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

Urgent.

The word rang through Nahri’s mind, tying her stomach into knots as she hurried back to the infirmary. She wasn’t ready for anything urgent; indeed, she was tempted to slow her pace. Better for someone to die waiting rather than be murdered directly by her incompetence.

Nahri pushed open the infirmary door. “All right, Nisreen, what—” She abruptly shut her mouth.

Ghassan al Qahtani sat at the bedside of one of her patients, a Geziri cleric far into his third century who was slowly turning to charcoal. Nisreen said it was a fairly common condition among the elderly, fatal if untreated. Nahri had pointed out that being three hundred was a condition that should soon prove fatal, but treated the man anyway, putting him near a steamy vaporizer and giving him a dose of watery mud charmed by an enchantment Nisreen had coached her through. He had been in the infirmary for a few days, and had seemed fine when she left: fast asleep, with the burning contained to his feet.

A chill crept down her spine as she watched the fondness with which the king squeezed the sheikh’s hand. Nisreen was standing behind them. There was a warning in her black eyes.

“Your Majesty,” Nahri stammered. She quickly brought her palms together and then, deciding it couldn’t hurt, bowed. “Forgive me … I didn’t realize you were here.”

The king smiled and stood. “No apology necessary, Banu Nahida. I heard my sheikh wasn’t doing well and came by to offer my prayers.” He turned back to the old man and touched his shoulder, adding something in Geziriyya. Her patient offered a wheezy response, and Ghassan laughed.

He approached, and she forced herself to hold his gaze. “Did you enjoy your evening with my children?” he asked.

“Very much.” Her skin prickled; she could swear she felt the power literally radiating off him. She couldn’t resist adding, “I’m sure Alizayd will report everything later.”

The king’s gray eyes twinkled, amused by her gall. “Indeed, Banu Nahida.” He gestured at the old man. “Please, do what you can for him. I’ll rest easier knowing that my teacher is in the hands of Banu Manizheh’s daughter.”

Nahri bowed again, waiting until she heard the door close to hurry to the sheikh’s side. She prayed she hadn’t already said or done something rude in front of him, but knew that was unlikely—the infirmary put her in a foul mood.

She forced a smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” he rasped. “God be praised, my feet finally stopped hurting.”

“There is something you should see,” Nisreen said softly. She lifted the sheikh’s blanket, blocking his view so Nahri could examine his feet.

They were gone.

Not only were they gone—reduced to ash—but the infection had swept up his legs to take root in his skinny thighs. A smoldering black line licked toward his left hip, and Nahri swallowed, trying to conceal her horror.

“I-I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better,” she said with as much cheer as she could muster. “If you’ll just … ah, let me confer with my assistant.”

She dragged Nisreen out of earshot. “What happened?” she hissed. “You said we fixed him!”

“I said no such thing,” Nisreen corrected her, looking indignant. “There’s no cure for his condition, especially at his age. It can only be managed.”

“How is that managing it? The enchantment seems to have made him worse!” Nahri shuddered. “Did you not just hear the king crowing about what good hands he’s in?”

Nisreen beckoned her toward the apothecary shelves. “Trust me, Banu Nahri, King Ghassan knows how serious the situation is. Sheikh Auda’s condition is familiar to our people.” She sighed. “The burn is advancing quickly. I sent a messenger to retrieve his wife. We’ll just try to keep him as comfortable as possible until then.”

Nahri stared at Nisreen. “What do you mean? There must be something else we can try.”

“He’s dying, Banu Nahida. He will not last the night.”

“But—”

“You cannot help them all.” Nisreen laid a gentle hand on her elbow. “And he’s elderly. He’s lived a good, long life.”

That may have been so, but Nahri could not help thinking about how affectionately Ghassan had spoken of the other man. “It figures my next failure would be a friend of the king.”

“Is that what’s worrying you?” The sympathy vanished from her assistant’s face “Could you not put your patient’s needs above your own for once? And you’ve not yet failed. We haven’t even started.”

“You just said there was nothing we could do!”

“We’ll try to keep him alive until his wife arrives.” Nisreen headed toward the apothecary shelves. “He’ll suffocate when the infection reaches his lungs. There’s a procedure that will give him a little more time, but it’s very precise and you’ll have to be the one to do it.”

Nahri didn’t like the sound of that. She hadn’t tried another advanced procedure since nearly strangling the Daeva woman with the salamander.

