The Kingdom of Copper

by S. A. Chakraborty

  And across his perfectly healed back.

  Nahri was gaping at his unmarred skin when there was another crack of the musket. Jamshid shoved her down.

  But the shot hadn’t been aimed at them.

  The time between seeing Nisreen racing toward them and seeing her mentor fall seemed to take hours, as if to effectively sear itself on her mind’s eye. Nahri tore away from Jamshid, lunging to Nisreen’s side without recalling moving.

  “Nisreen!” Black blood was already soaking through her tunic. Nahri ripped it open.

  She went completely still at the sight of the stomach wound. It was ghastly, the human weapon damaging the other woman’s flesh in a way Nahri hadn’t thought possible in the magical world.

  Oh God . . . Not wasting a moment, Nahri laid her hand against the blood—and then immediately jerked it back as a searing pain slashed across her palm. The smell, the burn . . .

  The attackers had used iron bullets.

  There was a cry and then the remaining men on the balcony fell to the ground, their bodies riddled with arrows. Nahri barely noticed. Her heart in her throat, she ignored the pain to lay hands on her mentor again. Heal, she begged. Heal!

  A bloody scrape on Nisreen’s cheek instantly did, but from the bullet wound, nothing. The bullet itself stood out like an angry scar against the rest of Nisreen’s body, a cold, alien intrusion.

  Jamshid sank down next to her, dropping the bow. “What can I do?” he cried.

  I don’t know. Terrified, Nahri searched Nisreen’s face; she needed Nisreen to guide her through this. She needed Nisreen, period. Tears filled her eyes as she took in the blood at the corner of her teacher’s mouth, the black eyes that were filled with nearly as much shock as pain.

  The answer came to her in an instant. “I need pliers!” she screamed to the crowd. “A spike, a blade, something!”

  “Nahri . . .” Nisreen’s voice came in a heartbreaking whisper. She coughed, more blood dripping from her mouth. “Nahri . . . listen . . .”

  Blood was soaking through Nahri’s clothes. Someone, Nahri didn’t even care who, thrust the handle of a knife into her hand. “I’m sorry, Nisreen,” she whispered. “This is probably going to hurt.”

  Jamshid had taken Nisreen’s head in his lap. With quiet horror, Nahri realized he was praying softly, giving her last rites.

  Nahri refused to accept that. She banished her emotions. She ignored the tears running down her cheeks and the steady, horrible slowing of Nisreen’s heart.

  “Nahri,” Nisreen whispered. “Nahri . . . your—”

  Nahri inserted the knife, her hands mercifully steady. “I have it!” With a rush of blood, she pulled free the bullet. But the movement cost her. Nisreen shuddered, her eyes brightening in pain.

  And then, even as Nahri spread her fingers across the wound, Nisreen’s heart stopped. Roaring in anger, Nahri let loose the magic she had left, commanding it to restart, for the torn vessels and frayed flesh to connect.

  Nothing.

  Jamshid burst in tears. “Her heart,” he sobbed.

  No. Nahri stared at her mentor in dull disbelief. Nisreen couldn’t be dead. The woman who had taught her how to heal could not be the one person she couldn’t help. The woman who, for all their many, many fights, had been the closest thing to a mother Nahri had ever had.

  “Nisreen,” she whispered. “Please.” She tried again, magic rushing from her hands, but it did nothing. Nisreen’s heart was still, blood and muscles slowing as the bright pulses in her head steadily blinked out—Nahri’s abilities telling her clearly what her heart wanted to deny.

  Nisreen was gone.

  31

  Ali

  Ali ripped the hospital door open, grabbing the first person he saw. “The Banu Nahida! Where is she?”

  A bloodied Parimal started, nearly dropping a tray of supplies. Ali quickly let him go.

  Parimal’s expression was grave. “In the main chamber. She’s unharmed, but it’s bad, Prince. Many are dead.”

  That Ali knew. He and Muntadhir had rushed to the procession but the streets had been in turmoil, and they’d finally arrived to learn Nahri was already back at the hospital treating victims.

  Muntadhir had stayed behind to assist Jamshid in restoring some order while Ali continued to the hospital, passing the ruins of the celebration turned to carnage with growing despair. The dead lay where they’d fallen, their bodies still being shrouded. Ali had counted at least fifty.

