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

“This is extraordinary,” Nahri said as she raised the telescope higher, aiming it at the swollen moon. “I can actually see where the shadow overtakes it. And its surface is all pocked … I wonder what could cause such a thing.”

Ali shrugged. He, Nahri, Muntadhir, and Zaynab were stargazing from an observation post high atop the palace wall overlooking the lake. Well, Ali and Nahri were stargazing. Neither of his siblings had yet to touch the telescope; they were lounging on cushioned sofas, enjoying the attentions of their servants and the platters of food sent up from the kitchens.

He glanced back, watching as Muntadhir pressed a glass of wine on a giggling handmaid, and Zaynab examined her newly hennaed hands. “Maybe we should ask my sister,” he said drily. “I’m sure she paid attention to the scholar while he was explaining.”

Nahri laughed. It was the first time he’d heard her laugh in days, and the sound warmed his heart. “I take it your siblings don’t share your enthusiasm for human science?”

“They would, if human science involved lying around like pampered …” Ali stopped, remembering his objective in befriending Nahri. He quickly backtracked. “Though Muntadhir is certainly entitled to some rest; he did just return from hunting ifrit.”

“Perhaps.” She sounded unimpressed, and Ali shot Muntadhir’s back an annoyed look before following Nahri to the parapet. He watched as she lifted the telescope to her eye again. “What’s it like to have siblings?” she asked.

He was surprised by the question. “I’m the youngest, so I don’t actually know what it’s like not to have them.”

“But you all seem very different. It must be challenging at times.”

“I suppose.” His brother had only just returned to Daevabad this morning, and Ali couldn’t deny the relief he felt upon seeing him. “I’d die for either of them,” he said softly. “In a heartbeat.” Nahri glanced at him, and he smiled. “Makes the squabbles more interesting.”

She didn’t return his smile; her dark eyes looked troubled.

He frowned. “Have I said something wrong?”

“No.” She sighed. “It’s been a long week … several long weeks, actually.” Her gaze remained fixed on the distant stars. “It must be nice to have a family.”

The quiet sadness in her voice struck him deep, and he didn’t know whether it was her sorrow or his father’s order that moved him to say what he did next. “You … you could, you know,” he stammered. “Have a family, I mean. Here. With us.”

Nahri stilled. When she glanced at him, her expression was carefully blank.

“Forgive me, my lords …” A wide-eyed shafit girl peeked up from the edge of the stairs. “But I was sent to retrieve the Banu Nahida.”

“What is it, Dunoor?” Nahri spoke to the girl, but her gaze remained on Ali, something unreadable in her dark eyes.

The servant brought her palms together and bowed. “I’m sorry, mistress, I do not know. But Nisreen said it’s most urgent.”

“Of course it is,” Nahri muttered, an edge of fear creeping into her voice. She handed the telescope back to him. “Thank you for the evening, Prince Alizayd.”

“Nahri …”

She gave him a forced smile. “Sometimes I speak without thinking.” She touched her heart. “Peace be upon you.” She offered a brusque salaam to his siblings and then followed Dunoor down the stairs.

Zaynab threw her head back with a dramatic sigh as soon as Nahri was out of earshot. “Does the end of our intellectual family farce mean that I can leave as well?”

Ali was offended. “What is wrong with the two of you?” he demanded. “Not only were you rude to our guest, but you’re turning away an opportunity to gaze upon God’s finest works, an opportunity only a fraction of those in existence will ever be blessed to—”

“Oh, calm down, Sheikh.” Zaynab shivered. “It’s cold up here.”

“Cold? We’re djinn! You are literally created from fire.”

“It’s fine, Zaynab,” Muntadhir cut in. “Go. I’ll keep him company.”

“Your sacrifice is appreciated,” Zaynab replied. She gave Muntadhir’s cheek an affectionate pat. “Don’t get into too much trouble celebrating your return tonight. If you’re late to court in the morning, Abba is going to have you drowned in wine.”

Muntadhir touched his heart with an exaggerated motion. “Thoroughly warned.”

Zaynab left. His brother stood, shaking his head as he joined Ali at the parapet’s edge. “You two fight like children.”

“She is spoiled and vain.”

