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 dove under the canal’s choppy surface and turned in a neat somersault to kick in the opposite direction. His stitches smarted in protest, but he pushed past the pain. Just a few more laps.

He slid through the murky water with practiced ease. Ali’s mother had taught him to swim; it was the only Ayaanle tradition she insisted he learn. She’d defied the king to do it, showing up unexpectedly at the Citadel one day when he was seven, intimidating and unfamiliar in a royal veil. She’d dragged him back to the palace while he kicked and screamed, begging her not to drown him. Once in the harem, she’d pushed him in the deepest part of the canal without a word. Only when he surfaced—limbs flailing, gasping for air through his tears—had she finally spoken his name. And then she taught him to kick and dive, to put his face in the water and breathe from the side of his mouth.

Years later, Ali still remembered every minute of her careful instruction—and the price she’d paid for such defiance: they were never allowed to be alone again. But Ali kept swimming. He liked it, even if most djinn—especially his father’s people—looked upon swimming with utter revulsion. There were even clerics who preached that the Ayaanle’s enjoyment of water was a perversion, a relic of an ancient river cult in which they’d supposedly cavorted with marid in all sorts of sinful ways. Ali dismissed the sordid tales as gossip; the Ayaanle were a wealthy tribe from a secure and largely isolated homeland—they’d always provoked jealousy.

He finished another lap and then drifted in the current. The air was still and thick, the buzz of insects and the twitter of birdsong the only sounds breaking the garden’s silence. It was almost peaceful.

An ideal time to suddenly be set upon by another Tanzeem assassin. Ali tried to put the dark thought out of his mind, but it wasn’t easy. It had been four days since Hanno tried to kill him, and he’d been confined to his quarters ever since. The morning after the attack, Ali had awoken to the worst headache of his life and a furious brother demanding answers. Wracked with pain, with guilt, and his mind still in a fog, Ali had given them, bits of truth about his relationship with the Tanzeem slipping out like water through his fingers. It turned out his earlier hopes were correct: his father and brother had only known about the money.

Muntadhir was decidedly not pleased to learn the rest.

In the face of his brother’s growing rage, Ali had been trying to explain why he’d covered up Hanno’s death when Nahri had arrived to check on him. Muntadhir had bluntly declared him a traitor in Geziriyya and stormed out. He hadn’t been back.

Maybe I should go talk to him. Ali climbed out of the canal, dripping on the decorative tiles bordering it. He reached for his shirt. Try to explain …

He stopped, catching a glimpse of his stomach. The wound was gone.

Stunned, Ali ran his hand over what had been a half-healed gash studded with stitches an hour earlier. It was now nothing more than a bumpy scar. The wound on his chest was still stitched, but that too looked remarkably improved. He reached for the third under his ribs and flinched. Hanno had driven the knife straight through him at that point, and it still hurt.

Maybe the canal water had some sort of healing properties? If so, it was the first Ali had heard of it. He’d have to ask Nahri. She’d been coming by most days to check on him, seemingly unfazed that he’d been dumped in her bedroom covered in blood only a few days ago. The only allusion she’d made to saving his life had been in her gleeful sack of his small library. She’d claimed several books, an ivory inkwell, and a gold armband as “payment.”

He shook his head. She was odd, to be sure. Not that Ali could complain. Nahri might be the only friend he had left.

“Peace be upon you, Ali.”

Ali startled at the sound of his sister’s voice and pulled on his shirt. “And upon you peace, Zaynab.”

She came around the path to join him on the wet stones. “Did I catch you swimming?” She feigned shock. “And here I thought you had no interest in the Ayaanle, and our—what do you like to call it—culture of scheming indulgence?”

“It was just a few laps,” he muttered. He wasn’t in the mood to fight with Zaynab. He sat, dropping his bare feet back into the canal. “What do you want?”

She sat beside him, trailing her fingers through the water. “To make sure you’re still alive, for one. No one’s seen you at court in nearly a week. And to warn you. I don’t know what you think you’re doing with that Nahid girl, Ali. You’ve no skill at politics, let alone—”

“What are you talking about?”

Zaynab rolled her gray-gold eyes. “The marriage negotiations, you idiot.”

Ali suddenly felt light-headed. “What marriage negotiations?”

