“Don’t worry about my reputation,” she said lightly. “I do enough damage on my own.”
A wry smile played at the corner of his lips, but he said nothing, simply staring at her as if he was drinking her in. In the infirmary’s soft light, Nahri found it difficult not to do the same, to not memorize the way the sunlight played in his wavy black hair, the jewel-like gleam in his emerald eyes.
“You look beautiful in our clothes,” he said softly, running a finger lightly along the embroidered hem of her sleeve. “It’s hard to believe you’re the same ragged girl I pulled from a ghoul’s jaws, the one who left a trail of stolen belongings from Cairo to Constantinople.” He shook his head. “And to learn you’re actually the daughter of one of our greatest healers.” A note of reverence crept into his voice. “I should be burning cedar oil in your honor.”
“I’m sure enough has already been wasted over me.”
He smiled, but the expression didn’t meet his eyes. He dropped his hand from hers, something like regret seeming to pass across his face. “Nahri, there is something we should . . .” He suddenly frowned, his head snapping up as if he’d heard a suspicious noise. He glanced at the door, appearing to listen for another second. Anger swept the confusion off his face. He abruptly rose to his feet, marching to the door and all but ripping it off its hinges.
Alizayd al Qahtani stood on the other side.
The prince didn’t look even the slightest bit ashamed to have been caught. Indeed, as Nahri watched, he tapped his foot against the floor and crossed his arms, his steely eyes focused on Dara alone. “I thought you might need help finding your way out.”
Smoke curled around Dara’s collar. He cracked his knuckles, and Nahri tensed. But he went no further. Instead—still glaring at Ali—Dara directed his words to her, continuing to speak in the Divasti that Nahri was immediately relieved the prince couldn’t understand. “I can’t talk to you with this half-tribe brat lurking around.” He all but spat the words in Ali’s face. “Stay safe.” He poked Ali hard in the chest to move him out of the doorway and left.
Nahri’s heart sank at the sight of his retreating back. She threw Ali an annoyed look. “Are we spying on each other so openly now?”
For a moment, she expected the mask of friendship to drop. To see Ghassan reflected in Ali’s face, to get a hint of whatever was really driving him to meet with her every day.
Instead she saw what looked like a war of loyalties play across his face before he dropped his gaze. He opened his mouth, then paused as if considering his words. “Please be careful,” he said softly. “He . . . Nahri, you don’t . . .” He abruptly shut his mouth, and stepped back. “I-I’m sorry,” he stammered. “Have a good night.”
21
Ali
Ali crept along the dusty shelf, crawling on his belly as he made his way toward the scroll. He stretched out his arm, straining to reach it, but his fingers didn’t even graze the papyrus.
“I would be remiss if I didn’t point out—again—that you have people who could do this for you.” Nahri’s voice drifted from outside the cryptlike shelves Ali was currently lodged between. “At least three library assistants offered to retrieve that scroll.”
Ali grunted. He and Nahri were in the deepest part of the Royal Library’s ancient archives, in a cavelike room hacked out of the city’s bedrock. Only the oldest and most obscure texts were stored here, packed away in narrow stone shelves that Ali was swiftly learning were not intended for people to crawl through. The scroll they were after had rolled to the very back of its shelf, the bone-colored papyrus glowing in the light of their torch.
“I don’t like having people do things of which I’m perfectly capable,” Ali replied as he tried to inch a bit farther back. The rocky ceiling scraped his head and shoulders.
“They said there were scorpions down here, Ali. Big ones.”
“There are far worse things than scorpions in this palace,” he muttered. Ali would know—he suspected one of them was watching him right now. The scroll he was after was cuddled close to another twice its size, made from what looked like the hide of some sort of massive lizard. It had been shivering violently since he entered the shelf.
He’d yet to mention it to Nahri, but as Ali saw a flash of something that might have been teeth, his heart started to race. “Nahri, would . . . would you mind raising the torch a bit?”
The shelf immediately brightened, the dancing flames shadowing his profile. “What’s wrong?” she asked, clearly picking up on the anxiety in his voice.