“Yes, and you’re self-righteous and insufferable.” His brother shrugged. “I’ve heard it enough times from both of you.” He leaned against the wall. “But forget that. What’s going on with this?” he asked, sweeping his hand over the telescope.

“I told you before …” Ali toyed with the telescope’s dial, trying to sharpen the image. “You fix the location of a star and then—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Zaydi, I’m not talking about the telescope. I’m talking about this new Banu Nahida. Why are the two of you whispering like girlhood friends?”

Ali glanced up, surprised by the question. “Did Abba not tell you?”

“He told me you were spying on her and trying to turn her to our side.” Ali frowned, disliking the baldness of the statement, and Muntadhir gave him a shrewd look. “But I know you, Zaydi. You like this girl.”

“So what if I do?” He was enjoying his time with Nahri, he couldn’t help it. She was as intellectually curious as he was, and her life in the human world made for fascinating conversation. “My earlier suspicions about her were wrong.”

His brother let out an exaggerated gasp. “Were you replaced with a shapeshifter while I was gone?”

“What do you mean?”

Muntadhir pushed up to sit on the wide edge of the stone parapet separating them from the distant lake. “You’ve befriended a Daeva and admitted to being wrong about something?” Muntadhir tapped his foot against the telescope. “Give me that, I want to make sure the world has not turned upside down.”

“Don’t do that,” Ali said, quickly stepping back with the delicate instrument. “And I’m not that bad.”

“No, but you trust far too easily, Zaydi. You always have.” His brother gave him a meaningful look. “Especially the people who look human.”

Ali put the telescope back on its stand and turned his full attention to Muntadhir. “I take it Abba told you the entirety of our conversation?”

“He said he thought you were going to throw yourself off the wall.”

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t consider it.” Ali shuddered, recalling the confrontation with his father. “Abba told me what you did,” he said softly. “That you defended me. That you were the one who convinced him to give me another chance.” He glanced at his brother. “If you hadn’t talked to me in the tomb …” Ali trailed off. He knew he’d have done something reckless if Muntadhir hadn’t stopped him. “Thank you, akhi. Truly. If there’s any way I can ever repay you …”

Muntadhir waved him off. “You don’t have to thank me, Zaydi.” He scoffed. “I knew you weren’t Tanzeem. You’ve just got more money than sense when it comes to shafit. Let me guess, that fanatic gave you some wretched story about hungry orphans?”

Ali grimaced, a thread of old loyalty to Anas pulling at him. “Something like that.”

Muntadhir laughed. “Do you remember when you gave your grandfather’s ring to the old crone who used to pace the palace gates? By the Most High, you had shafit beggars trailing you for months.” He shook his head, giving Ali an affectionate smile. “You barely came up to my shoulder back then. I was convinced your mother would throw you in the lake.”

“I think I still have scars from the beating she gave me.”

Muntadhir’s face turned serious, his gray eyes briefly unreadable. “You’re lucky you’re the favorite, you know.”

“Whose favorite? My mother’s?” Ali shook his head. “Hardly. The last thing she said to me was that I spoke her language like a savage, and even that was years ago.”

“Not your mother’s,” Muntadhir pressed. “Abba’s.”

“Abba’s?” Ali laughed. “You’ve had too much wine if you think that. You’re his emir, his firstborn. I’m just the idiot second son he doesn’t trust.”

Muntadhir shook his head. “Not at all … well, all right, you are that, but you’re also the devout zulfiqari a Geziri son is supposed to be, uncorrupted by Daevabad’s delicious delights.” His brother smiled, but this time the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “By the Most High, if I’d given money to the Tanzeem, they’d still be picking smoldering bits of me out of the carpets.”

There was an edge to Muntadhir’s voice that made Ali uncomfortable. And even though he knew his brother was wrong, he decided to change the subject. “I was starting to fear that’s how the Afshin would send you back to Daevabad.”

Muntadhir’s face soured. “I will need more wine if we’re going to talk about Darayavahoush.” He dropped off the wall’s edge and crossed back toward the pavilion.

“That bad?”

