Muntadhir’s face soured. “I will need more wine if we’re going to talk about Darayavahoush.” He dropped off the wall’s edge and crossed back toward the pavilion.
“That bad?”
His brother returned, setting down one of the food platters and a full goblet of dark wine before pushing back up on the wall. “God, yes. He barely eats, he barely drinks, he just watches, like he’s waiting for the best time to strike. It was like sharing a tent with a viper. By the Most High, he spent so much time staring at me, he probably knows the number of hairs in my beard. And the constant comparisons to how things were better in his time.” He rolled his eyes and affected a heavy Divasti accent. “If the Nahids still ruled, the ifrit would never dare come to the border; if the Nahids still ruled, the Grand Bazaar would be cleaner; if the Nahids still ruled, wine would be sweeter and dancing girls more daring and the world would just about explode in happiness.” He dropped the accent. “Between that and the fire-cult nonsense, I was nearly driven mad.”
Ali frowned. “What fire-cult nonsense?”
“I took a few Daeva soldiers along, thinking Darayavahoush would be more comfortable around his own people.” Muntadhir took a sip of his wine. “He kept goading them into tending those damn altars. By the time we returned, they were all wearing ash marks and barely speaking to the rest of us.”
That sent a chill down Ali’s spine. Religious revivals among the fire worshippers rarely ended well in Daevabad. He joined his brother on the wall.
“I couldn’t even blame them,” Muntadhir continued. “You should have seen him with a bow, Zaydi. He was terrifying. I have no doubt that if his little Banu Nahida wasn’t in Daevabad, he would have murdered us all in our sleep with the barest of efforts.”
“You let him have a weapon?” Ali asked, his voice sharp.
Muntadhir shrugged. “My men wanted to know if the Afshin lived up to the legend. They kept asking.”
Ali was incredulous. “So you tell them no. You were in charge, Muntadhir. You would have been responsible if anything—”
“I was trying to gain their friendship,” his brother cut in. “You wouldn’t understand; you trained with them in the Citadel, and judging from how they spoke of you and your damn zulfiqar, you already have it.”
There was a bitterness to his brother’s voice, but Ali persisted. “You’re not supposed to be friends. You’re supposed to lead.”
“And where was all this common sense when you decided to spar alone with the Scourge of Qui-zi? You think Jamshid didn’t tell me about that bit of idiocy?”
Ali had little defense for that. “It was stupid,” he admitted. He bit his lip, remembering his violent interaction with the Afshin. “Dhiru . . . while you were gone . . . did Darayavahoush seem strange to you in any way?”
“Did you not hear anything I just said?”
“That’s not what I mean. It’s just that when we sparred . . . well, I’ve never seen anyone wield magic like that.”
Muntadhir shrugged. “He’s a freed slave. Don’t they retain some of the power they had when they were working for the ifrit?”
Ali frowned. “But how is he free? We still have his relic. And I’ve been reading up on slaves . . . I can’t find anything about peris being able to break an ifrit curse. They don’t get involved with our people.”
Muntadhir cracked a walnut in his hand, pulling the meat free. “I’m sure Abba has people looking into it.”
“I suppose.” Ali pulled the platter over and grabbed a handful of pistachios, prying one open and flicking the pale shell into the black water below. “Did Abba tell you the other happy news?”
Muntadhir took another sip of wine, and Ali could see an angry tremor in his hands. “I’m not marrying that human-faced girl.”
“You act like you have a choice.”
“It’s not happening.”
Ali pried open another pistachio. “You should give her a chance, Dhiru. She’s astonishingly smart. You should see how fast she learned to read and write; it’s incredible. She’s worlds brighter than you for sure,” he added, ducking when Muntadhir threw a walnut at his head. “She can help you with your economic policies when you’re king.”
“Yes, that’s just what every man dreams of in a wife,” Muntadhir said drily.
Ali gave him an even gaze. “There are more important qualities for a queen to have than pureblood looks. She’s charming. She has a good sense of humor . . .”
“Maybe you should marry her.”