She drew back, looking surprised. “Between Muntadhir and Nahri.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you telling me that you didn’t help her? By the Most High, she gave Abba a list of percentages and figures that looked like some report from the Treasury. He’s furious with you—he thinks you wrote it.”

God preserve me … Ali knew Nahri was clever enough to come up with such a thing on her own, but suspected he was the only Qahtani who had an accurate measure of the Banu Nahida’s capabilities. He rubbed his brow. “When did all this happen?”

“Yesterday afternoon. She showed up at Abba’s office, uninvited and unaccompanied, to say the rumors were tiring her, and she wanted to know where they stood.” Zaynab crossed her arms. “She demanded an equal cut in patient payments, a pensioned position for her Afshin, a paid training sabbatical in Zariaspa … and by God, the dowry …”

Ali’s mouth went dry. “Did she really ask for all that? Yesterday, you are sure?”

Zaynab nodded. “She also refuses to let Muntadhir take a second wife. Wants it written in the contract itself in recognition of the fact that the Daevas don’t permit it. More time to train, no patients for at least a year, unfettered access to Manizheh’s old notes …” Zaynab ticked off her fingers. “I’m sure I’m missing something. People said they were haggling past midnight.” She shook her head, seeming both impressed and indignant. “I don’t know who that girl thinks she is.”

The last Nahid in the world. And one with some very compromising information on the youngest Qahtani. He tried to keep his voice smooth. “What did Abba think?”

“He felt the need to check his pockets after she left but was otherwise elated.” Zaynab rolled her eyes. “He says her ambition reminds him of Manizheh.”

Of course it would. “And Muntadhir?”

“What do you think? He doesn’t want to marry some conniving, thin-blooded Nahid. He came straight to me to ask what it was like to be of mixed tribes, to not be able to speak Geziriyya—”

That surprised him. Ali hadn’t realized such concerns had been among Muntadhir’s reasons for not wanting to marry Nahri. “What did you tell him?”

She gave him an even stare. “The truth, Ali. You can pretend it doesn’t bother you, but there’s a reason so few djinn marry outside their tribe. I’ve never been able to master Geziriyya like you, and it’s completely severed me from Abba’s people. Amma’s are little better. Even when Ayaanle pay me compliments, I can hear the shock in their voice that a sand fly accomplished such sophistication.”

That took him aback. “I didn’t know that.”

“Why would you?” She dropped her gaze. “It’s not like you’ve ever asked. I’m sure you find harem politics frivolous and contemptible anyway.”

“Zaynab …” The hurt in her voice cut him deeply. Despite the antagonism that frequently characterized their relationship, his sister had come here to warn him. His brother had covered for him time and time again. And what had Ali done? He’d dismissed Zaynab as a spoiled brat and helped his father trap Muntadhir in an engagement with a woman he didn’t want.

Ali stood as the sun sank behind the tall palace walls, throwing the garden into shadow. “I need to find him.”

“Good luck.” Zaynab pulled her feet from the water. “He was drinking by noon and made some comment about consoling himself with half the city’s noblewomen.”

“I know where he’ll be.” Ali helped her to her feet. She turned to leave, and he touched her wrist. “Have tea with me tomorrow.”

She blinked in surprise. “Surely you have more important things to do than have tea with your spoiled sister.”

He smiled. “Not at all.”

IT WAS DARK BY THE TIME ALI REACHED KHANZADA’S salon. Music spilled into the street, and a few soldiers milled about outside. He nodded to them and steeled himself as he climbed the stairs leading to the rooftop garden. He could hear a man grunting; a woman’s low cry of pleasure echoed from one of the dark corridors.

A servant moved to block the door when Ali arrived. “Peace be upon you, Sheikh … Prince!” the man corrected with an embarrassed flush. “Forgive me, but the lady of the house—”

Ali pushed past him and through the door, wrinkling his nose at the overly perfumed air. The roof was packed with at least two dozen noblemen and their retainers. Quick-footed servants twined among them, bringing wine and tending to water pipes. Musicians played and two girls danced, conjuring up illuminated flowers with their hands. Muntadhir lounged on a plush couch with Khanzada next to him.

Muntadhir didn’t seem to notice his arrival, but Khanzada jumped to her feet. Ali raised his hands, readying an apology that died on his lips when he noticed a new addition to Muntadhir’s drinking companions. He dropped his hand to his zulfiqar.

