Nahri stood up. “You’ll excuse me.”
As kodia, she had no choice but to stay until the meal was served, nodding politely at the women’s gossip and trying to avoid an elderly cousin whom she sensed had a mass spreading in both breasts. Nahri had never tried to heal anything like that and didn’t think it was a good night to experiment—though that didn’t make the woman’s smiling face easier to stomach.
The ceremony finally drew to a close. Her basket was flush, filled with a random assortment of the various coins used in Cairo: battered copper fils, a scattering of silver paras, and a single ancient dinar from Baseema’s family. Other women had put in small pieces of cheap jewelry, all exchanged for the blessings she was supposed to bring them. Nahri gave Shams and Rana each two paras and let them take most of the jewelry.
She was securing her outer wrap and ducking the repeated kisses of Baseema’s family when she felt a slight prickling at the back of her neck. She’d spent too many years stalking marks and being followed herself not to recognize the feeling. She glanced up.
From the opposite side of the courtyard, Baseema stared back. She was completely still, her limbs in perfect control. Nahri met her gaze, surprised by the girl’s calm.
There was something curious and calculating in Baseema’s dark eyes. But then, just as Nahri really took notice, it was gone. The younger girl pressed her hands together and began to sway, dancing as Nahri had shown her.
2
Nahri
Something happened to that girl.
Nahri picked through the pastry crumbs of her long-devoured feteer. Her mind spinning after the zar, she’d stopped in a local coffeehouse rather than head home and, hours later, she was still there. She swirled her glass; the red dregs of her hibiscus tea raced across the bottom.
Nothing happened, you idiot. You didn’t hear any voices. She yawned, propping her elbows up on the table and closing her eyes. Between her predawn appointment with the basha and her long walk across the city, she was exhausted.
A small cough caught her attention. She opened her eyes to find a man with a limp beard and a hopeful expression idling by her table.
Nahri drew her dagger before he could speak and slammed the hilt against the wooden surface. The man vanished, and a hush fell across the coffeehouse. Someone’s dominos clattered to the floor.
The owner glared, and she sighed, knowing that she was about to be thrown out. He’d initially refused her service, claiming no honorable woman would dare venture out unaccompanied at night, let alone visit a coffeehouse full of strange men. After repeatedly demanding to know if her menfolk knew where she was, the sight of the coins from the zar had finally shut him up, but she suspected that brief welcome was about to end.
She stood up, dropped some money on the table, and left. The street was dark and unusually deserted; the French curfew had scared even the most nocturnal of Egyptians into staying inside.
Nahri kept her head down as she walked, but it wasn’t long before she realized she was lost. Though the moon was bright, this part of the city was unfamiliar to her, and she circled the same alley twice, looking for the main road without success.
Tired and annoyed, she stopped outside the entrance to a quiet mosque, contemplating the idea of sheltering there for the night. The sight of a distant mausoleum towering over the mosque’s dome caught her eye. She stilled. El Arafa: the City of the Dead.
A sprawling, beloved mass of burial fields and tombs, El Arafa reflected Cairo’s obsession with all things funerary. The cemetery ran along the city’s eastern edge, a spine of crumbling bones and rotting tissue where everyone from Cairo’s founders to its addicts were buried. And until plague had dealt with Cairo’s housing shortage a few years ago, it had even served as shelter for migrants with nowhere else to go.
It was an idea that made her shudder. Nahri didn’t share the comfort most Egyptians felt around the dead, let alone the desire to move in with a pile of decaying bones. She found corpses offensive; their smell, their silence, it was all wrong. From some of the more well-traveled traders, she heard stories of people who burned their dead, foreigners who thought they were being clever in hiding from God’s judgment—geniuses, Nahri thought. Going up in a crackling fire sounded delightful compared to being buried under the smothering sands of El Arafa.
But she also knew that the cemetery was her best hope of getting home. She could follow its border north until she reached more familiar neighborhoods, and it was a good place to hide if she came across any French soldiers looking to enforce the curfew; foreigners usually shared her apprehension toward the City of the Dead.
