Something hardened in Dara’s face. Before Nahri could do anything, he snatched the scythe away from the Geziri soldier and shoved him to the ground.
“Useless dog.” Dara gave the doors a halfhearted tug, and when they didn’t budge, he sighed, sounding more irritated than worried. He turned toward the crowd.
Nahri panicked. “Dara, I don’t think . . .”
He ignored her and crossed the plaza toward the mob, twisting the scythe in his hands as if to test the weapon’s weight. With the rest of the Daevas behind the gate, he was alone—a single man facing hundreds. The sight must have struck the crowd as amusing; Nahri caught sight of a few puzzled faces and heard laughter.
The shafit man hopped down from the fountain with a grin. “Can it be . . . is there at least one fire worshipper with some courage?”
Dara shaded his eyes with one hand and pointed the scythe at the crowd with the other. “Tell that rabble to go home. No one is tearing through any Daeva homes today.”
“We have cause,” the man insisted. “Your people stole back a convert woman.”
“Go home,” Dara repeated. Without waiting for a response, he turned back toward the gate. At Nahri’s side, one of the winged lions seemed to shudder. She startled, but when she glanced over, the statue was still.
“Or what?” The shafit man started after Dara.
Still standing with his back to the crowd, Dara caught Nahri’s eye as he pulled off the turban that partially covered his face.
“Get back, Nahri,” he said, wiping off the mud that concealed his tattoo. “Let me handle this.”
“Handle it?” Nahri kept her voice low, but anxiety swelled inside her. “Did you not hear the guard? There are soldiers coming!”
He shook his head. “They’re not here now, and I’ve seen enough Daevas killed in my lifetime.” He turned back toward the mob.
Nahri heard a few gasps of disbelief from the men nearest them, and then whispers began to race through the crowd.
The shafit man burst into laughter. “Oh, you poor soul, what in God’s name have you done to your face? You think you’re an Afshin?”
A stout man twice Dara’s size in a blacksmith’s apron stepped forward. “He has slave eyes,” he said dismissively. “He’s obviously deranged—who but a madman would wish to be one of those demons?” He raised an iron hammer. “Step aside, fool, or be struck down first. Slave or not, you’re still only one man.”
“I am only one man, aren’t I? How kind of you to share your concerns—perhaps we should even the odds.” Dara waved his hands toward the gate.
Nahri’s first thought was that he motioned for her—which, while flattering, was a deeply flawed estimation of her abilities. But then the brass lion at her side shivered.
She backed away as it stretched, the metal groaning as the statue arched its back like a house cat. The one on the other side of the gate shook out its wings, opened its mouth, and roared.
Nahri wouldn’t have thought any sound could rival the terror-inducing howl of the marid’s river serpent, but these came close. The first lion cried back to its fellow just as loudly, a horrible growl mixed with the grating of rocks that shook her to her core. It belched a fiery plume of smoke, like coughing up a hair ball, and then strolled toward Dara with a sinewy grace completely at odds with its metal form.
Judging from the screams of the mob, Nahri suspected animating winged lions that breathed flames was not a regular occurrence in the djinn world. About half ran for the exits, but the rest hoisted their weapons, looking more determined than ever.
Not the shafit man—he looked entirely bewildered. He gave Dara a searching look. “I-I don’t understand,” he stammered as the ground started to rumble. “Are you working with—”
The shafit blacksmith was not similarly deterred. He raised an iron hammer and rushed forward.
Dara had barely raised his scythe when an arrow slammed into the blacksmith’s chest, followed swiftly by another tearing through his throat. Dara glanced back in surprise as trumpeting filled the air around them.
A massive beast emerged from the gate leading to the bazaar. Twice the size of a horse, with gray legs as thick as tree trunks, the creature flapped a pair of fanlike ears and raised its long trunk to let out another angry bellow. An elephant, Nahri realized. She had seen one once, on a private estate she had robbed.