His brother returned, setting down one of the food platters and a full goblet of dark wine before pushing back up on the wall. “God, yes. He barely eats, he barely drinks, he just watches, like he’s waiting for the best time to strike. It was like sharing a tent with a viper. By the Most High, he spent so much time staring at me, he probably knows the number of hairs in my beard. And the constant comparisons to how things were better in his time.” He rolled his eyes and affected a heavy Divasti accent. “If the Nahids still ruled, the ifrit would never dare come to the border; if the Nahids still ruled, the Grand Bazaar would be cleaner; if the Nahids still ruled, wine would be sweeter and dancing girls more daring and the world would just about explode in happiness.” He dropped the accent. “Between that and the fire-cult nonsense, I was nearly driven mad.”

Ali frowned. “What fire-cult nonsense?”

“I took a few Daeva soldiers along, thinking Darayavahoush would be more comfortable around his own people.” Muntadhir took a sip of his wine. “He kept goading them into tending those damn altars. By the time we returned, they were all wearing ash marks and barely speaking to the rest of us.”

That sent a chill down Ali’s spine. Religious revivals among the fire worshippers rarely ended well in Daevabad. He joined his brother on the wall.

“I couldn’t even blame them,” Muntadhir continued. “You should have seen him with a bow, Zaydi. He was terrifying. I have no doubt that if his little Banu Nahida wasn’t in Daevabad, he would have murdered us all in our sleep with the barest of efforts.”

“You let him have a weapon?” Ali asked, his voice sharp.

Muntadhir shrugged. “My men wanted to know if the Afshin lived up to the legend. They kept asking.”

Ali was incredulous. “So you tell them no. You were in charge, Muntadhir. You would have been responsible if anything—”

“I was trying to gain their friendship,” his brother cut in. “You wouldn’t understand; you trained with them in the Citadel, and judging from how they spoke of you and your damn zulfiqar, you already have it.”

There was a bitterness to his brother’s voice, but Ali persisted. “You’re not supposed to be friends. You’re supposed to lead.”

“And where was all this common sense when you decided to spar alone with the Scourge of Qui-zi? You think Jamshid didn’t tell me about that bit of idiocy?”

Ali had little defense for that. “It was stupid,” he admitted. He bit his lip, remembering his violent interaction with the Afshin. “Dhiru … while you were gone … did Darayavahoush seem strange to you in any way?”

“Did you not hear anything I just said?”

“That’s not what I mean. It’s just that when we sparred … well, I’ve never seen anyone wield magic like that.”

Muntadhir shrugged. “He’s a freed slave. Don’t they retain some of the power they had when they were working for the ifrit?”

Ali frowned. “But how is he free? We still have his relic. And I’ve been reading up on slaves … I can’t find anything about peris being able to break an ifrit curse. They don’t get involved with our people.”

Muntadhir cracked a walnut in his hand, pulling the meat free. “I’m sure Abba has people looking into it.”

“I suppose.” Ali pulled the platter over and grabbed a handful of pistachios, prying one open and flicking the pale shell into the black water below. “Did Abba tell you the other happy news?”

Muntadhir took another sip of wine, and Ali could see an angry tremor in his hands. “I’m not marrying that human-faced girl.”

“You act like you have a choice.”

“It’s not happening.”

Ali pried open another pistachio. “You should give her a chance, Dhiru. She’s astonishingly smart. You should see how fast she learned to read and write; it’s incredible. She’s worlds brighter than you for sure,” he added, ducking when Muntadhir threw a walnut at his head. “She can help you with your economic policies when you’re king.”

“Yes, that’s just what every man dreams of in a wife,” Muntadhir said drily.

Ali gave him an even gaze. “There are more important qualities for a queen to have than pureblood looks. She’s charming. She has a good sense of humor …”

“Maybe you should marry her.”

That was a low blow. “You know I can’t marry,” Ali said quietly. Second Qahtani sons—especially ones with Ayaanle blood—weren’t allowed legal heirs. No king wanted that many eager young men in line for the throne. “Besides, who else could you want? You can’t possibly think Abba would let you marry that Agnivanshi dancer?”

Muntadhir scoffed, “Don’t be absurd.”

“Then who?”

Muntadhir drew up his knees and set down his empty goblet. “Quite literally anyone else, Zaydi. Manizheh’s the most terrifying person I’ve ever met—and I say that having just spent two months with the Scourge of Qui-zi.” He shuddered. “Forgive my reluctance to jump in bed with the girl Abba says is her daughter.”