  One of the dead, Jamshid grimly told them, had already been quietly taken to the Grand Temple, her still form covered in the Banu Nahida’s own chador. Nisreen’s name landed hard in Ali’s heart, the scope of the violence done today unimaginable.

  “May I ask . . .” Parimal was staring at him, looking sick and hesitant. “The attackers . . . were they identified?”

  Ali met his gaze, all too aware of what Parimal was really asking. It had been the same awful prayer in the darkest part of Ali’s heart.

  “They were shafit,” he said softly. “All of them.”

  Parimal’s shoulders dropped, his expression crumpling. “Oh no,” he whispered. “It’s terrible, but I’d hoped . . .”

  “I know,” Ali cleared his throat. “Where is she?”

  Parimal nodded to his left. “The main examination room.”

  Ali hurried off, through the halls whose construction he’d personally overseen. He’d looked forward to seeing the hospital operational, but God . . . not like this.

  The chamber was packed, the hundred pallets full and more patients lying on woolen blankets on the floor. The vast majority were Daeva. He caught sight of Nahri bent over a crying young boy being held by his mother. She had a pair of forceps in her hands and seemed to be removing bits of wooden shrapnel from his skin. He watched her set aside the forceps and touch the little boy’s face before pushing slowly to her feet, exhaustion in every line of her body. She turned around.

  Her eyes had no sooner met his than Nahri’s face crumpled in grief. Heartsick, Ali rushed to her side. She trembled, shaking her head and looking like it was taking every bit of strength she had not to cry.

  “I can’t,” she choked out. “Not here.”

  Wordlessly, Ali took her hand. She didn’t resist, letting him lead her out of the room and into the garden. They had barely closed the door when she broke down sobbing.

  “They killed Nisreen,” she wept. “They shot her and I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t . . .”

  Ali pulled her into his arms. She started to cry harder and they sank slowly to the floor.

  “She taught me everything,” Nahri gasped through her sobs. “Everything. And I couldn’t do a damned thing to save her.” She shook violently against him. “She was scared, Ali. I could see it in her eyes.”

  “I’m so sorry, Nahri,” he whispered, at a loss for anything else to say. “I’m so, so sorry.” Not knowing what else to do, he simply held her as she cried, her tears soaking through his dishdasha. He ached to do something, anything, that would make this better.

  He wasn’t sure how long they’d been sitting there when the call to asr prayer came. Ali closed his wet eyes, letting the muezzins’ call wash over him. It put a little steadiness back into his spirit. Today’s attack was awful, but the adhan was still being sung. Time wasn’t stopping in Daevabad, and it would be up to them to make sure this tragedy didn’t shatter the city.

  The adhan seemed to bring Nahri back to herself as well. She took a shaky breath, pulling away to wipe her eyes.

  She stared at her hands, looking utterly lost. “I don’t know what to say to them,” she murmured, seemingly as much to herself as to Ali. “I told my people we could trust the shafit. But we were just attacked with human weapons, with Rumi fire, when we were celebrating our holiday in our city.” Her voice was hollow. “How can I call myself a Banu Nahida if I can’t protect my own people?”

  Ali reached out, taking her chin in his hands. “Nahri, you’re not responsible for this. Not in any
way. A few twisted souls exploited a security weakness that, to be honest, we should have prepared for the first time those damnable weapons showed up in this city. It has no bearing on your outreach to the shafit, no bearing on your position as Banu Nahida. You saved lives,” he assured her. “I heard what you did to put out the fire. You think anyone but a Banu Nahida could have done that?”

  Nahri didn’t appear to hear him, lost in whatever darkness clouded her mind. “This can’t happen again,” she muttered. “Never again.” Her expression abruptly sharpened, her eyes fixing on his. “The woman who warned you . . . where is she? I want to talk to her.”

  Ali shook his head. “She knew nothing more.”

  “She clearly knew enough!” She jerked free of his hands. “Maybe you couldn’t get any more information from her, but I bet I can.”

  The vengeance in her voice unsettled him. “She wasn’t behind this, Nahri. And I couldn’t find her if I tried.”