“Nothing,” Ali lied as the lizard-hide scroll wiggled and flashed its scales. Heedless of scraping his head, Ali shoved himself deeper and snatched for the papyrus.
His fingers had just closed around it when the lizard-hide scroll gave a great bellow. Ali scrambled back, though not in time to avoid the sudden gust of wind that shot him out of the shelf like a cannonball, with enough force to throw him across the room. He landed hard on his back, the wind knocked from his lungs.
Nahri’s worried face hovered over his. “Are you all right?”
Ali touched the back of his head and winced. “I’m fine,” he insisted. “I meant to do that.”
“Sure you did.” She glanced nervously at the shelf. “Should we . . .”
From the direction of the shelf, there came the sound of a distinctly papery snore. “We’re fine.” He raised the papyrus scroll. “I don’t think this one’s companion wanted to be disturbed.”
Nahri shook her head. Her hand flew to her mouth, and Ali realized she was trying to stifle a laugh.
“What?” he asked, suddenly self-conscious. “What is it?”
“I’m sorry.” Her black eyes were bright with amusement. “It’s just . . .” She made a sweeping motion over Ali’s body.
He glanced down and then flushed. A thick layer of ancient dust covered his dishdasha and coated his hands and face. He coughed, sending up a bloom of fine powder.
Nahri held her hand out for the scroll. “Why don’t I take that?”
Embarrassed, Ali handed it over and climbed to his feet, brushing the dust from his clothes.
Too late, he saw the snake stamped in the ancient wax seal.
“Wait, Nahri, don’t!”
But she’d already slipped a finger under the seal. She cried out, dropping the torch as the scroll flew from her other hand. It unfurled in the air, a glittering snake dashing from its depths. The torch hit the sandy ground and sputtered out, leaving them in darkness.
Ali acted on instinct, pulling Nahri behind him and drawing his zulfiqar. Flames danced up the copper blade, illuminating the archive with green-tinged light. In the opposite corner, the snake hissed. It was growing larger as they watched, gold and green bands striping a body the color of midnight. Already twice his height and thicker than a muskmelon, it loomed overhead, baring curved fangs that dripped with crimson blood.
Nahri’s blood. Ali charged as it reared back to strike again. The snake was fast, but it had been created to deal with human thieves, and Ali was certainly not that. He lopped off the snake’s head with a single strike of his zulfiqar, and then stepped back, breathing hard as it hit the dust.
“What . . .” Nahri exhaled. “. . . in the name of God was that thing?”
“An apep.” Ali extinguished his zulfiqar, wiping the blade on his dishdasha before shoving it back in its sheath. The sword was far too dangerous to keep out in such close quarters. “I’d forgotten the ancient Egyptians were rumored to be rather . . . creative in protecting their texts.”
“Perhaps we let someone who has a little more familiarity with the library retrieve the next scroll?”
“No argument here.” Ali crossed back to her side. “Are you all right?” he asked, raising a fistful of flames. “Did it bite you?”
Nahri made a face. “I’m okay.” She held out her hand. Her thumb was bloody, but as Ali watched, the two swollen wounds where the snake’s fangs had penetrated shrank and then vanished under the smoo
th skin.
“Wow,” he whispered in awe. “That really is extraordinary.”
“Maybe.” She shot the dancing flames in his palm a jealous look. “But I wouldn’t mind being able to do that.”
Ali laughed. “You heal from the bite of a cursed snake in moments, and you’re jealous of a few flames? Anyone with a bit of magic can do this.”
“I can’t.”
He didn’t believe that for a moment. “Have you tried?”
Nahri shook her head. “I can barely wrap my mind around the healing magic, even with all of Nisreen’s help. I wouldn’t know where to begin with anything else.”
“Then try with me,” Ali offered. “It’s easy. Just let the heat of your skin sort of . . . ignite, and move your hand like you might snap your fingers. But with fire.”
“Not the most helpful explanation.” But she raised her hand, squinting her eyes as she concentrated. “Nothing.”
