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

The boat before Ali was made of pure bronze and large enough to hold a dozen men. Beams of sunlight undulated across its gleaming surface, reflected off the distant lake below. The hinges holding the boat to the wall creaked hoarsely as it swayed in the breeze. They were ancient; the bronze boat had been hanging here for nearly two thousand years.

It was one of the execution methods of which the Nahid Council had been most fond.

The shafit prisoners in front of Ali must have known they were doomed, had likely realized it as soon as they were arrested. There was little begging as his men forced them into the bronze boat. They knew better than to expect mercy from purebloods.

They confessed. These are no innocent men. Whatever rumor incited them, they had taken up weapons with the intent of sacking the Daeva Quarter.

Prove your loyalty, Zaydi, Ali heard his brother say. He hardened his heart.

One of the prisoners—the smallest—suddenly broke away. Before the guards could grab him, he threw himself at Ali’s feet.

“Please, my lord! I didn’t do anything, I swear! I sell flowers in the midan. That’s all!” The man looked up, pressing his palms together in respect.

Except that he wasn’t a man at all. Ali startled; the prisoner was a boy, one who looked even younger than himself. His brown eyes were swollen from crying.

Perhaps sensing Ali’s uncertainty, the boy continued, his voice desperate. “My neighbor just wanted the ransom! He gave my name, but I swear I did nothing! I have Daeva customers … I would never hurt them! Zavan e-Kaosh! He would vouch for me!”

Abu Nuwas yanked the boy to his feet. “Get away from him,” he growled as he shoved the sobbing shafit into the boat with the rest. Most were praying, their heads lowered in prostration.

Shaken, Ali turned over the scroll in his hands, the paper worn thin. He stared at the words he was supposed to recite, the words he’d said too many times this week.

One more time. Just do this one more time.

He opened his mouth. “You have all been found guilty and sentenced to death by the noble and illuminated Ghassan al Qahtani, king of the realm and … Defender of the Faith.” The title felt like poison in his mouth. “May you find mercy in the Most High.”

One of his father’s metallurgists stepped forward and cracked his charcoal-colored hands. He gave Ali an expectant look.

Ali stared at the boy. What if he’s telling the truth?

“Prince Alizayd,” Abu Nuwas prompted. Flames twisted around the metallurgist’s fingers.

He barely heard Abu Nuwas. Instead he saw Anas in his mind.

It should be me up there. Ali dropped the scroll. I’m probably the closest thing to the Tanzeem here.

“Qaid, we are waiting.” When Ali said nothing, Abu Nuwas turned to the metallurgist. “Do it,” he snapped.

The man nodded and stepped forward, his smoldering black hands turning the hot crimson of worked iron. He grabbed the edge of the boat.

The effect was instantaneous. The bronze began to glow, and the barefoot shafit started to shriek. Most immediately jumped in the lake; it was certain to be a quicker death. A few lasted another moment or two, but it didn’t take long. It rarely took long.

Except this time. The boy his age, the one who had begged for mercy, didn’t move fast enough and by the time he tried to jump overboard, the liquid metal had licked up his legs and trapped him in the boat. In desperation, he grabbed for the side, likely meaning to heave himself over.

It was a mistake. The boat’s sides were no less molten than its deck. The bewitched metal snatched his hands tight, and he shrieked as he tried to pull free.

“Ahhh! No, God, no … please!” He screamed again, an animal-like howl of pain and terror that tore at Ali’s soul. This was why men immediately jumped in the lake, why this particular punishment struck such terror in the hearts of the shafit. If you did not find the courage to face the merciless water, you would slowly be burned to death by the molten bronze.

Ali snapped. No one deserved to die like this. He yanked his boots off and freed his zulfiqar, pushing the metallurgist out of the way.

“Alizayd!” Abu Nuwas shouted, but Ali was already climbing into the boat. He hissed; it burned far worse than he expected. But he was a pureblood. It would take a lot more than liquid bronze to harm him.

The shafit boy was pinned on all fours, his gaze forcibly directed on the hot metal. He wouldn’t have to see the blow. Ali raised his zulfiqar high, meaning to bring it down through the doomed boy’s heart.

But he was too late. The boy’s knees gave way, and a wave of liquid metal washed onto his back, instantly hardening. Ali’s blade thudded uselessly against it. The boy screamed louder as he jerked and twisted in a desperate attempt to see what was happening behind him. Ali reeled in horror as he raised his zulfiqar.

