The City of Brass

by S. A. Chakraborty

  Ali forced a smile, recalling how Darayavahoush had goaded him about his rivalry with Muntadhir while they sparred. There could hardly be a worse time for the Afshin to pick up on any hostility between the Qahtani brothers.

  Darayavahoush turned to him. “So what happened to you?”

  Ali bristled. “What are you talking about?”

  The Afshin nodded at his stomach. “Injury? Illness? You’re carrying yourself differently.”

  Ali blinked, too astonished to reply.

  Muntadhir’s eyes flashed. Despite their argument, there was a fiercely protective edge in his voice when he spoke. “Watching my brother so closely, Afshin?”

  Darayavahoush shrugged. “You are not a warrior, Emir, so I don’t expect you to understand. But your brother is. A very good one.” He winked at Ali. “Straighten up, boy, and keep your hand away from the wound. You wouldn’t want your enemies to observe such weakness.”

  Muntadhir again beat him to a response. “He is quite recovered, I assure you. Banu Nahri has been at his bedside daily. She is very attached to him.”

  The Afshin glowered, and Ali—being quite attached to his head as well as to Nahri—quickly spoke up. “I’m sure she’s equally devoted to all her patients.”

  Muntadhir ignored him. “The Banu Nahida is actually the reason I wished to speak to you.” He glanced at Jamshid. “There’s a governorship available in Zariaspa, yes? I believe I overheard your father saying something about it.”

  Jamshid looked confused but replied, “I think so.”

  Muntadhir nodded. “A coveted position. Enviable pension in a beautiful part of Daevastana. Few responsibilities.” He took a sip of his wine. “I think it would be a good fit for you, Darayavahoush. When we were discussing the wedding yesterday, Banu Nahri seemed worried about your future and—”

  “What?” The Afshin’s dangerous smile vanished.

  “Your future, Afshin. Nahri wants to make sure you’re well rewarded for your loyalty.”

  “Zariaspa is not Daevabad,” Darayavahoush snapped. “And what wedding? She’s not even past her quarter century. She’s not legally permitted to—”

  Muntadhir waved one hand, cutting him off. “She came to us yesterday with her own offer.” He smiled, an uncharacteristically malicious gleam in his eyes. “I suppose she’s eager.”

  He lingered on the word, imbuing it with more than a hint of vulgarity, and Darayavahoush cracked his knuckles. Ali instinctively reached for his zulfiqar, but his weapon was gone, taken by Khanzada’s servants.

  Fortunately, the Afshin stayed seated. But the motion of his hand drew Ali’s attention, and he startled. Was the Afshin’s slave ring . . . glowing? He narrowed his eyes. It appeared so. The emerald shone with the barest of lights, like a flame contained by a grimy glass lamp.

  The Afshin didn’t seem to notice. “I follow the Banu Nahida in all things,” he said, his voice icier than Ali ever thought a man’s could be. “No matter how abominable. So I suppose congratulations are in order.”

  Muntadhir started to open his mouth but thankfully, Khanzada chose that moment to approach.

  She perched on the edge of Muntadhir’s sofa and draped an elegant arm around his shoulders. “My beloved, with what serious business do you gentlemen mar this beautiful evening?” She stroked his cheek. “Such grumpy faces on all of you. Your inattention insults my girls.”

  “Forgive us, my lady,” the Afshin interjected. “We were discussing the emir’s wedding. Surely you will be in attendance?”

  Heat rose in his brother’s expression, but if Darayavahoush hoped to spark some sort of jealousy-fueled lover’s spat, he had underestimated the courtesan’s loyalty.

  She smiled sweetly. “But of course. I shall dance with his wife.” She slid into Muntadhir’s lap, her sharp eyes staying on Darayavahoush’s face. “Perhaps I can give her some guidance in how to best please him.”

  The air grew warm. Ali tensed, but the Afshin didn’t respond. Instead, he drew in a sharp breath and reached for his head as if overcome by an unexpected migraine.

  Khanzada feigned concern. “Are you well, Afshin? If the evening has overtired you, I have rooms where you may rest. Surely I can find you companionship,” she added with a cold smile. “Your type is rather apparent.”