  “Then what’s her name? I’ll have my people search for her if you won’t.”

  Ice crept over Ali’s skin. Right now, he would have done almost anything to help Nahri . . . but he couldn’t give her that. He bit his lip, fighting for words. “Nahri, I know you’re grieving—”

  “You know?” She shoved away from him. “What do you know about grief?” Her wet eyes flashed. “Who have you lost, Ali? Who’s died in your arms? Who have you begged to come back, to look at you one last time?” She staggered to her feet. “The Daevas bleed, the shafit bleed, and there the Geziris stand. Safe in their deserts back home, secure in the palace here.”

  Ali opened and closed his mouth, but that was not a charge he could dispute. “Nahri, please,” he begged. “We . . . we’ll fix this.”

  “And what if we can’t?” Her voice cracked in exhaustion. “What if Daevabad is just broken in a way that can’t be repaired?”

  He shook his head. “I refuse to believe that.”

  Nahri just stared at him. The anger was gone, replaced by a pity that made him feel even worse. “You should leave, Alizayd. Escape this awful place while you still can.” Bitterness creased her features. “I know I would.” She turned for the door. “I need to get back to my patients.”

  “Nahri, wait!” Ali shot to his feet, desperate. “Please. I’ll make this right. I swear to God.”

  She pushed past him. “You can’t make this right.” She wrenched open the door. “Go back to Am Gezira.”

  Lubayd and Aqisa were waiting for him when Ali left the hospital.

  Lubayd took one look at him and then grabbed Ali’s arm. “Is she okay?”

  Ali’s mouth was dry. “She’s alive.”

  Go back to Am Gezira. Suddenly, in a moment of weakness, Ali wanted nothing other than that. It would be easy. The city was in chaos; the three of them could slip out in an instant. His father wouldn’t blame him—he had told Ali to leave and would probably be quietly relieved he didn’t have to force his son to obey his wishes. Ali could be back in Bir Nabat in weeks, away from Daevabad and its constant bloody heartache.

  He rubbed his eyes. Ahead, the sight of the shafit camp caught his eye. It had been rebuilt—expanded—after the attack and was bustling now with tense workers streaming into and out of the hospital.

  Sick fear crept into his heart. The Daevas had attacked this place before, killing a score for the death of a single man.

  What would they do to the shafit for the destruction wrought today?

  They could go to war. It was his father’s constant concern, Ali knew. The Daevas and the shafit made up the majority of Daevabad, thoroughly outnumbering the rest of the djinn, and the Royal Guard might not be able to stop them. Ghassan might not even be inclined to let them try and stop them. Ali knew their world’s cold calculus; the Guard would be sent to watch over the other quarters, to keep the purebloods of the djinn tribes safe while the “fire worshippers” and the “dirt-bloods” had their final fight.

  But his first instinct will be to stop this. To brutally stamp out anything that might escalate.

  The door opened again, Subha stepping out to join them.

  The doctor took a deep breath. “I didn’t think I’d ever see worse than the attack on the camp,” she confessed by way of greeting. “I can’t imagine the demons who planned such a thing. To attack a parade full of children . . .”

  They were children themselves only a few years ago. Ali knew in his heart this traced back to the Tanzeem. The few twisted souls who’d watched their sheikh murdered, their orphanage burned, and then their adopted brothers and sisters die on Daevabad’s lake, just as Sister Fatumai had said.

  “I think we’ve got the survivors out of danger for now,” Subha continued, her expression heavy. “I wish I’d been there,” she said softly. “Lady Nisreen . . . I probably could have gotten the bullet out.”

  “Please don’t tell Nahri that,” Ali said quickly.

  Subha shook her head. “I can tell you it’s already on her mind. When you lose a patient like that, you never stop wondering what you could have done differently. And if it’s someone you love . . .”

  Ali flinched. “Will you stay with her?” he asked. “With Nahri?”

  “Where are you headed?”

  He hesitated, trying to think. “The Citadel,” he finally decided. He wasn’t welcome at the hospital and didn’t trust his father not to lock him up if he returned to the palace. “I want to see what we can do to keep people from each other’s throats while we figure out who’s responsible for this.”

  Aqisa narrowed her eyes. “Are you allowed at the Citadel?”

