“Is she?” Ali asked. “Well, I’m sure you would know . . . you’d be certain to get all the details of her pedigree when you bought her.”
Muntadhir exhaled. “Simmer down, Zaydi.”
But it was Khanzada who grew irate. “I do not buy anyone,” she said, defending herself. “I have a list of girls wishing entrance to my school as long as my arm.”
“I am certain you do,” Ali said scornfully. “And how many of your customers must they sleep with to get off this list?”
Khanzada straightened up, fire in her tin-colored eyes. “Excuse me?”
Their argument was attracting curious glances; Ali switched to Geziriyya so only Muntadhir could understand him. “How can you even sit here, akhi? Have you ever given thought to where—”
Khanzada jumped to her feet. “If you want to accuse me of something, at least have the courage to say it in a language I can understand, you half-tribe brat!”
Muntadhir abruptly straightened up at her words. The nervous chatter of the other men died away, and the musicians stopped playing.
“What did you just call him?” Muntadhir demanded. Ali had never heard such ice in his voice.
Khanzada seemed to realize she had made a mistake. The anger vanished from her face, replaced by fear. “I-I only meant—”
“I don’t care what you meant,” Muntadhir snapped. “How dare you say such a thing to your prince? Apologize.”
Ali reached for his brother’s wrist. “It’s fine, Dhiru. I shouldn’t have—”
Muntadhir cut him off with a raised palm. “Apologize, Khanzada,” he repeated. “Now.”
She quickly pressed her palms together and lowered her eyes. “Forgive me, Prince Alizayd. I did not mean to insult you.”
“Good.” Muntadhir shot a look at the musicians so reminiscent of their father it made Ali’s skin crawl. “What are you all staring at? Play on!”
Ali swallowed, too embarrassed to look at anyone in the room. “I should go.”
“Yes, you probably should.” But before Ali could rise, his brother grabbed him by the wrist. “And don’t ever disagree with me in front of these men again,” he warned in Geziriyya. “Especially when you’re the one being an ass.” He let go of Ali’s arm.
“Fine,” Ali muttered. Muntadhir still had a strand of pearls looped around Rupa’s neck like some extravagant leash. The girl was smiling, but the expression didn’t meet her eyes.
Ali pulled a heavy silver ring off his thumb as he stood up. He met the shafit girl’s gaze and then dropped the ring on the table. “My apologies.”
He took the dark steps that led to the street two at a time, struck by his brother’s swift response. Muntadhir clearly hadn’t agreed with Ali’s behavior, but had still defended him, had humiliated his own lover to do so. He hadn’t even hesitated.
We are Geziri. It’s what we do. Ali was just clear of the house when a voice spoke up behind him.
“Not quite to your taste?”
Ali glanced back. Jamshid e-Pramukh lounged outside Khanzada’s door, smoking a long pipe.
Ali hesitated. He didn’t know Jamshid well. Though Kaveh’s son served in the Royal Guard, he did so in a Daeva contingent whose training was segregated—and purposefully inferior. Muntadhir spoke highly of the Daeva captain—his bodyguard for over a decade and his closest friend—but Jamshid was always quiet in Ali’s presence.
Probably because his father thinks I want to burn down the Grand Temple with all the Daevas inside it. Ali could only imagine the things said about him in the privacy of the Pramukh household.
“Something like that,” Ali finally replied.
Jamshid laughed. “I told him to take you someplace quieter, but you know your brother when he sets his mind on a thing.” His dark eyes sparkled, his voice warm with affection.
Ali made a face. “Fortunately, I think I’ve worn out my invitation.”
“You’re in good company then.” Jamshid took another drag from the pipe. “Khanzada hates me.”
“Really?” Ali couldn’t imagine what the courtesan would have against the mild-mannered guard.
Jamshid nodded and held out the pipe, but Ali demurred. “I think I’ll just head back to the palace.”
“Of course.” He motioned down the street. “Your secretary’s waiting for you in the midan.”