Darayavahoush grinned. “Peace be upon you, little Zaydi.” The Afshin sat with Jamshid and a Daeva man Ali didn’t recognize. They looked like they were having a good time, their goblets full, a pretty wine bearer perched beside them on the large cushioned bench.

Ali’s gaze slid from the Afshin to Jamshid. Now there was a situation he had little idea how to handle. He owed the Daeva man his life several times over, for interrupting Hanno and getting rid of his body, for getting him to Nahri. There was no denying it—but God, did he wish it had been someone other than Kaveh’s son. A word, an insinuation, and the grand wazir would be after Ali in a heartbeat.

Khanzada was suddenly in front of him, waving a finger in his face. “Did my servant let you in? I told him—”

Muntadhir finally spoke. “Let him pass, Khanzada,” he called in a weary voice.

She scowled. “Fine. But no weapons.” She snatched his zulfiqar away. “You make my girls nervous enough.”

Ali watched helplessly as his zulfiqar was handed off to a passing servant. Darayavahoush laughed, and Ali whirled on him, but Khanzada seized his arm and dragged him forward with a surprising amount of force for such a delicate-looking woman.

She pushed him into a chair beside Muntadhir. “Don’t make trouble,” she warned before stalking off. Ali suspected the doorman was about to get quite the tongue-lashing.

Muntadhir didn’t greet him, his vacant gaze focused on the dancers.

Ali cleared his throat. “Peace be upon you, akhi.”

“Alizayd.” His brother’s voice was cool. He took a sip from his copper goblet. “What brings a holy man to such a bastion of sin?”

A promising start. Ali sighed. “I want to apologize, Dhiru. To talk to you about—”

There was a burst of laughter from the Daeva men across the way. The Afshin appeared to be telling some sort of joke in Divasti, his face animated, his hands waving for emphasis. Jamshid laughed as the third man topped off his goblet. Ali frowned.

“What?” Muntadhir demanded. “What are you staring at?”

“I … nothing,” Ali stammered, surprised by the hostility in his brother’s voice. “I just didn’t realize Jamshid and Darayavahoush were so close.”

“They’re not close,” Muntadhir snapped. “He’s being polite to his father’s guest.” His eyes flashed, something dark and uncertain in their depths. “Don’t be getting any ideas, Alizayd. I don’t like that look on your face.”

“What look? What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about. You had your supposed assassin thrown in the lake and risked your life to cover up whatever the hell you were doing on the wall. It ends there. Jamshid isn’t talking. I asked him not to … and unlike some people here, he doesn’t lie to me.”

Ali was aghast. “You think I’m planning to hurt him?” He lowered his voice, noticing the curious gaze of a nearby servant—they might have been speaking Geziriyya, but an argument looked the same in any language. “My God, Dhiru, do you really think I’d kill the man who saved my life? Do you think me capable of that?”

“I don’t know what you’re capable of, Zaydi.” Muntadhir drained his goblet. “I’ve been telling myself for months that this is all a mistake. That you’re just some softhearted fool who threw his money around without asking questions.”

Ali’s heart skipped a beat, and Muntadhir beckoned for the wine bearer, falling silent only long enough for the man to finish pouring him more wine. He took a sip before continuing. “But you’re not a fool, Zaydi—you’re one of the brightest people I know. You didn’t just give them money, you taught them to hide it from the Treasury. And you’re far better at covering your tracks than I would have imagined. Your sheikh was crushed to death in front of you, and my God … you didn’t flinch. You had the damn presence of mind to dispose of a body while you were dying yourself.” Muntadhir shuddered. “That’s cold, Zaydi. That’s a coldness I didn’t know you had in you.” He shook his head, a hint of regret stealing into his voice. “I try to dismiss them, you know, the things people say. I always have.”

Nausea welled in Ali. In the depths of his heart, he suddenly suspected—and feared—where this conversation was going. He swallowed back the lump rising in his throat. “What things?”

“You know what things.” His brother’s gray eyes—the gray eyes they shared—swam with emotion, a mix of guilt and fear and suspicion. “The things people always say about princes in our situation.”

