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 crept along the dusty shelf, crawling on his belly as he made his way toward the scroll. He stretched out his arm, straining to reach it, but his fingers didn’t even graze the papyrus.

“I would be remiss if I didn’t point out—again—that you have people who could do this for you.” Nahri’s voice drifted from outside the cryptlike shelves Ali was currently lodged between. “At least three library assistants offered to retrieve that scroll.”

Ali grunted. He and Nahri were in the deepest part of the Royal Library’s ancient archives, in a cavelike room hacked out of the city’s bedrock. Only the oldest and most obscure texts were stored here, packed away in narrow stone shelves that Ali was swiftly learning were not intended for people to crawl through. The scroll they were after had rolled to the very back of its shelf, the bone-colored papyrus glowing in the light of their torch.

“I don’t like having people do things of which I’m perfectly capable,” Ali replied as he tried to inch a bit farther back. The rocky ceiling scraped his head and shoulders.

“They said there were scorpions down here, Ali. Big ones.”

“There are far worse things than scorpions in this palace,” he muttered. Ali would know—he suspected one of them was watching him right now. The scroll he was after was cuddled close to another twice its size, made from what looked like the hide of some sort of massive lizard. It had been shivering violently since he entered the shelf.

He’d yet to mention it to Nahri, but as Ali saw a flash of something that might have been teeth, his heart started to race. “Nahri, would … would you mind raising the torch a bit?”

The shelf immediately brightened, the dancing flames shadowing his profile. “What’s wrong?” she asked, clearly picking up on the anxiety in his voice.

“Nothing,” Ali lied as the lizard-hide scroll wiggled and flashed its scales. Heedless of scraping his head, Ali shoved himself deeper and snatched for the papyrus.

His fingers had just closed around it when the lizard-hide scroll gave a great bellow. Ali scrambled back, though not in time to avoid the sudden gust of wind that shot him out of the shelf like a cannonball, with enough force to throw him across the room. He landed hard on his back, the wind knocked from his lungs.

Nahri’s worried face hovered over his. “Are you all right?”

Ali touched the back of his head and winced. “I’m fine,” he insisted. “I meant to do that.”

“Sure you did.” She glanced nervously at the shelf. “Should we …”

From the direction of the shelf, there came the sound of a distinctly papery snore. “We’re fine.” He raised the papyrus scroll. “I don’t think this one’s companion wanted to be disturbed.”

Nahri shook her head. Her hand flew to her mouth, and Ali realized she was trying to stifle a laugh.

“What?” he asked, suddenly self-conscious. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry.” Her black eyes were bright with amusement. “It’s just …” She made a sweeping motion over Ali’s body.

He glanced down and then flushed. A thick layer of ancient dust covered his dishdasha and coated his hands and face. He coughed, sending up a bloom of fine powder.

Nahri held her hand out for the scroll. “Why don’t I take that?”

Embarrassed, Ali handed it over and climbed to his feet, brushing the dust from his clothes.

Too late, he saw the snake stamped in the ancient wax seal.

“Wait, Nahri, don’t!”

But she’d already slipped a finger under the seal. She cried out, dropping the torch as the scroll flew from her other hand. It unfurled in the air, a glittering snake dashing from its depths. The torch hit the sandy ground and sputtered out, leaving them in darkness.

Ali acted on instinct, pulling Nahri behind him and drawing his zulfiqar. Flames danced up the copper blade, illuminating the archive with green-tinged light. In the opposite corner, the snake hissed. It was growing larger as they watched, gold and green bands striping a body the color of midnight. Already twice his height and thicker than a muskmelon, it loomed overhead, baring curved fangs that dripped with crimson blood.

Nahri’s blood. Ali charged as it reared back to strike again. The snake was fast, but it had been created to deal with human thieves, and Ali was certainly not that. He lopped off the snake’s head with a single strike of his zulfiqar, and then stepped back, breathing hard as it hit the dust.

