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

Nahri woke with the sun.

The dawn call to prayer whispered in her ear, drifting from the mouths of a dozen different muezzins high atop Daevabad’s minarets. Oddly enough, the call never woke her in Cairo, but here, the cadence—so close but not quite the same—did every day. She stirred in her sleep, momentarily confused by the feel of the silken sheets, and then opened her eyes.

It usually took a few minutes for her to remember where she was, to recognize that the luxurious apartment surrounding her was not a dream and that the big bed, crowded with soft brocaded cushions and held off the richly carpeted floor with bowed mahogany legs, was hers alone. It was no different this morning. Nahri studied the enormous bedchamber, taking in the beautifully woven rugs and delicately painted silk wall coverings. A massive landscape of the Daevastana countryside, painted by Rustam—her uncle, she reminded herself, the idea of having relatives still surreal—dominated one wall, and a carved wooden door led to her own private bath.

Another door opened onto a chamber for her wardrobe. For a girl who’d spent years sleeping on the streets of Cairo, a girl who once counted herself fortunate to have two plain abayas in decent shape, the contents of that small room were like things out of a dream—a dream that would have ended with her selling them all and raking in the profits, but a dream nonetheless. Silk gowns, lighter than air and embroidered with thread of spun gold; fitted felt coats in a rainbow of colors embellished with a riot of jeweled flowers; beaded slippers so lovely and intricate it seemed a shame to walk in them.

There were more practical clothes, as well, including a dozen sets of the calf-length tunics and richly embroidered fitted pants Nisreen said Daeva women typically wore. An equal number of chadors, the floor-length cloak also endemic to the women of their tribe, hung from glass globes with far more grace than they usually hung from Nahri’s head. She’d yet to get used to the ornate gold headpieces that held the chador in place, and had a tendency to step on the hem and send the whole ensemble crashing to the ground.

Nahri yawned, rubbing the sleep from her eyes before leaning back on her palms to stretch her neck. Her hand landed on a lump: She’d stashed several jewels and a gold armband in the lining of the mattress. She had similar caches throughout the apartment, gifts she’d been given by an unrelenting stream of rich well-wishers. The djinn were clearly obsessed with gems, and she didn’t trust the number of servants passing through her rooms.

Speaking of which … Nahri slid her hand away and lifted her eyes, gazing at the small unmoving figure kneeling in the shadows across the room. “By the Most High, do you ever sleep?”

The girl bowed and then stood, Nahri’s voice propelling her into motion like one of those children’s box toys that sprang up when released. “I wish to be of service to you at all times, Banu Nahida. I pray you slept well.”

“As well as I can while being watched all night,” Nahri grumbled in Divasti, knowing the shafit servant couldn’t understand the Daeva tongue. This was the third girl she’d had since arriving, having frightened off the previous two. Although Nahri had always found the idea of servants appealing in theory, the slavish devotions of these timid girls—children really—unnerved her. Their human-hued eyes were an all too familiar reminder of the strict hierarchy that governed the djinn world.

The girl crept forward, keeping her gaze carefully on the floor while bearing a large tin tray. “Breakfast, my lady.”

Nahri wasn’t hungry but couldn’t resist a peek at the tray. What came out of the palace kitchens amazed her just as much as the contents of her wardrobe. Any food she wanted, in any quantity, at any time. Upon this morning’s tray was a steaming stack of fluffy flatbreads sprinkled with sesame seeds, a bowl of blushing apricots, and several of the ground pistachio pastries with cardamom cream she liked. The scent of minty green tea rose from the copper kettle.

“Thank you,” Nahri said and motioned toward the sheer curtains leading to the garden. “You can leave it out there.”

She slid out of bed and wrapped a soft shawl around her bare shoulders. Her fingers brushed the small weight at her hip, as they did at least a dozen times a day. Dara’s dagger. He’d given it to her before he’d gone off on his stupid, suicidal mission to hunt the ifrit.

She closed her eyes, fighting the ache in her chest. The thought of her easily provoked Afshin, surrounded by djinn soldiers, seeking out the same ifrit who’d nearly killed them was enough to catch her breath.

No, she told herself. Don’t even start. Fretting over Dara would help neither of them; the Afshin was more than capable of taking care of himself, and Nahri didn’t need any distractions. Especially not today.

“Shall I comb your hair, my lady?” her servant piped up, pulling her from her thoughts.

“What? No … it’s fine like this,” Nahri said distractedly as she brushed her messy curls off her shoulders and crossed the room for a glass of water.

