The City of Brass

by S. A. Chakraborty

  Ali was shocked. “The marid helped us take Daevabad from the Nahids? But that-that’s absurd. That’s . . . abhorrent,” he realized. “That would be . . .”

  “A betrayal of our race itself,” Ghassan finished. “Which is why it doesn’t leave this room.” He shook his head. “My own father never believed it, said it was just a story passed down over the centuries to frighten us.” Ghassan’s face fell. “Until today, I thought he might be right.”

  Ali narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying?”

  Ghassan took his hand. “You fell in the lake, my son. You gave your name to a creature in its depths. I think it took it . . . I think it took you.”

  Ali drew up with as much indignation as he could from his soaking sheets. “You think I let a marid . . . what, possess me? That’s impossible!”

  “Zaydi . . .” Muntadhir stepped closer, his face apologetic. “I saw you climb back on the boat. You had all those things clinging to you, your eyes were black, you were whispering in some bizarre language. And when you used the seal, my God, you completely overpowered Darayavahoush. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  The seal? He had used Suleiman’s seal? No, this is madness. Utter madness. Ali was an educated man. He’d never read anything indicating that marid could possess pureblooded djinn. That anything could possess djinn. How would something like that have been kept a secret? And did that mean all the gossip—all the cruel rumors about his mother’s people—was rooted in truth?

  Ali shook his head. “No. We have scholars; they know the truth about the war. Besides, djinn can’t be possessed by a marid. If they could, surely—surely someone would have studied it. It would be in a book—”

  “Oh, my child . . .” His father’s eyes were filled with sorrow. “Not everything is in a book.”

  Ali dropped his gaze, fighting back tears, unable to bear the pity in Ghassan’s face. They’re wrong, he tried to insist to himself. They’re wrong.

  But how else to explain the gaps in his memory? The horrific visions? The very fact that he was alive? He’d been shot in the throat and lungs, had fallen into water cursed to shred any djinn who touched it. And here he was.

  A marid. He stared at his dripping hands as nausea swept over him. I gave my name and let some water demon use my body like a shiny new blade to murder the Afshin. His stomach churned.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the ceramic pitcher start to shake on the table behind his brother. God, he could sense it; he could feel the water aching to burst free. The realization shook him to the core.

  His father squeezed his hand. “Look at me, Alizayd. The Afshin is dead. It is over. No one need ever know.”

  But it wasn’t over. It never would be: sweat was pouring from Ali’s brow even now. He was changed.

  “Ali, child.” He could hear the worry in his father’s voice. “Talk to me, please . . .”

  Ali sucked in his breath, and the water pitcher behind Muntadhir exploded, sending clay fragments skittering across the floor. The water gushed out, and Muntadhir jumped, his hand going for the khanjar at his waist.

  Ali met his eyes. Muntadhir dropped his hand, looking slightly ashamed.

  “Abba . . . he can’t be seen like this,” he said quietly. “We need to get him out of Daevabad. Ta Ntry. Surely the Ayaanle will know better . . .”

  “I’m not giving him to Hatset’s people,” Ghassan said stubbornly. “He belongs with us.”

  “He’s making water pitchers explode and drowning in his own sweat!” Muntadhir threw up his hands. “He’s second in line for the throne. Two heartbeats away from controlling Suleiman’s seal and ruling the realm. For all we know, the marid is still in there, waiting to seize him again.” Muntadhir met Ali’s frightened eyes. “Zaydi, I’m sorry, I truly am . . . but it is the height of irresponsibility to let you remain in Daevabad. The questions your condition will provoke . . .” He shook his head and looked back to their father. “You were the one who gave me the lecture when you made me emir. Who told me what would happen if the Daevas ever suspected how we won the war.”

  “No one is going to find out anything,” the king snapped. “No one on the ship was close enough to see what happened.”

  Muntadhir crossed his arms. “No one? Then I take it you’ve already taken care of our supposed Banu Nahida.”

  Ali reeled. “What do you mean? Where’s Nahri?”

  “She’s fine,” the king assured him. “I haven’t decided her fate yet. I’ll need your testimony if I decide to execute her.”

  “Execute her?” Ali gasped. “Why in God’s name would you execute her? That lunatic gave her no choice.”