“Say the word. In Divasti,” he clarified. “Later, you’ll be able to simply think it, but for beginners, it’s often easier to perform incantations out loud in your native tongue.”
“All right.” Nahri stared at her hand again with a frown. “Azar,” she repeated, sounding annoyed. “See? Nothing.”
But Ali didn’t give up easily. He motioned toward the stony shelves. “Touch them.”
“Touch them?”
He nodded. “You are in the palace of your ancestors, a place molded by Nahid magic. Draw from the stone like you would water from a well.”
Nahri looked thoroughly unconvinced but followed him, placing her hand in the spot he indicated. She took a deep breath and then raised her other palm.
“Azar. Azar!” She snapped, loud enough to dislodge some dust from the nearest shelf. When her hand remained empty, she shook her head. “Forget it. It’s not as if I’m having any success with anything else. I don’t see why this would be any different.” She started to drop her hand.
Ali stopped her.
Her eyes flashed at the same time his mind caught up with his actions. Fighting a wave of embarrassment, he nevertheless kept her hand pressed against the wall.
“You tried twice,” he chided. “That’s nothing. Do you know how long it took for me to call up flames on my zulfiqar?” He stepped back. “Try again.”
She let out an annoyed huff but didn’t drop her hand. “Fine. Azar.”
There wasn’t even a spark; her face twisted with disappointment. Ali hid his own frown, knowing this should have been easy for someone like Nahri. He chewed the inside of his lip, trying to think.
And then it came to him. “Try it in Arabic.”
She looked surprised. “In Arabic? You really think a human language is going to call up magic?”
“It’s one that has meaning to you.” Ali shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt to try.”
“I suppose not.” She wiggled her fingers, staring at her hand. “Naar.”
The dusty air above her open palm smoked. Her eyes widened. “Did you see that?”
He grinned. “Again.”
She needed no convincing now. “Naar. Naar. Naar!” Her face fell. “I just had it!”
“Keep going,” he urged. He had an idea. As Nahri opened her mouth, Ali spoke again, suspecting that what he said next would likely end either with her conjuring up a flame or punching him in the face. “What do you think Darayavahoush is up to today?”
Nahri’s eyes flashed with outrage—and the air above her palm burst into fire.
“Don’t let it go out!” Ali grabbed her wrist again before she could smother it, holding her fingers out to let the little flame breathe. “It won’t hurt you.”
“By the Most High . . . ,” she gasped. Firelight danced across her face, reflecting in her black eyes, and setting the gold ornaments holding her chador in place aglow.
Ali let go of her wrist and then stepped back to retrieve their extinguished torch. He held it out. “Light it.”
Nahri tipped her hand to let the flame dance from her palm to the torch, setting it ablaze. She looked mesmerized . . . and far more emotional than he’d ever seen her. Her typically cool mask had vanished; her face was shining with delight, with relief.
And then it was gone. She lifted an eyebrow. “Would you like to explain the purpose of that last question?”
He dropped his gaze, shifting on his feet. “Sometimes magic works best when there’s a little . . .” He cleared his throat, searching for the least inappropriate word he could think of. “Ah, emotion behind it.”
“Emotion?” She abruptly swept her fingers through the air. “Naar,” she whispered, and a slash of fire danced in front of her. She grinned when Ali jumped back. “I suppose anger works just as well then.” But she was still smiling when the tiny embers fell to the ground, winking out in the sand. “Well, whatever your intent, I appreciate it. Truly.” She glanced up at him. “Thank you, Ali. It’s nice to learn some new magic here.”
He tried to offer a casual shrug, as if teaching potentially deadly skills to his ancestral enemy was something he did all the time—and not, as it suddenly dawned upon him, a thing that should have been considered more carefully. “You needn’t thank me,” he insisted, his voice slightly hoarse. He swallowed and then abruptly crossed to retrieve the scroll from where she’d dropped it. “I . . . I guess we should look at what we came down here for in the first place.”
Nahri followed. “You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” she said again. “It was just a passing curiosity.”
“You wanted to know about Egyptian marid.” He tapped the scroll. “This is the last surviving account of a djinn meeting one.” He unfurled it. “Oh.”
