The City of Brass: Escape to a city of adventure, romance, and magic in this thrilling epic fantasy trilogy (The Daevabad Trilogy, Book 1)

Ali’s spirits felt lighter as he headed for the midan, cheered by Jamshid’s kind words. He passed under the Agnivanshi Gate, its scattered oil lamps making it seem like traveling through a constellation. Ahead, the midan was still, the night songs of insects replacing the sound of the music and drunken revelers he left behind. A cool breeze blew bits of rubbish and silvery dead leaves across the ancient cobblestones.

A man stood at the fountain’s edge. Rashid. Ali recognized him, though his secretary was out of uniform, dressed in a rather bland dark robe and slate-colored turban.

“Peace be upon you, Qaid,” Rashid greeted him as Ali came forward.

“And upon you peace,” Ali replied. “Forgive me. I didn’t think we had any further business this evening.”

“Oh, no!” Rashid assured. “Nothing official, anyway.” He smiled, his teeth a bright flash in the dark. “I hope you’ll forgive my impertinence. I didn’t mean to pull you away from your evening amusements.”

Ali made a face. “It’s no bother, trust me.”

Rashid smiled again. “Good.” He gestured to the Tukharistani Gate. “I was on my way to see an old friend in the Tukharistani Quarter, and thought you might like to come along. You’ve mentioned wanting to see more of the city.”

It was a kind, if slightly strange, offer. Ali was the king’s son; he wasn’t someone you casually invited for tea. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“It’s no intrusion at all. My friend runs a small orphanage. In truth, I thought it might be good for a Qahtani to be seen there. They’ve fallen on rough times recently.” Rashid shrugged. “Your choice, of course. I know you’ve had a long day.”

Ali had, but he was also intrigued. “I’d like that very much, actually.” He returned Rashid’s smile. “Lead the way.”

BY THE TIME THEY REACHED THE HEART OF THE Tukharistani Quarter, clouds had drawn past the sky, veiling the moon and bringing a light mist of rain. The weather did nothing to dissuade the crowds of merrymakers and evening shoppers, however. Djinn children chased each other through the crowd, running after conjured-up pets of smoke while their parents gossiped under metal canopies hastily erected to block the rain. The sound of the raindrops striking their battered copper surfaces echoed throughout the quarter. Enclosed glass globes of enchanted fire hung from the storefronts, reflecting the puddles and dizzy array of colors on the bustling street.

Ali narrowly avoided two men haggling over a glittering golden apple. A Samarkandi apple, Ali recognized; a lot of djinn swore a single bite of its flesh was as effective as a Nahid’s touch. Though Ali’s Tukharistani wasn’t great, he could hear pleading in the prospective buyer’s voice, and he glanced back. Rust-colored metal growths covered the man’s face, and his left arm ended in a stump.

Ali shuddered. Iron poisoning. It wasn’t terribly uncommon, especially among djinn travelers who might drink from a stream without realizing it ran over banks rich in the deadly metal. Iron built up in the blood for years, before striking violently and without warning, causing limbs and skin to atrophy. Deadly and swift, it was nonetheless easily cured by a single visit to a Nahid.

Except there weren’t any more Nahids. And that apple wouldn’t help the doomed man, nor would the myriad other “cures” hawked to desperate djinn by unscrupulous con artists. There was no substitute for a Nahid healer, and that was a dark truth that most people—Ali included—tried not to think about. He averted his eyes.

Thunder rumbled, oddly distant. Perhaps a storm was brewing past the veil hiding the city. Ali kept his head down, hoping to avoid both the rain and the curious glances of passersby. Even out of uniform, his height and royal finery gave him away, provoking startled salaams and hurried bows in his direction.

When they reached a fork in the main road, Ali noticed a striking stone monument twice his height, built of worn sandstone, roughly shaped like an elongated bowl, almost like a boat placed on its stern. The top had started to crumble, but as they passed, he spotted new incense at its base. A small oil lamp burned inside, throwing flickering light on a long list of names in Tukharistani script.