  His father looked baffled. “Muntadhir said she ordered the Afshin to attack. That they were trying to escape when you killed him.”

  They were? Ali flinched. That hurt, he couldn’t lie. But he shook his head. “That’s not how it started. I came upon him trying to kidnap her in the infirmary. He told her that he’d kill me if she didn’t go along with him.”

  Muntadhir snorted. “Convenient. Tell me, Zaydi . . . did they at least hide their laughter when they acted all this out, or did they just assume you too stupid to pick up on it?”

  “It’s the truth!”

  “The truth.” His brother scowled, his expression darkening. “How would you even recognize such a thing?”

  Ghassan frowned. “What were you doing in the infirmary in the middle of the night, Alizayd?”

  “It doesn’t matter why he was there, Abba,” Muntadhir said dismissively. “I told you he’d protect her; he’s so lovestruck he doesn’t even realize it. He probably does think she’s innocent.”

  “I’m not lovestruck,” Ali snapped, offended at the prospect. The rain beat harder against the roof, echoing the pounding in his heart. “I know what I saw. What I heard. And she’s innocent. I will shout it in the streets myself if you try her.”

  “Go ahead!” Muntadhir shot back. “It would hardly be the first time you shamed us in the streets!”

  Ghassan rose to his feet. “What in God’s name are you two going on about?”

  Ali couldn’t answer. He could feel his control slipping. The rain drummed against the glass above him, the water achingly close.

  Muntadhir glared at him, a warning in his gray eyes so clear he might as well have spoken it. “Twenty-one men are dead, Zaydi. Several because they fought to save my life, more because they came to rescue yours.” He blinked, tears gathering in his dark lashes. “My best friend is probably going to join them. And I will be damned if that lying Nahid whore gets away with it because your word is unreliable when it comes to the shafit.”

  He let the challenge lay in the air. Ali took a deep breath, trying to quell the emotions churning inside him.

  Something metallic groaned above their heads. A small leak sprang.

  Ghassan glanced up, and for the first time in his life, Ali saw true fear on his father’s face.

  The roof gave out.

  The water smashed through the ceiling, sending twisted copper piping and shards of glass flying through the infirmary. The rain poured in, streaming down Ali’s skin and soothing his burning wounds. From the corner of his eye, he saw Muntadhir and his father duck under a remnant of ceiling. The king looked unhurt. Shocked but unhurt.

  Not so his brother. Fresh black blood dripped down Muntadhir’s face—a piece of glass must have gouged his cheek.

  “Akhi, I’m sorry!” Ali felt guilt twist through him, mixing with his confusion. “I didn’t mean to do that, to hurt you, I swear!”

  But his brother wasn’t looking at him. Muntadhir’s blank gaze traveled the ruined infirmary, taking in the pouring rain and destroyed ceiling. He touched his bloody cheek.

  “No . . . I’m sorry, Zaydi.” Muntadhir wiped the blood from his face with the tail of his turban. “Tell Abba whatever truth you want. Make it good.” He pressed his mouth in a grim line. “I’m done protecting you.”

  29

  Ali

 
“As-salaamu alaykum wa rahmatullah.” Ali turned his head and whispered the prayer into his left shoulder. “As-salaamu alaykum wa rahmatullah.”

  He relaxed his shoulders and turned his palms upward to offer his supplications, but his mind went blank at the sight of his hands. Though his wounds were healing remarkably fast, the scars remained stubborn, fading to thin dark lines that resembled the dead Afshin’s tattoos so much it turned his stomach.

  Ali heard the door open behind him but ignored it, refocusing on his prayers. He finished and turned around.

  “Abba?”

  The king slouched on the rug behind him. There were shadows under his eyes, and his head was bare. At first glance, he could have been a commoner, a tired old man in a plain cotton dishdasha taking a rest. Even his beard looked more silver than it had just a few days ago.

  “P-peace be upon you,” Ali stammered. “I’m sorry. I did not realize . . .”

  “I didn’t wish to disturb you.” Ghassan patted the spot on the rug next to him, and Ali sank back to the floor. His father stared at the mihrab, the small carved niche in the corner indicating the direction to which Ali, and every other believing djinn, bowed in prayer.

