. “The humans in my land would occasionally sacrifice virgins in my name. They screamed terribly, but the music was enjoyable.”

  Dara briefly closed his eyes. “Forget the question. But speaking of the attack . . . are the two of you prepared? The ghouls will be handled?”

  Vizaresh inclined his head. “I’m well-accomplished at such a thing.”

  “Accomplished enough to keep them from attacking my warriors?”

  He nodded. “I will be at the beach with them myself.”

  That didn’t make Dara feel much better. He hated the idea of separating his small militia and leaving a group of his untested warriors on the opposite side of the city. But he had no choice.

  Aeshma grinned. “If you’re worried, Afshin, I’m sure Qandisha would be happy to join us. She misses you terribly.”

  The campfire snapped loudly in response.

  Kaveh glanced at him. “Who is Qandisha?”

  Dara focused on his breath, staring at the flames as he tried to steady the magic surging through his limbs. “The ifrit who enslaved me.”

  Vizaresh clucked his tongue. “I was very jealous,” he confessed. “I never managed to enslave someone so powerful.”

  Dara cracked his knuckles loudly. “Yes, what a pity.”

  Kaveh frowned. “This Qandisha is not working with Banu Manizheh?”

  “She was, but then he wouldn’t allow it,” Aeshma mocked, tilting his head toward Dara. “He fell to his knees and begged his Nahid to send Qandisha away. Said it was his only condition. Though I can’t imagine why.” Aeshma licked his teeth. “After all, she’s the only one who remembers what you did as a slave. And you must be curious. Fourteen centuries’ worth of memories . . .” He leaned in. “Think of all the delightful desires you must have fulfilled.”

  Dara’s hand dropped to his knife. “Give me a reason, Aeshma,” he seethed.

  Aeshma’s eyes danced. “Only a joke, dear Afshin.”

  He didn’t get a chance to respond. There was a startled cry from behind him, a thud, and the unmistakable sound of two bodies colliding.

  And then the terrible hiss of a zulfiqar flaring to life.

  Dara was whirling around, a conjured bow in his hands before he had taken another breath. The scene came to him in pieces. An exhausted Manizheh emerging from her tent. Abu Sayf’s two guards on the ground, the fiery zulfiqar in the Geziri man’s hands as he lunged toward her . . .

  Dara’s arrow flew, but Abu Sayf was prepared, raising a plank of wood with a speed and skill that took Dara by surprise. This was not the man who’d been sparring with his soldiers. He shot again, a cry rising from his throat as Abu Sayf rushed forward.

  Mardoniye flung himself between the Geziri scout and Manizheh, parrying the zulfiqar’s strike with his sword, the iron hissing against the conjured flames. He pushed Abu Sayf back, barely meeting the next blow as he inadvertently stepped between Dara and a clean shot.

  But it was clear who was the better swordsman . . . and Mardoniye wasn’t able to block Abu Sayf’s next thrust.

  The zulfiqar went straight through his stomach.

  Dara was running for them the next moment, his magic surging, ice and snow melting beneath his feet. Abu Sayf pulled the zulfiqar out of Mardoniye and the Daeva man collapsed. He raised it over Manizheh . . .

  She snapped her fingers.

  Dara heard the bones in Abu Sayf’s hand shatter from ten paces away. Abu Sayf cried out in pain, dropping the zulfiqar as Manizheh stared down at him, cold hatred in her dark eyes. By the time Dara reached them, his soldiers had pinned the Geziri. His hand was horrifically broken, the fingers splayed and pointing in different directions.

  Dara dropped to Mardoniye’s side. A sheen had swept the young man’s eyes, his face already pale. His wound was a ghastly, gaping hole, black blood spreading in a pool beneath him. Though a few tendrils of the zulfiqar’s telltale greenish-black poison were snaking across his skin, Dara knew that wouldn’t be what took him.

  Manizheh had gone right to work, ripping open the young warrior’s coat. She pressed her hands against his stomach and closed her eyes.

  Nothing happened. Nothing would happen, Dara knew. No one—not even a Nahid—healed from a zulfiqar blow.

  Manizheh gasped, a choked sound of angry disbelief in her throat as she pressed harder.

  Dara touched her hand. “My lady . . .” Her eyes darted to his, wilder than Dara had ever seen them, and he shook his head.

  Mardoniye cried out in pain, clutching Dara’s hand. “It hurts,” he whispered, tears trickling down his cheeks. “Oh, Creator, please.”

  Dara took him gently into his arms. “Close your eyes,” he soothed. “The pain will be gone soon, my friend. You fought well.” His throat constricted. The words came automatically to him; he’d done this awful duty so many times.

  Blood was trickling from Mardoniye’s mouth. “My mother . . .”

  “Your mother will be brought to live at my palace, her every need seen to.” Manizheh reached out to bless Mardoniye’s brow. “I will take her myself to visit your shrine at the temple. You saved my life, child, and for that your eyes will next open in Paradise.”

  Dara brought his lips to Mardoniye’s ear. “It’s beautiful,” he whispered. “There’s a garden, a peaceful grove of cedars where you’ll wait with your loved ones . . .” His voice finally cracked, tears brimming in his eyes as Mardoniye jerked and then grew still, hot blood slowly soaking Dara’s clothes.

  “He’s gone,” Manizheh said softly.

  Dara closed Mardoniye’s eyes, gently laying him back on the bloody snow. Forgive me, my friend.

  He rose to his feet, pulling free the knife he wore at his waist. Flames were licking down his arms and flickering in his eyes before he even approached Abu Sayf. The Geziri man was bloody, his nose broken, held fast by four of Dara’s warriors.

  Rage tore through him. The knife in his hand t
ransformed, smoking away to reveal a scourge.

  “Tell me why I should not flay you piece by piece right now,” Dara hissed. “Why I should not do the same to your companion and make you listen as he screams for death?”

  Abu Sayf met his eyes, a mix of defeat and grim determination in his expression. “Because you would have done the same thing in my place. Do you think we don’t know who you are? What your Nahid is doing with our blood and our relics? Do you think we don’t know what you have planned for Daevabad?”

  “It is not your city,” Dara snapped. “I treated you with kindness and this is how you repay me?”

  Incredulity crossed Abu Sayf’s face. “You cannot be that naive, Afshin. You threatened to torture the young warrior in my care if I didn’t train yours to murder my kinsmen. Do you think a few shared meals and conversations erase that?”

  “I think you are a liar from a tribe of liars.” When Dara rushed on, he knew it was not just Abu Sayf he was angry at. “A horde of sand flies who lie and manipulate and feign friendship to gain trust.” He raised his scourge. “I think it should be your tongue I take first.”

  “No.” Manizheh’s voice cut through the air.

  Dara whirled around. “He killed Mardoniye! He would have killed you!” He was nearly as furious with himself as he was with Abu Sayf. Dara should never have allowed this. He knew how dangerous the Geziris were and yet he’d let them remain at camp, let himself be lulled into complacency by Abu Sayf’s fluent Divasti and the comfort of swapping stories with a fellow warrior. And now Mardoniye was dead.

  “I am killing him, Banu Nahida,” Dara said flatly, the defiance easy for once. “This is a matter of war you do not understand.”

  Manizheh’s eyes flashed. “Do not dare condescend to me, Darayavahoush. Lower your weapon. I will not ask again.” She turned to Kaveh without waiting for a response. “Retrieve the serum and the relic from my tent. And I want the other Geziri brought out.”

  Dara was instantly chastened. “Banu Nahida, I merely meant—”