They reached the last roof, but Hanno didn’t stop, instead speeding up as he neared the edge. And then—to Ali’s horror—he launched himself over.
Ali gasped, drawing to a stop just before the edge. But the shapeshifter wasn’t dashed on the ground below; instead, he’d landed atop the copper wall separating the tribal quarters. The wall was perhaps half a body length lower than the roof and a good ten paces away. It was an impossible jump, pure fortune that Hanno had made it.
He gave the shapeshifter an incredulous look. “Are you insane?”
Hanno grinned, baring his teeth. “Come on, al Qahtani. Surely if a shafit can do it, so can you.”
Ali hissed in response. He paced the edge of the roof. Every sensible instinct he had screamed at him not to jump.
The sound of the pursuing soldiers grew louder. They’d be up on the roof any minute. Ali took a few steps back, trying to work up the courage to take a running leap.
This is madness. He shook his head. “I can’t.”
“You don’t have a choice.” The humor vanished from Hanno’s voice. “Al Qahtani . . . Alizayd,” he pressed when Ali didn’t respond. “Listen to me. You heard what the sheikh said. You think you can turn back now? Beg your abba for mercy?” He shook his head. “I know Geziris. Your people don’t fuck around with loyalty.” Hanno met Ali’s gaze, his eyes dark with warning. “What do you think your father will do when he learns his own blood betrayed him?”
I never meant to betray him. Ali took a deep breath.
And then he jumped.
5
Nahri
“Don’t fall asleep, little thief. We’re landing soon.”
Nahri’s eyelids were as heavy as a sack of dirhams, but she wasn’t asleep. There was no way she could be, with only a scrap of fabric preventing her from plummeting to her death. She rolled over on the carpet, a chilly wind caressing her face as they flew. The dawn sky blushed at the approach of the sun, the dark of night giving way to light pinks and blues as the stars winked out. She stared at the sky. Exactly one week ago, she’d been looking at another dawn in Cairo, waiting for the basha, unaware of how drastically her life was about to change.
The djinn—no, the daeva, she corrected herself; Dara had a tendency to fly into a rage when she called him a djinn—sat beside her, the smoky heat from his robe tickling her nose. His shoulders were slumped, and his emerald eyes were dim and focused on something in the distance.
My captor looks particularly tired this morning. Nahri didn’t blame him; it had been the most bizarre, challenging week of her life, and though Dara appeared to be softening toward her, she sensed they were both thoroughly exhausted. The haughty daeva warrior and scheming human thief were not the most natural of pairings; at times, Dara could be as chatty as a girlhood friend, asking a hundred questions about her life, from her favorite color to what types of cloth they sold in the Cairo bazaars. Then, with little warning, he’d turn sullen and hostile, perhaps disgusted to find himself enjoying a conversation with a mixed-blood.
On Nahri’s part, she was largely forced to check her own curiosity; asking Dara anything about the magical world immediately put him in a bad mood. “You can bother the djinn in Daevabad with all your questions,” he’d dismiss her, returning to polishing his weapons.
But he was wrong.
She couldn’t do that. Because she was definitely not going to Daevabad.
One week with Dara was enough for her to know there was no way she was trapping herself in a city filled with more ill-tempered djinn. She would be better off on her own. Surely she could find a way to avoid the ifrit; they couldn’t possibly search the entire human world, and there was no way in hell she’d ever perform a zar again.
And so, eager to escape, she’d kept an eye out for an opportunity—but there’d been nowhere to flee in the vast, unbroken monolith of desert they traveled, all moonlit sands by night and shady oases by day. Yet as she sat up now and caught a glimpse of the ground below, hope bloomed in her chest.
The sun had broken across the horizon to illuminate a changed landscape. Instead of desert, limestone hills melted into a wide, dark river that twisted southeast as far as the eye could see. White clusters of buildings and cooking fires hugged its banks. The arid plains directly below were rocky, broken up by scrub and slender, conical trees.
She scanned the ground, growing alert. “Where are we?”
“Hierapolis.”