The girl raced her to the jug. “Your robes, then?” she asked as she poured a glass. “I’ve had the ceremonial Nahid garments cleaned and pressed—”

“No,” Nahri cut in, more sharply than she’d intended. The girl shrank back as if she’d been slapped, and Nahri winced at the fear in her face. She hadn’t meant to scare her. “I’m sorry. Look …” Nahri wracked her mind for the girl’s name, but she had been so bombarded by new information each day, it eluded her. “Could I have a few minutes to myself?”

The girl blinked like a frightened kitten. “No. I-I mean … I cannot leave, Banu Nahida,” she pleaded in a tiny whisper. “I am to be available—”

“I can take care of Banu Nahri this morning, Dunoor.” A calm, measured voice spoke up from the garden.

The shafit girl bowed and was gone, fleeing before the speaker parted the curtains. Nahri raised her eyes to the ceiling. “You’d think I ran around lighting people on fire and poisoning their tea,” she complained. “I don’t understand why people here are so afraid of me.”

Nisreen entered the chamber without a sound. The older woman moved like a ghost. “Your mother enjoyed a rather … fearsome reputation.”

“Yes, but she was a true Nahid,” Nahri countered. “Not some lost shafit who can’t conjure up a flame.” She joined Nisreen on the pavilion overlooking the gardens. The white marble flushed pink in the rosy dawn light, and a pair of tiny birds twittered and splashed in the fountain.

“It’s only been a couple of weeks, Nahri. Give yourself time.” Nisreen gave her a sardonic smile. “Soon you’ll be capable of conjuring up enough flames to burn down the infirmary. And you’re not a shafit, no matter your appearance. The king said so himself.”

“Well, I’m glad he’s so certain,” Nahri muttered. Ghassan had done his part in their deal, publicly declaring Nahri to be Manizheh’s long-lost, pureblooded daughter, claiming her human appearance was the result of a marid curse.

Yet Nahri herself was still not convinced. With every passing day in Daevabad, she became more attuned to the differences between purebloods and shafit. The air grew warm around the elegant purebloods; they breathed deeper, their hearts beat more slowly, and their luminous skin gave off a smoky odor that stung her nose. She could not help but compare the iron scent of her red blood; the salty taste of her sweat; the slower, more awkward way her body moved. She certainly felt shafit.

“You should eat something,” Nisreen said lightly. “You have an important day ahead of you.”

Nahri picked up a pastry and turned it over in her hands before putting it back down, feeling nauseated. “Important” was an understatement. Today was the first day Nahri was going to treat a patient. “I’m sure I can just as easily kill someone on an empty stomach.”

Nisreen gave her a look. Her mother’s former aide was one hundred and fifty years old—a number she offered with the air of someone discussing the weather—but her sharp black eyes seemed ageless.

“You’re not going to kill anyone,” Nisreen said evenly. She said everything with such confidence. Nisreen struck Nahri as one of the most steadily capable people she’d ever met, a woman who’d not only easily thwarted Zaynab’s attempt to embarrass Nahri, but had also handled over a century’s worth of God only knew what sort of magical maladies. “It’s a simple procedure,” she added.

“Extracting a fire salamander from someone’s body is simple?” Nahri shuddered. “I still don’t understand why you chose this as my first assignment. I don’t see why I even have a first assignment. Physicians train for years in the human world, and I’m expected to just go out and start cutting magical reptiles out of people after listening to you lecture for a few—”

“We do things differently here,” Nisreen interrupted. She pushed a cup of hot tea in Nahri’s hands and motioned her back inside the room. “Take some tea. And sit,” she added, pointing to a chair. “You cannot see the public looking like that.”

Nahri obeyed, and Nisreen retrieved a comb from a nearby chest and started on Nahri’s hair, raking it down her scalp to separate the braids. Nahri closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of the comb’s sharp teeth and the expert tugging of Nisreen’s fingers.

I wonder if my mother ever braided my hair.

The tiny thought bubbled up, a crack in the armor Nahri had settled over that part of herself. It was a foolish notion; from the sound of things, Nahri had no sooner been born than her mother had been killed. Manizheh never had the chance to braid Nahri’s hair, nor witness her first steps; she hadn’t lived long enough to teach her daughter Nahid magic, nor listen to her complain about arrogant, handsome men eager to rush after danger.

Nahri’s throat tightened. In many ways it had been easier to assume her parents neglectful bastards who’d abandoned her. She might not remember her mother, but the thought of the woman who birthed her being viciously murdered was not something easily ignored.