Once inside the cemetery, Nahri stuck to the outermost lane. It was even more deserted than the street; the only hints of life were the smell of a long-extinguished cooking fire and the shrieks of fighting cats. The spiky crenellations and smooth domes of the tombs cast wild shadows against the sandy ground. The ancient buildings looked neglected; Egypt’s Ottoman rulers had preferred to be buried in their Turkish homeland and therefore hadn’t seen the upkeep of the cemetery as important—one of many insults they’d visited upon her countrymen.
The temperature seemed to have dropped rather suddenly, and Nahri shivered. Her worn leather sandals, threadbare things long overdue for replacement, padded on the soft ground. There was no other sound save the jingling coins in her basket. Already unnerved, Nahri avoided looking at the tombs, instead contemplating the far more pleasant topic of breaking into the basha’s house while he was in Faiyum. Nahri would be damned if she was going to let some consumptive little brother keep her from a lucrative take.
She hadn’t been walking long when there was a hush of breath behind her, followed by a flit of movement she caught out of the corner of her eye.
It could be someone else taking a shortcut, she told herself, her heart racing. Cairo was relatively safe, but Nahri knew there were few good outcomes to a young woman being followed at night.
She kept her pace but moved her hand toward her dagger before making an abrupt turn deeper into the cemetery. She hurried down the lane, startling a sleepy cur, and then ducked behind the entrance to one of the old Fatimid tombs.
The footsteps followed. They stopped. Nahri took a deep breath and raised her blade, getting ready to bluster and threaten whoever was there. She stepped out.
She froze. “Baseema?”
The young girl stood in the middle of the alley about a dozen paces away, her head uncovered, her abaya stained and torn. She smiled at Nahri. Her teeth gleamed in the moonlight as a breeze blew back her hair.
“Speak again,” Baseema demanded in a voice strained and hoarse from disuse.
Nahri gasped. Had she actually helped the girl? And if so, why in God’s name was she wandering around a cemetery in the middle of the night?
She dropped her arm and hurried toward her. “What are you doing out here all alone, child? Your mother will be worried.”
She stopped. Though it was dark, sudden clouds veiling the moon, she could see strange splotches staining Baseema’s hands. Nahri drew in a sharp breath, catching the scent of something smoky and charred and wrong.
“Is that . . . blood? By the Most High, Baseema, what happened?”
Clearly oblivious to Nahri’s worry, Baseema clapped her hands together in delight. “Could it really be you?” She circled Nahri slowly. “About the right age . . . ,” she mused. “And I’d swear that I see that witch in your features, but you otherwise look so human.” Her gaze fell on the knife in Nahri’s hand. “Though I suppose there’s only one real way to tell.”
The words had no sooner left her mouth than she snatched the dagger away, her movements impossibly fast. Nahri stumbled back with a surprised cry, and Baseema laughed. “Don’t worry, little healer. I’m no fool; I’ve no intention of testing your blood myself.” She wagged the dagger in one hand. “Though I think I’ll take this before you get any ideas.”
Nahri was speechless. She took Baseema in with new eyes. Gone was the f
lapping, tormented child. Her bizarre declarations aside, she stood with a new confidence, the wind whipping through her hair.
Baseema narrowed her eyes, perhaps picking up on Nahri’s confusion. “Surely you know what I am. The marid must have warned you about us.”
“The what?” Nahri held up a hand, trying to protect her eyes from a sandy gust of wind. The weather had worsened. Behind Baseema, dark gray and orange clouds swirled across the sky, obliterating the stars. The wind howled again, like the worst of the khamaseen, but it was not yet the season for Cairo’s spring sandstorms.
Baseema glanced at the sky. Alarm bloomed in her small face. She whirled on Nahri. “That human magic you did . . . who did you call for?”
Magic? Nahri raised her hands. “I didn’t do any magic!”
Baseema moved in the blink of an eye. She shoved Nahri against the nearest tomb wall, pressing an elbow hard against her throat. “Who did you sing for?”