The Qui-zi memorial. Ali’s skin crawled as he recalled what happened to the ill-fated city. Which Afshin’s handiwork had that atrocity been again? Artash? Or was it Darayavahoush? Ali frowned, trying to remember his history lessons. Darayavahoush, of course; Qui-zi was why people started calling him the Scourge. A nickname to which the Daeva devil had thoroughly committed, judging from the horrors he would later perpetrate during his rebellion.

Ali glanced again at the memorial. The flowers inside were fresh, and he wasn’t surprised. His people had long memories, and what had happened at Qui-zi was not a thing easily forgotten.

Rashid finally stopped outside a modest two-story dwelling. It was not a particularly impressive sight; the roof tiles were cracked and covered in black mold, and dying plants in broken pots were scattered out front.

His secretary tapped lightly on the door. A young woman opened it. She gave Rashid a tired smiled that vanished as soon as she spotted Ali.

She dropped into a bow. “Prince Alizayd! I … peace be upon you,” she stammered, her Djinnistani laced with the thick accent of Daevabad’s working class.

“You can call him Qaid, actually,” Rashid corrected. “At least for now.” Amusement simmered in his voice. “May we come in, sister?”

“Of course.” She held open the door. “I’ll prepare some tea.”

“Thank you. And please tell Sister Fatumai that we’re here. I’ll be in the back. There’s something I want to show the Qaid.”

There is? Curious, Ali wordlessly followed Rashid down a dark corridor. The orphanage looked clean—its floors were worn but well-scrubbed—but in terrible disrepair. Water dripped into pans from the broken roof, and mildew covered the books that were neatly stacked in a small classroom. The few toys he saw were sad things: animal bones carved into game pieces, patched dolls, and a ball made of rags.

As they turned the corner, he heard a terrible hacking cough. Ali glanced down the corridor. It was dim, but he spotted the shadowy form of an older woman supporting a skinny young boy upon a faded cushion. The boy started to cough again, the hacking sound interspaced by choked sobs.

The woman rubbed the boy’s back as he fought for air. “It’s okay, dear one,” Ali heard her say softly, bringing a cloth to his mouth as he coughed again. She pressed a steaming cup to his lips. “Have some of this. You’ll feel better.”

Ali’s eyes locked on the cloth she’d held to the boy’s mouth. It glistened with blood.

“Qaid?”

Ali glanced up, realizing Rashid was halfway down the corridor. He quickly caught up. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean to stare.”

“It’s all right. These are things I’m sure you’re usually kept from seeing.”

It was a strangely worded response, delivered with a hint of chiding that Ali had never heard from his mild-mannered secretary. But before he could dwell on it, they reached a large room fronting an uncovered courtyard. Tattered curtains, patched where possible, were all that separated it from the chilly rain falling in the yard.

Rashid pressed a finger to his lips and pulled back one of the curtains. The floor was crowded with sleeping children, dozens of boys and girls wrapped in blankets and bedrolls, packed close for both warmth and lack of space, Ali imagined. He took a step closer.

They were shafit children. And curled under a quilt, her hair already starting to grow out, was the girl from Turan’s tavern.

Ali stepped back so quickly he stumbled. We have a safe house in the Tukharistani Quarter … Horrified realization swept over him.

Rashid’s hand landed heavy on his shoulder. Ali jumped, half-expecting a blade.

“Easy, brother,” Rashid said softly. “You wouldn’t want to startle the children …” He clapped his other hand over Ali’s as Ali reached for his zulfiqar. “… nor run from this place covered in another’s blood. Not when you’re so easily recognized.”

“You bastard,” Ali whispered, stunned by how easily he’d walked into a trap so obvious in hindsight. He wasn’t usually one for swearing, but the words tumbled out. “You fucking trait—”

Rashid’s fingers dug a little deeper. “That’s enough.” He pushed Ali down the hall, gesturing to the next room. “We just want to talk.”

Ali hesitated. He could take Rashid in a fight, of that he was certain. But it would be bloody, and it would be loud. Their location was intentional. A single shout, and he’d awaken dozens of innocent witnesses. He had no good options, and so Ali steeled himself and walked through the door. His heart immediately sank.