“Where?” She and Dara might speak the same language, but they were centuries apart in geography. He knew everything by a different name, rivers, cities, even the stars in the sky. The words he used were entirely unknown, and the stories he told to describe such places even more bizarre.
“Hierapolis.” The carpet swept toward the ground, Dara directing it with one hand. “It has been too long since I’ve been back. When I was young, Hierapolis was home to a very . . . spiritual people. Very devoted to their rituals. Though I suppose anyone would be devoted, considering they worshipped phalluses and fish and preferred orgies to prayer.” He sighed, his eyes creasing in pleasure. “Humans can be so delightfully inventive.”
“I thought you hated humans.”
“Not at all. Humans in their world, and my people in ours. That is the best way of things,” he said firmly. “It is when we cross that trouble arises.”
Nahri rolled her eyes, knowing he believed her to be the result of such a crossing. “What river is that?”
“The Ufratu.”
Ufratu . . . She rolled the word in her mind. “Ufratu . . . el-Furat . . . that’s the Euphrates?” She was stunned. They were much farther east than she expected.
Dara took her dismay the wrong way. “Yes. Don’t worry, it’s too massive to cross here.”
Nahri frowned. “What do you mean? We’re flying over it anyway, aren’t we?”
She would swear that he blushed, a hint of embarrassment in his bright eyes. “I . . . I don’t like flying over that much water,” he finally confessed. “Especially when I’m tired. We’ll rest, then fly farther north to find a better spot. We can get horses on the other side. If Khayzur was right about the enchantment I used on the rug being easy to track, I don’t want to fly much farther on it.”
Nahri barely heard what he said about the rug, her mind racing as she appraised the dark river. This is my chance, she realized. Dara might refuse to talk about himself, but Nahri had studied him all the same, and his confession about flying over the river confirmed her suspicion.
The daeva was terrified of water.
He’d refused to put even a toe in the shady pools of the oases they visited and seemed convinced she was going to drown in the shallowest of ponds, declaring her enjoyment of water unnatural, a shafit perversion. He wouldn’t dare cross the mighty Euphrates without the carpet; he probably wouldn’t even go near its banks.
I just need to get to the river. Nahri would swim its whole damn length if that was the only way to freedom.
They landed on the rocky ground, and her knee slammed into a hard lump. She cursed, rubbing it as she climbed to her feet to look around. Her mouth dropped open. “When did you say you last visited?”
They hadn’t landed on rocky ground; they’d landed on a flattened building. Broken and bare marble columns lined the avenues, most of which were missing sections of paving stones. The buildings were destroyed, though the height of a few remaining yellowed walls hinted at previous glory. There were grand arched entrances that led to nothing, and blackened weeds and brush growing between the stonework and snaking up the columns. Across from the rug, an enormous stone pillar the color of washed sky lay smashed on the ground. Carved into its side were the grimy contours of a veiled woman with a fish tail.
Nahri moved away from the rug and startled a dust-colored fox. It vanished behind a crumbling wall. She glanced back at Dara. He looked equally stunned, his green eyes wide with shock. He caught her glance and forced a small smile.
“Well, it has been some time . . .”
/>
“Some time?” She gestured to the abandoned remains surrounding them. Across the broken road was an enormous fountain filled with murky black water; foul scum stained the marble from where it had started to evaporate. It had to take centuries for a place to get like this. There were similar ruins in Egypt, and it was said that they belonged to an ancient race of sun worshippers who lived and died before the holy books were even written. She shivered. “How old are you?”
Dara gave her an annoyed look. “It’s not your concern.” He shook the carpet out with more force than necessary, rolled it up, and then threw it over one shoulder before stalking off into the largest of the ruined buildings. Voluptuous fish-women were carved around the entrance; perhaps it was one of the temples where people had “worshipped.”
Nahri followed. She needed that rug. “Where are you going?” She stumbled over a broken column, envying the graceful way the daeva moved over the uneven ground, and then paused as she entered the temple, dazzled by the grand decay.