The elephant’s rider ducked under the gate, a long silver bow in his hands. He coolly surveyed the chaos in the plaza. The archer appeared about her age—not that that meant anything among the djinn; Dara could pass as a man in his thirties, and he was older than her civilization. The rider also looked Daeva; his eyes and wavy hair were as black as hers, but he wore the same uniform as the Geziri soldiers.
He sat easily on the elephant, his legs propped up on a cloth saddle, his body swaying with the animal’s movements. She saw him startle at the sight of the animated statues and raise his bow again before hesitating, likely realizing arrows were no match for the brass beasts.
More soldiers poured out from the other gates, pushing back the fleeing mob and fanning out to prevent any men from escaping. A coppery sword flashed, and someone screamed.
A trio of Geziri soldiers advanced on Dara. The closest drew his weapon, and one of the lions bounded over, growling as it whipped a metal tail through the air.
“Stop!” It was the archer. He quickly slid off the elephant, landing gracefully on the ground. “He’s a slave, you fools. Leave him alone.” He handed his bow to another man, and then raised his hands as he approached them. “Please,” he said, switching to Divasti. “I mean you no—”
His gaze locked on the mark on Dara’s temple. He made a small, choked sound of surprise.
Dara did not look similarly impressed. His bright eyes scanned the archer from his gray turban to his leather slippers, and then he made a face as if he’d downed an entire carafe of sour wine. “Who are you?”
“I . . . my name’s Jamshid.” The archer’s voice came out in a whisper of disbelief. “Jamshid e-Pramukh. Captain,” he added in a stammer. His gaze darted between Dara’s face and the cavorting lions. “Are you . . . I mean . . . it’s not—” He shook his head, abruptly cutting himself off. “I think I should take you to meet my king.” He glanced at Nahri for the first time. “Your . . . ah . . . companion,” he decided, “may join you as well if you desire.”
Dara twisted his scythe. “And should I desire to—”
Nahri stomped hard on his foot before he could say something stupid. The rest of the soldiers were busy picking through the crowd, separating the men from the women and children, though Nahri saw some awfully young boys pushed up against the same wall as the men. Several were weeping and a few were praying, dropped in such familiar prostration that she had to tear her eyes away from the sight. She wasn’t sure what passed for justice in Daevabad, nor how the king punished people who insulted him and threatened another tribe, but from the doomed looks in the eyes of the men as they were rounded up, she could make plenty of guesses.
And she didn’t want to join them. She gave Jamshid a gracious smile through her veil. “Thank you for your invitation, Captain Pramukh. We would be honored to meet your king.”
“The fabric is too thick,” Nahri complained. She sat back, letting the curtain go with a frustrated sigh. “I can’t see anything.” As she spoke, the palanquin that had been brought for them lurched forward and back, settling at an awkward angle that nearly spilled her into Dara’s lap.
“We are ascending the hill that leads to the palace,” Dara said, his voice low. He rolled his dagger in his hands and stared at the iron blade, his eyes flashing.
“Will you put that thing away? There are dozens of armed soldiers about—what are you going to do with that?”
“I’m being delivered to my enemy in a floral box,” Dara replied and flicked the chintzy curtains with the dagger. “I might as well be armed.”
“Did you not say dealing with the djinn was preferable
to being drowned by river demons?”
He threw her a dark look and continued to twirl the knife. “To see a Daeva man dressed like them . . . serving that usurper—”
“He’s not a usurper, Dara. And Jamshid saved your life.”
“He did not save me,” Dara replied, looking offended at the suggestion. “He prevented me from permanently silencing that wretched man.”
Nahri let out an exasperated noise. “And murdering one of the king’s subjects on our first day in Daevabad would help us how?” she asked. “We’re here to make peace with these people, and find safe haven from the ifrit, remember?”
Dara rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he sighed, toying with the dagger again. “But truthfully, I did not mean to do that with the shedu.”
“The what?”