She reluctantly followed Nisreen. In the light of the flickering torches and blazing fire pit, her apothecary looked alive. Various ingredients twitched and shuddered behind the hazy, sandblasted glass shelves, and Nahri did the same at the sight. She missed Yaqub’s apothecary, full of recognizable—and reliably dead—supplies. Ginger for indigestion, sage for night sweats, things she knew how to use. Not poisonous gases, live cobras, and an entire phoenix dissolved in honey.

Nisreen pulled free a pair of slender silver tweezers from her apron and opened a small cabinet. She carefully plucked out a glimmering copper tube about the length of a hand and skinny as a smoking cheroot. She held it at arm’s length, jerking away when Nahri reached for it.

“Don’t touch it with your bare skin,” she warned. “It’s Geziri made, from the same material as their zulfiqar blades. There’s no healing from the injury.”

Nahri pulled back her hand. “Not even for a Nahid?”

Nisreen gave her a dark look. “How do you think your prince’s people took Daevabad from your ancestors?”

“Then what am I supposed to do with it?”

“You will insert it into his lungs and then his throat to relieve some of the pressure as his ability to breathe burns away.”

“You want me to stab him with some magical Geziri weapon that destroys Nahid flesh?” Had Nisreen suddenly developed a sense of humor?

“No,” her assistant said flatly. “I want you to insert it into his lungs and then his throat to relieve some of the pressure as his ability to breathe burns away. His wife lives on the other side of the city. I fear it will take time to reach her.”

“Well, God willing, she moves faster than him. Because I am not doing anything with that murderous little tube.”

“Yes, you are,” Nisreen said, rebuking her. “You’re not going to deny a man a final good-bye with his beloved because you’re afraid. You are the Banu Nahida; this is your responsibility.” She pushed past her. “Prepare yourself. I’ll get him ready for the procedure.”

“Nisreen …”

But her assistant was already returning to the ailing man’s side. Nahri quickly washed up, her hands shaking as she watched Nisreen help the sheikh sip a cup of steaming tea. When he groaned, she pressed a cool cloth to his brow.

She should be the Banu Nahida. It was not the first time the thought had occurred to Nahri. Nisreen cared for their patients like they were family members. She was welcoming and warm, confident in her abilities. And despite her frequent grumblings about the Geziri, there was no hint of prejudice as she tended to the old man. Nahri watched, trying to squash the jealousy flaring up in her chest. What she would give to feel competent again.

Nisreen looked up. “We’re ready for you, Banu Nahri.” She glanced down at the cleric. “It will hurt. You’re sure you don’t want some wine?”

He shook his head. “N-no,” he managed, his voice trembling. He glanced at the door, the movement obviously causing him pain. “Do you think my wife—” He let out a hacking, smoky cough.

Nisreen squeezed his hand. “We’ll give you as much time as we can.”

Nahri chewed the inside of her cheek, unnerved by the man’s emotional state. She was used to looking for weakness in fear, for gullibility in grief. She had no idea how to make small talk with someone about to die. But still she stepped closer, forcing what she hoped was a confident smile.

The sheikh’s eyes flickered to her. His mouth twitched, as if he might be trying to return her smile, and then he gasped, dropping Nisreen’s hand.

Her assistant was on her feet in a flash. She pulled apart the man’s robe to reveal a blackened chest, the skin smoldering. A sharp, septic odor filled the air as Nisreen’s precise fingers ran up his sternum and then slightly to the left.

She seemed unbothered by the sight. “Bring the tray over here and hand me a scalpel.”

Nahri did so, and Nisreen sank the scalpel into the man’s chest, ignoring his gasp as she cut away a section of burning skin. She clamped the flesh open and beckoned Nahri closer. “Come here.”

Nahri leaned over the bed. Just below the rush of foamy black blood was a billowing mass of glimmering gold tissue. It fluttered softly, slowing as it took on an ashen hue. “My God,” she marveled. “Are those his lungs?”

Nisreen nodded. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” She picked up the tweezers holding the copper tube and held it out to Nahri. “Aim for the center and gently insert. Don’t go deeper than a hair or two.”

Her brief sense of wonderment vanished. Nahri looked between the tube and the man’s fading lungs. She swallowed, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe herself.

“Banu Nahida,” Nisreen prompted, her voice urgent.

Nahri took the tweezers and held the tube over the delicate tissue. “I-I can’t,” she whispered. “I’m going to hurt him.”

His skin suddenly flared, the lungs crumpling into powdery ash as the burning embers swept toward his neck. Nisreen quickly pushed aside his long beard, exposing his neck.