“What …” Nahri exhaled. “… in the name of God was that thing?”

“An apep.” Ali extinguished his zulfiqar, wiping the blade on his dishdasha before shoving it back in its sheath. The sword was far too dangerous to keep out in such close quarters. “I’d forgotten the ancient Egyptians were rumored to be rather … creative in protecting their texts.”

“Perhaps we let someone who has a little more familiarity with the library retrieve the next scroll?”

“No argument here.” Ali crossed back to her side. “Are you all right?” he asked, raising a fistful of flames. “Did it bite you?”

Nahri made a face. “I’m okay.” She held out her hand. Her thumb was bloody, but as Ali watched, the two swollen wounds where the snake’s fangs had penetrated shrank and then vanished under the smooth skin.

“Wow,” he whispered in awe. “That really is extraordinary.”

“Maybe.” She shot the dancing flames in his palm a jealous look. “But I wouldn’t mind being able to do that.”

Ali laughed. “You heal from the bite of a cursed snake in moments, and you’re jealous of a few flames? Anyone with a bit of magic can do this.”

“I can’t.”

He didn’t believe that for a moment. “Have you tried?”

Nahri shook her head. “I can barely wrap my mind around the healing magic, even with all of Nisreen’s help. I wouldn’t know where to begin with anything else.”

“Then try with me,” Ali offered. “It’s easy. Just let the heat of your skin sort of … ignite, and move your hand like you might snap your fingers. But with fire.”

“Not the most helpful explanation.” But she raised her hand, squinting her eyes as she concentrated. “Nothing.”

“Say the word. In Divasti,” he clarified. “Later, you’ll be able to simply think it, but for beginners, it’s often easier to perform incantations out loud in your native tongue.”

“All right.” Nahri stared at her hand again with a frown. “Azar,” she repeated, sounding annoyed. “See? Nothing.”

But Ali didn’t give up easily. He motioned toward the stony shelves. “Touch them.”

“Touch them?”

He nodded. “You are in the palace of your ancestors, a place molded by Nahid magic. Draw from the stone like you would water from a well.”

Nahri looked thoroughly unconvinced but followed him, placing her hand in the spot he indicated. She took a deep breath and then raised her other palm.

“Azar. Azar!” She snapped, loud enough to dislodge some dust from the nearest shelf. When her hand remained empty, she shook her head. “Forget it. It’s not as if I’m having any success with anything else. I don’t see why this would be any different.” She started to drop her hand.

Ali stopped her.

Her eyes flashed at the same time his mind caught up with his actions. Fighting a wave of embarrassment, he nevertheless kept her hand pressed against the wall.

“You tried twice,” he chided. “That’s nothing. Do you know how long it took for me to call up flames on my zulfiqar?” He stepped back. “Try again.”

She let out an annoyed huff but didn’t drop her hand. “Fine. Azar.”

There wasn’t even a spark; her face twisted with disappointment. Ali hid his own frown, knowing this should have been easy for someone like Nahri. He chewed the inside of his lip, trying to think.

And then it came to him. “Try it in Arabic.”

She looked surprised. “In Arabic? You really think a human language is going to call up magic?”

“It’s one that has meaning to you.” Ali shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt to try.”

“I suppose not.” She wiggled her fingers, staring at her hand. “Naar.”

The dusty air above her open palm smoked. Her eyes widened. “Did you see that?”

He grinned. “Again.”

She needed no convincing now. “Naar. Naar. Naar!” Her face fell. “I just had it!”

“Keep going,” he urged. He had an idea. As Nahri opened her mouth, Ali spoke again, suspecting that what he said next would likely end either with her conjuring up a flame or punching him in the face. “What do you think Darayavahoush is up to today?”

Nahri’s eyes flashed with outrage—and the air above her palm burst into fire.

“Don’t let it go out!” Ali grabbed her wrist again before she could smother it, holding her fingers out to let the little flame breathe. “It won’t hurt you.”