The fear in Ali’s heart unspooled. And then—with a swiftness that took him aback—it turned to anger. To a resentment that Ali hadn’t even realized, until this moment, he held tightly clamped, in a place he didn’t dare go. “Muntadhir, I’m cold because I’ve spent my entire life at the Citadel training to serve you, sleeping on floors while you slept with courtesans on silken beds. Because I was ripped from my mother’s arms when I was five so that I might learn to kill people at your command and fight the battles you’d never have to see.” Ali took a deep breath, checking the emotions swirling in his chest. “I made a mistake, Dhiru. That’s it. I was trying to help the shafit, not start some—”

Muntadhir cut in. “You and your mother’s cousin are the only known financiers of the Tanzeem. They were amassing weapons for an unknown purpose, and an unknown Geziri soldier with access to the Citadel stole them zulfiqar training blades. You’ve yet to arrest anyone, though by the sound of things, you know their leaders.” Muntadhir drained his goblet again and turned to Ali. “You tell me, akhi,” he implored. “What would you think if you were in my position?”

There was a hint of fear—true fear—in his brother’s voice, and it made Ali sick. Had they been alone, he would have thrown himself at Muntadhir’s feet. He was tempted to do so anyway, witnesses be damned.

Instead, he grabbed his hand. “Never, Dhiru. Never. I would stick a blade in my heart before I raised it to you—I swear to God … Akhi …,” he begged as Muntadhir scoffed. “Please. Just tell me how to fix this. I’ll do anything. I’ll go to Abba. I’ll tell him everything—”

“You’re dead if you tell Abba,” Muntadhir interrupted. “Forget the assassin. If Abba learns you were at that tavern when two Daevas were murdered, that you’ve gone all these months without arresting the traitor in the Royal Guard … he’ll throw you to the karkadann.”

“So?” Ali didn’t bother to hide the bitterness in his voice. “If you think I’m plotting to betray you all, why not tell him yourself?”

Muntadhir gave him a sharp look. “Do you think I want your death on my conscience? You’re still my little brother.”

Ali immediately backed down. “Let me talk to Nahri,” he offered, remembering the reason he’d originally come here. “Maybe I can convince her to lessen some of her demands.”

Muntadhir laughed, a drunken, derisive sound. “I think you and my conniving fiancée have done enough talking—that’s one thing I do intend to stop.”

The music ended. The Daeva men started to clap, and Darayavahoush said something that made the dancers giggle.

Muntadhir’s gaze locked on the Afshin like a cat after a mouse. He cleared his throat, and Ali saw something very dangerous—and very stupid—settle in his face. “You know, I think I’ll deal with one of her demands right now.” He raised his voice. “Jamshid! Darayavahoush!” he called. “Come. Take some wine with me.”

“Dhiru, I don’t think this is a good—” Ali abruptly shut up as the Daeva men came within earshot.

“Emir Muntadhir. Prince Alizayd.” Darayavahoush inclined his head, bringing his fingers together in the Daeva salute. “May the fires burn brightly for you both on this beautiful evening.”

Jamshid looked nervous, and Ali guessed that he’d been around a drunken Muntadhir enough to know when things were about to go very badly. “Greetings, my lords,” he said hesitantly.

Muntadhir must have noticed his distress. He snapped his fingers and nodded to the floor cushion at his left. “Be at peace, my friend.”

Jamshid sat. Darayavahoush grinned and snapped his fingers. “Just like that?” he asked, adding something in Divasti. Jamshid blushed.

Unlike Ali, however, Muntadhir was fluent in the Daeva language. “I assure you he is no trained dog,” Muntadhir said coolly in Djinnistani, “… but my dearest friend. Please, Afshin,” he said, indicating the spot next to Jamshid. “If you would sit.” He beckoned for the wine bearer again. “Wine for my guests. And Prince Alizayd will take whatever you serve children who cannot yet handle drink.”

Ali forced a smile, recalling how Darayavahoush had goaded him about his rivalry with Muntadhir while they sparred. There could hardly be a worse time for the Afshin to pick up on any hostility between the Qahtani brothers.

Darayavahoush turned to him. “So what happened to you?”

Ali bristled. “What are you talking about?”

The Afshin nodded at his stomach. “Injury? Illness? You’re carrying yourself differently.”

Ali blinked, too astonished to reply.

Muntadhir’s eyes flashed. Despite their argument, there was a fiercely protective edge in his voice when he spoke. “Watching my brother so closely, Afshin?”

Darayavahoush shrugged. “You are not a warrior, Emir, so I don’t expect you to understand. But your brother is. A very good one.” He winked at Ali. “Straighten up, boy, and keep your hand away from the wound. You wouldn’t want your enemies to observe such weakness.”

