The City of Brass

by S. A. Chakraborty

  “Ah, yes. Manizheh’s long-lost daughter,” Ali said acidly. “Who has yet to heal a single person—”

  “On the contrary, Alizayd,” Ghassan interrupted. “You should stay more ahead of palace gossip. Banu Nahri had a nasty fall when exiting the bath this morning. A careless servant must have left some soap on the floor. She cracked her head open in full view of at least a half-dozen women. An injury like that would have proven fatal to a normal girl.” Ghassan paused, letting his words sink in. “She healed in moments.”

  The intent in the king’s voice was chilling. “I see.” Ali swallowed, but the idea of his father planning accidents for young women in the bathhouse was enough to remind him of his original purpose. “When do you think Wajed and Muntadhir will return?”

  “A few months, God willing.”

  Ali took another sip of water and then set the glass down, working up his nerve. “You’re going to need someone else to take over as Qaid then.”

  His father gave him a look that was almost amused. “I am?”

  Ali gestured at the blood on his uniform. “A boy begged me for his life. Said he sold flowers in the midan.” His voice broke as he continued. “He could not make it out of the boat. I had to cut off his head.”

  “He was guilty,” his father said coldly. “They all were.”

  “Of what, being in the midan when your rumor started a riot? This is wrong, Abba. What you’re doing to the shafit is wrong.”

  The king stared at him for a few long moments, the expression in his eyes unreadable. Then he stood. “Walk with me, Alizayd.”

  Ali hesitated; between the surprise Tanzeem orphanage and the secret Nahid crypt, he was beginning to hate being led places. But he followed his father as he headed toward the wide marble steps to the upper platforms of the ziggurat.

  Ghassan nodded at a pair of guards on the second level. “Have you been to see the Banu Nahida?”

  The Banu Nahida? What did the girl have to do with his being Qaid? Ali shook his head. “No. Why would I?”

  “I hoped you would strike up a friendship. You are the one fascinated by the human world.”

  Ali paused. He hadn’t spoken to Nahri since escorting her to the garden, and he doubted his father would be pleased to learn of his rudeness during that encounter. He settled for another truth. “I am not given to pursuing friendships with unmarried women.”

  The king scoffed. “Of course. My son the sheikh . . . always so dutiful to the holy books.” There was uncharacteristic hostility in his voice, and Ali was startled when he saw how icy his father’s eyes were. “Tell me, Alizayd, what does our religion say about obeying your parents?”

  A chill went through him. “That we should do so in all matters . . . unless it goes against God.”

  “Unless it goes against God.” Ghassan held his gaze for another long moment while Ali inwardly panicked. But then his father nodded at the door leading out to the next platform. “Go. There is something you should see.”

  They stepped out onto one of the upper tiers of the ziggurat. One could see the entire island from this height. Ali drifted toward the crenellated wall. It was a beautiful view: the ancient city hugged by its glowing brass walls, the neatly terraced and irrigated fields on its southern hills, the calm lake ringed by the emerald green mountains. Three thousand years of human architecture was spread before him, meticulously copied by the invisible djinn who’d passed through human cities, watching the rise and fall of their empires. Djinn-designed buildings stood apart, impossibly tall towers of twisting sandblasted glass, delicate mansions of molten silver, and floating tents of painted silk. Something stirred in his heart at the sight. Despite its wickedness, Ali loved his city.

  A plume of white smoke caught his eye, and he turned his attention to the Grand Temple. The Grand Temple was the oldest building in Daevabad after the palace, an enormous yet simple complex at the heart of the Daeva Quarter.

  The complex was so enshrouded by smoke that he could barely make out the buildings. That wasn’t unusual; on Daeva feast days the temple tended to see an uptick in the number of people servicing the fire altars. But today wasn’t a feast day.

  Ali frowned. “The fire worshippers look busy.”

  “I’ve told you not to call them that,” Ghassan chided as he joined him at the wall. “But, yes, it’s been like this all week. And their drums haven’t stopped yet.”

  “The streets are filled with their celebrations as well,” Ali said darkly. “You’d think the Nahid Council had returned to throw us all in the lake.”