“By the Most High …,” she gasped. Firelight danced across her face, reflecting in her black eyes, and setting the gold ornaments holding her chador in place aglow.

Ali let go of her wrist and then stepped back to retrieve their extinguished torch. He held it out. “Light it.”

Nahri tipped her hand to let the flame dance from her palm to the torch, setting it ablaze. She looked mesmerized … and far more emotional than he’d ever seen her. Her typically cool mask had vanished; her face was shining with delight, with relief.

And then it was gone. She lifted an eyebrow. “Would you like to explain the purpose of that last question?”

He dropped his gaze, shifting on his feet. “Sometimes magic works best when there’s a little …” He cleared his throat, searching for the least inappropriate word he could think of. “Ah, emotion behind it.”

“Emotion?” She abruptly swept her fingers through the air. “Naar,” she whispered, and a slash of fire danced in front of her. She grinned when Ali jumped back. “I suppose anger works just as well then.” But she was still smiling when the tiny embers fell to the ground, winking out in the sand. “Well, whatever your intent, I appreciate it. Truly.” She glanced up at him. “Thank you, Ali. It’s nice to learn some new magic here.”

He tried to offer a casual shrug, as if teaching potentially deadly skills to his ancestral enemy was something he did all the time—and not, as it suddenly dawned upon him, a thing that should have been considered more carefully. “You needn’t thank me,” he insisted, his voice slightly hoarse. He swallowed and then abruptly crossed to retrieve the scroll from where she’d dropped it. “I … I guess we should look at what we came down here for in the first place.”

Nahri followed. “You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” she said again. “It was just a passing curiosity.”

“You wanted to know about Egyptian marid.” He tapped the scroll. “This is the last surviving account of a djinn meeting one.” He unfurled it. “Oh.”

“What?” Nahri asked, peeking over his arm. She blinked. “Suleiman’s eye … what is that supposed to be?”

“I have no idea,” Ali confessed. Whatever language the scroll was in was unlike any he’d ever seen, a confusing spiral of miniature pictograms and wedge-shaped marks. The letters—if they were letters—were crammed in so tight, it was difficult to see where one ended and the next began. From opposing corners, an inky path—a river perhaps, maybe the Nile—had been painted, its cataracts marked by more bizarre pictograms.

“I don’t suppose we’ll be getting any information from that,” Nahri sighed.

Ali hushed her. “You shouldn’t give up on things so quickly.” An idea unfurled in his head. “I know someone who might be able to translate this. An Ayaanle scholar. He’s retired now, but he might be willing to help us.”

Nahri looked reluctant. “I’d rather not have my interest in this made public.”

“He’ll keep your secret. He’s a freed slave—he’d do anything for a Nahid. And he spent two centuries traveling the lands of the Nile, copying texts before he was captured by the ifrit. I can think of no one better suited for the task.” Ali rolled up the scroll.

He caught the confusion on her face, the connection not quite clear. But she said nothing. “You can just ask me,” he finally said, when it was clear she wasn’t going to speak.

“Ask you what?”

Ali gave her a knowing look. They’d been dancing around this topic for weeks—well, actually, they’d been dancing around lots of topics, but this one especially. “What you’ve wanted to ask since that day in the garden. Since I told you the significance of the mark on your Afshin’s arm.”

Nahri bristled, the warmth vanishing from her face. “I’m not discussing Dara with you.”

“I didn’t say him specifically,” he pointed out. “But you want to know about slaves, don’t you? You get all tense every time the slightest mention of them comes up.”

Nahri looked even more annoyed to have been caught out, her eyes flashing. How wonderfully he’d timed this fight, to occur after he’d taught her to conjure up flames.

“And what if I do?” she challenged. “Is that a thing you’ll race back to your father to report?”

Ali flinched. He couldn’t say anything to that—he had been spying on her and the Afshin in the infirmary a few days ago, though neither of them had mentioned the incident until now.