“Rashid?” Ali frowned. He didn’t have any further business this evening that he could recall.
“He didn’t get around to offering his name.” A hint of annoyance flickered in Jamshid’s eyes, gone in a moment. “Nor did he want to wait here.”
Odd. “Thank you for letting me know.” Ali started to turn away.
“Prince Alizayd?” When Ali turned back, Jamshid continued. “I’m sorry for what happened in our quarter today. We’re not all like that.”
The apology took him aback. “I know,” Ali replied, unsure of what else to say.
“Good.” Jamshid winked. “Don’t let my father get to you. It’s a thing at which he excels.”
That brought a smile to Ali’s face. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. He touched his heart and brow. “Peace be upon you, Captain Pramukh.”
“And upon you peace.”
11
Nahri
Nahri took a long swig of water from the skin, swirled it around in her mouth, and spat. She’d have given her last dirham to drink without feeling grit in her teeth. She sighed and leaned heavily against Dara’s back, letting her legs hang loose on the horse.
“I hate this place,” she mumbled into his shoulder. Nahri was used to sand—she dealt with the storms that coated Cairo in a hazy yellow dust every spring—but this was unbearable.
They’d left the last oasis days ago, stealing a new horse and making one last push across open, unprotected ground. Dara said there was no choice; everything between the oasis and Daevabad was desert.
It had been a brutal crossing. They barely spoke, both too weary to do more than hold on to the saddle and continue in companionable silence. Nahri was filthy; dirt and sand clung to her skin and matted her hair. It was in her clothes and her food, under her nail beds and in between her toes.
“It’s not much farther,” Dara assured her.
“You always say that,” she muttered. She shook out a cramped arm and then wrapped it around his waist again. A few weeks ago she would have been too embarrassed to hold him so boldly, but now she no longer cared.
The landscape began to change, hills and scrubby, frail trees replacing the bare dirt. The wind picked up, blue clouds rolling in from the east to darken the sky.
When they finally stopped, Dara slid off the saddle and pulled away the filthy cloth that covered his face. “Praise be to the Creator.”
She took his hand as he helped her down. No matter how many times she dismounted, it always took a few minutes for her knees to remember how to work. “Are we there?”
“We’ve reached the Gozan River,” he replied, sounding relieved. “Daevabad’s threshold is just across the water, and none but our kind can pass through it. Not ifrit, not ghouls, not even peris.”
The land came to an abrupt end in a cliff that overlooked the river. In the gloomy light, the wide, muddy river was an unappealing brownish-gray, and the other side didn’t look promising. All Nahri could see was more flat dirt. “I think you may have overstated Daevabad’s charms.”
“Do you really think we’d leave a vast magical city open to the eyes of any curious human onlooker? It’s hidden.”
“How are we going to cross?” Even from up here, she could see whitecaps cresting on the rushing water.
Dara peered over the edge of the limestone cliff. “I could try to enchant one of the blankets,” he suggested, not sounding optimistic. “But let’s wait until tomorrow.” He nodded at the sky. “It looks like it’s about to storm, and I don’t want to risk crossing in bad weather. I remember these cliffs being pocked with caves. We’ll shelter in one for the night.” He started to lead the horse down a
twisting, narrow path.
Nahri followed. “Any chance I could make a trip to the riverbank?”
“Why?”
“I smell like something died in my clothes, and I have enough dirt caked on my skin to make a double of myself.”
He nodded. “Just be careful. The way down is steep.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Nahri trekked down the sharp hill, zigzagging past rocky boulders and stunted trees. Dara hadn’t lied. She tripped twice and cut her palms on the sharp rocks, but the chance to bathe was worth it. She stayed close to the riverbank as she quickly scrubbed her skin, ready to jump back if the current grew too strong.
The sky grew darker by the minute; an unhealthy tinge of green lined the clouds. Nahri climbed out of the water, wrung out her hair, and shivered. The air was humid and smelled of lightning. Dara was right about the storm.