Nor was the fact that her unknown father might still be in Daevabad. Nahri could only imagine the gossip swirling about that, but Nisreen had warned her that her father was a subject best avoided. The king was apparently not pleased to have learned of Manizheh’s indiscretion.

Nisreen finished her fourth braid, weaving a sprig of sweet basil into the ends. “What’s that for?” Nahri asked, eager for a distraction from her dark thoughts.

“Luck.” Nisreen smiled, looking slightly self-conscious. “It’s something my people used to do for girls back home.”

“Back home?”

Nisreen nodded. “I’m from Anshunur originally. A village on the southern coast of Daevastana. My parents were priests; our ancestors ran the temple there for centuries.”

“Really?” Nahri sat up, intrigued. After Dara, it was strange to be around someone who spoke so openly about their background. “So what brought you to Daevabad?”

The older woman seemed to hesitate, her fingers trembling upon Nahri’s braid. “The Nahids, actually,” she said softly. When Nahri frowned in confusion, Nisreen explained. “My parents were killed by djinn raiders when I was young. I was badly injured, so the survivors brought me to Daevabad. Your mother healed me, and then she and her brother took me in.”

Nahri was horrified. “I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “I had no idea.”

Nisreen shrugged though Nahri spotted a flicker of grief in her dark eyes. “It’s all right. It’s not uncommon. People bring offerings to their temples; they’re wealthy targets.” She stood. “And I had a good life with the Nahids. I found a lot of satisfaction working in the infirmary. Though on the topic of our faith …” Nisreen crossed the room, heading for the neglected fire altar across the room. “I see you’ve let your altar go out again.”

Nahri winced. “It’s been a few days since I refilled the oil.”

“Nahri, we’ve discussed this.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Upon her arrival, the Daevas had gifted Nahri with Manizheh’s personal fire altar, a guilt-inducing piece of metal and water, restored and polished to perfection. The altar was about half her height, a silver basin filled with water kept at a constant simmer by the tiny glass oil lamps bobbing upon its surface. A pile of cedar sticks smoldered on the small cupola that rose from the basin’s center.

Nisreen refilled the lamps from a silver pitcher nearby and plucked a cedar stick from the consecrated tools meant to maintain the altar. She used it to relight the flames and then beckoned Nahri closer.

“You should try to take better care of this,” Nisreen admonished, though her voice stayed gentle. “Our faith is an important part of our culture. You’re worried about treating a patient? Then why not touch the same tools your grandparents once did? Kneel and pray as your mother would have before attempting a new procedure.” She motioned for Nahri to bow her head. “Take strength from the one connection to your family you still have.”

Nahri sighed but allowed Nisreen to mark her forehead with ash. She probably could use all the luck she could get today.

ABOUT HALF THE SIZE OF THE ENORMOUS AUDIENCE chamber, the infirmary was a spartan room of plain whitewashed walls, a blue stone floor, and a lofty domed ceiling made entirely of tempered glass that let in sunlight. One wall was given over to apothecary ingredients, hundreds of glass and copper shelves of varying sizes. Another section of the room was her workplace: a scattering of low tables crowded with tools and failed pharmaceutical attempts, and a heavy sandblasted glass desk in one corner surrounded by bookshelves and a large fire pit.

The other side of the room was meant for patients and typically curtained off. But today the curtain was drawn back to reveal an empty couch and a small table. Nisreen swooped past with a tray of supplies. “They should be here any moment. I’ve already prepared the elixir.”

“And you still think this is a smart idea?” Nahri swallowed, anxious. “I’ve not had the best luck with my abilities so far.”

That was an understatement. Nahri had assumed being a healer to the djinn would be similar to being a healer among humans, her time spent correcting broken bones, birthing babies, and stitching up wounds. As it turned out, the djinn didn’t need much help with those sorts of ailments—purebloods anyway. Instead, they needed a Nahid when it got … complicated. And what was complicated?

Stripes were common in infants born during the darkest hour of the night. The bite of a simurgh—firebirds the djinn enjoyed racing—would cause one to slowly burn up from the inside. Sweating silver droplets was a constant irritation in the spring. It was possible to accidentally create an evil duplicate, to transform one’s hands into flowers, to be hexed with hallucinations, or to be turned into an apple—an incredibly grave insult to one’s honor.