  “I cannot blame them,” the king admitted. “If I were Daeva, and I witnessed an Afshin and Banu Nahida miraculously appear to stop a mob of shafit from breaking into my neighborhood, I’d take to wearing an ash mark on my head as well.”

  The words were out of Ali’s mouth before he could stop himself. “Did the riot not go according to your plan, Abba?”

  “Watch your tone, boy.” Ghassan glared at him. “By the Most High, do you ever stop to consider the things in your head before you spout them? If you were not my son, you would be arrested for such disrespect.” He shook his head and looked down upon the city. “You self-righteous young fool . . . sometimes I think you have no appreciation for the precariousness of your position. I had to send Wajed himself to deal with your scheming relatives in Ta Ntry and still you talk this way?”

  Ali flinched. “Sorry,” he muttered. His father stayed silent as Ali nervously crossed and uncrossed his arms, tapping his fingers on the wall. “But I don’t see what this has to do with me resigning as Qaid.”

  “Tell me what you know of the Banu Nahida’s land,” his father said, ignoring his statement.

  “Egypt?” Ali warmed to the discussion, glad to be on ground that was familiar to him. “It’s been settled even longer than Daevabad,” he started. “There have always been advanced human societies along the Nile. It’s a fertile land, lots of agriculture, good farming. Her city, Cairo, is very large. It’s a center of trade, and scholarship. They have several acclaimed institutes of—”

  “That’s enough.” Ghassan nodded, a decision settling on his face. “Good. I’m glad to know your obsession with the human world isn’t entirely useless.”

  Ali frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “I’m going to marry the Banu Nahida to Muntadhir.”

  Ali actually gasped. “You’re going to do what?”

  Ghassan laughed. “Don’t act so shocked. Surely, you must see the potential in their marriage? We could put all this nonsense with the Daevas behind us, become a united people moving forward.” Something uncharacteristically wistful flickered across his face. “It’s a thing that should have been done generations ago, had our respective families not been so prudish about crossing tribal lines.” His mouth thinned. “A thing I should have done myself.”

  Ali couldn’t hide his flustered reaction. “Abba, we have no idea who this girl is! You’re ready to take her identity as Manizheh’s daughter on the secondhand word of some supposed ifrit and the fact that a bathroom fall didn’t kill her?”

  “Yes.” Ghassan’s next words were deliberate. “It pleases me for her to be Manizheh’s daughter. It is useful. And if we say it is true—if we act on that assumption—others will as well. She clearly has some Nahid blood. And I like her; she seems to have an instinct for self-preservation sorely lacking in the rest of her kin.”

  “And that’s enough to make her queen? To make her mother to the next generation of Qahtani kings? We know nothing else of her heritage!” Ali shook his head. He’d heard how his father had felt about Manizheh, but this was lunacy.

  “And here I thought you would approve, Alizayd,” the king said. “Are you not constantly railing about how blood purity does not matter?”

  His father had him there. “I take it Muntadhir does not yet know of his impending nuptials?” Ali rubbed his head.

  “He’ll do as he’s told,” his father said firmly. “And we have time aplenty. The
girl cannot legally marry until her quarter century. And I would like her to do so willingly. The Daevas will not be pleased to see her warm toward us. It must be done sincerely.” He spread his hands on the wall. “You will have to take care in befriending her.”

  Ali whirled on him. “What?”

  Ghassan waved him off. “You just said you didn’t want to be Qaid. It will look better if you keep the title and uniform until Wajed returns, but I will have Abu Nuwas take over your responsibilities so you have time to spend with her.”

  “Doing what exactly?” Ali was stunned by how quickly his father had turned his resignation around in his own favor. “I know nothing of women and their . . .” He fought an embarrassed heat. “. . . whatever it is they do.”

  “By the Most High, Alizayd.” His father rolled his eyes. “I’m not asking you to lure her into your bed—as thoroughly entertaining a spectacle as that would be. I’m asking you to make a friend. Surely that is not beyond your skill set?” He waved a dismissive hand. “Talk to her of that human nonsense you read. Astrology, your currency obsession . . .”