The boy’s neck was still bare.

He didn’t hesitate. The zulfiqar flared to life as he brought it down again, and the fiery blade sliced through the boy’s neck with an ease that twisted his stomach. His head dropped, and there was merciful silence, the only sound the thudding of Ali’s heart.

He took a ragged breath, fighting a swoon. The bloody scene before him was unbearable. God forgive me.

Ali staggered out of the boat. Not a single man met his eyes. Shafit blood drenched his uniform, the crimson stark against his white waist-wrap. The hilt of his zulfiqar was sticky in his hand.

Ignoring his men, he silently headed back toward the stairs that led to the street. He didn’t make it halfway down before his nausea got the better of him. Ali fell to his knees and vomited, the boy’s screams echoing in his head.

When he was done, he sat back against the cool stone, alone and shaking on the dark staircase. He knew he’d be shamed if someone came across him, the city’s Qaid sick and trembling simply because he’d executed a prisoner. But he didn’t care. What honor did he have left? He was a murderer.

Ali wiped his wet eyes and rubbed an itchy spot on his cheek, horrified to realize it was the boy’s blood drying on his hot skin. He rubbed his hands and wrists furiously on the rough cloth of his waist-wrap and then wiped the blood from his face with the tail of his red Qaid’s turban.

And then he stopped, staring at the cloth in his hands. He had dreamed of wearing this for years, had trained for this position his entire life.

He unwound the turban and let it drop in the dust.

Let Abba take my titles. Let him banish me to Am Gezira. It matters not.

Ali was done.

COURT WAS LONG ADJOURNED BY THE TIME ALI reached the palace, and though his father’s office was empty, he could hear music from the gardens below. He made his way down and spotted his father reclining on a cushion next to a shaded pool. A glass of wine was at hand, as was his water pipe. Two women were playing lutes, but a scribe was there as well, reading from an unfurled scroll. A scaled bird with smoking feathers—the magical cousin of the homing pigeons humans used to send messages—was perched on his shoulder.

Ghassan glanced up as Ali approached. His gray eyes swept from Ali’s uncovered head to his blood-spattered clothes and bare feet. He raised a dark eyebrow.

The scribe looked up and then jumped at the sight of the bloody prince, sending the startled pigeon into a nearby tree.

“I-I need to talk to you,” Ali stammered, his confidence vanishing in his father’s presence.

“I imagine so.” Ghassan waved off the scribe and musicians. “Leave us.”

The musicians quickly packed away their lutes, edging carefully past Alizayd. The scribe wordlessly placed the scroll back in his father’s hand. The broken wax seal was black: a royal seal.

“Is that from Muntadhir’s expedition?” Ali asked, worry for his brother outweighing anything else.

Ghassan beckoned him closer and handed him the scroll. “You’re the scholar, aren’t you?”

Ali scanned the message, both relieved and disappointed. “There’s no sign of these supposed ifrits.”

“None.”

He read further and let out a sigh of relief. “But Wajed has finally met up with them. Thank the Most High.” The grizzled old warrior was more than Darayavahoush’s match. He frowned when he reached the end. “They’re headed to Babili?” he asked in surprise. Babili was near the border with Am Gezira, and the idea of the Afshin Scourge so close to their homeland was unsettling.

Ghassan nodded. “Ifrit have been spotted there in the past. It’s worth exploring.”

Ali scoffed and tossed the scroll on a small side table. Ghassan leaned back on his cushion. “You disagree?”

“Yes,” Ali said vehemently, too upset to keep his temper in check. “The only ifrit they’re going to find are figments of the Afshin’s imagination. You should never have sent Muntadhir off with him on this useless campaign.”

The king patted the seat next to him. “Sit, Alizayd. You look ready to collapse.” He poured a small ceramic cup of water from a nearby pitcher. “Drink.”

“I’m fine.”

“Your appearance would beg to differ.” He pushed the cup into Ali’s hand.

Ali took a sip but remained stubbornly on his feet.

“Muntadhir is perfectly safe,” Ghassan assured him. “I sent two dozen of my best soldiers with them. Wajed’s there now. Besides, Darayavahoush would not dare harm him while the Banu Nahida is under my protection. He wouldn’t risk her.”

Ali shook his head. “Muntadhir is no warrior. You should have sent me instead.”