The temple’s roof and eastern wall were gone, opening the ruin to the dawn sky. Marble pillars stretched far above her head, and crumbled stone walls outlined what must once have been an enormous maze of different rooms. Most of the interior was gloomy, shaded by the remaining walls and a few determined cypress trees that split through the floor.
To her left was a tall stone dais. Three statues were poised on top: another fish-woman, as well as a stately female riding a lion, and a man wearing a loincloth and holding a discus. All were stunning, their muscled figures and regal poise entrancing. The pleats in their stone garments looked so real that she was tempted to touch them.
But glancing around, she saw that Dara had vanished, his footsteps silent in the grand ruin. Nahri followed the trail he’d made in the thick layer of dust coating the floor.
“Oh . . .” A small sound of appreciation escaped her throat. The large temple was dwarfed by the enormous theater she entered. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of stone seats were carved into the hill in a semicircle surrounding the large stage upon which she stood.
The daeva stood at the edge of the stage. The air was still and silent save for the early morning trill of songbirds. His midnight blue robe smoked and swirled about his feet, and he’d unwrapped his turban to let it fall to his shoulders, his head covered only by the flat charcoal cap. Its white embroidery shone pink in the rosy morning light.
He looks like he belongs here, she thought. Like a ghost forgotten in time, searching for its long-dead companions. Judging from the way he spoke of Daevabad, Nahri assumed him to be some sort of exile. He probably missed his people.
She shook her head; she didn’t intend to let a flash of sympathy convince her to keep playing companion to a lonely daeva. “Dara?”
“I saw a play here once with my father,” he reminisced. “I was young, probably my first tour of the human world . . .” He studied the stage. “They had actors waving brilliant blue silks to represent the ocean. I thought it magical.”
“I’m sure it was lovely. Can I have the carpet?”
He glanced back. “What?”
“The carpet. You sleep on it every day.” She let a note of complaint slip into her voice. “It’s my turn.”
“So share with me.” He nodded at the temple. “We’ll find a place in the shade.”
She felt her cheeks grow slightly hot. “I’m not sleeping alongside you in some temple dedicated to fish orgies.”
He rolled his eyes and dropped the rug. It landed hard on the ground, sending up a cloud of dust. “Do as you wish.”
I intend to. Nahri waited until he had stalked back into the temple before dragging the carpet to the far end of the stage. She pushed it off and flinched at the heavy thump, half-expecting the daeva to run out and tell her to hush. But the theater stayed empty.
She knelt on the rug. Though the river was a long, hot walk away, she didn’t want to leave until she was certain Dara was fast asleep. It didn’t usually take long. The comment about flying over the river wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned becoming exhausted by magic. Nahri supposed it was a type of labor like any other.
She reviewed her supplies. It wasn’t much. Besides the clothes on her back and a sack she’d made from the remains of her abaya, she had the waterskin and a tin of manna—stale-tasting crackers Dara had given her that landed in her stomach like weights. The water and manna might keep her fed, but they wouldn’t put a roof over her head.
It doesn’t matter. I might not get another opportunity like this. Pushing away her doubts, she tied the bag closed and rewrapped her headscarf. Then she picked up some kindling and crept back into the temple.
She followed the smell of smoke until she found the daeva. As usual, Dara had lit a small fire, letting it burn beside him as he slept. Though she’d never asked why—it obviously wasn’t for warmth during the hot desert days—the presence of the flames seemed to comfort him.
He was fast asleep under the shadow of a crumbling arch. For the first time since they’d met, he’d taken off his robe and was using it as a pillow. Underneath he wore a sleeveless tunic the color of unripe olives and loose, bone-colored pants. His dagger was tucked into a wide black belt tied tight around his waist, and his bow, quiver of arrows, and scimitar were between his body and the wall. His right hand rested on the weapons. Nahri’s gaze lingered on the sight of his chest rising and falling in sleep. Something stirred low in her belly.