Ali rolled his eyes. “That’s ridiculous. Nahri’s nothing like Manizheh.”

Muntadhir didn’t look convinced. “Not yet. But even if she’s not, there’s still the more pressing issue.”

“Which is?”

“Darayavahoush turning me into a pincushion for arrows on my wedding night.”

Ali had no response to that. There was no denying the raw emotion in Nahri’s face when she first saw the Afshin in the infirmary, nor the fiercely protective way he spoke of her.

Muntadhir raised his eyebrows. “Ah, no answer now, I see?” Ali opened his mouth to protest, and Muntadhir hushed him. “It’s fine, Zaydi. You just got back into Abba’s good graces. Follow his orders, enjoy your extremely bizarre friendship. I’ll clash with him alone.” He hopped off the parapet. “But now, if you don’t mind me turning my attention to more pleasurable matters … I am due a reunion at Khanzada’s.” He adjusted the collar on his robe and gave Ali a wicked smile. “Want to come?”

“To Khanzada’s?” Ali made a disgusted face. “No.”

Muntadhir laughed. “Something will tempt you one day,” he called over his shoulder as he headed for the stairs. “Someone.”

His brother left, and Ali’s gaze fell again on the telescope.

They will be a poor match, he thought for the first time, remembering the curiosity with which Nahri had studied the stars. Muntadhir was right: Ali did like the clever Banu Nahida, finding her constant questions and sharp responses an oddly delightful challenge. But he suspected Muntadhir would not. True, his brother liked women; he liked them smiling and bejeweled, soft and sweet and accommodating. Muntadhir would never spend hours in the library with Nahri, arguing the ethics of haggling and crawling through shelves crowded with cursed scrolls. Nor could Ali imagine Nahri content to loll on a couch for hours, listening to poets pine for their lost loves and discussing the quality of wine.

And he won’t be loyal to her. That went without saying. Truthfully, few kings were; most had multiple wives and concubines, though his own father was something of an exception, only marrying Hatset after his first wife—Muntadhir’s mother—had died. Either way, it was a thing Ali never really questioned, a way to secure alliances and the reality of his world.

But he didn’t like to imagine Nahri subjected to it.

It isn’t your place to question any of this, he chided as he raised the telescope to his eyes. Not now and certainly not once they were married. Ali didn’t buy Muntadhir’s defiance; no one stood against their father’s wishes for long.

Ali wasn’t sure how long he stayed on the roof, lost in his thoughts as he watched the stars. Such solitude was a rare commodity in the palace, and the black velvet of the sky, the distant twinkling of faraway suns seemed to invite him to linger. Eventually he dropped the telescope to his lap, leaning against the stone parapet and idly contemplating the dark lake.

Half asleep and lost in thought, it took Ali a few minutes to realize a shafit servant had arrived and was gathering up the abandoned goblets and half-eaten platters of food.

“You are done with those, my prince?”

Ali glanced up. The shafit man motioned to the platter of nuts and Muntadhir’s goblet. “Yes, thank you.” Ali bent to remove the lens from the telescope, cursing under his breath as he pricked himself on the sharp glass edge. He had promised the scholars that he would pack up the valuable instrument himself.

Something smashed into the back of his head.

Ali reeled. The platter of nuts crashed to the ground. His head felt fuzzy as he tried to turn; he saw the shafit servant, the gleam of a dark blade …

And then the terrible, tearing wrongness of a sharp thrust in his stomach.

There was a moment of coldness, of foreignness, something hard and new where there had been nothing at all. A hiss, as if the blade were cauterizing a wound.

Ali opened his mouth to scream as the pain hit him in a blinding wave. The servant shoved a rag between his teeth, muffling the sound, and then pushed him hard against the stone wall.

But it wasn’t a servant. The man’s eyes turned copper, red stealing into his black hair. Hanno.

“Didn’t recognize me, crocodile?” the shapeshifter spat.

Ali’s left arm was bent behind his back. He tried to shove Hanno off with his free hand, and in response, the shafit man twisted the blade. Ali screamed into the rag, and his arm fell back. Hot blood spread across his tunic, turning the fabric black.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Hanno mocked. “Iron blade. Very expensive. Ironically enough, bought with the last of your money.” He shoved the knife deeper, stopping only when it hit the stone behind Ali.