“The throat then, it’s his only chance.” When she hesitated, Nisreen glared. “Nahri!”

Nahri moved, bringing the tube swiftly down to where Nisreen pointed. It went in as easily as a hot knife through butter. She felt a moment of relief.

And then it sank deep.

“No, don’t!” Nisreen grabbed for the tweezers as Nahri tried to pull the tube back up. A terrible sucking sound came from the sheikh’s throat. Blood bubbled and simmered over her hands, and his entire body seized.

Nahri panicked. She held her hands against his throat, desperately willing the blood to stop. His terrified eyes locked on hers. “Nisreen, what do I do?” she cried. The man seized again, more violently.

And then he was gone.

She knew it immediately; the weak beat of his heart shuddered to a stop, and the intelligent spark flickered out of his gray gaze. His chest sank, and the tube whistled, the air finally escaping.

Nahri didn’t move, unable to look away from the man’s tortured face. A tear trailed from his sparse lashes.

Nisreen closed his eyes. “He’s gone, Banu Nahida,” she said softly. “You tried.”

I tried. Nahri had made this man’s last moments a living hell. His body was a wreck, his lower half burned away, his bloody throat torn open.

She took a shaky step away, catching sight of her own singed clothes. Her hands and wrists were coated in blood and ash. Without another word, she crossed to the washbasin and started fiercely scrubbing her hands. She could feel Nisreen’s eyes on her back.

“We should clean him up before his wife gets here,” her assistant said. “Try to—”

“Make it look like I didn’t kill him?” Nahri cut in. She didn’t turn around; the skin on her hands smarted as she scoured them.

“You didn’t kill him, Banu Nahri.” Nisreen joined her at the sink. “He was going to die. It was only a matter of time.” She went to lay a hand on Nahri’s shoulder, and Nahri jerked away.

“Don’t touch me.” She could feel herself losing control. “This is your fault. I told you I couldn’t use that instrument. I’ve been telling you since I arrived that I wasn’t ready to treat patients. And you didn’t care. You just keep pushing me!”

Nahri saw something crack in the older woman’s face. “Do you think I want to?” she asked, her voice oddly desperate. “Do you think I would be pushing you if I had any other choice?”

Nahri was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

Nisreen collapsed in a nearby chair, letting her head fall into her hands. “The king wasn’t just here to see an old friend, Nahri. He was here to count the empty beds and ask why you’re not treating more patients. There’s a waiting list—twenty pages deep and growing—for appointments with you. And those are just the nobles—the Creator only knows how many others in the city need your skills. If the Qahtanis had their way, every bed in here would be filled.”

“Then people need to be more patient!” Nahri countered. “Daevabad lasted twenty years without a healer—surely she can wait a bit longer.” She leaned against the washbasin. “My God, even human physicians study for years, and they’re dealing with colds, not curses. I need more time to be properly trained.”

Nisreen let out a dry, humorless laugh. “You’ll never be properly trained. Ghassan might want the infirmary filled, but he’d be pleased if your skills never went beyond the basic. He’d probably be happiest if half your patients died.” When Nahri frowned, her assistant straightened up, looking at her in surprise. “Do you not understand what’s going on here?”

“Apparently not in the least.”

“They want you weak, Nahri. You’re the daughter of Banu Manizheh. You marched into Daevabad with Darayavahoush e-Afshin at your side the day a mob of shafit tried to break into the Daeva Quarter. You nearly killed a woman out of irritation … did you not notice that your guards were doubled after that day? You think the Qahtanis want to let you train?” Nisreen gave her a disbelieving look. “You should be happy you’re not forced to wear an iron cuff when you visit their prince.”

“I … But they let me have the infirmary. They pardoned Dara.”

“The king had no choice but to pardon Darayavahoush—he is beloved among our people. Were the Qahtanis to harm a hair on his head, half the city would rise up. And as for the infirmary? It is symbolic, as are you. The king wants a Nahid healer as a herder wants a dog, occasionally useful but entirely dependent.”

Nahri stiffened in anger. “I’m no one’s dog.”

“No?” Nisreen crossed her arms, her wrists still covered in ash and blood. “Then why are you playing into their hands?”

“What are you talking about?”

Nisreen drew closer. “There is no hiding your lack of progress in the infirmary, child,” she warned. “You entirely ignored the Daevas who came to see you at the Grand Temple—and then you stormed out without a word. You neglect your fire altar, you eat meat in public, you spend all your free time with that Qahtani zealot …” Her face darkened. “Nahri, our tribe doesn’t think lightly of disloyalty; we’ve suffered too much at the hands of our enemies. Daevas who are suspected of collaboration … life is not easy for them.”

