The City of Brass

by S. A. Chakraborty

  Nahri stared at Nisreen. “What do you mean? There must be something else we can try.”

  “He’s dying, Banu Nahida. He will not last the night.”

  “But—”

  “You cannot help them all.” Nisreen laid a gentle hand on her elbow. “And he’s elderly. He’s lived a good, long life.”

  That may have been so, but Nahri could not help thinking about how affectionately Ghassan had spoken of the other man. “It figures my next failure would be a friend of the king.”

  “Is that what’s worrying you?” The sympathy vanished from her assistant’s face “Could you not put your patient’s needs above your own for once? And you’ve not yet failed. We haven’t even started.”

  “You just said there was nothing we could do!”

  “We’ll try to keep him alive until his wife arrives.” Nisreen headed toward the apothecary shelves. “He’ll suffocate when the infection reaches his lungs. There’s a procedure that will give him a little more time, but it’s very precise and you’ll have to be the one to do it.”

  Nahri didn’t like the sound of that. She hadn’t tried another advanced procedure since nearly strangling the Daeva woman with the salamander.

  She reluctantly followed Nisreen. In the light of the flickering torches and blazing fire pit, her apothecary looked alive. Various ingredients twitched and shuddered behind the hazy, sandblasted glass shelves, and Nahri did the same at the sight. She missed Yaqub’s apothecary, full of recognizable—and reliably dead—supplies. Ginger for indigestion, sage for night sweats, things she knew how to use. Not poisonous gases, live cobras, and an entire phoenix dissolved in honey.

  Nisreen pulled free a pair of slender silver tweezers from her apron and opened a small cabinet. She carefully plucked out a glimmering copper tube about the length of a hand and skinny as a smoking cheroot. She held it at arm’s length, jerking away when Nahri reached for it.

  “Don’t touch it with your bare skin,” she warned. “It’s Geziri made, from the same material as their zulfiqar blades. There’s no healing from the injury.”

  Nahri pulled back her hand. “Not even for a Nahid?”

  Nisreen gave her a dark look. “How do you think your prince’s people took Daevabad from your ancestors?”

  “Then what am I supposed to do with it?”

  “You will insert it into his lungs and then his throat to relieve some of the pressure as his ability to breathe burns away.”

  “You want me to stab him with some magical Geziri weapon that destroys Nahid flesh?” Had Nisreen suddenly developed a sense of humor?

  “No,” her assistant said flatly. “I want you to insert it into his lungs and then his throat to relieve some of the pressure as his ability to breathe burns away. His wife lives on the other side of the city. I fear it will take time to reach her.”

  “Well, God willing, she moves faster than him. Because I am not doing anything with that murderous little tube.”

  “Yes, you are,” Nisreen said, rebuking her. “You’re not going to deny a man a final good-bye with his beloved because you’re afraid. You are the Banu Nahida; this is your responsibility.” She pushed past her. “Prepare yourself. I’ll get him ready for the procedure.”

  “Nisreen . . .”

  But her assistant was already returning to the ailing man’s side. Nahri quickly washed up, her hands shaking as she watched Nisreen help the sheikh sip a cup of steaming tea. When he groaned, she pressed a cool cloth to his brow.

  She should be the Banu Nahida. It was not the first time the thought had occurred to Nahri. Nisreen cared for their patients like they were family members. She was welcoming and warm, confident in her abilities. And despite her frequent grumblings about the Geziri, there was no hint of prejudice as she tended to the old man. Nahri watched, trying to squash the jealousy flaring up in her chest. What she would give to feel competent again.

  Nisreen looked up. “We’re ready for you, Banu Nahri.” She glanced down at the cleric. “It will hurt. You’re sure you don’t want some wine?”

  He shook his head. “N-no,” he managed, his voice trembling. He glanced at the door, the movement obviously causing him pain. “Do you think my wife—” He let out a hacking, smoky cough.

  Nisreen squeezed his hand. “We’ll give you as much time as we can.”

  Nahri chewed the inside of her cheek, unnerved by the man’s emotional state. She was used to looking for weakness in fear, for gullibility in grief. She had no idea how to make small talk with someone about to die. But still she stepped closer, forcing what she hoped was a confident smile.