The cures were little better. The leaves from the very tops of cypress trees—and only the very tops—could be boiled into a solution that when blown upon by a Nahid opened up the lungs. A ground pearl mixed with just the right amount of turmeric could help an infertile woman conceive, but the resulting infant would smell a bit salty and be terribly sensitive to shellfish. And it wasn’t just the illnesses and their associated cures that sounded unbelievable, but the endless list of situations that seemed entirely unrelated to health.

“It’s a long shot, but sometimes a two-week dose of hemlock, dove’s tail, and garlic—taken every sunrise outdoors—can cure a nasty case of chronic unluckiness,” Nisreen told her last week.

Nahri remembered her stunned disbelief. “Hemlock is poisonous. And how is being unlucky an illness?”

The science behind it all made little sense. Nisreen went on and on about the four humors that made up the djinn body and the importance of keeping them balanced. Fire and air were to exactly even each other out at twice the amount of blood and four times the amount of bile. To become unbalanced could cause a wasting disease, insanity, feathers …

“Feathers?” Nahri had repeated incredulously.

“Too much air,” Nisreen had explained. “Obviously.”

And though Nahri was trying, it was all too much to take in, day after day, hour after hour. Since arriving at the palace, she had yet to leave the wing that housed her quarters and the infirmary; she wasn’t sure she was even permitted to leave, and when Nahri asked if she could learn to read—as she’d dreamed of doing for years—the older woman had gotten strangely cagey, muttering something about the Nahid texts being forbidden before promptly changing the subject. Besides her terrified servants and Nisreen, Nahri had no other company. Zaynab had politely invited her for tea twice, but Nahri turned her down—she didn’t intend to consume liquids near that girl again. But she was an extrovert, used to chatting with clients and roaming all over Cairo. The isolation and single-minded focus of her training had her ready to burst.

And she sensed her frustration was curbing her abilities. Nisreen repeated what Dara had already told her: blood and intent were vital in magic. Many of the medicines Nahri studied simply wouldn’t work without a believing Nahid to produce them. You couldn’t stir a potion, grind a powder, or even lay your hands upon a patient without a firm trust in what you were doing. And Nahri didn’t have that.

And then yesterday Nisreen had announced—rather abruptly—that they were changing tactics. The king wanted to see her heal someone, and Nisreen agreed, believing that if Nahri was given the chance to treat a few carefully selected patients, the theories would make more sense to her. Nahri thought that sounded like a great way to slowly reduce Daevabad’s population, but it didn’t seem as if she had much say in the matter.

There was a knock at the door. Nisreen eyed her. “You’ll be fine. Have faith.”

Her patient was an older woman, accompanied by a man who looked like her son. When Nisreen greeted them in Divasti, Nahri sighed with relief, hoping her own people would be more sympathetic to her inexperience. Nisreen led the woman to the bed and helped her remove a long midnight-colored chador. Underneath, the woman’s steel gray hair was arranged in an elaborately braided nest. Gold embroidery winked from her dark crimson gown, and large clusters of rubies hung from each ear. She pursed her painted lips and gave Nisreen a distinctly unimpressed look while her son—dressed in similar finery—hovered nervously over her.

Nahri took a deep breath and then walked over, pressing her palms together like she’d seen others of her tribe do. “Peace be upon you.”

The man pressed his own hands together and fell into a low bow. “It is the greatest honor, Banu Nahida,” he said in a hushed voice. “May the fires burn brightly for you. I pray the Creator blesses you with the longest of lives and the merriest of children and—”

“Oh, calm yourself, Firouz,” the old woman interrupted. She considered Nahri with skeptical black eyes. “You’re Banu Manizheh’s daughter?” she sniffed. “Awfully human looking.”

“Madar!” Firouz hissed, clearly embarrassed. “Be polite. I told you about the curse, remember?”

He’s the gullible one, Nahri decided, and then she cringed, a little ashamed to have thought it. These people were patients, not marks.

“Hmm.” The woman must have picked up on Nahri’s attitude. Her eyes glittered like a crow’s. “So you can fix me?”

Nahri plucked a wicked-looking silver scalpel off the tray and twirled it in her fingers. “Insha’Allah.”

“She certainly can.” Nisreen slid smoothly between them. “It’s a simple task.” She pulled Nahri off to where she’d already prepared the elixir. “Watch your tone,” she warned. “And don’t speak that Geziriyya-sounding human tongue in here. Her family is a powerful one.”

“Ah, then by all means, let’s experiment on her.”

“It’s a simple procedure,” Nisreen assured for the hundredth time. “We’ve gone over this. Have her drink the elixir, look for the salamander, and extract it. You are the Banu Nahida; it should be as obvious to you as a black spot on the eye.”