She was shoving her wet feet into her boots when she felt it. The touch of the wind, so firm it was like a hand upon her shoulder. She immediately straightened up and spun around, ready to hurl her boot at whatever it was.
There was no one. Nahri scanned the rocky shore, but it was empty and still save for the dead leaves blowing in the breeze. She sniffed and caught the oddly strong scent of peppercorns and mace. Maybe Dara was attempting to conjure up a new dish.
She followed the small trail of smoke drifting in the sky behind her until she found Dara sitting at the mouth of a dark cave. A pot of stew bubbled over the flames.
He glanced up and smiled. “Finally. I was starting to fear you drowned.”
The wind whipped through her wet hair, and she trembled. “Never,” she declared, cozying up to the fire. “I swim like a fish.”
He shook his head. “All your swimming reminds me of the Ayaanle. I ought to check your neck for crocodile scales.”
“Crocodile scales?” She snatched up his goblet in hopes the wine would warm her. “Truly?”
“Ay, it’s just something we say about them.” He pushed the pot in her direction. “Crocodiles are one of the preferred forms of the marid. Supposedly the ancient Ayaanle used to worship them. Their descendants don’t like talking about it, but I’ve heard bizarre stories about their old rituals.” He took the goblet back from her; the goblet refilled with wine the instant his fingers touched the stem.
Nahri shook her head. “What is it tonight?” she asked, looking at the stew with a knowing smile. The question had turned into a game: try as he might, Dara had never been able to conjure up anything other than his mother’s lentil dish.
He grinned. “Pigeons stuffed with fried onions and saffron.”
“How forbidden.” She helped herself to the food. “The Ayaanle live near Egypt, yes?”
“Far to the south; your land is too fat with humans for the tastes of our people.”
The rain began to fall. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Dara made a face as he wiped water from his brow. “Tonight is not a night for stories,” he declared. “Come.” He picked up the pot, indifferent to the hot metal. “We should get out of the rain and get some sleep.” He fixed his gaze on the hidden city beyond the river, and his expression turned unreadable. “We have a long day ahead of us.”
Nahri slept fitfully, her dreams bizarre and full of thunder. It was still dark when she woke, their fire reduced to glowing embers. Rain battered the mouth of the cave, and she could hear the wind howling past the cliffs.
Dara was stretched out beside her on one of the blankets, but they’d grown familiar enough that she could tell from the cadence of his breathing that he was also awake. She rolled over to face him, realizing that he’d spread his robe over her as she slept. He lay flat on his back, his hands crossed over his stomach like a corpse.
“Trouble sleeping?” she asked.
He didn’t move, his gaze fixed on the rocky ceiling. “Something like that.”
A flash of lightning lit up the cave, followed shortly by a rumble of thunder. She studied his profile in the dim light. Her gaze trailed his long-lashed eyes down his neck and across his bare arms. Her stomach fluttered; she was suddenly aware of how little space separated them.
Not that it mattered—Dara’s mind was clearly worlds away. “I wish it were not raining,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically wistful. “I would have liked to look upon the stars in case . . .”
“In case?” she prompted when he trailed off.
He glanced at her, looking almost embarrassed. “In case it’s my last night as a free man.”
Nahri flinched. Too busy searching the sky for more rukh and trying to survive the last leg of their grueling journey, Nahri had barely given further thought to their reception in Daevabad. “Do you really think you’re going to be arrested?”
“It’s likely.”
There was a hint of fear in his voice, but having learned how prone to exaggeration Dara could be—especially when it came to the djinn—Nahri tried to reassure him. “You’re probably just ancient history to them, Dara. Not everyone is capable of holding a grudge for fourteen centuries.” He scowled and looked away, and she laughed. “Oh, come now, I’m just teasing you.” She pushed up on one elbow, and without thinking much of it, reached for his cheek to turn him back to face her.
Dara startled at her touch, his eyes bright with surprise. No, not at her touch, Nahri realized with some embarrassment, rather at the position she’d inadvertently put them in, her body half-draped over his chest.
She flushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
He touched her cheek.
Dara looked nearly as astonished as she did at the act, as if his fingers were lightly tracing her jaw of their own accord. There was so much longing in his face—as well as a good bit of indecision—that Nahri’s heart began to race, heat pooling in her stomach. Don’t, she told herself. He’s the literal enemy of the people you’re about to ask for sanctuary, and you want to add this to the ties already binding you? Only a fool would do such a thing.
She kissed him.
Dara made a halfhearted sound of protest against her mouth and then promptly tangled his hands in her hair. His lips were warm and urgent, and every part of her seemed to cheer as he kissed her back, her body filled with a hunger her mind was screaming warnings against.
He broke away. “We can’t,” he gasped, his warm breath tickling her ear, sending a thrill down her spine. “This—this is completely inappropriate . . .”
He was right, of course. Not about being inappropriate—Nahri had never much cared about that. But it was stupid. This was how lovesick idiots ruined their lives, and Nahri had delivered enough bastards and nursed enough broken wives through the last stages of syphilis to know. But she’d just spent a month with this arrogant, infuriating man, every night and day at his side, a month of his smoldering eyes and his scalding hands that lingered both a little too long and yet never long enough.
She rolled on top of him, and the look of stunned disbelief on his face was worth it alone. “Shut up, Dara.” And then she kissed him again.
There was no sound of protest now. There was a gasp—half exasperation, half desire—then he pulled her down against him, and Nahri’s thoughts stopped being coherent.
She was fumbling with the maddeningly complicated knot on his belt, his hands slipping under her tunic, when the cave shook with the loudest boom of thunder Nahri had yet heard.
She stilled. She didn’t want to—Dara’s mouth had just found a delightful spot at the base of her throat and the press of his hips against hers was doing things to her blood she’d never thought possible. But then a flash of lightning—brighter than the rest—lit up the cave. Another breeze swept in, extinguishing the small fire and sending Dara’s bow and quiver clattering to the floor.
At the sound of his precious weapon hitting the ground, he looked up, and then froze, noticing the expression on her face. “What’s wrong?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” The thunder continued to rumble, but beneath it was something else, almo
st like a whisper on the wind, an urging in a language she didn’t understand. The breeze came again, rustling and tugging at her hair, smelling of those same spices. Peppercorn and cardamom. Clove and mace.
Tea. Khayzur’s tea.
Nahri immediately drew back, filled with a foreboding she didn’t understand. “I think . . . I think there’s something out there.”
He frowned. “I didn’t hear anything.” But he sat up anyway, untangling his limbs from hers to retrieve his bow and quiver.
She shivered, cold without the warm press of his body. Grabbing his robe, she slipped it over her head. “It wasn’t a sound,” she insisted, knowing she probably sounded crazy. “It was something else.”
Another bolt of lightning cracked across the sky, its flash outlining the daeva against the dark. His brow furrowed. “No, they would not dare . . . ,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Not this close to the border.”
Still, he handed her his dagger and then notched one of his silver arrows. He crept toward the cave’s entrance. “Stay back,” he warned.
Nahri ignored him, shoving the dagger in her belt and joining him at the cave’s mouth. Rain lashed their faces, but it wasn’t as dark as it had been earlier; the light from the moon was reflected in the swollen clouds.
Dara raised his bow and gave her a pointed look as the fletched end of the arrow caught her stomach. “At least a little back.”
He stepped out, and she stayed at his side, not liking the way he flinched when the rain hit his face. “Are you sure you should be going out in this weather—”
A bolt of lightning struck just ahead, and Nahri jumped, shielding her eyes. The rain stopped, the effect so immediate it was as if someone turned off a spigot.
The wind whipped through her damp hair. She blinked, trying to clear the spots from her vision. The darkness was lifting. The lightning had struck a tree right near them, setting the dead branches aflame.
“Come on. Let’s go back inside,” Nahri urged. But Dara didn’t move, his gaze locked on the tree. “What is it?” she asked, trying to push past his arm.
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