She ignored it and lit her kindling. His fire flared, and in the improved light, she noticed the black tattoos covering his arms, bizarre, geometrical shapes, as if a calligrapher had gone mad on his skin. The largest mark was a slender, ladderlike structure with what looked like hundreds of meticulously drawn, unsupported rungs snaking out from his left palm and twisting up his arm to disappear under his tunic.
And I thought the tattoo on his face was strange . . .
As she followed the lines, the light illuminated something else as well.
His ring.
Nahri stilled; the emerald winked in the firelight as if greeting her. Tempting her. His left hand rested lightly on his stomach. Nahri stared at the ring, transfixed. It had to be worth a fortune and yet didn’t even look snug on his finger. I could take it, she realized. I’ve taken jewelry off people while they were awake.
The kindling grew warm in her hand, the fire burning uncomfortably close. No. It wasn’t worth the risk. She gave the daeva one last glance as she left. She could not help but feel a pang of regret; she knew Dara represented the best chance to learn about her origins, about her family and her abilities. About, well . . . everything. But it wasn’t worth her freedom.
Nahri returned to the theater. She dropped the kindling on the carpet. Years in a tomb and a week in the desert air had sucked out every drop of moisture from the old wool. It burst into flames like it had been doused in oil. She coughed, waving smoke away from her face. By the time Dara woke, it would be nothing but ash. He’d have to go after her on foot, and she’d have a half day’s start.
“Just make it to the river,” she whispered to herself. She picked up her bag and started climbing the stairs that led out of the theater.
The bag was pathetically light, a physical reminder of how dire her circumstances were. I’m going to be nothing. People will laugh when I say I can heal. Yaqub’s willingness to partner with her was rare, and that was after she’d already established a reputation as a healer, a reputation that had taken years of careful cultivation.
But she wouldn’t have to worry if she had that ring. She could sell it, rent a place so she wouldn’t have to sleep on the street. Buy medicines to use in her work, materials with which to make amulets. She slowed, not even halfway up the steps. I’m a good thief. I’ve stolen far more challenging things. And Dara slept like the dead; he hadn’t even awakened when Khayzur nearly landed on him.
“I’m a fool,” she whispered, but she was already turning around, running lightly down the steps and past the blazing carpet. She c
rept back into the temple, winding her way around the collapsed columns and smashed statues.
Dara was still fast asleep. Nahri carefully put down her bag and freed the waterskin. She sprinkled a few drops on his finger, her heart racing as she watched for any reaction. Nothing. Moving cautiously, she gently pinched the ring between her thumb and index finger. She pulled.
The ring pulsed and grew hot. A sudden pain blossomed in her head. She panicked and tried to let go, but her fingers wouldn’t budge. It was as if someone had seized control of her mind. The temple vanished, and her vision blurred, replaced by a series of smoky shapes that quickly solidified into something entirely new. A parched plain under a blinding white sun . . .
I study the dead land with a practiced eye. This place had once been grassy and green, rich with irrigated fields and orchards, but my master’s army trampled all signs of fertility, leaving nothing but mud and dust. The orchards are stripped and burned, the river poisoned a week ago, in hopes that it would drive the city to surrender.
Unseen by the humans around me, I rise in the air like smoke to better survey our forces. My master has a formidable army: thousands of men in chain and leather, dozens of elephants, and hundreds of horses. His archers are the best in the human world, honed by my careful instruction. But the walled city remains insurmountable.
I stare at the ancient blocks, wondering at how thick they are, how many other armies they have repulsed. No battering ram will bring them down. I sniff carefully; the stench of famine scents the wind.
I turn to my master. He is one of the largest humans I’ve ever encountered; the top of my head barely comes to his shoulders. Unable to deal with the heat of the plains, he is constantly pink and wet and utterly disagreeable. Even his ruddy beard is damp with sweat, and his ornately filigreed tunic stinks. I wrinkle my nose; such a garment is frivolous in a time of war.
I settle to the ground next to his horse and look up at him. “Another two to three days,” I say, tripping over the sounds. Although I’ve belonged to him for a year, his language is still strange to me, full of harsh consonants and snarls. “They cannot hold out much longer.”
The City of Brass Page 9