Simple. Nahri’s hands were trembling, but she sighed and took the elixir from Nisreen. The silver cup warmed in her hands, and the amber liquid started to steam. She crossed back to the old woman and handed it to her, watching as she took a sip.

Her patient made a face. “This is really quite awful. Do you have anything to cut the bitterness? A sweet, perhaps?”

Nahri raised her eyebrows. “Was the salamander coated in honey when you swallowed it?”

The woman looked insulted. “I did not swallow it. I was hexed. Probably by my neighbor Rika. You know the one, Firouz? Rika with her pathetic rosebushes and that loud daughter with the Sahrayn husband?” She scowled. “Their whole family should have been tossed out of the Daeva Quarter when she married that turban-wearing pirate.”

“I can’t imagine why she would want to hex you,” Nahri said lightly.

“Intention,” Nisreen whispered as she came around with a tray of instruments.

Nahri rolled her eyes. “Lie back,” she told the woman.

Nisreen handed her a silver bulb that tapered into a glistening sharp point. “Remember, just a light touch with this. It will immediately paralyze the salamander so you can extract it.”

“That’s assuming I can even … whoa!” Nahri gasped as a lump the size of her fist suddenly rose up under the woman’s left forearm, ballooning out her thin skin until it looked ready to burst. It wiggled and then raced up the woman’s arm to vanish under her shoulder.

“Did you see it?” Nisreen asked.

“Didn’t any of you?” Nahri asked in shock. The old woman gave her a disgruntled look.

Nisreen smiled. “I told you that you could do it.” She touched Nahri’s shoulder. “Take a deep breath and keep the needle ready. You should spot it again any—”

“There!” Nahri saw the salamander again, near the woman’s abdomen. Quickly, she plunged the needle into the woman’s stomach, but the bulge seemed to melt away.

“Ay!” The old lady cried as a drop of black blood blossomed against her gown. “That hurt!”

“Then stay still!”

The woman whimpered as she clutched one of her son’s hands. “Don’t yell at me!”

The bump reemerged near the old woman’s collar, and Nahri attempted to jab it again, drawing more blood and provoking another shriek. The salamander squirmed away—she could see a clear outline of its body now—and raced around the woman’s neck. “Eep!” the woman shrieked as Nahri finally just grabbed for the creature, her fingers closing on the woman’s throat. “Eep! You’re killing me! You’re killing me!”

“I’m not … be quiet!” Nahri shouted, trying to focus on holding the salamander in place while raising the needle. She had no sooner uttered the words than the creature beneath her hand tripled in size, its tail wrapping around the woman’s throat.

The old woman’s face instantly darkened, and her eyes turned red. She gasped and clawed at her throat as she struggled to breathe.

“No!” Nahri desperately tried to will the parasite smaller, but nothing happened.

“Madar!” the man cried. “Madar!”

Nisreen dashed across the room and yanked free a small glass bottle from one of the drawers. “Move,” she said quickly. She edged Nahri aside and tipped the woman’s head back, prying open her jaws and pouring the contents of the bottle down her throat. The bulge vanished, and the woman started coughing. Her son pounded her back.

Nisreen held up the bottle. “Liquefied charcoal,” she said calmly. “Shrinks most internal parasites.” She nodded at the old woman. “I’ll get her some water. Let her catch her breath, and we’ll try again.” She lowered her voice so only Nahri could hear. “Your intention needs to be more … positive.”

“What?” Nahri was confused for a moment, and then Nisreen’s warning became clear. The salamander hadn’t started strangling the woman when the needle touched it.

It had done so when Nahri commanded her to be quiet.

I nearly killed her. Nahri took a step back and knocked one of the trays off the table. It clattered to the floor, and the glass vials smashed against the marble.

“I-I need some air.” She turned toward the doors leading to the gardens.

Nisreen stepped in front of her. “Banu Nahida …” Her voice was calm, but didn’t mask the alarm in her eyes. “You can’t just leave. The lady is under your care.”

Nahri pushed past Nisreen. “Not anymore. Send her away.”

She took the stone steps leading down to the garden two at a time. She hurried through the manicured plots of healing plants, startling two gardeners, and then beyond, following a narrow path into the royal garden’s wild interior.

She gave little thought to where she was going, her mind spinning. I had no business touching that woman. Who was she kidding? Nahri was no healer. She was a thief, a con artist who occasionally got lucky. She’d taken her healing abilities for granted in Cairo where they were as effortless as breathing.