Black spots blossomed in front of Ali’s eyes. It felt like his stomach was filled with ice, ice that was steadily extinguishing the fire that dwelled inside him. Desperate to get the blade out, he tried to knee the other man in the stomach, but Hanno easily evaded him.

“‘Give him time,’ Rashid tells me. Like we’re all purebloods with centuries to muse on what’s right and wrong.” Hanno pressed his weight on the knife, and Ali let out another muffled scream. “Anas died for you.”

Ali scrambled for purchase on Hanno’s shirt. The Tanzeem man yanked the knife out and plunged it higher, dangerously close to his lungs.

Hanno seemed to read his thoughts. “I know how to kill purebloods, Alizayd. I wouldn’t leave you half dead and take the chance of you being rushed to that fire-worshipping Nahid people say you’re fucking in the library.” He leaned in close, his eyes filled with hate. “I know how … but we’re going to do this slowly.”

Hanno made good on the threat, pushing the knife higher with such an exaggerated, agonizing unhurriedness that Ali would swear he felt each individual nerve tear. “I had a daughter, you know,” Hanno started, grief stealing into his eyes. “About your age. Well, no … she never got to be your age. Would you like to know why, Alizayd?” He wiggled the blade, and Ali gasped. “Would you like to know what purebloods like you did to her when she was just a child?”

Ali couldn’t find the words to apologize. To plead. The rag fell from his mouth, but it didn’t matter. All he could manage was a low cry when Hanno twisted the knife yet again.

“No?” the shapeshifter asked. “That’s fine. It’s a story better told to the king. I intend to wait for him, you know. I want to see his face when he finds these walls covered in your blood. I want him to wonder how many times you screamed for him to come save you.” His voice broke. “I want your father to know what it feels like.”

Blood puddled at Ali’s feet. Hanno held him tight, crushing his left hand. Something stung from inside his palm.

The glass lens from the telescope.

“Emir-joon?” He heard a familiar voice from the stairs. “Muntadhir, are you still here? I’ve been looking—”

Jamshid e-Pramukh emerged from the staircase, a blue glass bottle of wine dangling from one hand. He froze at the bloody scene.

Hanno wrenched the knife free with a snarl.

Ali slammed his forehead into the other man’s.

It took every bit of strength he could muster, enough to send his own head spinning and to draw a dull crack from Hanno’s skull. The shapeshifter reeled. Ali didn’t hesitate. He struck out hard with the glass lens and slashed his throat open.

Hanno staggered back, dark red blood pouring from his throat. The shafit man looked confused and a little frightened. He certainly didn’t look like a would-be assassin now; he looked like a broken, grieving father covered in blood. Blood that had never been black enough for Daevabad.

But he was still holding the knife. He lurched toward Ali.

Jamshid was faster. He brought the wine bottle up and smashed it over Hanno’s head.

Hanno dropped, and Jamshid caught Ali as he fell. “Alizayd, my God! Are you …” He glanced in horror at his bloody hands and then lowered Ali into a sitting position. “I’ll get help!”

“No,” Ali said, croaking the word, tasting blood in his mouth. He grabbed Jamshid’s collar before he could rise. “Get rid of him.”

The command came out in a growl, and Jamshid stiffened. “What?”

Ali fought for breath. The pain in his stomach was fading. He was fairly certain he was about to pass out—or die, a possibility which probably should have bothered him more than it did. But he was focused on only one thing—the shafit assassin lying at his feet, his hand clutching a blade wet with Qahtani blood. His father would murder every mixed-blood in Daevabad if he saw this.

“Get … rid of him,” Ali breathed. “That’s an order.”

He saw Jamshid swallow, his black eyes darting between Hanno and the wall. “Yes, my prince.”

Ali leaned against the stone, the wall icy cold in comparison to the blood soaking his clothes. Jamshid dragged Hanno to the parapet; there was a distant splash. The edges of his vision darkened, but something glittered on the ground, catching his attention. The telescope.

“N-Nahri …,” Ali slurred as Jamshid returned. “Just … Nahri—” And then the ground rushed up to meet him.