“What?” Nahri asked, peeking over his arm. She blinked. “Suleiman’s eye . . . what is that supposed to be?”
“I have no idea,” Ali confessed. Whatever language the scroll was in was unlike any he’d ever seen, a confusing spiral of miniature pictograms and wedge-shaped marks. The letters—if they were letters—were crammed in so tight, it was difficult to see where one ended and the next began. From opposing corners, an inky path—a river perhaps, maybe the Nile—had been painted, its cataracts marked by more bizarre pictograms.
“I don’t suppose we’ll be getting any information from that,” Nahri sighed.
Ali hushed her. “You shouldn’t give up on things so quickly.” An idea unfurled in his head. “I know someone who might be able to translate this. An Ayaanle scholar. He’s retired now, but he might be willing to help us.”
Nahri looked reluctant. “I’d rather not have my interest in this made public.”
“He’ll keep your secret. He’s a freed slave—he’d do anything for a Nahid. And he spent two centuries traveling the lands of the Nile, copying texts before he was captured by the ifrit. I can think of no one better suited for the task.” Ali rolled up the scroll.
He caught the confusion on her face, the connection not quite clear. But she said nothing. “You can just ask me,” he finally said, when it was clear she wasn’t going to speak.
“Ask you what?”
Ali gave her a knowing look. They’d been dancing around this topic for weeks—well, actually, they’d been dancing around lots of topics, but this one especially. “What you’ve wanted to ask since that day in the garden. Since I told you the significance of the mark on your Afshin’s arm.”
Nahri bristled, the warmth vanishing from her face. “I’m not discussing Dara with you.”
“I didn’t say him specifically,” he pointed out. “But you want to know about slaves, don’t you? You get all tense every time the slightest mention of them comes up.”
Nahri looked even more annoyed to have been caught out, her eyes flashing. How wonderfully he’d timed this fight, to occur after he’d taught her to conjure up flames.
“And what if I do?” she challenged. “Is that a thing you’ll race back to your father to report?”
Ali flinched. He couldn’t say anything to that—he had been spying
on her and the Afshin in the infirmary a few days ago, though neither of them had mentioned the incident until now.
He met her gaze. Ali wasn’t used to Daeva eyes; he’d always found their ebony depths slightly off-putting, though admittedly Nahri’s were rather nice, her human features softening the harshness. But there was so much suspicion in her eyes—rightly so, of course—that Ali wanted to squirm.But he also suspected enough people in Daevabad, particularly the Afshin of whom she was so defensive, had lied to Nahri. So he decided to tell her the truth. “And what if I report it?” he asked. “Do you imagine your interest is surprising to anyone? You were raised in the human world on legends of djinn slaves. That you would want to know more is to be expected.” He touched his heart, the corners of his mouth tugging up. “Come on, Nahid. A Qahtani fool is offering up free information. Surely your instincts are telling you to take advantage of it.”
That drew a slight smile, tinged with exasperation. “Fine.” She threw up her hands. “My curiosity is winning over my common sense. Tell me about slaves.”
Ali raised the torch, nodding toward the corridor leading back to the main library. “Let’s walk and talk. It’ll look inappropriate if we’re down here too long.”
“The devil again?” He flushed, and she laughed. “You’d fit in well back in Cairo, you know,” she added as she turned on her heel.
I do know. That was exactly the reason his father had chosen Ali for this assignment, after all.
“Is it like the stories, then?” Nahri continued, her Egyptian-laced Arabic rapid with excitement. “Djinn trapped in rings and lamps, forced to grant whatever wishes their human master desires?”
He nodded. “The slave curse returns djinn to their natural state, the way we were before the Prophet Suleiman—peace be upon him—blessed us. But the catch is that you can use your abilities only in the service of a human master. You’re entirely bound to them, to their every whim.”
“To their every whim?” Nahri shuddered. “In the stories, it’s usually in good fun, people wishing for vast fortunes and luxurious palaces, but . . .” She bit her lip. “Humans are capable of some pretty terrible things.”
The City of Brass Page 36