He met her gaze. Ali wasn’t used to Daeva eyes; he’d always found their ebony depths slightly off-putting, though admittedly Nahri’s were rather nice, her human features softening the harshness. But there was so much suspicion in her eyes—rightly so, of course—that Ali wanted to squirm. But he also suspected enough people in Daevabad, particularly the Afshin of whom she was so defensive, had lied to Nahri. So he decided to tell her the truth. “And what if I report it?” he asked. “Do you imagine your interest is surprising to anyone? You were raised in the human world on legends of djinn slaves. That you would want to know more is to be expected.” He touched his heart, the corners of his mouth tugging up. “Come on, Nahid. A Qahtani fool is offering up free information. Surely your instincts are telling you to take advantage of it.”

That drew a slight smile, tinged with exasperation. “Fine.” She threw up her hands. “My curiosity is winning over my common sense. Tell me about slaves.”

Ali raised the torch, nodding toward the corridor leading back to the main library. “Let’s walk and talk. It’ll look inappropriate if we’re down here too long.”

“The devil again?” He flushed, and she laughed. “You’d fit in well back in Cairo, you know,” she added as she turned on her heel.

I do know. That was exactly the reason his father had chosen Ali for this assignment, after all.

“Is it like the stories, then?” Nahri continued, her Egyptianlaced Arabic rapid with excitement. “Djinn trapped in rings and lamps, forced to grant whatever wishes their human master desires?”

He nodded. “The slave curse returns djinn to their natural state, the way we were before the Prophet Suleiman—peace be upon him—blessed us. But the catch is that you can use your abilities only in the service of a human master. You’re entirely bound to them, to their every whim.”

“To their every whim?” Nahri shuddered. “In the stories, it’s usually in good fun, people wishing for vast fortunes and luxurious palaces, but …” She bit her lip. “Humans are capable of some pretty terrible things.”

“They have that in common with our race,” Ali noted darkly. “With the marid and peri too, I’d imagine.”

Nahri looked thoughtful for a moment, but then she frowned. “But the ifrit hate humans, don’t they? Why give them such powerful slaves?”

“Because it’s not a gift. It’s raw, unchecked power,” Ali explained. “Few ifrit have dared to directly harm humans since Suleiman cursed us. But they don’t need to; a djinn slave in the hands of an ambitious human causes an immense amount of destruction.” He shook his head. “It’s revenge. That it eventually drives the djinn slave mad is merely an added benefit.”

Nahri blanched. “But they can be freed, right? The slaves?”

Ali hesitated, thinking about the Afshin’s relic hidden in the tomb far below his feet—the relic that had no business being there. How Darayavahoush had been freed without it was something not even his father knew. But there seemed little harm in answering her question; it wasn’t as if Nahri would ever see the tomb.

“If they’re fortunate enough to have their slave vessel—their ring or lamp or whatnot—reunited with their relic by a Nahid, then yes,” Ali said.

He could practically see the wheels turning in Nahri’s mind. “Their relic?”

He tapped the steel bolt in his right ear. “We get them when we’re children. Each tribe has its own tradition, but it’s basically taking … well, a relic of ourselves: some blood, some hair, a baby tooth. We seal it all up with metal and keep them on our person.”

She looked a little disgusted. “Why?”

Ali hesitated, not certain how to put what he had to say delicately. “A djinn has to be killed to be made into a slave, Nahri. The curse binds the soul, not the body. And the ifrit …” He swallowed. “We’re the descendants of people they consider traitors. They take slaves to terrorize us. To terrorize the survivors who’ll come upon the empty body. It can be … messy.”

She stopped in her tracks, her eyes lighting with horror.

Ali spoke quickly, trying to allay the alarm in her face. “Either way, the relic is considered the best way to preserve a part of us. Especially since it can take centuries to track down a slave vessel.”

Nahri looked sick. “So how did the Nahids free them, then? Did they just conjure up a new body or something?”