That was a low blow. “You know I can’t marry,” Ali said quietly. Second Qahtani sons—especially ones with Ayaanle blood—weren’t allowed legal heirs. No king wanted that many eager young men in line for the throne. “Besides, who else could you want? You can’t possibly think Abba would let you marry that Agnivanshi dancer?”
Muntadhir scoffed, “Don’t be absurd.”
“Then who?”
Muntadhir drew up his knees and set down his empty goblet. “Quite literally anyone else, Zaydi. Manizheh’s the most terrifying person I’ve ever met—and I say that having just spent two months with the Scourge of Qui-zi.” He shuddered. “Forgive my reluctance to jump in bed with the girl Abba says is her daughter.”
Ali rolled his eyes. “That’s ridiculous. Nahri’s nothing like Manizheh.”
Muntadhir didn’t look convinced. “Not yet. But even if she’s not, there’s still the more pressing issue.”
“Which is?”
“Darayavahoush turning me into a pincushion for arrows on my wedding night.”
Ali had no response to that. There was no denying the raw emotion in Nahri’s face when she first saw the Afshin in the infirmary, nor the fiercely protective way he spoke of her.
Muntadhir raised his eyebrows. “Ah, no answer now, I see?” Ali opened his mouth to protest, and Muntadhir hushed him. “It’s fine, Zaydi. You just got back into Abba’s good graces. Follow his orders, enjoy your extremely bizarre friendship. I’ll clash with him alone.” He hopped off the parapet. “But now, if you don’t mind me turning my attention to more pleasurable matters . . . I am due a reunion at Khanzada’s.” He adjusted the collar on his robe and gave Ali a wicked smile. “Want to come?”
“To Khanzada’s?” Ali made a disgusted face. “No.”
Muntadhir laughed. “Something will tempt you one day,” he called over his shoulder as he headed for the stairs. “Someone.”
His brother left, and Ali’s gaze fell again on the telescope.
They will be a poor match, he thought for the first time, remembering the curiosity with which Nahri had studied the stars. Muntadhir was right: Ali did like the clever Banu Nahida, finding her constant questions and sharp responses an oddly delightful challenge. But he suspected Muntadhir would not. True, his brother liked women; he liked them smiling and bejeweled, soft and sweet and accommodating. Muntadhir would never spend hours in the library with Nahri, arguing the ethics of haggling and crawling through shelves crowded with cursed scrolls. Nor could Ali imagine Nahri content to loll on a couch for hours, listening to poets pine for their lost loves and discussing the quality of wine.
And he won’t be loyal to her. That went without saying. Truthfully, few kings were; most had multiple wives and concubines, though his own father was something of an exception, only marrying Hatset after his first wife—Muntadhir’s mother—had died. Either way, it was a thing Ali never really questioned, a way to secure alliances and the reality of his world.
But he didn’t like to imagine Nahri subjected to it.
It isn’t your place to question any of this, he chided as he raised the telescope to his eyes. Not now and certainly not once they were married. Ali didn’t buy Muntadhir’s defiance; no one stood against their father’s wishes for long.
Ali wasn’t sure how long he stayed on the roof, lost in his thoughts as he watched the stars. Such solitude was a rare commodity in the palace, and the black velvet of the sky, the distant twinkling of faraway suns seemed to invite him to linger.
Eventually he dropped the telescope to his lap, leaning against the stone parapet and idly contemplating the dark lake.
Half asleep and lost in thought, it took Ali a few minutes to realize a shafit servant had arrived and was gathering up the abandoned goblets and half-eaten platters of food.
“You are done with those, my prince?”
Ali glanced up. The shafit man motioned to the platter of nuts and Muntadhir’s goblet. “Yes, thank you.” Ali bent to remove the lens from the telescope, cursing under his breath as he pricked himself on the sharp glass edge. He had promised the scholars that he would pack up the valuable instrument himself.
Something smashed into the back of his head.
Ali reeled. The platter of nuts crashed to the ground. His head felt fuzzy as he tried to turn; he saw the shafit servant, the gleam of a dark blade . . .
And then the terrible, tearing wrongness of a sharp thrust in his stomach.
There was a moment of coldness, of foreignness, something hard and new where there had been nothing at all. A hiss, as if the blade were cauterizing a wound.
