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

“Oh, warrior of the djinn, I beseech thee …” Nahri closed her swollen eyes as she sang, drumming her fingers on an overturned bowl sticky with crusty bits of rice. She’d taken it from the pile of moldering dishes at the door, remnants of the meals she’d barely touched.

She picked up a wooden shard from a smashed chair and cut deeply into her wrist. The sight of her blood was disappointing. It would work better if she had a chicken. If she had her musicians. Zars were to be precise.

The blood dripped down her arm and onto the floor before the wound closed up. “Great guardian, I call to you. Darayavahoush e-Afshin,” she whispered, her voice breaking, “come to me.”

Nothing. Her bedchamber stayed as quiet as it had been a week ago when she was locked away still covered in his ashes. But Nahri didn’t let that dissuade her. She’d just try again, varying the song slightly. She couldn’t remember the exact words she’d sung in Cairo so long ago, but once she got them right, it had to work.

She shifted on the floor, getting a whiff of unwashed hair as she pulled the filthy bowl over. She was slashing her wrist for the umpteenth time when the door to her room opened. A woman’s dark silhouette was visible against the infirmary’s blinding light.

“Nisreen,” Nahri called, relieved. “Come. If you keep the beat on the drum, then I can use this plate as a tambourine, and—”

Nisreen rushed across the room and snatched the bloody shard away. “Oh, child … what is this?”

“I’m calling Dara back,” Nahri answered. Wasn’t it obvious? “I did it once. There’s no reason I can’t do it again. I just have to get everything right.”

“Banu Nahri.” Nisreen knelt on the floor and pushed the bowl away. “He’s gone, child. He’s not coming back.”

Nahri pulled her hands away. “You don’t know that,” she said fiercely. “You’re no Nahid. You know noth—”

“I know slaves,” Nisreen cut in. “I helped your mother and uncle free dozens. And, child … they cannot be separated from their vessels. Not for a moment. It’s all that binds their soul to this world.” Nisreen took Nahri’s face between her hands. “He’s gone, my lady. But you are not. And if you’d like to keep it that way, you need to pull yourself together.” Her eyes were dark with warning. “The king wants to speak to you.”

Nahri stilled. In her mind, she saw the arrow tearing through Ali’s throat and heard Muntadhir screaming as Dara scourged him. A cold sweat broke across her skin. She couldn’t face their father. “No.” She shook her head. “I can’t. He’s going to kill me. He’s going to give me over to that karkadann beast and—”

“He’s not going to kill you.” Nisreen pulled Nahri to her feet. “Because you’re going to say exactly what he wants to hear and do exactly as he orders, understand? That is how you survive this.” She pulled Nahri toward the hammam. “But we’re going to get you cleaned up first.”

The small bathhouse was steamy and warm when they entered, the wet tiles redolent of roses. Nisreen nodded at a small wooden stool in the misty shadows. “Sit.”

Nahri obeyed. Nisreen dragged over a bowl of hot water and then helped her out of her filthy tunic. She poured the bowl over her head, and the water streamed down her arms, turning gray as it rinsed the ashes from her skin.

Dara’s ashes. The sight nearly undid her. She choked back a sob. “I can’t do this. Not without him.”

Nisreen clucked her tongue. “Now where is the girl who killed ifrit with her blood and offered up fiery, blasphemous lectures on her ancestors?” She knelt and wiped Nahri’s dirty face with a damp cloth. “You’re going to survive this, Banu Nahri. You must. You are all we have left.”

Nahri swallowed back the lump in her throat, a thought occurring to her. “But his ring … maybe if we found it …”

“It’s gone.” A bitter edge crept into Nisreen’s voice as she rubbed a nub of soap into a lather. “There’s nothing left; the king had the boat burned and sunk.” She massaged the soap into Nahri’s long hair. “I’ve never seen Ghassan like this.”

Nahri tensed. “What do you mean?”

Nisreen lowered her voice. “Darayavahoush had help, Nahri. The king’s men found supplies on the beach. Not much—it might have been only one man, but …” She sighed. “Between that and the demonstrations … it’s chaos.” She poured a bucket of clean water over Nahri’s head.