“Collaboration?” Nahri was incredulous. “Staying on good terms with the people in power isn’t collaboration, Nisreen. It’s common sense. And if my eating kebab bothers a bunch of gossipy fire worshippers—”

Nisreen gasped. “What did you say?”

Too late Nahri remembered the Daevas hated the term. “Oh, come on, Nisreen, it’s just a word. You know I didn’t—”

“It’s not just a word!” Furious red spots blossomed in Nisreen’s pale cheeks. “That slur has been used to demonize our tribe for centuries. It’s what people spit when they rip off our women’s veils and beat our men. It’s what the authorities charge us with whenever they want to raid our homes or seize our property. That you—of all people—would use it …”

Her assistant stood, pacing farther into the infirmary with her hands laced behind her head. She glared back at Nahri. “Do you even want to improve? How many times have I told you how important intention is in healing? How critical belief is when wielding magic?” She spread her hands, gesturing to the infirmary surrounding them. “Do you believe in any of this, Banu Nahri? Care anything for our people? Our culture?”

Nahri dropped her gaze, a guilty flush filling her cheeks. No. She hated how quickly the answer leaped to her mind, but it was the truth.

Nisreen must have sensed her discomfort. “I thought not.” She took the crumpled blanket lying abandoned at the foot of the sheikh’s bed and silently spread it over his body, her fingers lingering on his brow. When she glanced up, there was open despair in her face. “How can you be the Banu Nahida when you care nothing for the way of life your ancestors created?”

“And rubbing my head in ash and wasting half the day tending a fire altar will make me a better healer?” Nahri pushed off the washbasin with a scowl. Did Nisreen think she didn’t feel badly enough about the sheikh? “My hand slipped, Nisreen. It slipped because I should have practiced that procedure a hundred times before being let anywhere near that man!”

Nahri knew she should stop, but shaken and frustrated, fed up with the impossible expectations dropped on her shoulders the moment she’d entered Daevabad, she pressed on. “You want to know what I think of the Daeva faith? I think it’s a scam. A bunch of overly complicated rituals designed to worship the very people who created it.” She bunched her apron into an angry ball. “No wonder the djinn won the war. The Daevas were probably so busy refilling oil lamps and bowing to a horde of laughing Nahids that they didn’t even realize the Qahtanis invaded until—”

“Enough!” Nisreen snapped. She looked angrier than Nahri had ever seen her. “The Nahids pulled our entire race out of human servitude. They were the only ones brave enough to fight the ifrit. They built this city, this magical city with no rival in the world, to rule an empire that spanned continents.” She drew closer, her eyes blazing. “And when your beloved Qahtanis arrived, when the streets ran black with Daeva blood and the air thick with the screams of dying children and violated women … this tribe of fire worshippers survived. We survived it all.” Her mouth twisted in disgust. “And we deserve better than you.”

Nahri gritted her teeth. Nisreen’s words had found their mark, but she refused to concede such a thing.

Instead, she threw her apron at the older woman’s feet. “Good luck finding a replacement.” And then—avoiding the sight of the man she’d just killed—she turned and stormed out.

Nisreen followed. “His wife is coming. You can’t just leave. Nahri!” she shouted as Nahri flung open the door to her bedchamber. “Come back and—”

Nahri slammed the door in Nisreen’s face.

The room was dark—as usual, she’d let the fire altar go out—but Nahri didn’t care. She staggered to her bed, fell face-first on the lush quilt, and for the first time since she arrived in Daevabad, probably for the first time in a decade, she let herself sob.

SHE COULDN’T HAVE SAID HOW MUCH TIME PASSED. She didn’t sleep. Nisreen knocked on her door at least a half-dozen times, begging softly for her to come back out. Nahri ignored her. She curled into a ball on the bed, staring vacantly at the enormous landscape painted on the wall.

Zariaspa, someone once told her, the mural painted by her uncle, although the familial word felt as false as ever. These people weren’t hers. This city, this faith, her supposed tribe … they were alien and strange. She was suddenly tempted to destroy the painting, to knock over the fire altar, to get rid of every reminder of this duty she’d never asked for. The only Daeva she cared for had rejected her; she wanted nothing to do with the rest.