His father laughed. “Absolutely not. The Afshin would have strangled you by day’s end, and I’d be obliged to go to war, no matter what you said to deserve it. Muntadhir is charming. And he’s going to be king. He needs to spend more time leading men and less time leading drinking songs.” He shrugged. “Truthfully, what I wanted most was Darayavahoush away from the girl, and if he was willing to run off on his own accord?” He shrugged. “All the better.”

“Ah, yes. Manizheh’s long-lost daughter,” Ali said acidly. “Who has yet to heal a single person—”

“On the contrary, Alizayd,” Ghassan interrupted. “You should stay more ahead of palace gossip. Banu Nahri had a nasty fall when exiting the bath this morning. A careless servant must have left some soap on the floor. She cracked her head open in full view of at least a half-dozen women. An injury like that would have proven fatal to a normal girl.” Ghassan paused, letting his words sink in. “She healed in moments.”

The intent in the king’s voice was chilling. “I see.” Ali swallowed, but the idea of his father planning accidents for young women in the bathhouse was enough to remind him of his original purpose. “When do you think Wajed and Muntadhir will return?”

“A few months, God willing.”

Ali took another sip of water and then set the glass down, working up his nerve. “You’re going to need someone else to take over as Qaid then.”

His father gave him a look that was almost amused. “I am?”

Ali gestured at the blood on his uniform. “A boy begged me for his life. Said he sold flowers in the midan.” His voice broke as he continued. “He could not make it out of the boat. I had to cut off his head.”

“He was guilty,” his father said coldly. “They all were.”

“Of what, being in the midan when your rumor started a riot? This is wrong, Abba. What you’re doing to the shafit is wrong.”

The king stared at him for a few long moments, the expression in his eyes unreadable. Then he stood. “Walk with me, Alizayd.”

Ali hesitated; between the surprise Tanzeem orphanage and the secret Nahid crypt, he was beginning to hate being led places. But he followed his father as he headed toward the wide marble steps to the upper platforms of the ziggurat.

Ghassan nodded at a pair of guards on the second level. “Have you been to see the Banu Nahida?”

The Banu Nahida? What did the girl have to do with his being Qaid? Ali shook his head. “No. Why would I?”

“I hoped you would strike up a friendship. You are the one fascinated by the human world.”

Ali paused. He hadn’t spoken to Nahri since escorting her to the garden, and he doubted his father would be pleased to learn of his rudeness during that encounter. He settled for another truth. “I am not given to pursuing friendships with unmarried women.”

The king scoffed. “Of course. My son the sheikh … always so dutiful to the holy books.” There was uncharacteristic hostility in his voice, and Ali was startled when he saw how icy his father’s eyes were. “Tell me, Alizayd, what does our religion say about obeying your parents?”

A chill went through him. “That we should do so in all matters … unless it goes against God.”

“Unless it goes against God.” Ghassan held his gaze for another long moment while Ali inwardly panicked. But then his father nodded at the door leading out to the next platform. “Go. There is something you should see.”

They stepped out onto one of the upper tiers of the ziggurat. One could see the entire island from this height. Ali drifted toward the crenellated wall. It was a beautiful view: the ancient city hugged by its glowing brass walls, the neatly terraced and irrigated fields on its southern hills, the calm lake ringed by the emerald green mountains. Three thousand years of human architecture was spread before him, meticulously copied by the invisible djinn who’d passed through human cities, watching the rise and fall of their empires. Djinn-designed buildings stood apart, impossibly tall towers of twisting sandblasted glass, delicate mansions of molten silver, and floating tents of painted silk. Something stirred in his heart at the sight. Despite its wickedness, Ali loved his city.

A plume of white smoke caught his eye, and he turned his attention to the Grand Temple. The Grand Temple was the oldest building in Daevabad after the palace, an enormous yet simple complex at the heart of the Daeva Quarter.

The complex was so enshrouded by smoke that he could barely make out the buildings. That wasn’t unusual; on Daeva feast days the temple tended to see an uptick in the number of people servicing the fire altars. But today wasn’t a feast day.

Ali frowned. “The fire worshippers look busy.”

“I’ve told you not to call them that,” Ghassan chided as he joined him at the wall. “But, yes, it’s been like this all week. And their drums haven’t stopped yet.”

“The streets are filled with their celebrations as well,” Ali said darkly. “You’d think the Nahid Council had returned to throw us all in the lake.”

“I cannot blame them,” the king admitted. “If I were Daeva, and I witnessed an Afshin and Banu Nahida miraculously appear to stop a mob of shafit from breaking into my neighborhood, I’d take to wearing an ash mark on my head as well.”