“The demonstrations? What demonstrations?”

“There have been Daevas gathering at the wall every day, demanding justice for Darayavahoush’s death.” Nisreen handed her a towel. “To kill a slave is a great crime in our world, and the Afshin … well, I suspect you saw for yourself in the temple how people felt about him.”

Nahri flinched, remembering the sight of Dara playing with the Daeva children in the garden, the awed faces of the adults clustering around him.

But Nahri also remembered all too well who was to blame for the carnage on that boat—and the one death she didn’t imagine the king would ever forgive. “Nisreen …,” she started as the other woman began to comb her hair. “Dara killed Ali. The only justice Ghassan’s going to—”

Nisreen drew back in surprise. “Dara didn’t kill Alizayd.” Her face darkened. “I should know; I was forced to treat him.”

“Treat him … Ali’s alive?” Nahri asked, incredulous. The prince had been shot, drowned, and then seemingly possessed by the marid; she hadn’t even considered the possibility that he still lived. “Is he okay?”

“‘Is he okay?’” Nisreen repeated, looking aghast at the question. “He murdered your Afshin!”

Nahri shook her head. “It wasn’t him.” There had been nothing of Ali in the oil-eyed wraith who climbed aboard the boat chanting in a language like the rush of the sea. “It was the marid. They probably forced him—”

“He probably volunteered,” Nisreen cut in coldly. “Not that we’ll ever know. Ghassan’s already had him smuggled back to Am Gezira—and warned me that if I spoke of what happened, he’d cut your throat.”

Nahri recoiled. But not just at the threat. At her own sudden memory of Ali’s rushed apology on the boat. He had said nothing, letting them rush into the trap he knew awaited.

Nisreen seemed to read her mind. “My lady, forget the Qahtanis. Worry about your people for once. Daevas are being killed—hung from the palace walls—simply for demanding justice, for a mere inquiry, into the death of one of our own. Daeva men are being dragged from their homes, interrogated and tortured. We’ve been stripped of royal protection, our quarter left undefended—half our shops in the Grand Bazaar have already been looted.” Her voice broke. “Just this morning, I heard word a Daeva girl was snatched from her palanquin and raped by a mob of shafit men while the Royal Guard stood by.”

The blood left Nahri’s face. “I … I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

Nisreen sat on the bench opposite her. “Then listen to me. Nahri, the Qahtanis are not your friends. This is how it always happens with them. One of us steps out of line—one of us thinks about stepping out of line—and hundreds pay the price.”

The door to the hammam swung open. A Geziri soldier barged in.

Nisreen jumped to her feet, blocking Nahri from sight. “Have you no decency?”

He rested his hand on his zulfiqar. “Not for the Scourge’s whore.”

The Scourge’s whore? His words sent a rush of fear through Nahri. Her hands were shaking so badly that Nisreen had to help her dress, pulling a loose linen gown over Nahri’s head and tying her shalvar pants.

Nisreen draped her own black chador over Nahri’s wet hair. “Please,” she begged in Divasti. “You’re the only one left. Forget your grief. Forget our words here. Tell the king whatever he needs to hear to grant you mercy.”

The impatient soldier seized her wrist and pulled her toward the door. Nisreen followed. “Please, Banu Nahri! You must know he loved you; he wouldn’t want you to throw away—”

The soldier shut the door in Nisreen’s face.

He dragged Nahri along the garden path. It was an ugly day; gray clouds bruised the sky, and an icy wind brought a smattering of rain against her face. She pulled the chador tight around her and shivered, wishing she could disappear into it.

They crossed the rain-slick pavilion toward a small wooden gazebo nestled between a wild herb garden and an ancient, sprawling neem tree. The king was alone and looked as composed as ever, his black robes and brilliant turban not the slightest bit damp.

Despite Nisreen’s warning, Nahri didn’t bow. She squared her shoulders, looking him dead in the eye.