Muntadhir again beat him to a response. “He is quite recovered, I assure you. Banu Nahri has been at his bedside daily. She is very attached to him.”

The Afshin glowered, and Ali—being quite attached to his head as well as to Nahri—quickly spoke up. “I’m sure she’s equally devoted to all her patients.”

Muntadhir ignored him. “The Banu Nahida is actually the reason I wished to speak to you.” He glanced at Jamshid. “There’s a governorship available in Zariaspa, yes? I believe I overheard your father saying something about it.”

Jamshid looked confused but replied, “I think so.”

Muntadhir nodded. “A coveted position. Enviable pension in a beautiful part of Daevastana. Few responsibilities.” He took a sip of his wine. “I think it would be a good fit for you, Darayavahoush. When we were discussing the wedding yesterday, Banu Nahri seemed worried about your future and—”

“What?” The Afshin’s dangerous smile vanished.

“Your future, Afshin. Nahri wants to make sure you’re well rewarded for your loyalty.”

“Zariaspa is not Daevabad,” Darayavahoush snapped. “And what wedding? She’s not even past her quarter century. She’s not legally permitted to—”

Muntadhir waved one hand, cutting him off. “She came to us yesterday with her own offer.” He smiled, an uncharacteristically malicious gleam in his eyes. “I suppose she’s eager.”

He lingered on the word, imbuing it with more than a hint of vulgarity, and Darayavahoush cracked his knuckles. Ali instinctively reached for his zulfiqar, but his weapon was gone, taken by Khanzada’s servants.

Fortunately, the Afshin stayed seated. But the motion of his hand drew Ali’s attention, and he startled. Was the Afshin’s slave ring … glowing? He narrowed his eyes. It appeared so. The emerald shone with the barest of lights, like a flame contained by a grimy glass lamp.

The Afshin didn’t seem to notice. “I follow the Banu Nahida in all things,” he said, his voice icier than Ali ever thought a man’s could be. “No matter how abominable. So I suppose congratulations are in order.”

Muntadhir started to open his mouth but thankfully, Khanzada chose that moment to approach.

She perched on the edge of Muntadhir’s sofa and draped an elegant arm around his shoulders. “My beloved, with what serious business do you gentlemen mar this beautiful evening?” She stroked his cheek. “Such grumpy faces on all of you. Your inattention insults my girls.”

“Forgive us, my lady,” the Afshin interjected. “We were discussing the emir’s wedding. Surely you will be in attendance?”

Heat rose in his brother’s expression, but if Darayavahoush hoped to spark some sort of jealousy-fueled lover’s spat, he had underestimated the courtesan’s loyalty.

She smiled sweetly. “But of course. I shall dance with his wife.” She slid into Muntadhir’s lap, her sharp eyes staying on Darayavahoush’s face. “Perhaps I can give her some guidance in how to best please him.”

The air grew warm. Ali tensed, but the Afshin didn’t respond. Instead, he drew in a sharp breath and reached for his head as if overcome by an unexpected migraine.

Khanzada feigned concern. “Are you well, Afshin? If the evening has overtired you, I have rooms where you may rest. Surely I can find you companionship,” she added with a cold smile. “Your type is rather apparent.”

She’d gone too far—she and Muntadhir both. Darayavahoush snapped back to attention. His green eyes flashed, and he bared his teeth in an almost feral grin.

“Forgive the distraction, my lady,” he said. “But that truly is a beautiful image. You must fantasize about it often. And how lovingly detailed … right down to the little house in Agnivansha. Red sandstone, yes?” he asked, and Khanzada went pale. “On the banks of the Chambal … a swing for two overlooking the river.”

The courtesan straightened up with a gasp. “How … you can’t possibly know that!”

Darayavahoush didn’t take his eyes off her. “By the Creator, how very much you want it … so much so that you’d be willing to run away, to abandon this pretty place and all its riches. You don’t think he’d be a good king anyway … would it not be better for him to go off with you, to grow old together, reading poetry and drinking wine?”

“What in God’s name are you going on about?” Muntadhir snapped as Khanzada jumped up from his lap, embarrassed tears in her eyes.

The Afshin fixed his bright eyes on the emir. “Her wishes, Emir Muntadhir,” he said calmly. “Not that you share them. Oh, no …” He paused, edging closer, his eyes locked on Muntadhir’s face. A delighted grin spread across his face. “Not at all, apparently.” He looked between Jamshid and Muntadhir and then laughed. “Now that’s an interesting—”

Muntadhir jumped to his feet.