  Ali took a deep breath. “I think we’re about to learn exactly how popular I am with the Royal Guard.”

  The soldiers at the gate certainly didn’t stop him from entering; indeed, there was open relief on the faces of a few.

  “Prince Alizayd,” the first man greeted him. “Peace be upon you.”

  “And upon you peace,” Ali replied. “Is the Qaid here?”

  The man shook his head. “You just missed him heading back to the palace.” He paused. “He seemed upset. He went tearing out of here with a few of his most senior officers.”

  Ali’s stomach dropped, uncertain what to think about that. He nodded and then continued on, striding into the heart of the Citadel, the place that in many ways had been a truer home to him than the palace. Its tower stood proud, stark against the setting sun.

  A knot of Geziri officers were just inside, arguing loudly over a scroll. Ali recognized all of them, particularly Daoud, the officer who’d made a point of thanking him for his effort with his village’s well when he first arrived in Daevabad.

  “Prince Alizayd, thank God,” the man said when he caught sight of Ali.

  Ali made his way over cautiously, raising a hand to stop Lubayd and Aqisa from following him. He was here as a soldier now, not as a civilian from outer Am Gezira. “The Qaid has gone to the palace?”

  Daoud nodded. “We received orders from the king that troubled him.”

  “What orders?” Ali asked, instantly concerned.

  Barghash, one of the louder, brasher captains spoke up. “He wants us to raze the neighborhood in which the attack took place. It is unnecessary. We found the shafit who lived in the apartments with their throats cut. The attackers must have killed them. And the attackers themselves are dead! We’ve been asked to slaughter scores of shafit for no reason other than—”

  “That’s enough,” Abu Nuwas interrupted. “You took an oath when you joined the Guard to obey the king.”

  “That’s not quite the oath he took,” Ali corrected. “He pledged to serve God and the security of his people. And the shafit are also our people.”

  Abu Nuwas gave him an annoyed look. “Respectfully, Prince Alizayd, you hold no rank here. You are not even supposed to be here. I can have you escorted to the palace if you like.”

  The threat was clear, and Ali saw more than a few men bristle . . . though their barbed glances were not for him.

&nb
sp; Ali paused, seeing Muntadhir and Zaynab in his mind. Their father.

  Bir Nabat and the life he might have lived.

  God forgive me. God guide me. “I’m very sorry, Abu Nuwas,” he said quietly. Ali’s hand dropped to his khanjar. “But I’m not going back to the palace.”

  He cracked the other man across the skull with the hilt of the blade.

  Abu Nuwas fell unconscious to the dust. Two of the officers immediately went for their zulfiqars, but they were outnumbered, the remaining officers and several infantrymen lunging forward and restraining them.

  “Please make sure he’s all right,” Ali continued, keeping his voice calm. He picked up the scroll from the ground, his eyes scanning the repulsive order, his father’s signature clear on the bottom.

  It burst into flames in his hand, and Ali dropped it to the ground.

  He gazed at the shocked soldiers around him. “I didn’t join the Royal Guard to murder innocents,” he said flatly. “And our ancestors certainly didn’t come to Daevabad to raze shafit homes while their children sleep inside.” He raised his voice. “We keep the peace, understand? That’s all that’s happening right now.”

  There was a moment of hesitation among the men. Ali’s heart raced. Aqisa reached for her blade . . .

  And then Daoud nodded, swiftly making the Geziri salute. “Your prince has issued a command,” he declared. “Draw up!”

  The soldiers in the courtyard, slowly at first and then moving at the speed with which they would have obeyed Wajed, took their places.

  Daoud bowed. “What would you have us do?”

  “We need to secure the shafit district. I won’t have anyone seeking vengeance tonight. The gates to the midan will need to be closed and fortified—fast. I’ll need to send a message to the king.” And to my siblings, he added silently, praying he’d made more headway than he thought while arguing with them in the closet.

  “What about the Geziri Quarter?” Daoud asked. “There are no gates separating us from the shafit.”

  “I know.” Ali took a deep breath, considering his options and suddenly wishing he’d done a bit more scheming with Zaynab. He fidgeted with the prayer beads around his wrist. Whose support could he count on?