Ali opened his mouth to scream as the pain hit him in a blinding wave. The servant shoved a rag between his teeth, muffling the sound, and then pushed him hard against the stone wall.
But it wasn’t a servant. The man’s eyes turned copper, red stealing into his black hair. Hanno.
“Didn’t recognize me, crocodile?” the shapeshifter spat.
Ali’s left arm was bent behind his back. He tried to shove Hanno off with his free hand, and in response, the shafit man twisted the blade. Ali screamed into the rag, and his arm fell back. Hot blood spread across his tunic, turning the fabric black.
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Hanno mocked. “Iron blade. Very expensive. Ironically enough, bought with the last of your money.” He shoved the knife deeper, stopping only when it hit the stone behind Ali.
Black spots blossomed in front of Ali’s eyes. It felt like his stomach was filled with ice, ice that was steadily extinguishing the fire that dwelled inside him. Desperate to get the blade out, he tried to knee the other man in the stomach, but Hanno easily evaded him.
“‘Give him time,’ Rashid tells me. Like we’re all purebloods with centuries to muse on what’s right and wrong.” Hanno pressed his weight on the knife, and Ali let out another muffled scream. “Anas died for you.”
Ali scrambled for purchase on Hanno’s shirt. The Tanzeem man yanked the knife out and plunged it higher, dangerously close to his lungs.
Hanno seemed to read his thoughts. “I know how to kill purebloods, Alizayd. I wouldn’t leave you half dead and take the chance of you being rushed to that fire-worshipping Nahid people say you’re fucking in the library.” He leaned in close, his eyes filled with hate. “I know how . . . but we’re going to do this slowly.”
Hanno made good on the threat, pushing the knife higher with such an exaggerated, agonizing unhurriedness that Ali would swear he felt each individual nerve tear. “I had a daughter, you know,” Hanno started, grief stealing into his eyes. “About your age. Well, no . . . she never got to be your age. Would you like to know why, Alizayd?” He wiggled the blade, and Ali gasped. “Would you like to know what purebloods like you did to her when she was just a child?”
Ali couldn’t find the words to apologize. To plead. The rag fell from his mouth, but it didn’t matter. All he could manage was a low cry when Hanno twisted the knife yet again.
“No?” the shapeshifter asked. “That’s fine. It’s a story better told to the king. I intend to wait for him, you know. I want to see his face when he finds these walls covered in your blood. I want him to wonder how many times you screamed for him to come save you.” His voice broke. “I want your father to know what it feels like.”
Blood puddled at Ali’s feet. Hanno held him tight, crushing his left hand. Something stung from inside his palm.
The glass lens from the telescope.
“Emir-joon?” He heard a familiar voice from the stairs. “Muntadhir, are you still here? I’ve been looking—”
Jamshid e-Pramukh emerged from the staircase, a blue glass bottle of wine dangling from one hand. He froze at the bloody scene.
Hanno wrenched the knife free with a snarl.
Ali slammed his forehead into the other man’s.
It took every bit of strength he could muster, enough to send his own head spinning and to draw a dull crack from Hanno’s skull. The shapeshifter reeled. Ali didn’t hesitate. He struck out hard with the glass lens and slashed his throat open.
Hanno staggered back, dark red blood pouring from his throat. The shafit man looked confused and a little frightened. He certainly didn’t look like a would-be assassin now; he looked like a broken, grieving father covered in blood. Blood that had never been black enough for Daevabad.
But he was still holding the knife. He lurched toward Ali.
Jamshid was faster. He brought the wine bottle up and smashed it over Hanno’s head.
Hanno dropped, and Jamshid caught Ali as he fell. “Alizayd, my God! Are you . . .” He glanced in horror at his bloody hands and then lowered Ali into a sitting position. “I’ll get help!”
“No,” Ali said, croaking the word, tasting blood in his mouth. He grabbed Jamshid’s collar before he could rise. “Get rid of him.”
The command came out in a growl, and Jamshid stiffened. “What?”
Ali fought for breath. The pain in his stomach was fading. He was fairly certain he was about to pass out—or die, a possibility which probably should have bothered him more than it did. But he was focused on only one thing—the shafit assassin lying at his feet, his hand clutching a blade wet with Qahtani blood. His father would murder every mixed-blood in Daevabad if he saw this.