As if on cue, the knocking started again, a lighter tap on the rarely used servants’ door. Nahri ignored it for a few seconds, growing silently more enraged as it continued, steady as a dripping pipe. Finally she flung her blanket away and flew to her feet, stomping over to the door and yanking it open.

“What is it now, Nisreen?” she snapped.

But it wasn’t Nisreen at her door. It was Jamshid e-Pramukh, and he looked terrified.

He staggered in without invitation, bowed under the weight of an enormous sack over his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Banu Nahida, but I had no choice. He insisted I bring him straight to you.” He dropped the sack on her bed and snapped his fingers, flames bursting between them to illuminate the room.

It wasn’t a sack he’d dropped on her bed.

It was Alizayd al Qahtani.

NAHRI WAS AT ALI’S SIDE IN SECONDS. THE PRINCE was unconscious and covered in blood, pale ash coating his skin.

“What happened?” she gasped.

“He was stabbed.” Jamshid held out a long knife, the blade dark with blood. “I found this. Do you think you can heal him?”

A rush of fear swept through her. “Take him to the infirmary. I’ll get Nisreen.”

Jamshid moved to block her. “He said just you.”

Nahri was incredulous. “I don’t care what he said! I’m barely trained; I’m not going to heal the king’s son alone in my bedroom!”

“I think you should try. He was most adamant, and Banu Nahida …” Jamshid glanced at the unconscious prince and then lowered his voice. “When a Qahtani gives an order in Daevabad … you obey.” They’d switched to Divasti without her noticing, and the dark words in her native tongue sent a chill through her veins.

Nahri took the bloody knife and brought it close to her face. Iron, though she smelled nothing that would indicate poison. She touched the blade. It didn’t spark, burst into flames, or evidence any sort of godforsaken magical malice. “Do you know if this is cursed?”

Jamshid shook his head. “I doubt it. The man who attacked him was shafit.”

Shafit? Nahri stayed her curiosity, her attention focused on Ali. If it’s a normal injury, it shouldn’t matter that he’s a djinn. You’ve healed wounds like this in the past.

She knelt at Ali’s side. “Help me get his shirt off. I need to examine him.”

Ali’s tunic was so badly destroyed that it was small effort to finish ripping it open. She could see three jagged wounds, including one that seemed to go all the way through to his back. She pressed her palms against the largest one and closed her eyes. She thought back to how she’d saved Dara and tried to do the same, willing Ali to heal and imagining the skin healthy and whole.

She braced herself for visions, but none came. Instead, she caught the scent of salt water, and a briny taste filled her mouth. But her intentions must have been clear; the wound twitched under her fingers, and Ali shivered, letting out a low groan.

“By the Creator …,” Jamshid whispered. “That’s extraordinary.”

“Hold him still,” she warned. “I’m not done.” She lifted her hands. The wound had started to close, but his flesh was still discolored and looked almost porous. She lightly touched his skin, and foamy black blood rose to the surface, like pressing on a soaked sponge. She closed her eyes and tried again, but it stayed the same.

Though the room was cool, sweat poured from her skin, so much so that her fingers grew slick. Wiping them on her shirt, she moved on to the other wounds, the salty taste intensifying. Ali hadn’t opened his eyes, but the rhythm of his heart stabilized under her fingertips. He took a shaky breath, and Nahri sat back on her heels to examine her half-completed work.

Something seemed wrong. Maybe it’s the iron? Dara had told her on their journey that iron could impair purebloods.

I could stitch it. She’d done some stitching with Nisreen, using silver thread treated with some sort of charm. It was supposed to have restorative qualities and seemed worth a try. Ali didn’t look like he was going to keel over and die if she took a few minutes to retrieve some supplies from the infirmary. But it was still a guess. For all she knew, his organs were destroyed and leaking into his body.

Ali murmured something in Geziriyya, and his gray eyes slowly blinked open, growing wide and confused as he took in the unfamiliar room. He tried to sit up, letting out a low gasp of pain.

“Don’t move,” she warned. “You’ve been injured.”

“I …” His voice came out in a croak, and then she saw his gaze fall on the knife. His face crumpled, a devastated shadow overtaking his eyes. “Oh.”

“Ali.” She touched his cheek. “I’m going to get some supplies from the infirmary, okay? Stay here with Jamshid.” The Daeva guard didn’t look particularly pleased by that but nodded, and she slipped out.

The infirmary was quiet; the patients she hadn’t killed asleep and Nisreen gone for now. Nahri set a pot of water to boil on the glowing embers in her fire pit and then retrieved the silver thread and a few needles, all the while studiously ignoring the sheikh’s now-empty bed.