  She’d gone too far—she and Muntadhir both. Darayavahoush snapped back to attention. His green eyes flashed, and he bared his teeth in an almost feral grin.

  “Forgive the distraction, my lady,” he said. “But that truly is a beautiful image. You must fantasize about it often. And how lovingly detailed . . . right down to the little house in Agnivansha. Red sandstone, yes?” he asked, and Khanzada went pale. “On the banks of the Chambal . . . a swing for two overlooking the river.”

  The courtesan straightened up with a gasp. “How . . . you can’t possibly know that!”

  Darayavahoush didn’t take his eyes off her. “By the Creator, how very much you want it . . . so much so that you’d be willing to run away, to abandon this pretty place and all its riches. You don’t think he’d be a good king anyway . . . would it not be better for him to go off with you, to grow old together, reading poetry and drinking wine?”

  “What in God’s name are you going on about?” Muntadhir snapped as Khanzada jumped up from his lap, embarrassed tears in her eyes.

  The Afshin fixed his bright eyes on the emir. “Her wishes, Emir Muntadhir,” he said calmly. “Not that you share them. Oh, no . . .” He paused, edging closer, his eyes locked on Muntadhir’s face. A delighted grin spread across his face. “Not at all, apparently.” He looked between Jamshid and Muntadhir and then laughed. “Now that’s an interesting—”

  Muntadhir jumped to his feet.

  Ali was between them in an instant.

  His brother might not have been Citadel trained, but at some point in his life, someone had clearly taught him how to throw a punch. His fist caught Ali on the chin and knocked him clean off his feet.

  Ali landed hard, shattering the table that held their drinks with a crash. The musicians clanged to a noisy stop, and one of the dancers screamed. Several people jumped to their feet. The crowd looked shocked.

  Two soldiers had been loitering near the roof’s edge, and Ali saw one reach for his zulfiqar before his fellow grabbed his arm. Of course, Ali realized. To the rest of the roof, it must have looked like the Emir of Daevabad had just purposefully punched his younger brother in the face. But Ali was also the future Qaid, an officer in the Royal Guard—and it was clear the soldiers weren’t sure who to protect. Had Ali been any other man, they’d be dragging him away from their emir before he could respond. That’s what they should have been doing—and Ali could only pray Muntadhir didn’t realize the breach in protocol. Not after the fears his brother had just confessed to having where Ali was concerned.

  Jamshid held his hand out. “Are you all right, my prince?”

  Ali stifled a gasp as a stab of pain tore through his half-healed dagger wound. “I’m fine,” he lied as Jamshid helped him to his feet.

  Muntadhir gave him a shocked look. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  He took a shaky breath. “That if you struck the Scourge of Qui-zi across the face after publicly insulting his Banu Nahida, he’d rip you into confetti.” Ali touched his already swelling jaw. “Not a bad punch,” he admitted.

  Jamshid scanned the crowd and then touched his brother’s wrist. “He’s gone, Emir,” he warned in a low voice.

  Good riddance. Ali shook his head. “What was he talking about anyway? About Khanzada . . . I’ve never heard of an ex-slave being able to read the wishes of another djinn.” He glanced at the courtesan. “What he said—was any of that true?”

  She blinked furiously, glaring daggers. But not at him, Ali realized.

  At Muntadhir.

  “I don’t know,” she spat. “Why don’t you ask your brother?” Without another word, she burst into tears and fled.

  Muntadhir swore. “Khanzada, wait!” He rus
hed after his lover, vanishing into the depths of the house.

  Thoroughly confused, Ali looked to Jamshid for some explanation, but the Daeva captain was staring determinedly at the ground, his cheeks strangely flushed.

  Putting aside his brother’s romantic entanglements, Ali considered his options. He was sorely tempted to rally the soldiers downstairs and have the Afshin found and arrested. But for what? A drunken argument over a woman? He might as well throw half of Daevabad into prison. The Afshin hadn’t struck Muntadhir, hadn’t even truly insulted him.

  Don’t be a fool. Ali’s decision settled, he snapped his fingers, trying to get Jamshid’s attention. He had no idea why the Daeva captain looked so nervous. “Jamshid? Darayavahoush is staying with your family, yes?”