“Get . . . rid of him,” Ali breathed. “That’s an order.”
He saw Jamshid swallow, his black eyes darting between Hanno and the wall. “Yes, my prince.”
Ali leaned against the stone, the wall icy cold in comparison to the blood soaking his clothes. Jamshid dragged Hanno to the parapet; there was a distant splash. The edges of his vision darkened, but something glittered on the ground, catching his attention. The telescope.
“N-Nahri . . . ,” Ali slurred as Jamshid returned. “Just . . . Nahri—” And then the ground rushed up to meet him.
24
Nahri
Urgent.
The word rang through Nahri’s mind, tying her stomach into knots as she hurried back to the infirmary. She wasn’t ready for anything urgent; indeed, she was tempted to slow her pace. Better for someone to die waiting rather than be murdered directly by her incompetence.
Nahri pushed open the infirmary door. “All right, Nisreen, what—” She abruptly shut her mouth.
Ghassan al Qahtani sat at the bedside of one of her patients, a Geziri cleric far into his third century who was slowly turning to charcoal. Nisreen said it was a fairly common condition among the elderly, fatal if untreated. Nahri had pointed out that being three hundred was a condition that should soon prove fatal, but treated the man anyway, putting him near a steamy vaporizer and giving him a dose of watery mud charmed by an enchantment Nisreen had coached her through. He had been in the infirmary for a few days, and had seemed fine when she left: fast asleep, with the burning contained to his feet.
A chill crept down her spine as she watched the fondness with which the king squeezed the sheikh’s hand. Nisreen was standing behind them. There was a warning in her black eyes.
“Your Majesty,” Nahri stammered. She quickly brought her palms together and then, deciding it couldn’t hurt, bowed. “Forgive me . . . I didn’t realize you were here.”
The king smiled and stood. “No apology necessary, Banu Nahida. I heard my sheikh wasn’t doing well and came by to offer my prayers.” He turned back to the old man and touched his shoulder, adding something in Geziriyya. Her patient offered a wheezy response, and Ghassan laughed.
He approached, and she forced herself to hold his gaze. “Di
d you enjoy your evening with my children?” he asked.
“Very much.” Her skin prickled; she could swear she felt the power literally radiating off him. She couldn’t resist adding, “I’m sure Alizayd will report everything later.”
The king’s gray eyes twinkled, amused by her gall. “Indeed, Banu Nahida.” He gestured at the old man. “Please, do what you can for him. I’ll rest easier knowing that my teacher is in the hands of Banu Manizheh’s daughter.”
Nahri bowed again, waiting until she heard the door close to hurry to the sheikh’s side. She prayed she hadn’t already said or done something rude in front of him, but knew that was unlikely—the infirmary put her in a foul mood.
She forced a smile. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better,” he rasped. “God be praised, my feet finally stopped hurting.”
“There is something you should see,” Nisreen said softly. She lifted the sheikh’s blanket, blocking his view so Nahri could examine his feet.
They were gone.
Not only were they gone—reduced to ash—but the infection had swept up his legs to take root in his skinny thighs. A smoldering black line licked toward his left hip, and Nahri swallowed, trying to conceal her horror.
“I-I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better,” she said with as much cheer as she could muster. “If you’ll just . . . ah, let me confer with my assistant.”
She dragged Nisreen out of earshot. “What happened?” she hissed. “You said we fixed him!”
“I said no such thing,” Nisreen corrected her, looking indignant. “There’s no cure for his condition, especially at his age. It can only be managed.”
“How is that managing it? The enchantment seems to have made him worse!” Nahri shuddered. “Did you not just hear the king crowing about what good hands he’s in?”
Nisreen beckoned her toward the apothecary shelves. “Trust me, Banu Nahri, King Ghassan knows how serious the situation is. Sheikh Auda’s condition is familiar to our people.” She sighed. “The burn is advancing quickly. I sent a messenger to retrieve his wife. We’ll just try to keep him as comfortable as possible until then.”
The City of Brass Page 40