When the water came to a boil, she added a sludgy spoonful of bitumen, some honey, and salt, following one of the pharmaceutical recipes Nisreen had shown her. After a moment of hesitation, she crumbled in a prepared opium pod. It would be easier to stitch Ali up if he was calm.

Her mind ran rampant with speculation. Why would Ali possibly want to hide an attempt on his life? She was surprised the king himself wasn’t in the infirmary to ensure that his son got the best treatment, while the Royal Guard swept the city, breaking down doors and rounding up shafit in search of conspirators.

Maybe that’s why he wants it kept quiet. It was obvious Ali had a soft spot for the shafit. But she wasn’t about to complain. Just a few hours earlier, she feared Ghassan would punish her for accidentally killing the sheikh. Now his youngest—his favorite, according to some gossip she’d overheard—was hiding in her bedroom, his life in her hands.

Balancing her supplies and the tea, Nahri tucked a copper ewer of water under one arm and headed back to her room. She edged the door open. Ali was in the same position he’d been in when she left. Jamshid paced the bedchamber, looking like he sorely regretted whatever chain of events had led him to this moment.

He glanced up when she approached and quickly crossed to take the tray of supplies. She nodded at a low table in front of the fireplace.

He set it down. “I’m going to go get his brother,” he whispered in Divasti.

She glanced at Ali. The blood-covered prince looked to be in shock, his shaking hands wandering over the ruined sheets. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Better than two Daevas getting caught trying to cover up an attempt on his life.”

Excellent point. “Be fast.”

Jamshid left, and Nahri returned to the bed. “Ali? Ali,” she repeated when he didn’t respond. He startled, and she reached for him. “Come closer to the fire. I need the light.”

He nodded but didn’t move. “Come on,” she said gently, pulling him to his feet. He let out a low hiss of pain, one arm clutched against his stomach.

She helped him onto the couch and pressed the steaming cup into his hands. “Drink.” She pulled over the table and laid out her thread and needles, then went to her hammam to retrieve a stack of towels. When she returned, Ali had abandoned the cup of tea and was draining the entire ewer of water. He let it fall back to the table with an empty thud.

She raised an eyebrow. “Thirsty?”

He nodded. “Sorry. I saw it, and I …” He looked dazed, whether from the opium or the injury she didn’t know. “I couldn’t stop.”

“There’s probably barely any liquid left in your body,” she replied. She sat and threaded her needle. Ali was still holding his side. “Move your hand,” she said, reaching for it when he didn’t comply. “I need to …” She trailed off. The blood covering Ali’s right hand wasn’t black.

It was the dark crimson of a shafit—and there was a lot of it.

Her breath caught. “I guess your assassin didn’t get away.”

Ali stared at his hand. “No,” he said softly. “He didn’t.” He glanced up. “I had Jamshid throw him in the lake …” His voice was oddly distant, as if marveling over a curiosity not connected to him, but grief clouded his gray eyes. “I … I’m not even sure he was dead.”

Nahri’s fingers trembled on the needle. When a Qahtani gives an order in Daevabad, you obey. “You should finish your tea, Ali. You’ll feel better, and it’ll make this easier.”

He had no reaction when she started stitching. She made sure her movements were precise; there was no room for error here.

She worked in silence for a few minutes, waiting for the opium to take full effect, before finally asking, “Why?”

Ali set his cup down—or tried to. It fell from his hands. “Why what?”

“Why are you trying to hide the fact that someone wanted to kill you?”

He shook his head. “I can’t tell you.”

“Oh, come on. You can’t expect me to fix the results without knowing what happened. The curiosity will kill me. I’ll have to invent some salacious story to amuse myself.” Nahri kept her tone light, occasionally glancing up from her work to gauge his reaction. He looked exhausted. “Please tell me it was because of a woman. I would hold that over you for—”

“It wasn’t a woman.”

“Then what?”

Ali swallowed. “Jamshid went to get Muntadhir, didn’t he?” When Nahri nodded, he started to shake. “He’s going to kill me. He’s …” He suddenly pressed a hand to his head, looking like he was fighting a swoon. “Sorry … do you have some more water?” he asked. “I-I feel terribly strange.”

Nahri refilled the ewer from a narrow cistern set in the wall. She started to pour him a cup, but he shook his head.

“The whole thing,” he said, taking it and draining it as quickly as he had the first. He sighed with pleasure. She looked at him askance before returning to her stitches.