  The sheikh’s eyes flickered to her. His mouth twitched, as if he might be trying to return her smile, and then he gasped, dropping Nisreen’s hand.

  Her assistant was on her feet in a flash. She pulled apart the man’s robe to reveal a blackened chest, the skin smoldering. A sharp, septic odor filled the air as Nisreen’s precise fingers ran up his sternum and then slightly to the left.

  She seemed unbothered by the sight. “Bring the tray over here and hand me a scalpel.”

  Nahri did so, and Nisreen sank the scalpel into the man’s chest, ignoring his gasp as she cut away a section of burning skin. She clamped the flesh open and beckoned Nahri closer. “Come here.”

  Nahri leaned over the bed. Just below the rush of foamy black blood was a billowing mass of glimmering gold tissue. It fluttered softly, slowing as it took on an ashen hue. “My God,” she marveled. “Are those his lungs?”

  Nisreen nodded. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” She picked up the tweezers holding the copper tube and held it out to Nahri. “Aim for the center and gently insert. Don’t go deeper than a hair or two.”

  Her brief sense of wonderment vanished. Nahri looked between the tube and the man’s fading lungs. She swallowed, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe herself.

  “Banu Nahida,” Nisreen prompted, her voice urgent.

  Nahri took the tweezers and held the tube over the delicate tissue. “I-I can’t,” she whispered. “I’m going to hurt him.”

  His skin suddenly flared, the lungs crumpling into powdery ash as the burning embers swept toward his neck. Nisreen quickly pushed aside his long beard, exposing his neck.

  “The throat then, it’s his only chance.” When she hesitated, Nisreen glared. “Nahri!”

  Nahri moved, bringing the tube swiftly down to where Nisreen pointed. It went in as easily as a hot knife through butter. She felt a moment of relief.

  And then it sank deep.

  “No, don’t!” Nisreen grabbed for the tweezers as Nahri tried to pull the tube back up. A terrible sucking sound came from the sheikh’s throat. Blood bubbled and simmered over her hands, and his entire body seized.

  Nahri panicked. She held her hands against his throat, desperately willing the blood to stop. His terrified eyes locked on hers. “Nisreen, what do I do?” she cried. The man seized again, more violently.

  And then he was gone.

  She knew it immediately; the weak beat of his heart shuddered to a stop, and the intelligent spark flickered out of his gray gaze. His chest sank, and the tube whistled, the air finally escaping.

  Nahri didn’t move, unable to look away from the man’s tortured face. A tear trailed from his sparse lashes.

  Nisreen closed his eyes. “He’s gone, Banu Nahida,” she said softly. “You tried.”

  I tried. Nahri had made this man’s last moments a living hell. His body was a wreck, his lower half burned away, his bloody throat torn open.

  She took a shaky step away, catching sight of her own singed clothes. Her hands and wrists were coated in blood and ash. Without another word, she crossed to the washbasin and started fiercely scrubbing her hands. She could feel Nisreen’s eyes on her back.

  “We should clean him up before his wife gets here,” her assistant said. “Try to—”

  “Make it look like I didn’t kill him?” Nahri cut in. She didn’t turn around; the skin on her hands smarted as she sco
ured them.

  “You didn’t kill him, Banu Nahri.” Nisreen joined her at the sink. “He was going to die. It was only a matter of time.” She went to lay a hand on Nahri’s shoulder, and Nahri jerked away.

  “Don’t touch me.” She could feel herself losing control. “This is your fault. I told you I couldn’t use that instrument. I’ve been telling you since I arrived that I wasn’t ready to treat patients. And you didn’t care. You just keep pushing me!”

  Nahri saw something crack in the older woman’s face. “Do you think I want to?” she asked, her voice oddly desperate. “Do you think I would be pushing you if I had any other choice?”

  Nahri was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

  Nisreen collapsed in a nearby chair, letting her head fall into her hands. “The king wasn’t just here to see an old friend, Nahri. He was here to count the empty beds and ask why you’re not treating more patients. There’s a waiting list—twenty pages deep and growing—for appointments with you. And those are just the nobles—the Creator only knows how many others in the city need your skills. If the Qahtanis had their way, every bed in here would be filled.”