“The shedu—the winged lions. I wanted them to simply block the gate, but . . .” He frowned, looking troubled. “Nahri, I’ve felt . . . strange since we entered the city. Almost like—” The carriage lurched to a stop, and Dara shut his mouth. The curtains were yanked open to reveal a still nervous-looking Jamshid e-Pramukh.
Nahri ducked out of the litter, awed by the sight before her. “Is that the palace?”
It had to be; she could scarcely imagine what other building could be so enormous. Sitting heavy on a stony hill above the city, Daevabad’s palace was a massive edifice of marble so big it blocked part of the sky. It wasn’t particularly pretty, its main building a simple six-level ziggurat that stretched into the sky. But she could see the outline of two delicate minarets and a gleaming golden dome tucked behind the marble wall, hinting at more grandeur beyond.
A pair of golden doors were set in the palace walls, lit up by blazing torches. No . . . not torches, two more of the winged lions—shedu, Dara called them—their brass mouths filled with fire. Their wings were poised stiffly over their shoulders, and Nahri suddenly recognized them. The tattooed wing on Dara’s cheek, crossed with the arrow. His Afshin symbol, the mark of service to the once royal Nahid family.
My family. Nahri shivered though the breeze was gentle.
As they passed the torches, Dara suddenly leaned close to whisper in her ear. “Nahri, it may be best if you remain . . . vague about your background.”
“You mean I shouldn’t tell my ancestral enemy that I’m a liar and a thief?”
Dara inclined his head against hers, keeping his gaze forward. His smoky smell surrounded her, and her stomach gave an involuntary flutter. “Say that the girl Baseema’s family found you in the river as a child,” he suggested. “That they kept you as a servant. Say you tried to keep your abilities hidden, and that you were just playing and singing with Baseema when you accidentally called me.”
She gave him a pointed look. “And the rest of it?”
One of his hands found hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. “The truth,” he said softly. “As much as possible. I know not what else to say.”
Her heart sped as they entered a vast garden. Marble paths stretched out across the sunny grasses, shaded by manicured trees. A cool breeze brought the smell of roses and orange blossoms. Delicate fountains gurgled nearby, dappled by leaves and flower petals. The sweet trill of songbirds filled the air, along with the melody from a distant lute.
As they approached, Nahri could see that the first level of the massive ziggurat was open on one side with four rows of thick columns holding up the ceiling. There were flower-filled fountains set into the ground, and the marble floor was almost soft, perhaps worn down by millennia of feet. It was a white-veined green that resembled grass, bringing the garden indoors.
Although the space looked big enough for thousands, Nahri guessed that there were fewer than two hundred men there now, gathered around a stepped platform made of the same marble as the floor. It began to rise near the middle of the room with its highest level meeting the wall opposite the garden.
Nahri’s gaze was immediately drawn to the figure at its front. The djinn king lounged on a brilliant throne set with dazzling jewels and intricate stonework, power radiating off his bronze-brown skin. His ebony robes smoked and twirled at his feet, and a beautifully colored turban of twisting blue, purple, and gold silk crowned his head. But from the way everyone in the room lowered their heads in deference, he needed neither rich clothes nor throne to indicate who ruled here.
The king looked like he’d once been handsome, but his graying beard and the paunch beneath his black robes attested to some age. His face was still sharp as a hawk’s, however, his steel-colored eyes bright and alert.
Intimidating. Nahri gulped and looked away to study the rest. Aside from a retinue of guards, there were three other men on the marble platform’s upper levels. The first was older, with hunched shoulders. He looked Daeva; a dark line of charcoal marked his golden brown forehead.
Two more djinn were on the next platform. One sat on a plump cushion and was dressed similarly to the king, his curly black hair mussed and his cheeks slightly flushed. He rubbed his beard, absentmindedly running his fingers around a bronze goblet. He was handsome, with an air of ease Nahri noticed was common in the rich and lazy, and bore a strong resemblance to the king. His son, she guessed; her gaze paused at a heavy sapphire ring on his pinkie. A prince.