“I . . .” Nahri gasped, shocked by the strength in the girl’s thin arms. “A . . . warrior, I think. But it was nothing. Just an old zar song.”
Baseema stepped back as a hot breeze tore down the alley, smelling of fire. “That’s not possible,” she whispered. “He’s dead. They’re all dead.”
“Who’s dead?” Nahri had to shout over the wind. “Wait, Baseema!” she cried as the young girl fled down the opposite alley. “Where are you going?”
She didn’t have long to wonder. A crack snapped the air, louder than a cannon. All was silent, too silent, and then Nahri was thrown off her feet, blasted against one of the tombs.
She hit the stone hard as a bright flash of light blinded her. She crumpled to the ground, too dazed to protect her face from the rain of scorching sand.
The world went quiet, returning with the steady beat of her heart, the blood rushing to her head. Black dots blossomed across her eyes. She flexed her fingers and twitched her toes, relieved they were still attached. The thud of her heart was slowly replaced by ringing in her ears. She tentatively touched the throbbing bulge on the back of her skull, stifling a cry at the sharp pain.
She tried to twist free of the sand that half-buried her, still blinded by the flash. No, not from the flash, she realized. The white bright light was still in the alley, just condensing, growing smaller to reveal fire-scorched tombs as it collapsed in on itself. As it collapsed in on something.
Baseema was nowhere to be seen. Frantically, Nahri began to work her legs loose. She had just managed to uncover them when she heard the voice, clear as a bell and angry as a tiger, in the language she’d been listening for all her life.
“Suleiman’s eye!” it roared. “I will kill whoever called me here!”
There’s no magic, no djinn, no spirits waiting to eat us up. Nahri’s own decisive words to Yaqub came back to her, mocking her as she peeked over the headstone she’d dashed behind when she first heard his voice. The air still smelled of ash, but the light filling the alley dimmed, almost like it had been sucked in by the figure at its center. It looked like a man, swathed in a dark robe that swirled around his feet like smoke.
He stepped forward as the remaining light vanished into his body and immediately lost his balance, grabbing for a desiccated tree trunk. As he steadied himself, the bark burst into flames beneath his hand. Instead of pulling back, he leaned against the burning tree with a sigh, the flames licking harmlessly at his robe.
Too stunned to form a coherent thought, let alone flee, Nahri rolled back against the headstone as the man called out again.
“Khayzur . . . if this is your idea of a jest, I swear on my ancestors to pluck you apart feather by feather!”
His bizarre threat rang in her mind, the words meaningless, but the language so familiar it felt tangible.
Why is some lunatic fire creature speaking my language?
Unable to fight her curiosity, she turned back, peering past the headstone.
The creature dug through the sand, muttering to himself and swearing. As Nahri watched, he pulled free a curved scimitar and secured it to his waist. It was quickly joined by two daggers, an enormous mace, an ax, a long quiver of arrows, and a gleaming silver bow.
The bow in hand, he finally staggered up and glanced down the alley, obviously searching for whoever had—what had he said?—“called” him. Though he didn’t look much taller than her, the vast array of weapons—enough to fight a whole troop of French soldiers—was terrifying and slightly ridiculous. Like what a little boy might don when playing at being some ancient warrior.
A warrior. Oh, by the Most High . . .
He was looking for her. Nahri was the one who had called him.
“Where are you?” he bellowed, striding forward with his bow raised. He was getting dangerously close to Nahri’s headstone. “I will tear you into fours!” He spoke her language with a cultured accent, his poetic tone at odds with the terrifying threat.
Nahri had no desire to learn what being “torn into fours” meant. She slipped off her sandals. Once he was past her headstone, she quickly rose and silently fled down the opposite lane.
Unfortunately, she had forgotten about her basket. As she moved, the coins rang out in the silent night.
The man roared, “Stop!”
She sped up, her bare feet pounding the ground. She turned down one twisting lane and then another, hoping to confuse him.