  “Astronomy,” Ali corrected under his breath. But he doubted some human-raised girl was going to be interested in the value of varying coin weights. “Why would you not ask Zaynab?”

  Ghassan hesitated. “Zaynab shares your mother’s distaste for Manizheh. She went too far in her first encounter with Nahri, and I doubt the girl will trust her again.”

  “Then Muntadhir,” Ali offered, growing desperate. “You trust him to charm the Afshin but not seduce this girl? That’s all he does!”

  “They are going to be married,” Ghassan declared. “Truthfully, regardless of what either of them thinks about it. But I’d rather things not go to that extreme. Who knows what kind of propaganda Darayavahoush filled her head with? We need to undo some of that damage first. And if she reacts badly to you, it’s a lesson in how to proceed with Muntadhir without poisoning the well of their marriage.”

  Ali stared at the smoking temple. He had literally never had a conversation with a Daeva lasting longer than ten minutes that ended well, and his father wanted him to befriend a Nahid? A girl? That last thought alone was enough to send a shiver of nerves down his spine.

  “There’s no way, Abba,” he finally said. “She’ll see right through me. You’re asking the wrong person. I don’t have experience with that kind of deception.”

  “Don’t you?” Ghassan stepped closer and rested his arms on the wall. His brown hands were thick and roughly calloused, the heavy gold ring on his thumb looking like a child’s bangle. “After all, you successfully hid your involvement with the Tanzeem.”

  Ali went cold; he had to have heard wrong. Yet as he cast an alarmed glance down at his father, something else caught his eye.

  The guards had followed them. And they were blocking the door.

  A wordless terror gripped Ali’s heart. He clutched at the parapet, feeling like someone had torn a carpet out from under his feet. His throat tightened, and he glanced at the distant ground, briefly tempted to jump.

  Ghassan didn’t even look at him; his expression was completely serene as he stared at his city. “Your tutors always praised your prowess with numbers. ‘A keen mind your son has for figures,’ they told me. ‘An excellent addition he’d make to the Treasury.’ I assumed they were exaggerating; I dismissed your harping on currency issues as another of your eccentricities.” Something twitched in his face. “And then the Tanzeem started bedeviling my cleverest accountants. They declared their funds impossible to trace, their financial system a cunningly convoluted mess designed by someone with a detailed understanding of human banking . . . and far too much time on his hands.

  “I hated to even suspect such a thing. Surely my son—my own blood—would never betray me. But I knew I had to at least audit your accounts. And the amount you withdraw regularly, Alizayd? I’d like to say you’re either supporting a particularly cunning concubine or a strong addiction to human intoxicants . . . but you’ve always been obnoxiously vocal about your abhorrence of both.”

  Ali said nothing. He was caught.

  A small, humorless smile played on his father’s face. “Praise be to God, have I actually silenced you for once? I should have accused you of treason earlier in our conversation and saved myself your insufferable comments.”

  Ali swallowed and pressed his palms harder against the wall to hide their trembling. Apologize. Not that it would make a difference. Had his father really known for all these months that he’d funded the Tanzeem? What about the murder of the Daeva men?

  The money, God, please let it just be the money. Ali couldn’t imagine he’d still be alive if his father knew the rest. “But-but you made me Qaid,” he stammered.

  “A test,” Ghassan answered. “Which you were failing miserably until the Afshin’s arrival apparently reset your loyalties.” He crossed his arms. “You owe a sincere debt to your brother. Muntadhir has been your most adamant defender. Says you tend to throw money at every sad-eyed shafit who comes crying your way. As he knows you best, I was persuaded to give you a second chance.”

  That’s why he took me to the tomb, Ali realized, remembering how Muntadhir begged him to stay away from the shafit. His brother hadn’t directly interfered with their father’s test—that would have been his own treason—but he’d come close. Ali was struck by his devotion. All this time he’d been judging his brother’s drinking, his shallow behavior . . . yet Muntadhir was probably the only reason Ali was still alive.

  “Abba,” he started again. “I . . .”