  Ghassan’s eyes dimmed. He rubbed his beard. “I’m not much of a believer,” he finally said. “Never have been. Honestly, I always assumed our religion to be a political move on the part of our ancestors. What better way to unify the tribes and preserve the ideas of the revolution than to adopt the new human faith of our homeland?” Ghassan paused. “Of course, I know that’s utter heresy in the eyes of your kind, but think about it . . . did it not largely end the veneration of the Nahids? Give our rule the veneer of divine approval? A clever move. At least that’s what I’ve always thought.”

  Ghassan continued to gaze at the mihrab, but his mind seemed a world away. “Then I saw that ship go up in flames with my children onboard, at the mercy of a madman I let into our city. I listened to the screams, terrified that one would sound familiar, that it would be calling my name . . .” Ali heard his throat catch. “I would be lying if I said my brow didn’t press a prayer mat faster than that of the most zealous sheikh.”

  Ali stayed silent. Through the open balustrade, he could hear birds singing in the bright sunshine. The light filtered through the window screens, throwing elaborate designs on the patterned rug. He stared at the floor, sweat beading on his brow. He was becoming accustomed to the sensation.

  “Have I ever told you why I named you Alizayd?” Ali shook his head, and his father continued. “You were born shortly after Manizheh and Rustam’s murders. Dark times for our people, probably the worst since the war. Daevabad was crowded with migrants fleeing from the ifrit in the outer provinces, there was a secession movement brewing among the Daevas, the Sahrayn were already in open revolt. Many believed we were living in the end times for our race.

  “People said it was a miracle when your mother became pregnant again after Zaynab’s birth. Pureblooded women are lucky to have even one child, but two? And so close together?” Ghassan shook his head, a ghost of a smile on his face. “They said it was a blessing from the Most High, a sign of His favor over my reign.” The smile faded. “And then you were a boy. A second son with a powerful mother from a wealthy tribe. When I went to Hatset, she begged me not to kill you.” He shook his head. “That she could think such a thing of me as I counted your fingers and whispered the adhan into your ear . . . I knew then that surely we were strangers to each other.

  “Within a day of your birth, I had two assassins from Am Gezira present themselves at court. Skilled men, the best at what they did, offering discreet ways to end my dilemma. Merciful, quick solutions that would leave no suspicion for the Ayaanle.” His father clenched his fists. “I invited them into my office. I listened to their calm and reasoned words. And then I murdered them with my own hands.”

  Ali startled, but his father didn’t seem to notice.

  Ghassan stared out the window, lost in his memories. “I sent their heads back to Am Gezira, and when your name day came, I called you ‘Alizayd’ as I bolted your relic to your ear. The name of our greatest hero, the progenitor of our rule, so that all would know you were my own. I gave you to Wajed to raise as Qaid and throughout the years, when I saw you grow up in the footsteps of your namesake—noble, yet kind, a zulfiqari to be reckoned with . . . My decision pleased me. At times, I even found myself wondering . . .” He paused, shaking his head slightly, and then for the first time since entering the room, turned to meet Ali’s gaze. “But I fear now that giving a second son the name of our world’s most famous rebel was not my wisest decision.”

  Ali’s gaze dropped. He could not bear to look his father in the eyes. He had imagined being filled with righteous anger when they finally had this confrontation, but now he just felt sick. “Muntadhir told you.”

  Ghassan nodded. “What he knew. You were careful not to give him names, but they were easy enough to ferret out. I executed Rashid ben Salkh this morning. It may be of small comfort that he took no part in the attempt on your life. Seems the shafit man acted alone in trying to avenge the riot. We’re still looking for the old woman.”

  Hanno acted alone. Ali went numb as the guilt settled upon his shoulders. So Rashid was exactly what he seemed. A fellow believer, a man so dedicated to helping the shafit that he’d betrayed his tribe and risked his privileged life as a full-blooded Geziri officer. And Ali had gotten him killed.

  He knew he should be apologizing—groveling at his father’s feet—but the enormity of what he’d done erased any impulse to save his own life. He thought of the little girl they’d saved. Would she be out on the streets after Sister Fatumai was caught? Would all of them?