She stopped at the edge of the canal and leaned against the crumbling remains of a stone bridge. A pair of dragonflies glistened above the rushing water. She watched them dart and dip under a fallen tree trunk whose dark branches pushed out of the water like a man trying not to drown. She envied their freedom.

I was free in Cairo. A wave of homesickness swept over her. She longed for Cairo’s bustling streets and familiar aromas, her clients with their love problems, and her afternoons of pounding poultices with Yaqub. She’d often felt like a foreigner there, but now knew it wasn’t true. It took leaving Egypt to realize it was home.

And I’ll never see it again. Nahri wasn’t naive; behind Ghassan’s polite words, she suspected that she was more prisoner than guest in Daevabad. With Dara gone, there was no one she could turn to for help. And it was clear she was expected to start producing results as a healer.

She chewed the inside of her cheek as she studied the water. That a patient had appeared in her infirmary barely two weeks after her arrival in Daevabad was not an encouraging sign, and she couldn’t help but wonder how Ghassan might punish her incompetence should it continue. Would her privileges—the private apartment, the fine clothes and jewels, the servants and the fancy foods—start disappearing with each failure?

The king might be pleased to see me fail. Nahri hadn’t forgotten the way the Qahtanis had received her: Alizayd’s open hostility, Zaynab’s attempt to humiliate her … not to mention that flicker of fear in Ghassan’s face.

Movement caught her eye, and she glanced up, welcoming any distraction from her grim thoughts. Through a screen of purple dappled leaves, she could see a clearing up ahead where the canal widened. A pair of dark arms splashed through the water’s surface.

Nahri frowned. Was someone … swimming? She assumed all djinn were as wary of water as Dara.

A little concerned, Nahri picked her way over the bridge. Her eyes went wide when she entered the clearing.

The canal rose up straight in the air.

It was like a waterfall in reverse, the canal rushing from the jungle to pool against the palace wall before cascading up and over the palace. It was a beautiful, if not entirely bizarre sight that utterly captivated her before another splash from the misty pool drew her eye. She raced over, spotting someone struggling in the water.

“Hold on!” After the tumultuous Gozan, this little pool was nothing. She charged right in and grabbed the closest flailing arm, pulling hard to bring whoever it was to the surface.

“You?” Nahri made a disgusted sound as she recognized a very bewildered Alizayd al Qahtani. She immediately let go of his arm, and the prince fell back with a splash, the water briefly closing over his head again before he straightened up, coughing and spitting water.

He wiped his eyes and squinted as if not quite believing who he saw. “Banu Nahri? What are you doing here?”

“I thought you were drowning!”

He drew up, every bit the arrogant royal even when wet and confused. “I was not drowning,” he huffed. “I was swimming.”

“Swimming?” she asked, incredulous. “What kind of djinn swim?”

A flicker of embarrassment crossed his face. “It’s an Ayaanle custom,” he mumbled, snatching a neatly folded shawl from the canal’s tiled edge. “Do you mind?”

Nahri rolled her eyes but turned around. On a sunny patch of grass ahead, a woven rug was laid out, crowded with books, a sheaf of notes, and a charcoal pencil.

She’d no sooner heard him splash out than he marched past her toward the rug. The shawl was wrapped around his upper body with the same fastidiousness Nahri had seen shy new brides cover their hair. Water dripped from his soaked waist-wrap.

Alizayd retrieved a skullcap from the rug and pulled it over his wet head. “What are you doing here?” he demanded over his shoulder. “Did my father send you?”

Why would the king send me to you? But Nahri didn’t ask; she had little desire to continue talking to the obnoxious Qahtani prince. “It doesn’t matter. I’m leaving …”

She trailed off as her eyes alighted on one of the open books on the rug. An illustration covered half the page, a stylized shedu wing crossed with a scythe-ended arrow.

An Afshin mark.

Nahri immediately went for the book. Alizayd got there first. He snatched it up, but she seized another, twisting away when he tried to grab it.

“Give that back!”

She ducked under his arm and quickly flipped through the book, searching for any more illustrations. She came upon a series of figures drawn on one of the pages. A half-dozen djinn, their arms exposed to show black tattoos spiraling up their wrists, and on some, spreading across their bare shoulders. Tiny lines, like rungs in an unsupported ladder.

Like Dara’s.