  “Save your apology,” Ghassan snapped. “The blood on your clothes, and the fact that you came to me with your grief this time instead of turning to some filthy shafit street preacher is enough to allay my doubts.” He finally met Ali’s terrified gaze, and his expression was so fierce that Ali flinched. “But you will win me this girl.”

  Ali swallowed and nodded. He said nothing. It was all he could do to remain upright.

  “I would like to think that I don’t need to waste my time detailing the various punishments that will befall you if you deceive me again,” Ghassan continued. “But knowing how your type feels about martyrdom, let me make this clear. It will not be you alone who suffers. If you even think of betraying me again, I will make you lead a hundred such innocent shafit boys to that damned boat, understand?”

  Ali nodded again, but his father didn’t look convinced. “Say it, Alizayd. Tell me you understand.”

  His voice was hollow. “I understand, Abba.”

  “Good.” His father clapped his shoulder so hard that Ali jumped and then motioned to his ruined uniform. “Now you should go wash up, my son.” He let go of Ali’s arm. “There’s a lot of blood on your hands.”

  18

  Nahri

  Nahri woke with the sun.

  The dawn call to prayer whispered in her ear, drifting from the mouths of a dozen different muezzins high atop Daevabad’s minarets. Oddly enough, the call never woke her in Cairo, but here, the cadence—so close but not quite the same—did every day. She stirred in her sleep, momentarily confused by the feel of the silken sheets, and then opened her eyes.

  It usually took a few minutes for her to remember where she was, to recognize that the luxurious apartment surrounding her was not a dream and that the big bed, crowded with soft brocaded cushions and held off the richly carpeted floor with bowed mahogany legs, was hers alone. It was no different this morning. Nahri studied the enormous bedchamber, taking in the beautifully woven rugs and delicately painted silk wall coverings. A massive landscape of the Daevastana countryside, painted by Rustam—her uncle, she reminded herself, the idea of having relatives still surreal—dominated one wall, and a carved wooden door led to her own private bath.

  Another door opened onto a chamber for her wardrobe. For a girl who’d spent years sleeping on the streets of Cairo, a girl who once counted herself fortunate to have two plain abayas in decent shape, the contents of that small room were l
ike things out of a dream—a dream that would have ended with her selling them all and raking in the profits, but a dream nonetheless. Silk gowns, lighter than air and embroidered with thread of spun gold; fitted felt coats in a rainbow of colors embellished with a riot of jeweled flowers; beaded slippers so lovely and intricate it seemed a shame to walk in them.

  There were more practical clothes, as well, including a dozen sets of the calf-length tunics and richly embroidered fitted pants Nisreen said Daeva women typically wore. An equal number of chadors, the floor-length cloak also endemic to the women of their tribe, hung from glass globes with far more grace than they usually hung from Nahri’s head. She’d yet to get used to the ornate gold headpieces that held the chador in place, and had a tendency to step on the hem and send the whole ensemble crashing to the ground.

  Nahri yawned, rubbing the sleep from her eyes before leaning back on her palms to stretch her neck. Her hand landed on a lump: She’d stashed several jewels and a gold armband in the lining of the mattress. She had similar caches throughout the apartment, gifts she’d been given by an unrelenting stream of rich well-wishers. The djinn were clearly obsessed with gems, and she didn’t trust the number of servants passing through her rooms.

  Speaking of which . . . Nahri slid her hand away and lifted her eyes, gazing at the small unmoving figure kneeling in the shadows across the room. “By the Most High, do you ever sleep?”

  The girl bowed and then stood, Nahri’s voice propelling her into motion like one of those children’s box toys that sprang up when released. “I wish to be of service to you at all times, Banu Nahida. I pray you slept well.”

  “As well as I can while being watched all night,” Nahri grumbled in Divasti, knowing the shafit servant couldn’t understand the Daeva tongue. This was the third girl she’d had since arriving, having frightened off the previous two. Although Nahri had always found the idea of servants appealing in theory, the slavish devotions of these timid girls—children really—unnerved her. Their human-hued eyes were an all too familiar reminder of the strict hierarchy that governed the djinn world.