“Be careful,” she advised him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone drink so much water so quickly.”

He didn’t respond, but his increasingly glazed eyes took in her bedchamber again. “The infirmary is much smaller than I remember,” he said, sounding confused. Nahri hid a smile. “How can you fit patients in here?”

“I’ve heard your father wants me treating more.”

Ali waved dismissively. “He just wants their money. But we don’t need it. We have so much. Too much. The Treasury is sure to collapse from its weight one day.” He stared at his hands as he waved again. “I can’t feel my fingers,” he said, sounding surprisingly untroubled by this revelation.

“They’re still there.” The king’s earning money off my patients? It shouldn’t have surprised her, but she felt her anger quicken anyway. Collapsing Treasury, indeed.

Before she could question him further, a surge of wetness under her fingers caught her attention, and she glanced down in alarm, expecting blood. But the liquid was clear and as she rubbed it between her fingers, she realized what it was.

Water. It trickled through the fissures of Ali’s half-healed wounds, washing free the blood and seeping past her stitches, smoothing out his skin as it passed. Healing him.

What in God’s name … Nahri gave the ewer a puzzled glance, wondering if there’d been something in it she wasn’t aware of.

Strange. But she kept at her work, listening to Ali’s increasingly nonsensical ramblings and occasionally assuring him that it was okay that the room looked blue and the air tasted of vinegar. The opium had improved his mood, and oddly enough she started to relax as she noticed improvement with each stitch.

If only I could find such success with magical illnesses. She thought of the way the old man’s frightened eyes locked on hers as he breathed his last. It was not something she would ever forget.

“I killed my first patient today,” she confessed softly. She wasn’t sure why, but it felt better to say it out loud, and God knew Ali was in no state to remember. “An old man from your tribe. I made a mistake, and it killed him.”

The prince dropped his head to stare at her but said nothing, his eyes bright. Nahri continued. “I always wanted this … well, something like this. I used to dream of becoming a physician in the human world. I saved every coin I could, hoping one day to have enough to bribe some academy to take me.” Her face fell. “And now I’m terrible at it. Every time I feel like I master something, a dozen new things are thrown upon me with no warning.”

Ali squinted and looked down his long nose to study her. “You’re not terrible,” he declared. “You’re my friend.”

The sincerity in his voice only worsened her guilt. He’s not my friend, she’d told Dara. He’s a mark. Right … a mark who’d become the closest thing she had to an ally after Dara.

The realization unsettled her. I don’t want you caught up in any political feuds if Alizayd al Qahtani ends up with a silk cord around his neck, Dara had warned. Nahri shuddered; she could only imagine what her Afshin would think of this midnight liaison.

She briskly finished her last stitch. “You look awful. Let me clean off the blood.”

In the time it took her to dampen a cloth, Ali was asleep on the couch. She pulled off what remained of his bloody tunic and tossed it into the fire, adding her ruined bedding as well. The knife she kept, after wiping it down. One never knew when these things would come in handy. She cleaned Ali up as best she could and then—after briefly admiring her stitches—covered him with a thin blanket.

She sat across from him. She almost wished Nisreen was here. Not only would the sight of the “Qahtani zealot” sleeping in her bedroom likely give the other woman a heart attack, but Nahri would happily throw her hateful comments back in her face by pointing out how successfully she’d healed him.

The door to the servants’ entrance smashed open. Nahri jumped and reached for the knife.

But it was only Muntadhir. “My brother,” he burst out, his gray eyes bright with worry. “Where …” His gaze fell upon Ali, and he rushed to his side, dropping to the ground. He touched his cheek. “Is he all right?”

“I think so,” Nahri replied. “I gave him something to help him sleep. It’s best if he doesn’t jostle those stitches.”

Muntadhir lifted the blanket and gasped. “My God …” He stared at his brother’s wounds another moment before letting the blanket fall back. “I’m going to kill him,” he said in a shaky whisper, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m going to—”

“Emir-joon.” Jamshid had joined them. He touched Muntadhir’s shoulder. “Talk to him first. Maybe he had a good reason.”

“A reason? Look at him. Why would he cover something like this up?” Muntadhir let out an aggravated sigh before glancing back at her. “Can we move him?”

She nodded. “Just be careful. I’ll come check on him later. I want him to rest for a few days, at least until those wounds heal.”