Nahri had not given his tattoos much thought, assuming they had to do with his lineage. But as she stared at the illustration, a finger of cold traced her spine. The figures appeared to be from various tribes, and all had expressions of pure anguish drawn on their faces. One woman had her eyes lifted to some invisible sky, her arms outstretched and her mouth open in a wordless scream.

Alizayd grabbed the book back, taking advantage of her distraction.

“Interesting subject you’re studying,” she said, her voice biting. “What is that? Those figures … that mark on their arms?”

“You don’t know?” When she shook her head, a dark look crossed his face, but he offered no further explanation. He tucked the books under his arm. “It doesn’t matter. Come on. I’ll take you back to the infirmary.”

Nahri didn’t move. “What are the marks?” she asked again.

Alizayd paused, his gray eyes seemingly sizing her up. “It’s a record,” he finally said. “Part of the ifrit curse.”

“A record of what?”

Dara would have lied. Nisreen would have deflected and changed the subject. But Alizayd just pressed his mouth in a thin line and answered, “Lives.”

“What lives?”

“The human masters they’ve killed.” His face twisted. “It supposedly amuses the ifrit to see them add up.”

The human masters they’ve killed. Nahri’s mind went back to the countless times she’d observed that tattoo wrapped around Dara’s arm, the tiny black lines dull in the light of his constant fires. There had to be hundreds of them.

Aware of the prince watching her, Nahri fought to keep her face composed. After all, she’d seen that vision in Hierapolis; she knew how thoroughly controlled Dara had been by his master. Surely he couldn’t be blamed for their deaths.

Besides, however ghastly the meaning of Dara’s slave mark, Nahri suddenly realized a much nearer threat lurked. She glanced again at the books in Alizayd’s hand, and a surge of protectiveness flooded through her, accompanied by a prickle of fear. “You’re studying him.”

The prince didn’t even bother lying. “It’s an interesting tale the two of you have concocted.”

Her heart dropped. Nahri, the pieces don’t fit … Dara’s hurried words came back to her, the mystery about their origins that had led him to lie to the king and race after the ifrit. He’d suggested the Qahtanis might not even realize something wasn’t right.

But it was clear that at least one of them had some suspicions.

Nahri cleared her throat. “I see,” she finally managed, not entirely masking the alarm in her voice.

Alizayd dropped his gaze. “You should go,” he said. “Your minders are likely getting worried.”

Her minders? “I remember the way,” Nahri retorted, turning back toward the garden’s wild interior.

“Wait!” Alizayd stepped between her and the trees. There was a hint of panic in his voice. “Please … I’m sorry,” he rushed on. “I shouldn’t have said that.” He shifted on his feet. “It was rude … and it’s hardly the first time I’ve been rude to you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m getting accustomed to it.”

A wry expression crossed his face, nearly a smile. “I would beg that you not.” He touched his heart. “Please. I’ll take you back through the palace.” He nodded to the wet leaves sticking to her chador. “You needn’t go traipsing back through the jungle because I have no manners.”

Nahri considered the offer; it seemed sincere enough, and there was the slight chance she could accidentally knock his books into one of the fiery braziers of which the djinn seemed so fond. “Fine.”

He nodded in the direction of the wall. “This way. Let me just change.”

She followed him across the clearing to a stone pavilion fronting the wall and then through an open balustrade into a plain room about half the size of her bedroom. One wall was taken up by bookshelves, the rest of the room sparsely decorated with a prayer niche, a single rug, and a large ceramic tile inscribed with what looked like Arabic religious verses.

The prince went straight to the main door, an enormous antique of carved teak. He stuck his head out and made a beckoning motion. In seconds, a member of the Royal Guard appeared, silently installing himself at the open door.

Nahri gave the prince an incredulous look. “Are you afraid of me?”

He bristled. “No. But it is said that when a man and woman are alone in a closed room, their third companion is the devil.”

She raised an eyebrow, struggling to contain her mirth. “Well then, I suppose we should take precaution.” She eyed the water dripping from his waist-wrap. “Didn’t you need to …?”

Ali followed her gaze, made a small, embarrassed noise, and then promptly vanished through a curtained archway—the books still in hand.

What an odd person. The room was extraordinarily plain for a prince, nothing like her lavish apartment. A thin sleeping pallet had been neatly folded and placed upon a single wooden chest. A low floor desk looked out upon the garden, its surface covered with papers and scrolls all set at disturbingly perfect right angles to one another. A stylus rested alongside an immaculate inkpot.

“Your quarters don’t look very … lived in,” she commented.

“I haven’t lived in the palace long,” he called from the other room.