He dismissed the soldier. “Banu Nahida,” he greeted her. His expression was calm. He motioned to the opposite bench. “Why don’t you sit?”

She sat, ignoring the urge to slide to the side of the bench farthest from him. His eyes hadn’t left her face.

“You look better than when I saw you last,” he commented lightly.

Nahri flinched. She only vaguely recalled the king’s arrival on the boat. The way Suleiman’s seal had crashed down a second time while soldiers dragged her, thrashing and screaming, from Dara’s ashes.

She wanted to get this conversation over with as quickly as possible—to get away from him as quickly as possible. “I know nothing,” she said, rushing. “I don’t know who helped him, I don’t know what—”

“I believe you,” Ghassan interrupted. Nahri gave him a surprised look, and he continued. “I mean, I don’t particularly care, but for what it’s worth, I do believe you.”

Nahri fidgeted with the hem of her chador. “Then what do you want?”

“To know where you stand now.” Ghassan spread his hands. “Twenty-one men are dead and my streets aflame. All because that damnable Afshin decided—in what I imagine was a hotheaded moment of the deepest stupidity—to kidnap you and my son and flee Daevabad. I’ve heard strikingly different accounts of how this happened,” he continued. “And I’ve decided on one.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You’ve decided on one?”

“I have,” he replied. “I think two drunk men got in an idiotic brawl over a woman. I think one of those men—still bitter about losing a war, driven half mad by slavery—snapped. I think he decided to take what belonged to him by force.” He gave her an intent look. “And I think you’re very fortunate that my younger son, injured in the brawl earlier, was in the infirmary to hear your screams.”

“That’s not what happened,” Nahri said heatedly. “Dara would never—”

The king waved her off. “He was a volatile man from an ancient and savage world. Who can really understand why he chose to lash out the way he did? To steal you from your bed like some uncivilized brute from the wilds of Daevastana. Of course you went along; you were terrified, a young girl under his sway for months.”

Nahri was normally good at checking her emotions, but if Ghassan thought she was going to publicly paint Dara as some barbarian rapist and herself as a helpless victim, he was mad.

And he wasn’t the only one with leverage. “Does this charming story of yours include the part where your son was possessed by the marid and used Suleiman’s seal?”

“Alizayd was never possessed by the marid,” Ghassan said, sounding completely self-assured. “What a ridiculous thing to suggest. The marid have not been seen for millennia. Alizayd never fell in the lake. He was caught in the ship’s rigging and climbed back aboard to slay the Afshin. He’s a hero.” The king paused and pressed his lips into a bitter smile, his voice wavering for the first time. “He always was a talented swordsman.”

Nahri shook her head. “That’s not what happened. There were other witnesses. No one is going to believe—”

“It is far more believable than Manizheh having a secret daughter hidden away in a distant human city. A girl whose very bearing would suggest an almost entirely human pedigree … forgive me, what did we say it was? Ah, yes, a curse to affect your appearance.” The king pressed his long fingers together. “Yes, I sold that story quite well.”

His frankness took her aback; she had thought it odd how easily the king accepted her identity when even she herself doubted it. “Because it’s the truth,” she argued. “You were the one to mistake me for Manizheh when I first arrived.”

Ghassan nodded. “A mistake. I cared greatly for your mother. I saw a Daeva woman walk in with an Afshin warrior at her side, and my emotions briefly overtook me. And who knows? You may very well be Manizheh’s daughter—you clearly have some Nahid blood …” He tapped the seal on his cheek. “But I see human in you as well. Not much; if your parents were clever, they could have hidden it—there are plenty in our world who do. But it’s there.”

His confidence shook her. “You would have let Muntadhir marry someone with human blood?”

“To secure peace between our tribes? Without hesitation.” He chuckled. “Do you think Alizayd the only radical? I have lived long enough—and seen enough—to know that blood does not account for everything. There are plenty of shafit who can wield magic with as much skill as a pureblood. Unlike my son, I recognize that the rest of our world is not ready to accept such a thing. But as long as no one else learned what you were …” He shrugged. “The exact composition of my grandchildren’s blood would not have bothered me one whit.”