He could tell from her tone that she thought the idea was ridiculous, which is likely why she paled when he nodded. “That’s exactly what they did. I don’t know how—your ancestors were not ones to share their secrets—but something like that, yes.”

“And I can barely conjure up a flame,” she whispered.

“Give yourself time,” Ali assured her, reaching for the door. “That’s one thing we’ve got a lot more of compared to humans.” He held the door for her, and then stepped out into the main rotunda of the library. “Are you hungry? I could have that Egyptian cook prepare some—”

Ali’s mouth went dry. Across the crowded library floor, leaning against an ancient stone column, was Rashid.

He was clearly waiting for Ali—he straightened up as soon as Ali spotted him and headed in their direction. He was in uniform, his face perfectly composed, the picture of loyalty. One would never think the last time he and Ali had laid eyes on each other was when Rashid tricked him into visiting a Tanzeem safe house, threatening Ali with damnation for pulling his support of the shafit militants.

“Peace be upon you, Qaid,” Rashid said, greeting him politely. He inclined his head. “Banu Nahida, an honor.”

Ali edged in front of Nahri. Whether to protect his secret from her or to protect her from the vaguely hostile way Rashid’s mouth curled when he said her title, Ali wasn’t certain. He cleared his throat. “Banu Nahida, why don’t you go ahead? This is Citadel business and won’t take but a moment.”

Rashid raised a skeptical eyebrow at that, but Nahri stepped away—though not before giving them both an openly curious look.

Ali eyed the rest of the library. Its main floor was a bustling place, filled at all hours with ongoing lectures and harassed scholars, but he was a Qahtani prince and tended to attract attention no matter his surroundings.

Rashid spoke up, his voice colder. “I’d say you’re not pleased to see me, brother.”

“Of course not,” Ali hissed. “I ordered you back to Am Gezira weeks ago.”

“Ah, you mean my sudden retirement?” Rashid drew a scroll from his robe and shoved it at Ali. “You might as well add it to your torch. Thank you for the generous pension, but it’s not necessary.” He lowered his voice, but his eyes flashed with anger. “I risked my life to help the shafit, Alizayd. I’m not a man to be bought off.”

Ali flinched, his fingers curling around the scroll. “It wasn’t meant in that manner.”

“No?” Rashid stepped closer. “Brother, what are you doing?” he demanded in an angry whisper. “I take you to a home filled with shafit orphans, children who are sick and starving because we can’t afford to care for them, and in response you abandon us? You retreat to the palace to play companion to a Nahid? A Nahid who brought the Scourge of Qui-zi back to Daevabad?” He threw up his hands. “Have you lost all sense of decency?”

Ali grabbed his wrist, holding it down. “Quiet,” he warned, jerking his head toward the darkened archive from which he and Nahri had just emerged. “We’re not doing this here.”

Still glowering, Rashid followed him, but Ali had no sooner shut the door than the other man whirled on him again.

“Tell me there’s something I’m missing, brother,” he demanded. “Please. Because I cannot reconcile the young man Anas sacrificed himself to save with one who would force shafit into the bronze boat.”

“I’m the city’s Qaid,” Ali said, hating the defensiveness in his voice. “Those men attacked the Daeva Quarter. They were tried and sentenced under our law. It was my duty.”

“Your duty,” Rashid scoffed, pacing away. “Being Qaid is not the only duty put upon you in this life.” He glanced back. “I suppose you’re not so different from your brother, after all. A pretty fire worshipper flutters her lashes and you—”

“That’s enough,” Ali snapped. “I made clear my intention to stop funding the Tanzeem when I learned you were buying weapons with my money. I offered you the retirement to save your life. And as for the Banu Nahida …” Ali’s voice grew heated. “My God, Rashid, she’s a human-raised girl from Egypt—not some fiery preacher from the Grand Temple. My father’s guest. Surely you’re not so biased against the Daevas that you oppose my befriending—”

“Befriending?” Rashid interrupted, looking incredulous. “You don’t take friends from among the fire worshippers, Alizayd. That’s how they trick you. Getting close to the Daevas, integrating them into the court and the Royal Guard—that’s what’s led your family astray!”