A younger man stood directly behind the prince, dressed in similar fashion to the soldiers, though his turban was a dark crimson instead of gray. He was tall, with a scruffy beard and a severe expression on his narrow face. Though he shared the same luminous skin and peaked ears as purebloods, she had trouble identifying his tribe. He was nearly as dark as the Ayaanle salt traders, but his eyes were the steely gray of the Geziri.
No one appeared to notice them. The king’s attention was focused on a pair of bickering men below. He sighed and snapped his fingers; a barefoot servant greeted his outstretched hand with a goblet of wine.
“—it’s a monopoly. I know more than one Tukharistani family weaves jade thread. They shouldn’t be allowed to band together whenever they sell to an Agnivanshi merchant.” A well-dressed man with long black hair crossed his arms. A line of pearls draped his neck and two more encircled his right wrist. A heavy gold ring sparkled on one hand.
“And how do you know that?” the other man accused him. He was taller and looked a bit like the Chinese scholars she’d seen in Cairo. Nahri edged past Dara, curious to get a better look at the men. “Admit it: you’re sending spies to Tukharistan!”
The king raised a hand, interrupting them. “Didn’t I just deal with the two of you? By the Most High, why are you still doing business with each other? Surely there are other . . .” He trailed off.
The goblet fell from his hand as he stood, shattering on the marble floor, spatters of wine staining his robe. The hall fell silent, but he didn’t seem to notice.
His eyes had locked on hers. Then a single word rushed from his mouth like a whispered prayer.
“Manizheh?”
16
Nahri
Every head in the massive audience hall turned to stare at her. In the metal-toned eyes of the djinn—dark steel and copper, gold and tin—she saw a mix of confusion and amusement, as if she were the target of a joke yet to be revealed to her. A few tittering laughs rose from among the crowd. The king took a step away from his throne, and the noise abruptly stopped.
“You’re alive,” he whispered. The chamber was now so still she could hear him take a deep breath. The few remaining courtiers between her and the throne quickly backed away.
The man she assumed was a prince gave the king a bewildered look and then glanced back at Nahri, squinting to study her like she was some strange sort of insect. “That girl’s not Manizheh, Abba. She looks so human she shouldn’t have even passed the veil.”
“Human?” The king stepped to the lower platform, and as he drew closer, a beam of sunlight from the screened windows caught his face. Like Dara, he was marked on one temple with a black tattoo; in his case, an eight-pointed star. The tattoo’s edge had a smoky glow that seemed to
wink at her.
Something in his face crumpled. “No . . . she is not Manizheh.” He stared at her another moment and frowned. “But why would you think she’s human? Her appearance is that of a Daeva pureblood.”
It is? Nahri clearly wasn’t the only one confused by the king’s conviction. The whispers started back up, and the young soldier with the crimson turban crossed the platform to join the king.
He laid a hand on the king’s shoulder, visibly concerned. “Abba . . .” The rest of his words followed in a hiss of incomprehensible Geziriyya, taking Nahri aback.
Abba? Could the soldier be another son?
“I see her ears!” The king shot back in annoyed Djinnistani. “How can you possibly think she’s shafit?”
Nahri hesitated, uncertain of how to proceed. Were you allowed to just start talking to the king? Maybe she had to bow or . . .
The king suddenly made an impatient noise. He raised his hand, and the sigil on his temple flared to life.
It was as if someone had sucked the air from the room. The torches on the wall went out, the fountains ceased their gentle gurgle, and the black flags hanging behind the king stopped fluttering. A wave of weakness and nausea passed over Nahri, and pain flared in the various parts of her body she’d battered in the past day.
Beside her, Dara let out a strangled cry. He fell to his knees, ash beading off his skin.
Nahri dropped to his side. “Dara!” She laid a hand on his shivering arm, but he didn’t respond. His skin was nearly as cold and pale as it had been after the rukh attack. She turned on the king. “Stop it! You’re hurting him!”
The men on the platform looked as shocked as the king had when she first arrived. The prince gasped, and the older Daeva man stepped forward, one hand going to his mouth.
The City of Brass Page 26