  “She’s an old woman, Abba. An old shafit woman who cares for orphans. How can you possibly think of someone like that as a threat?” Ali could hear the frustration in his voice. “How can you think of any of them as a threat? They just want a decent life.”

  “Yes. A decent life with you as their king.”

  Ali’s heart skipped a beat. He glanced at his father to see if he was joking, but Ghassan’s stony face indicated no jest.

  “No, I don’t imagine you wanted to put it together, though your brother certainly did. Rashid ben Salkh was removed from a posting in Ta Ntry years ago under suspicion of incitement. He was burning letters from the Ayaanle when he was arrested. He confessed under torture but maintained your innocence.” The king sat back. “He did not know the identities of his Ayaanle backers, but I have no doubt his death will bring consternation to more than a few members of your mother’s household.”

  Ali’s mouth went dry. “Abba . . . punish me for aiding the Tanzeem. I freely admit it. But . . . that?” He couldn’t even bring himself to say the word. “Never. How can you possibly think I would take up arms against you? Against Muntadhir?” He cleared his throat, growing emotional. “You really think me capable of—”

  “Yes,” Ghassan said curtly. “I think you capable. I think you reluctant, but quite capable.” He paused to regard him. “Even now I see the anger in your eyes. You might not find the courage to defy me. But Muntadhir—”

  “Is my brother,” Ali cut in. “I would never—”

  Ghassan raised a hand to silence him. “And thus you know his weaknesses. As do I. His first decades as king will be tumultuous. He will mismanage the Treasury and indulge his court. He will crack down on your beloved shafit in an effort to seem tough and push aside his queen—a woman I suspect you care for a bit too much—for a bevy of concubines. And as Qaid, you will be forced to watch. With the Ayaanle whispering in your ear, with the loyalty of your fellow soldiers in hand . . . you will watch. And you will break.”

  Ali drew up. That cold place, the knot of resentment Muntadhir had briefly touched at Khanzada’s, unspooled again. He wasn’t accustomed to challenging his father so directly, but this wasn’t a charge he would let lie. “I would never,” he repeated. “I all but gave my life to save Muntadhir’s on that boat.
I would never hurt him. I want to help him.” He threw up his hands. “That’s what all this was about, Abba. I don’t want to be king! I don’t want Ayaanle gold. I wanted to help my city, to help the people we’ve left behind!”

  Ghassan shook his head. He looked even more resolute. “I believe you, Alizayd. That’s the problem. Like your namesake, I think you want to help the shafit so much that you’d be willing to bring the city down just to see them rise. And I can’t risk that.”

  His father said nothing else. He didn’t need to. For Ghassan had always been clear when it came to his views on kingship. Daevabad came first. Before his tribe. Before his family.

  Before the life of his youngest son.

  Ali felt oddly light. He cleared his throat, finding it difficult to breathe. But he wasn’t going to beg for his life. Instead, he hardened his heart, looking his father in the eye. “When do I meet the karkadann?”

  Ghassan didn’t drop his gaze. “You don’t. I’m stripping you of your titles and Treasury accounts and sending you to Am Gezira. The other tribes will assume you went to lead a garrison.”

  Exile? Ali frowned. That can’t be it. But as his father stayed silent, Ali realized there had been a warning in the story of his birth.

  Foreigners might think it just a military assignment, but the Geziri would know better. When Alizayd al Qahtani—Alizayd the Ayaanle—showed up in Am Gezira impoverished and alone, the Geziri would know he’d lost his father’s protection. That this second son, this foreign son, had been abandoned, and his blood could be spilled without retribution. Geziri assassins were the best and readily available. Anyone hoping to curry favor with his brother, with his father, with Kaveh, with any of the enemies Ali had made over the years—it didn’t even have to be someone he’d personally angered. The Qahtanis had a thousand adversaries, even among their own tribe.

  Ali was being executed. It might take a few months, but he’d end up dead. Not on a battlefield, fighting bravely in his family’s name; nor as a martyr, clear-eyed in his choice to defend the shafit. No, instead he was going to be hunted down in an unfamiliar land, murdered before his first quarter century. His last days would be spent alone and in terror, and when he inevitably fell, it would be to people who would carve him up, taking whatever bloody evidence they needed for payment.