“If it isn’t the new Qaid,” Hanno said, greeting him coolly. The shapeshifter’s hand dropped to the long knife tucked in his belt, and his copper eyes flashed. “I hope that red turban of yours was worth Anas’s life.”

Ali tensed, but before he could reply, a fourth person—the older woman from the corridor—joined them at the door.

She waved Hanno off. “Now, brother, surely that’s no way to treat our guest.” Despite the circumstances, her voice was oddly cheerful. “Make some use of yourself, you old pirate, and pull me up a seat.”

The shapeshifter grumbled, but did as he was told, laying a cushion upon a wooden crate. The woman made her way in, helped by a black wooden cane.

Rashid touched his brow. “Peace be upon you, Sister Fatumai.”

“And upon you, Brother Rashid.” She settled onto the cushion. She was shafit, that much Ali could tell from her dark brown eyes and rounded ears. Her hair was gray, half-covered by a white cotton shawl. She looked up at him. “My, you are tall. You must be Alizayd al Qahtani then.” The slightest of amused smiles lit her pale face. “We meet at last.”

Ali shifted uncomfortably on his feet. It was far easier to rage at the Tanzeem men than this grandmotherly figure. “Am I supposed to know you?”

“Not yet, no. Though I suppose these times call for flexibility.” She inclined her head. “My name is Hui Fatumai. I am …” Her smiled faded. “Rather, I was one of Sheikh Anas’s associates. I run the orphanage here and many of the Tanzeem’s charitable works. For which I should thank you. It was only through your generosity that we were able to do so much good.”

Ali raised an eyebrow. “That’s apparently not all you were doing with my ‘generosity.’ I saw the weapons.”

“And what of it?” She nodded to the zulfiqar at his waist. “You wear a weapon to protect yourself. Why should my people not have the same right?”

“Because it’s against the law. Shafit aren’t allowed to carry weapons.”

“They’re also forbidden medical care,” Rashid cut in, giving Ali a knowing look. “Tell me, brother, whose idea was the clinic on Maadi Street? Who paid for that clinic and stole medical books from the royal library to train its providers?”

Ali flushed. “That’s different.”

“Not in the eyes of the law,” Rashid rebuked. “Both preserve the lives of shafit, and thus both are forbidden.”

Ali had no response for that. Fatumai was still studying him. Something that might have been pity flickered in her brown eyes. “How young you are,” she remarked quietly. “Far nearer in age to the children sleeping in the next room than to any of us, I imagine.” She clucked her tongue. “I am almost sorry for you, Alizayd al Qahtani.”

Ali didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you want with me?” he asked. His nerves were starting to get the better of him, and his voice shook.

Fatumai smiled. “We want you to help save the shafit, of course. Ideally by resuming our funding as soon as possible.”

He was incredulous. “You must be joking. Anas was supposed to buy food and books with the money I gave him, not rifles and daggers. You can’t possibly think I’d give you a coin more.”

“Full bellies mean nothing if we can’t protect our children from slavers,” Hanno snapped.

“And we already educate our people, Prince Alizayd,” Fatumai added. “But to what end? Shafit are forbidden from skilled work; if our kind are lucky, they can find a job as a servant or bed slave. Do you have any idea how hopeless that makes life in Daevabad? There is no betterment save the promise of Paradise. We’re not allowed to leave, we’re not allowed to work, our women and children can be legally stolen by any pureblood claiming they’re related—”

“Anas gave me the speech,” Ali interrupted, his voice more cutting than he intended. But he had believed Anas’s words before, and the knowledge that his sheikh had lied to him still stung. “I’m sorry, but I’ve done everything in my power to help your people.” It was the truth. He’d given the Tanzeem a fortune and even now was quietly delaying the harsher measures his father wanted to put in place on the shafit. “I don’t know what else you expect.”