  Jamshid nodded, still avoiding Ali’s eyes. “Yes, my prince.”

  “All right.” He clapped Jamshid’s shoulder, and the other man jumped. “Go home. If he doesn’t return by dawn, alert the Citadel. And if he does return, tell him he’ll be expected at court tomorrow to discuss what happened here tonight.” He paused for a moment, then added reluctantly, “Tell your father. I know Kaveh likes to be kept abreast of all Daeva matters.”

  “At once, my prince.” He sounded eager to be gone.

  “And, Jamshid . . .” The other man finally met his eyes. “Thank you.”

  Jamshid simply nodded and then hurried away. Ali took a deep breath, trying to ignore the pain lancing through him. His dishdasha clung wetly to his abdomen, and when he touched it, his fingers came away bloody. He must have reopened the wound.

  He readjusted his outer black robe to cover the blood. Were it still day, he would have discreetly sought out Nahri, but it would be near midnight by the time he got to the infirmary, the Banu Nahida asleep in her bed.

  I can’t go to her. Ali was lucky he hadn’t been caught in Nahri’s bedroom the first time. A second was far too risky—especially considering the gossip likely to start circulating around the Qahtanis after tonight. I’ll bind it myself, he decided, and wait in the infirmary. At least that way, if the bleeding got worse, she’d only be a room away. It seemed a reasonable plan.

  Then again, most things had lately—right before they blew up in his face.

  26

  Nahri

  “Nahri. Nahri, wake up.”

  “Mmm?” Nahri lifted her head from the open book upon which she’d fallen asleep. She rubbed away a crease the crumpled page had left on her cheek and blinked sleepily in the dark.

  A man stood over her bed, his body outlined in the moonlight.

  A hot hand clamped over her mouth before she could scream. He opened his other palm; dancing flames lit his face.

  “Dara?” Nahri managed, her voice muffled against his fingers. He dropped his hand, and she drew up in surprise, her blanket falling to her lap. It had to be past midnight; her bedroom was otherwise dark and deserted. “What are you doing here?”

  He dropped onto her bed. “What part of ‘stay away from the Qahtanis’ did you not understand?” Anger simmered in his voice. “Tell me you didn’t agree to marry that lecherous sand fly.”

  Ah. She was wondering when he’d hear about that. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” she countered. “An opportunity presented itself, and I wanted to—”

  “An opportunity?” Dara’s eyes flashed with hurt. “Suleiman’s eye, Nahri, for once could you speak like someone with a heart instead of someone peddling stolen goods at the bazaar?”

  Her temper sparked. “I’m the one without a heart? I asked you to marry me, and you told me to go produce a stable of Nahid children with the richest Daeva man I could find as soon as . . .” She trailed off, getting a better look at Dara as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. He was dressed in a dark traveling robe, silver bow and arrow-filled quiver slung over his shoulder. A long knife was tucked in his belt.

  She cleared her throat, suspecting she was not going to like the answer to her next question. “Why are you dressed like that?”

  He stood up, the linen curtains blowing gently in the cool night air behind him. “Because I’m getting you out of here. Out of Daevabad and away from this family of sand flies, away from our corrupted home and its mobs of shafit clamoring for Daeva blood.”

  Nahri exhaled. “You want to leave Daevabad? Are you mad? We risked our lives to get here! This is the safest place from the ifrit, from the marid—”

  “It’s not the only safe place.”

  She drew back as a vaguely guilty expression crossed his face. She knew that expression. “What?” she demanded. “What are you keeping from me now?”

  “I can’t—”

  “If you say ‘I can’t tell you,’ I swear on my mother’s name to stab you with your own knife.”

  He made an annoyed noise and paced around the edge of her bed like an irritated lion, his hands clasped behind his back, smoke swirling about his feet. “We have allies, Nahri. Both here and outside the city. I said nothing in the temple because I didn’t want to raise your hopes—”

  “Or let me have a say in my own fate,” Nahri cut in. “As usual.” Thoroughly annoyed, she flung a pillow at his head, but he easily ducked it. “And allies? What is that supposed to mean? Are you plotting with some secret Daeva cabal to steal me away?” She said it sarcastically, but when he flushed and looked away, she gasped. “Wait . . . are you plotting with some secret Daeva cabal—”

  “We don’t have time to get into the details,” Dara interrupted. “But I’ll tell you everything on the way.”