The words were out of Ali’s mouth before he could stop himself. “Did the riot not go according to your plan, Abba?”

“Watch your tone, boy.” Ghassan glared at him. “By the Most High, do you ever stop to consider the things in your head before you spout them? If you were not my son, you would be arrested for such disrespect.” He shook his head and looked down upon the city. “You self-righteous young fool … sometimes I think you have no appreciation for the precariousness of your position. I had to send Wajed himself to deal with your scheming relatives in Ta Ntry and still you talk this way?”

Ali flinched. “Sorry,” he muttered. His father stayed silent as Ali nervously crossed and uncrossed his arms, tapping his fingers on the wall. “But I don’t see what this has to do with me resigning as Qaid.”

“Tell me what you know of the Banu Nahida’s land,” his father said, ignoring his statement.

“Egypt?” Ali warmed to the discussion, glad to be on ground that was familiar to him. “It’s been settled even longer than Daevabad,” he started. “There have always been advanced human societies along the Nile. It’s a fertile land, lots of agriculture, good farming. Her city, Cairo, is very large. It’s a center of trade, and scholarship. They have several acclaimed institutes of—”

“That’s enough.” Ghassan nodded, a decision settling on his face. “Good. I’m glad to know your obsession with the human world isn’t entirely useless.”

Ali frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“I’m going to marry the Banu Nahida to Muntadhir.”

Ali actually gasped. “You’re going to do what?”

Ghassan laughed. “Don’t act so shocked. Surely, you must see the potential in their marriage? We could put all this nonsense with the Daevas behind us, become a united people moving forward.” Something uncharacteristically wistful flickered across his face. “It’s a thing that should have been done generations ago, had our respective families not been so prudish about crossing tribal lines.” His mouth thinned. “A thing I should have done myself.”

Ali couldn’t hide his flustered reaction. “Abba, we have no idea who this girl is! You’re ready to take her identity as Manizheh’s daughter on the secondhand word of some supposed ifrit and the fact that a bathroom fall didn’t kill her?”

“Yes.” Ghassan’s next words were deliberate. “It pleases me for her to be Manizheh’s daughter. It is useful. And if we say it is true—if we act on that assumption—others will as well. She clearly has some Nahid blood. And I like her; she seems to have an instinct for self-preservation sorely lacking in the rest of her kin.”

“And that’s enough to make her queen? To make her mother to the next generation of Qahtani kings? We know nothing else of her heritage!” Ali shook his head. He’d heard how his father had felt about Manizheh, but this was lunacy.

“And here I thought you would approve, Alizayd,” the king said. “Are you not constantly railing about how blood purity does not matter?”

His father had him there. “I take it Muntadhir does not yet know of his impending nuptials?” Ali rubbed his head.

“He’ll do as he’s told,” his father said firmly. “And we have time aplenty. The girl cannot legally marry until her quarter century. And I would like her to do so willingly. The Daevas will not be pleased to see her warm toward us. It must be done sincerely.” He spread his hands on the wall. “You will have to take care in befriending her.”

Ali whirled on him. “What?”

Ghassan waved him off. “You just said you didn’t want to be Qaid. It will look better if you keep the title and uniform until Wajed returns, but I will have Abu Nuwas take over your responsibilities so you have time to spend with her.”

“Doing what exactly?” Ali was stunned by how quickly his father had turned his resignation around in his own favor. “I know nothing of women and their …” He fought an embarrassed heat. “… whatever it is they do.”

“By the Most High, Alizayd.” His father rolled his eyes. “I’m not asking you to lure her into your bed—as thoroughly entertaining a spectacle as that would be. I’m asking you to make a friend. Surely that is not beyond your skill set?” He waved a dismissive hand. “Talk to her of that human nonsense you read. Astrology, your currency obsession …”

“Astronomy,” Ali corrected under his breath. But he doubted some human-raised girl was going to be interested in the value of varying coin weights. “Why would you not ask Zaynab?”

Ghassan hesitated. “Zaynab shares your mother’s distaste for Manizheh. She went too far in her first encounter with Nahri, and I doubt the girl will trust her again.”

“Then Muntadhir,” Ali offered, growing desperate. “You trust him to charm the Afshin but not seduce this girl? That’s all he does!”