“Influence.” Rashid spoke up. “The sheikh did not recruit you for money alone. The shafit need a champion at the palace, a voice to speak for their rights. And you need us, Alizayd. I know you’re stalling those orders your father gave you. The new laws you’re supposed to be enforcing? Hunting down the traitor from the Royal Guard who stole zulfiqar training blades?” A slight grin played on his mouth at that. “Let us help you, Brother Alizayd. Let us help each other.”

Ali shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

“This is a waste of time,” Hanno declared. “The brat is Geziri—he’d probably let Daevabad burn to the ground before turning on his own.” His eyes flashed, and his fingers again lingered on the hilt of his knife. “We should just kill him.” Bitterness crept into his voice. “Let Ghassan know what it feels like to lose a child.”

Ali drew back in alarm, but Fatumai was already waving him off. “Give Ghassan a reason to slaughter every shafit in the city, you mean. No, I don’t think we’ll be doing that.”

From out in the corridor, the little boy began to cough again. The sound—that hacking, blood-tinged cough, that sad little sob—cut deep, and Ali flinched.

Rashid noticed. “There’s medicine for it, you know. And there are a few human-trained shafit physicians in Daevabad who could help him, but their skills don’t come cheap. Without your aid, we can’t afford to treat him.” He raised his hands. “To treat any of them.”

Ali dropped his gaze. There’s nothing to stop them from turning around and spending whatever I give them on weapons. He’d trusted Anas far more than he trusted these strangers, and the sheikh had still deceived him. Ali could not risk betraying his family again.

A mouse darted past his feet, and a drop of rain landed on his cheek from a leak in the ceiling. In the next room, he could hear children snoring from their makeshift beds on the floor. He thought guiltily of the enormous bed back in the palace that he didn’t even use. It would probably hold ten of those children.

“I can’t,” he said, his voice cracking. “I can’t help you.”

Rashid pounced. “You must. You’re a Qahtani. The shafit are the reason your ancestors came to Daevabad, the reason your family now possesses Suleiman’s seal. You know the Holy Book, Alizayd. You know how it requires you to stand up for justice. How can you claim to be a man of God when—”

“That’s quite enough,” Fatumai spoke up. “I know you’re passionate, Rashid, but insisting a boy not even near his first quarter century betray his family lest he be damned isn’t going to help anyone.” She let out a weary sigh, tapping her fingers on her cane. “This is not a thing that needs to be decided tonight,” she declared. “Think on what we’ve said here, Prince. On what you’ve seen and heard in this place.”

Ali blinked in disbelief. He glanced nervously among them. “You’re letting me go?”

“I’m letting you go.”

Hanno gaped. “Are you mad? He’s going to run right to his abba! He’ll have us rounded up by dawn!”

“No, he won’t,” Fatumai met his gaze, her face calculating. “He knows the cost too well. His father would come for our families, our neighbors … a whole score of innocent shafit. And if he’s the boy of whom Anas spoke so fondly, the one on whom he pinned so many hopes …” She gave Ali an intent look. “He won’t risk that.”

Her words sent a shiver down his spine. She spoke correctly: Ali did know the cost. If Ghassan learned about the money, if he then suspected others might know it was a Qahtani prince who’d funded the Tanzeem … Daevabad’s streets would be flowing with shafit blood.

And not just shafit. Ali wouldn’t be the first inconvenient prince to be assassinated. Oh, it would be done carefully, probably as quickly and painlessly as possible—his father wasn’t cruel. An accident. Something that wouldn’t make his mother’s powerful family too suspicious. But it would happen. Ghassan took kingship seriously, and Daevabad’s peace and security came before Ali’s life.

Those weren’t prices Ali was willing to pay.

His mouth was dry when he tried to speak. “I won’t say anything,” he promised. “But I’m done with the Tanzeem.”

Fatumai didn’t look even the slightest bit worried. “We’ll see, Brother Alizayd.” She shrugged. “Allahu alam.”

She said the human holy words better than Ali’s pureblood tongue would ever manage, and he couldn’t help but tremble slightly at the confidence in her voice, at the phrase meant to demonstrate the folly of man’s confidence.

God knows best.