  “There’s no ‘on the way’—I’m not going anywhere with you! I gave my word to the king . . . and my God, Dara, have you heard how these people punish traitors? They let some great horned beast stomp you to death in the arena!”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Dara assured her. He sat beside her again and took her hand. “You don’t have to do this, Nahri. I’m not going to let them—”

  “I don’t need you to save me!” Nahri jerked her hand away. “Dara, do you listen to anything I say? I started marriage negotiations. I went to the king.” She threw up her hands. “What are you even saving me from? Becoming the future queen of Daevabad?”

  He looked incredulous. “And the price, Nahri?”

  Nahri swallowed back the lump that rose in her throat. “You said it yourself: I’m the last Nahid. I’m going to need children.” She forced a shrug, but couldn’t keep the bitterness entirely out of her voice. “I might as well make the best strategic match.”

  “‘The best strategic match,’” Dara repeated. “With a man who doesn’t respect you? A family that will always view you with suspicion? That’s what you want?”

  No. But Nahri had made clear her feelings for Dara. He’d rejected them.

  And in her heart she knew she was starting to want more in Daevabad than just him.

  She took a deep breath, forcing some calm into her voice. “Dara . . . this doesn’t have to be a bad thing. I’ll be safe. I’ll have all the time and resources to properly train.” Her throat caught. “In another century, there might very well be a Nahid on the throne again.” She glanced up at him, her eyes wet despite her best effort to check her tears. “Isn’t that what you want?”

  Dara stared at her. Nahri could see the emotions warring in his expression, but before he could speak, there was a knock at the door.

  “Nahri?” a muffled voice called out.

  A familiar voice.

  Smoke curled around Dara’s collar. “Forgive me,” he started in a deadly hush. “Exactly which brother did you agree to marry?”

  He was across the room in three strides. Nahri raced after him, throwing herself in front of the door before he could rip it off the hinges. “It’s not what you think,” she whispered. “I’ll get rid of him.”

  He glowered but stepped back into the shadows. She took a deep breath to calm her racing heart and then opened the door.

  Alizayd al Qahtani’s smiling face greeted her.

  “Peace be upon y
ou,” he said in Arabic. “I’m so sorry to . . .” He blinked, taking in the sight of her bedclothes and uncovered hair. He immediately averted his eyes. “I . . . er—”

  “It’s fine,” she said quickly. “What’s wrong?”

  He’d been holding his left side but opened his black robe now, revealing the bloodstained dishdasha beneath. “I tore some of my stitches,” he said apologetically. “I wanted to wait in the infirmary overnight, but I can’t get the bleeding to stop and . . .” He frowned. “Is something wrong?” He studied her face, casting aside propriety for a moment. “You—you’re shaking.”

  “I’m fine,” she insisted, aware of Dara watching from the other side of the door. Her mind raced. She wanted to tell Ali to run, to yell at him for daring to come to her door unaccompanied—anything to get him safely away—but he did look like he needed help.

  “Are you sure?” He took a step closer.

  She forced a smile. “I’m sure.” She considered the distance between the two of them and the infirmary. Dara would not dare follow her, would he? He could have no idea how many patients rested inside, how many guards waited in the outer corridor.

  She nodded at Ali’s bloody dishdasha. “That looks awful.” She stepped through the door. “Let me—”

  Dara called her bluff.

  The door was ripped from her hand. Dara reached for her wrist, but a wide-eyed Ali grabbed her first. He pulled her into the infirmary, shoving her behind him, and she landed hard on the stone floor. His zulfiqar burst into flames.

  In seconds, the infirmary was in chaos. A spray of arrows fired into the wooden balustrade, following Ali’s path as his zulfiqar lit the curtain sectioning off the patient beds on fire. Her birdman shrieked, flapping his feathered arms from atop his bed of sticks. Nahri climbed to her feet, still a little dizzy from the fall.

  Ali and Dara were fighting.

  No, not fighting. Fighting was two drunks brawling in the street. Ali and Dara were dancing, the two warriors spinning around each other in a wild blur of fire and metal blades.