“Oh, he’ll be resting, that’s for sure.” Muntadhir rubbed his temples. “A sparring accident.” She raised her eyebrows, and he explained. “That’s how this happened, do you understand?” he asked, looking between her and Jamshid.

Jamshid was skeptical. “No one’s going to believe I did this to your brother. The reverse, maybe.”

“No one else is going to see his wounds,” Muntadhir replied. “He was embarrassed by the defeat, and he came to the Banu Nahida alone, assuming their friendship would buy him some discretion … which is correct, yes?”

Nahri sensed this wasn’t the best moment to bargain. She ducked her head. “Of course.”

“Good.” He kept his gaze on her a moment longer, something conflicted in its depths. “Thank you, Banu Nahri,” he said softly. “You saved his life tonight—that’s a thing I won’t forget.”

Nahri held the door as the two men made their way out, the unconscious Ali between them. She could still detect the steady beat of his heart, recalling the moment he’d gasped, the wound closing beneath her fingers.

It wasn’t a thing she would forget either.

She closed the door, picked up her supplies, and then headed back to the infirmary to put them away—she couldn’t risk making Nisreen suspicious. It was quiet, a stillness in the misty air. Dawn was approaching, she realized, early morning sunlight filtering through the infirmary’s glass ceiling, falling in dusty rays on the apothecary wall and her tables. Upon the sheikh’s empty bed.

Nahri stopped, taking it all in. The hazy shelves of twitching ingredients that her mother must have known like the back of her hand. The wide, nearly empty half of the room that would have been filled with patients griping about their maladies, assistants twining among them, preparing tools and potions.

She thought again of Ali, of the satisfaction she’d felt watching him sleep, the peace she’d felt after finally doing something right after months of failing. The favorite son of the djinn king, and she’d snatched him back from death. There was power in that.

And it was time for Nahri to take it.

SHE DID IT ON THE THIRD DAY.

Her infirmary looked like it had been ransacked by some sort of lunatic monkey. Peeled and abandoned bananas lay everywhere—she’d thrown several in frustration—along with the tattered remains of damp animal bladders. The air was thick with the stench of overripe fruit, and Nahri was fairly certain she’d never eat a banana again in her life. Thankfully, she was alone. Nisreen had yet to come back, and Dunoor—after retrieving the requested bladders and bananas—had fled, probably convinced Nahri had gone entirely mad.

Nahri had dragged a table outside the infirmary, into the sunniest part of the pavilion facing the garden. The midday heat was oppressive; right now the rest of Daevabad would be resting, sheltering in darkened bedrooms and under shady trees.

Not Nahri. She held a bladder carefully against the table with one hand. Like the scores before it, she’d filled the bladder with water and carefully laid a banana peel on top.

In the other hand, she held the tweezers and the deadly copper tube.

Nahri narrowed her eyes, furrowing her brow as she brought the tube closer to the banana peel. Her hand was steady—she’d learned the hard way that tea would keep her awake but also make her fingers tremble. She touched the tube to the peel and pressed it down just a hair. She held her breath, but the bladder didn’t burst. She removed the tube.

A perfect hole pierced the banana skin. The bladder beneath was untouched.

Nahri let out her breath. Tears pricked her eyes. Don’t get excited, she chided. It might have been luck.

Only when she repeated the experiment a dozen more times—successful in each instance—did she let herself relax. Then she glanced down at the table. There was one banana peel left.

She hesitated. And then she placed it over her left hand.

Her heart was beating so loudly she could hear it in her ears. But Nahri knew if she wasn’t confident enough to do this, she’d never be able to do what she planned next. She touched the tube to the peel and pressed down.

She pulled it away. Through a narrow, neat hole she could see unblemished flesh.

I can do this. She just needed to focus, to train without a hundred other worries and responsibilities dragging her down, patients she was ill-prepared to handle, intrigue that could destroy her reputation.

Greatness takes time, Kartir had told her. He was right.

Nahri needed time. She knew where to get it. And she suspected she knew the price.

She took a ragged breath, her fingers falling to brush the weight of the dagger on her hip. Dara’s dagger. She’d yet to return it—in fact, she’d yet to see him again after their disastrous encounter at the Grand Temple.

She drew it from its sheath now, tracing the hilt and pressing her palm over the place he would have gripped. For a long moment, she stared at it, willing another way to present itself.

And then she put it down.

“I’m sorry,” Nahri whispered. She rose from the table, leaving the dagger behind. Her throat tightened, but she did not allow herself to cry.

It would not do to appear vulnerable before Ghassan al Qahtani.