  “Then people need to be more patient!” Nahri countered. “Daevabad lasted twenty years without a healer—surely she can wait a bit longer.” She leaned against the washbasin. “My God, even human physicians study for years, and they’re dealing with colds, not curses. I need more time to be properly trained.”

  Nisreen let out a dry, humorless laugh. “You’ll never be properly trained. Ghassan might want the infirmary filled, but he’d be pleased if your skills never went beyond the basic. He’d probably be happiest if half your patients died.” When Nahri frowned, her assistant straightened up, looking at her in surprise. “Do you not understand what’s going on here?”

  “Apparently not in the least.”

  “They want you weak, Nahri. You’re the daughter of Banu Manizheh. You marched into Daevabad with Darayavahoush e-Afshin at your side the day a mob of shafit tried to break into the Daeva Quarter. You nearly killed a woman out of irritation . . . did you not notice that your guards were doubled after that day? You think the Qahtanis want to let you train?” Nisreen gave her a disbelieving look. “You should be happy you’re not forced to wear an iron cuff when you visit their prince.”

  “I . . . But they let me have the infirmary. They pardoned Dara.”

  “The king had no choice but to pardon Darayavahoush—he is beloved among our people. Were the Qahtanis to harm a hair on his head, half the city would rise up. And as for the infirmary? It is symbolic, as are you. The king wants a Nahid healer as a herder wants a dog, occasionally useful but entirely dependent.”

  Nahri stiffened in anger. “I’m no one’s dog.”

  “No?” Nisreen crossed her arms, her wrists still covered in ash and blood. “Then why are you playing into their hands?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Nisreen drew closer. “There is no hiding your lack of progress in the infirmary, child,” she warned. “You entirely ignored the Daevas who came to see you at the Grand Temple—and then you stormed out without a word. You neglect your fire altar, you eat meat in public, you spend all your free time with that Qahtani zealot . . .” Her face darkened. “Nahri, our tribe doesn’t think lightly of disloyalty; we’ve suffered too much at the hands of our enemies. Daevas who are suspected of collaboration . . . life is not easy for them.”

  “Collaboration?” Nahri was incredulous. “Staying on good terms with the people in power isn’t collaboration, Nisreen. It’s common sense. And if my eating kebab bothers a bunch of gossipy fire worshippers—”

  Nisreen gasped. “What did you say?”

  Too late Nahri remembered the Daevas hated the term. “Oh, come on, Nisreen, it’s just a word. You know I didn’t—”

  “It’s not just a word!” Furious red spots blossomed in Nisreen’s pale cheeks. “That slur has been used to demonize our tribe for centuries. It’s what people spit when they rip off our women’s veils and beat our men. It’s what the authorities charge us with whenever they want to raid our homes or seize our property. That you—of all people—would use it . . .”

  Her assistant stood, pacing farther into the infirmary with her hands laced behind her head. She glared back at Nahri. “Do you even want to improve? How many times have I told you how important intention is in healing? How critical belief is when wielding magic?” She spread her hands, gesturing to the infirmary surrounding them. “Do you believe in any of this, Banu Nahri? Care anything for our people? Our culture?”

  Nahri dropped her gaze, a guilty flush filling her cheeks. No. She hated how quickly the answer leaped to her mind, but it was the truth.

  Nisreen must have sensed her discomfort. “I thought not.” She took the crumpled blanket lying abandoned at the foot of the sheikh’s bed and silently spread it over his body, her fingers lingering on his brow. When she glanced up, there was open despair in her face. “How can you be the Banu Nahida when you care nothing for the way of life your ancestors created?”

  “And rubbing my head in ash and wasting half the day tending a fire altar will make me a better healer?” Nahri pushed off the washbasin with a scowl. Did Nisreen think she didn’t feel badly enough about the sheikh? “My hand slipped, Nisreen. It slipped because I should have practiced that procedure a hundred times before being let anywhere near that man!”