Ali’s voice was cold. “Surely you see the hypocrisy in accusing another of tricking me into friendship.” Rashid flushed. Ali pressed on. “I’m finished with the Tanzeem, Rashid. I couldn’t help you even if I wanted to. Not anymore. My father found out about the money.”

That finally shut down the other man’s tirade. “Does he suspect you of anything else?”

Ali shook his head. “I doubt I’d be standing here if he knew about Turan. But the money was enough. I’m sure he has people watching my every move, not to mention my Treasury accounts.”

Rashid paused, a bit of the anger gone. “Then we’ll lie low. Wait a year or so for the scrutiny to die down. In the meantime—”

“No,” Ali cut in, his voice firm. “My father made it clear that it was innocent shafit who would pay if he caught so much as a whiff of betrayal from me. I won’t risk that. Nor do I need to.”

Rashid frowned. “What do you mean you don’t need to?”

“I made a deal with my brother,” Ali explained. “For now, I fall in line with my father’s plans. When Muntadhir’s king, he’ll let me take a stronger hand in managing issues with the shafit.” His voice rose with excitement; his mind had been spinning with ideas since that day. “Rashid, think what we could do for the shafit if we had a king who openly supported our goals. We could organize work programs, expand the orphanage with money from the Treasury …”

“Your brother?” Rashid repeated in disbelief. “You think Muntadhir is going to let you help the shafit—with money from the palace, at that?” He narrowed his eyes. “You can’t possibly be that naive, Ali. The only thing your brother’s going to do to the Treasury is drain it to pay for wine and dancing girls.”

“He won’t,” Ali protested. “He’s not like that.”

“He’s exactly like that,” Rashid replied. “Besides which, you haven’t fallen in line, not really. If you were loyal, you would have had us arrested.” He nodded rudely at the retirement papers. “I’d be dead, not pensioned off.”

Ali hesitated. “We have different views on how to help the shafit. That doesn’t mean I want you hurt.”

“Or you know we’re right. At least part of you does.” Rashid let the words hang in the air and then sighed, suddenly looking a decade older. “You won’t be able to continue like this, Alizayd,” he warned. “To keep walking a path between loyalty to your family and loyalty to what you know is right. One of these days, you’re going to have to make a choice.”

I’ve made my choice. Because as much as Ali had initially disagreed with his father’s plans regarding Nahri, he was starting to see where they could lead. A marriage between the emir and the Banu Nahida could bring true peace between the Daevas and the Geziris. And a Banu Nahida raised in the human world—who still looked human—might she not be able to nudge her tribe into being more accepting of the shafit? Ali sensed an opportunity, a true opportunity, to shake matters up in Daevabad and to make sure they landed right.

But he couldn’t do it from a jail cell. Ali handed the retirement papers back. “You should take these. Go home, Rashid.”

“I’m not going back to Am Gezira,” the other man said cuttingly. “I’m not leaving Daevabad, Sister Fatumai isn’t leaving the orphanage, and Hanno isn’t going to stop freeing shafit slaves. Our work is larger than any of us. I would have thought Sheikh Anas’s death taught you that.”

Ali said nothing. In truth, Anas’s death—what had led to it, what had come after—had taught Ali plenty. But they weren’t lessons he suspected Rashid would appreciate.

Something cracked in the other man’s face. “You were my idea, you know. My hope. Anas was reluctant to recruit you. He believed you were too young. I convinced him.” Regret filled his voice. “Maybe he was right.”

He turned away, heading for the door. “We won’t bother you again, Prince. If you change your mind, you know where to find me. And I hope you do. Because on the day of your judgment, Alizayd … when you’re asked why you didn’t stand up for what you knew was just …” He paused, his next words finding Ali’s heart like an arrow. “Loyalty to your family won’t excuse you.”