“They are going to be married,” Ghassan declared. “Truthfully, regardless of what either of them thinks about it. But I’d rather things not go to that extreme. Who knows what kind of propaganda Darayavahoush filled her head with? We need to undo some of that damage first. And if she reacts badly to you, it’s a lesson in how to proceed with Muntadhir without poisoning the well of their marriage.”

Ali stared at the smoking temple. He had literally never had a conversation with a Daeva lasting longer than ten minutes that ended well, and his father wanted him to befriend a Nahid? A girl? That last thought alone was enough to send a shiver of nerves down his spine.

“There’s no way, Abba,” he finally said. “She’ll see right through me. You’re asking the wrong person. I don’t have experience with that kind of deception.”

“Don’t you?” Ghassan stepped closer and rested his arms on the wall. His brown hands were thick and roughly calloused, the heavy gold ring on his thumb looking like a child’s bangle. “After all, you successfully hid your involvement with the Tanzeem.”

Ali went cold; he had to have heard wrong. Yet as he cast an alarmed glance down at his father, something else caught his eye.

The guards had followed them. And they were blocking the door.

A wordless terror gripped Ali’s heart. He clutched at the parapet, feeling like someone had torn a carpet out from under his feet. His throat tightened, and he glanced at the distant ground, briefly tempted to jump.

Ghassan didn’t even look at him; his expression was completely serene as he stared at his city. “Your tutors always praised your prowess with numbers. ‘A keen mind your son has for figures,’ they told me. ‘An excellent addition he’d make to the Treasury.’ I assumed they were exaggerating; I dismissed your harping on currency issues as another of your eccentricities.” Something twitched in his face. “And then the Tanzeem started bedeviling my cleverest accountants. They declared their funds impossible to trace, their financial system a cunningly convoluted mess designed by someone with a detailed understanding of human banking … and far too much time on his hands.

“I hated to even suspect such a thing. Surely my son—my own blood—would never betray me. But I knew I had to at least audit your accounts. And the amount you withdraw regularly, Alizayd? I’d like to say you’re either supporting a particularly cunning concubine or a strong addiction to human intoxicants … but you’ve always been obnoxiously vocal about your abhorrence of both.”

Ali said nothing. He was caught.

A small, humorless smile played on his father’s face. “Praise be to God, have I actually silenced you for once? I should have accused you of treason earlier in our conversation and saved myself your insufferable comments.”

Ali swallowed and pressed his palms harder against the wall to hide their trembling. Apologize. Not that it would make a difference. Had his father really known for all these months that he’d funded the Tanzeem? What about the murder of the Daeva men?

The money, God, please let it just be the money. Ali couldn’t imagine he’d still be alive if his father knew the rest. “But-but you made me Qaid,” he stammered.

“A test,” Ghassan answered. “Which you were failing miserably until the Afshin’s arrival apparently reset your loyalties.” He crossed his arms. “You owe a sincere debt to your brother. Muntadhir has been your most adamant defender. Says you tend to throw money at every sad-eyed shafit who comes crying your way. As he knows you best, I was persuaded to give you a second chance.”

That’s why he took me to the tomb, Ali realized, remembering how Muntadhir begged him to stay away from the shafit. His brother hadn’t directly interfered with their father’s test—that would have been his own treason—but he’d come close. Ali was struck by his devotion. All this time he’d been judging his brother’s drinking, his shallow behavior … yet Muntadhir was probably the only reason Ali was still alive.

“Abba,” he started again. “I …”

“Save your apology,” Ghassan snapped. “The blood on your clothes, and the fact that you came to me with your grief this time instead of turning to some filthy shafit street preacher is enough to allay my doubts.” He finally met Ali’s terrified gaze, and his expression was so fierce that Ali flinched. “But you will win me this girl.”

Ali swallowed and nodded. He said nothing. It was all he could do to remain upright.

“I would like to think that I don’t need to waste my time detailing the various punishments that will befall you if you deceive me again,” Ghassan continued. “But knowing how your type feels about martyrdom, let me make this clear. It will not be you alone who suffers. If you even think of betraying me again, I will make you lead a hundred such innocent shafit boys to that damned boat, understand?”

Ali nodded again, but his father didn’t look convinced. “Say it, Alizayd. Tell me you understand.”

His voice was hollow. “I understand, Abba.”

“Good.” His father clapped his shoulder so hard that Ali jumped and then motioned to his ruined uniform. “Now you should go wash up, my son.” He let go of Ali’s arm. “There’s a lot of blood on your hands.”