Ali was between them in an instant.

His brother might not have been Citadel trained, but at some point in his life, someone had clearly taught him how to throw a punch. His fist caught Ali on the chin and knocked him clean off his feet.

Ali landed hard, shattering the table that held their drinks with a crash. The musicians clanged to a noisy stop, and one of the dancers screamed. Several people jumped to their feet. The crowd looked shocked.

Two soldiers had been loitering near the roof’s edge, and Ali saw one reach for his zulfiqar before his fellow grabbed his arm. Of course, Ali realized. To the rest of the roof, it must have looked like the Emir of Daevabad had just purposefully punched his younger brother in the face. But Ali was also the future Qaid, an officer in the Royal Guard—and it was clear the soldiers weren’t sure who to protect. Had Ali been any other man, they’d be dragging him away from their emir before he could respond. That’s what they should have been doing—and Ali could only pray Muntadhir didn’t realize the breach in protocol. Not after the fears his brother had just confessed to having where Ali was concerned.

Jamshid held his hand out. “Are you all right, my prince?”

Ali stifled a gasp as a stab of pain tore through his half-healed dagger wound. “I’m fine,” he lied as Jamshid helped him to his feet.

Muntadhir gave him a shocked look. “What the hell were you thinking?”

He took a shaky breath. “That if you struck the Scourge of Qui-zi across the face after publicly insulting his Banu Nahida, he’d rip you into confetti.” Ali touched his already swelling jaw. “Not a bad punch,” he admitted.

Jamshid scanned the crowd and then touched his brother’s wrist. “He’s gone, Emir,” he warned in a low voice.

Good riddance. Ali shook his head. “What was he talking about anyway? About Khanzada … I’ve never heard of an ex-slave being able to read the wishes of another djinn.” He glanced at the courtesan. “What he said—was any of that true?”

She blinked furiously, glaring daggers. But not at him, Ali realized.

At Muntadhir.

“I don’t know,” she spat. “Why don’t you ask your brother?” Without another word, she burst into tears and fled.

Muntadhir swore. “Khanzada, wait!” He rushed after his lover, vanishing into the depths of the house.

Thoroughly confused, Ali looked to Jamshid for some explanation, but the Daeva captain was staring determinedly at the ground, his cheeks strangely flushed.

Putting aside his brother’s romantic entanglements, Ali considered his options. He was sorely tempted to rally the soldiers downstairs and have the Afshin found and arrested. But for what? A drunken argument over a woman? He might as well throw half of Daevabad into prison. The Afshin hadn’t struck Muntadhir, hadn’t even truly insulted him.

Don’t be a fool. Ali’s decision settled, he snapped his fingers, trying to get Jamshid’s attention. He had no idea why the Daeva captain looked so nervous. “Jamshid? Darayavahoush is staying with your family, yes?”

Jamshid nodded, still avoiding Ali’s eyes. “Yes, my prince.”

“All right.” He clapped Jamshid’s shoulder, and the other man jumped. “Go home. If he doesn’t return by dawn, alert the Citadel. And if he does return, tell him he’ll be expected at court tomorrow to discuss what happened here tonight.” He paused for a moment, then added reluctantly, “Tell your father. I know Kaveh likes to be kept abreast of all Daeva matters.”

“At once, my prince.” He sounded eager to be gone.

“And, Jamshid …” The other man finally met his eyes. “Thank you.”

Jamshid simply nodded and then hurried away. Ali took a deep breath, trying to ignore the pain lancing through him. His dishdasha clung wetly to his abdomen, and when he touched it, his fingers came away bloody. He must have reopened the wound.

He readjusted his outer black robe to cover the blood. Were it still day, he would have discreetly sought out Nahri, but it would be near midnight by the time he got to the infirmary, the Banu Nahida asleep in her bed.

I can’t go to her. Ali was lucky he hadn’t been caught in Nahri’s bedroom the first time. A second was far too risky—especially considering the gossip likely to start circulating around the Qahtanis after tonight. I’ll bind it myself, he decided, and wait in the infirmary. At least that way, if the bleeding got worse, she’d only be a room away. It seemed a reasonable plan.

Then again, most things had lately—right before they blew up in his face.