Spotting a darkened doorway, she ducked inside. The cemetery was silent, free of the sounds of pursuing feet or angry threats. Could she have lost him?
She leaned against the cool stone, trying to catch her breath and wishing desperately for her dagger—not that her puny blade would offer much protection against the excessively armed man hunting her.
I can’t stay here. But Nahri could see nothing but tombs in front of her and had no idea how to get back to the streets. She gritted her teeth, trying to muster up some courage.
Please, God . . . or whoever is listening, she prayed. Just get me out of this, and I swear I’ll ask Yaqub for a bridegroom tomorrow. And I’ll never do another zar. She took a hesitant step.
An arrow whistled through the air.
Nahri shrieked as it sliced across her temple. She staggered forward and reached for her head, her fingers immediately sticky with blood.
The cold voice spoke. “Stop where you are or the next one goes through your throat.”
She froze, her hand still pressed against her wound. The blood was already clotting, but she didn’t want to give the creature an excuse to put another hole in her.
“Turn around.”
She swallowed back her fear and turned, keeping her hands still and her eyes on the ground. “Pl-please don’t kill me,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean to—”
The man—or whatever he was—sucked in his breath, a noise like an extinguished coal. “You . . . you’re human,” he whispered. “How do you know Divasti? How can you even hear me?”
“I . . .” Nahri paused, startled to finally learn the name of the language she’d known since childhood. Divasti.
“Look at me.” He moved closer, the air between them growing warm with the smell of burnt citrus.
Her heart was beating so hard she could hear it in her ears. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to meet his gaze.
His face was covered like a desert traveler, but even if it had been visible, she doubted she would have seen anything but his eyes. Greener than emeralds, they were almost too bright to look into directly.
His eyes narrowed. He pushed back her headscarf, and Nahri flinched as he touched her right ear. His fingertips were so hot that even his brief press was enough to scald her skin.
“Shafit,” he said softly, but unlike his other words, the term remained incomprehensible in her mind. “Move your hand, girl. Let me see your face.”
He pushed her hand away before she could comply. By now, the blood had clotted. Exposed to the air, her wound itched; she knew the skin was stitching back together before his eyes.
He le
aped back, nearly crashing into the opposite wall. “Suleiman’s eye!” He looked her up and down again, sniffing the air like a dog. “How . . . how did you do that?” he demanded. His bright eyes flashed. “Is this some sort of trick? A trap?”
“No!” She held her hands up, praying she looked innocent. “No trick, no trap, I swear!”
“Your voice . . . you are the one who called me.” He raised his sword and laid the curved blade against her neck, soft as a lover’s hand. “How? Who are you working for?”
Nahri’s stomach tied itself into a tight knot. She swallowed, resisting the urge to jerk back from the blade at her throat—no doubt such a motion would end poorly.
She thought fast. “You know . . . there was this other girl here. I bet she called you.” She pointed down the opposite lane with one finger, trying to force some confidence into her voice. “She went that way.”
“Liar!” he hissed, and the cold blade pressed closer. “Do you think I don’t recognize your voice?”
Nahri panicked. She was normally good under pressure, but she had little practice outwitting enraged fire spirits. “I’m sorry! I-I just sang a song . . . I didn’t mean to . . . ow!” she cried as he pressed the blade harder, nicking her neck.
He pulled it away and then brought it to his face, studying the smear of red blood on the blade’s metal surface. He sniffed it, pressing it close against his face covering.
“Oh, God . . .” Nahri’s stomach turned. Yaqub was right; she’d tangled with magic she didn’t understand and now was going to pay for it. “Please . . . just make it quick.” She tried to steady herself. “If you’re going to eat me—”
“Eat you?” He made a disgusted sound. “The smell of your blood alone is enough to put me off eating for a month.” He dropped the sword. “You smell dirt born. You’re no illusion.”
She blinked, but before she could question that bizarre proclamation, the ground gave a sudden and violent rumble.
He touched the tomb beside them and then gave the trembling headstones a distinctly nervous look. “Is this a burial ground?”
The City of Brass Page 3