She drifted toward the bookshelves. “Where are you from originally?”

“Here.” Nahri jumped at the close sound of his voice. Alizayd had returned without making a sound, now dressed in a long gray waist-wrap and striped linen tunic. “Daevabad, I mean. I grew up in the Citadel.”

“The Citadel?”

He nodded. “I’m training to be my brother’s Qaid.”

Nahri tucked that bit of information in her head for later, captivated by the crowded bookshelves. There were hundreds of books and scrolls there, including some half her height and a good number thicker than her head. She ran a hand along the multihued spines, overtaken by a sense of longing.

“Do you like to read?” Alizayd asked.

Nahri hesitated, embarrassed to admit her illiteracy to a man with such a large personal library. “I suppose you could say I like the idea of reading.” When his only response was a confused frown, she clarified. “I don’t know how.”

“Truly?” He seemed surprised, but at least not disgusted. “I thought all humans could read.”

“Not at all.” She was amused by the misconception—maybe humans were as much of a mystery to the djinn as the djinn were to humans. “I’ve always wanted to learn. I hoped I’d have the opportunity here, but it seems it’s not to be.” She sighed. “Nisreen says it’s a waste of time.”

“I imagine many in Daevabad feel the same way.” Even as she touched the gilded spine of one of the volumes, Nahri could tell he was studying her.

“And if you could … what would you read about?”

My family. The answer was immediate, but there was no way she was revealing that to Alizayd. She turned to face him. “The books you were reading outside looked interesting.”

He didn’t bat an eye. “I fear those particular volumes are unavailable right now.”

“When do you think they’ll be available?”

She saw something soften in his face. “I don’t think you’d want to read these, Banu Nahri. I don’t think you’d like what they say.”

“Why not?”

He hesitated. “War isn’t a pleasant topic,” he finally said.

That was a more diplomatic response than Nahri would have expected considering the tenor of their earlier conversation. Hoping to keep him talking, she decided to answer his initial question a different way. “Business.” At Alizayd’s visible confusion, she explained. “You asked what I would read about if I could. I would like to know how people run businesses in Daevabad, how they make money, negotiate with each other, that sort of thing.” The more she thought about it, the better idea it seemed. After all, it was her own brand of business savvy that had kept her alive in Cairo, hustling travelers and knowing the best way to swindle a mark.

He went entirely still. “Like … economics?”

“I suppose.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you sure my father didn’t send you?”

“Quite.”

Something seemed to perk up in his face. “Economics, then …” He sounded strangely excited. “Well, I certainly have enough material on that.”

He stepped closer to the shelves, and Nahri moved away. He really was tall, towering over her like one of the ancient statues that still dotted the deserts outside Egypt. He even had the same stern, slightly disapproving face.

He plucked a fat blue-and-gold volume from the top shelf. “A history of Daevabad’s markets.” He handed her the book. “It is written in Arabic, so it might prove more familiar.”

She cracked open the spine and flicked through a few pages. “Very familiar. Still completely incomprehensible.”

“I can teach you to read it.” There was an uncertainty in his voice.

Nahri gave him a sharp look. “What?”

Alizayd spread his hands. “I can teach you … I mean, if you want me to. After all, Nisreen doesn’t command my time. And I can convince my father that it would be good for relations between our tribes.” His smile faded. “He is very … supportive of such endeavors.”

Nahri crossed her arms. “And what do you get out of it?” She didn’t trust the offer at all. The Qahtanis were too clever to take at face value.

“You are my father’s guest.” Nahri snorted, and Alizayd almost smiled again. “Fine. I must admit an obsession with the human world. You can ask anyone,” he added, perhaps picking up on her doubt. “Particularly your corner of it. I’ve never met anyone from Egypt. I’d love to learn more about it, hear your stories, and perhaps even improve my own Arabic.”

Oh, I have no doubt you’d like to know lots of things. As Nahri considered his offer, she mentally sized up the prince. He was young, younger even than she was, she was fairly certain. Privileged, a bit ill-tempered. His smile was eager, a little too hopeful for the offer to have been a casual aside. Whatever his motivation, Alizayd wanted this.

And Nahri wanted to know what was in his books, especially if the information was damaging to Dara. If making this awkward boy her tutor was the best way to protect herself and her Afshin, then by all means.

Besides … she did want to learn how to read.

Nahri dropped onto one of the floor cushions. “Why wait, then?” she asked in her best Cairene Arabic. She tapped her fingers on the book. “Let’s get started.”