Nahri was speechless. She could take little heart in Ghassan’s assertion that shafit were equals—not when he could so easily disregard such a truth for political reality. Doing so bespoke a cruelty she had not seen in Dara’s far more ignorant brand of prejudice.

“So expose me,” she challenged. “I don’t care. I’m not going to help you slander his memory.”

“‘Slander his memory’?” Ghassan laughed. “He’s the Scourge of Qui-zi. This lie pales in comparison with his actual atrocities.”

“Says a man committed to using lies to further his reign.”

The king lifted one of his dark eyebrows. “Do you want to hear how he earned that title?”

Nahri stayed silent, and the king regarded her. “But of course. For all the interest in our world, all the things you asked my son … you’ve shown curiously little appetite for your Afshin’s bloody history.”

“Because it doesn’t matter to me.”

“So it will not bother you to hear it.” Ghassan sat back, pressing his hands together. “Let us talk of Qui-zi. The Tukharistanis were once your ancestors’ most loyal subjects, you know. Steadfast and peaceful, devoted to the fire cult … With just one flaw—they intentionally broke the law regarding humans.”

He tapped his turban. “Silk. A specialty of the humans in their land and an immediate hit when it was introduced to Daevabad. But its creation is a delicate task—too delicate for hot-blooded djinn hands. And so the Tukharistanis invited a select few human families into their tribe. They were embraced and given their own protected city. Qui-zi. None could leave, yet it was considered a paradise. As one would expect, the daeva and human populations mixed throughout the years. The Tukharistanis were careful not to let anyone with human blood leave Qui-zi, and silk was so prized that your ancestors turned a blind eye to the city’s existence for centuries.

“Until Zaydi al Qahtani rebelled. Until the Ayaanle swore their allegiance and suddenly any daeva—forgive me, any djinn—with a trace of sympathy for the shafit fell under suspicion.” The king shook his head. “Qui-zi could not stand. The Nahids needed to teach us all a lesson, a reminder of what happened when we broke Suleiman’s law and got too close to humans. So they devised such a lesson and selected an Afshin to carry it out, one too young and too stupidly devoted to question its cruelty.” Ghassan eyed her. “I’m sure you know his name.

“Qui-zi fell almost immediately; it was a merchant city in the wilds of Tukharistan with few defenses. His men sacked the houses and burned a fortune in silk. They weren’t there for riches, they were there for the people.

“He had every man, woman, and child scourged until they bled. If their blood wasn’t black enough, they were immediately killed, their bodies tossed in an open pit. And they were the lucky ones; the purebloods faced a worse fate. The throats of their men were packed with mud and then they were buried alive, enclosed in the same pit as their dead shafit fellows and any pureblooded woman unfortunate enough to be carrying a suspect pregnancy. The boys were castrated so that they would not carry on their fathers’ wickedness, and the women given over to rape. Then they burned the city to the ground and brought the survivors back to Daevabad in chains.”

Nahri was numb. She balled her hands into fists, her nails digging into the skin of her palms. “I don’t believe you,” she whispered.

“Yes, you do,” Ghassan said flatly. “And truthfully had that put an end to the rebellion, prevented the far greater number of deaths and atrocities in the war to come … I’d have put a whip in his hand too. But it didn’t. Your ancestors were ill-tempered fools. Forget the slain innocents, they destroyed half of Tukharistan’s economy. A commercial grievance wrapped in moral outrage?” The king tutted. “By year’s end, every remaining Tukharistani clan had sworn loyalty to Zaydi al Qahtani.” He touched his turban again. “Fourteen hundred years later, their finest spinners send me a new one every year to mark the anniversary.”

He’s lying, she tried to tell herself. But she could not help but recall the perpetually haunted Afshin. How many times had she heard the dark references to his past, seen the regret in his eyes? Dara admitted to once believing that the shafit were little more than soulless deceptions, that blood-mixing would lead to another of Suleiman’s curses. He said he’d been banished from Daevabad when he was Ali’s age … punished for carrying out the orders of her Nahid ancestors.