  Nahri knew she should stop, but shaken and frustrated, fed up with the impossible expectations dropped on her shoulders the moment she’d entered Daevabad, she pressed on. “You want to know what I think of the Daeva faith? I think it’s a scam. A bunch of overly complicated rituals designed to worship the very people who created it.” She bunched her apron into an angry ball. “No wonder the djinn won the war. The Daevas were probably so busy refilling oil lamps and bowing to a horde of laughing Nahids that they didn’t even realize the Qahtanis invaded until—”

  “Enough!” Nisreen snapped. She looked angrier than Nahri had ever seen her. “The Nahids pulled our entire race out of human servitude. They were the only ones brave enough to fight the ifrit. They built this city, this magical city with no rival in the world, to rule an empire that spanned continents.” She drew closer, her eyes blazing. “And when your beloved Qahtanis arrived, when the streets ran black with Daeva blood and the air thick with the screams of dying children and violated women . . . this tribe of fire worshippers survived. We survived it all.” Her mouth twisted in disgust. “And we deserve better than you.”

  Nahri gritted her teeth. Nisreen’s words had found their mark, but she refused to concede such a thing.

  Instead, she threw her apron at the older woman’s feet. “Good luck finding a replacement.” And then—avoiding the sight of the man she’d just killed—she turned and stormed out.

  Nisreen followed. “His wife is coming. You can’t just leave. Nahri!” she shouted as Nahri flung open the door to her bedchamber. “Come back and—”

  Nahri slammed the door in Nisreen’s face.

  The room was dark—as usual, she’d let the fire altar go out—but Nahri didn’t care. She staggered to her bed, fell face-first on the lush quilt, and for the first time since she arrived in Daevabad, probably for the first time in a decade, she let herself sob.

  She couldn’t have said how much time passed. She didn’t sleep. Nisreen knocked on her door at least a half-dozen times, begging softly for her to come back out. Nahri ignored her. She curled into a ball on the bed, staring vacantly at the enormous landscape painted on the wall.

  Zariaspa, someone once told her, the mural painted by her uncle, although the familial word felt as false as ever. These people weren’t hers. This city, this faith, her supposed tribe . . . they were alien and strange. She was suddenly tempted to destroy the painting, to knock over the fire altar, to get rid of every reminder of this duty she’d never asked for. The only Daeva she cared for had rejected her; she wanted nothing to do with the rest.

 
As if on cue, the knocking started again, a lighter tap on the rarely used servants’ door. Nahri ignored it for a few seconds, growing silently more enraged as it continued, steady as a dripping pipe. Finally she flung her blanket away and flew to her feet, stomping over to the door and yanking it open.

  “What is it now, Nisreen?” she snapped.

  But it wasn’t Nisreen at her door. It was Jamshid e-Pramukh, and he looked terrified.

  He staggered in without invitation, bowed under the weight of an enormous sack over his shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry, Banu Nahida, but I had no choice. He insisted I bring him straight to you.” He dropped the sack on her bed and snapped his fingers, flames bursting between them to illuminate the room.

  It wasn’t a sack he’d dropped on her bed.

  It was Alizayd al Qahtani.

  Nahri was at Ali’s side in seconds. The prince was unconscious and covered in blood, pale ash coating his skin.

  “What happened?” she gasped.

  “He was stabbed.” Jamshid held out a long knife, the blade dark with blood. “I found this. Do you think you can heal him?”

  A rush of fear swept through her. “Take him to the infirmary. I’ll get Nisreen.”

  Jamshid moved to block her. “He said just you.”

  Nahri was incredulous. “I don’t care what he said! I’m barely trained; I’m not going to heal the king’s son alone in my bedroom!”

  “I think you should try. He was most adamant, and Banu Nahida . . .” Jamshid glanced at the unconscious prince and then lowered his voice. “When a Qahtani gives an order in Daevabad . . . you obey.” They’d switched to Divasti without her noticing, and the dark words in her native tongue sent a chill through her veins.

  Nahri took the bloody knife and brought it close to her face. Iron, though she smelled nothing that would indicate poison. She touched the blade. It didn’t spark, burst into flames, or evidence any sort of godforsaken magical malice. “Do you know if this is cursed?”

  Jamshid shook his head. “I doubt it. The man who attacked him was shafit.”