He did it, she realized, and something shattered inside her, a piece of her heart that would never repair. She forced herself to look at Ghassan, struggling to stay expressionless. She would not show him how deep a wound he’d just struck.

She cleared her throat. “And the point of this tale?”

The king crossed his arms. “Your people have a history of making foolish decisions based on absolutes instead of reality. They’re still doing it today, rioting in the streets and rushing to their deaths for a demand no sensible person would expect me to grant.” Ghassan leaned forward, his face intent. “But in you, I see a pragmatist. A shrewd-eyed woman who would negotiate her own bride price. Who manipulated the son I sent to spy on her to the point where he sacrificed himself to protect her.” He spread his hands. “What happened was an accident. There is no need to derail the plans we had both set in place, no reason we cannot repair what was broken between us.” He eyed her. “So tell me your price.”

A price. She would have laughed. There it was. That’s all anything really came down to: a price. Looking out for herself and no one else. Love, tribal pride … they were worthless in her world. No, not just worthless, they were dangerous. They’d destroyed Dara.

But there was something else in what Ghassan had just said. The son who sacrificed himself … “Where’s Ali?” she demanded. “I want to know what the mar—”

“If the word ‘marid’ comes out of your mouth again, I will have every Daeva child in the city thrown into the lake before your eyes,” Ghassan warned, his voice cold. “And as for my son, he is gone. He will not be here to defend you again.”

Nahri drew back in horror, and he let out an irritated sigh. “I’m growing impatient, Banu Nahri. If my slandering one of the most murderous men in history bothers your conscience, let’s devise another tale.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”

“Let’s talk about you.” He tilted his face, studying her like she was a chessboard. “I can easily reveal you as shafit; there are a number of ways—none particularly pleasant—in which to do so. That alone would turn most of your tribesmen against you, but we might as well go further, give the masses something to gossip about.”

He tapped his chin. “Your disregard for your people’s fire cult is almost too easy, as are your failures in the infirmary. We’d need a scandal …” He paused, a calculating expression crossing his hawkish face. “Perhaps I spoke wrongly about what happened in the infirmary. Maybe it was Darayavahoush who found you in the arms of another man. A young man whose name makes Daeva blood boil …”

Nahri recoiled. “You would never.” It was obvious they were speaking plainly, so she didn’t pretend not to know of whom he spoke. “You think people are howling for Ali’s blood now? If they thought he—”

“Thought he what?” Ghassan gave her a condescending smile. “In what world do men and women pay the same price for passion? You’ll be the one blamed. Indeed, people will assume you particularly … talented to have seduced such a religious man.”

Nahri shot to her feet. Ghassan seized her wrist.

The seal flashed on his cheek, and her powers vanished. He tightened his grip, and she gasped, unaccustomed to how sharp the feeling of pain was without her healing abilities.

“I welcomed you,” he said coldly, all jest gone. “I invited you into my family, and now my city is aflame and I will never look upon my youngest again. I am in no mood to suffer a foolish little girl. You will work with me to fix this, or I will make sure every Daeva man, woman, and child holds you responsible for Darayavahoush’s death. I will paint you as a whore and a traitor to your tribe.” He released her wrist. “And then I will give you over to that mob at my walls.”

She clutched her wrist. She had no doubt Ghassan spoke truthfully. Dara was dead, and Ali gone. There was no Afshin to fight for her, no prince to speak for her. Nahri was alone.

She dropped her gaze, for the first time finding it difficult to meet his eyes. “What do you want?”

THEY DRESSED HER IN THE CEREMONIAL GARMENTS of her family: a sky blue gown heavy with gold embroidery, white silk veiling her face. She was glad for the veil—she hoped it hid the shame burning in her cheeks.

Nahri barely looked at the contract as she signed it, the paper that bound her to the emir as soon as she reached her first quarter century. In another life, she might have eagerly devoured the detailed inventory, the dowry that made her one of the wealthiest women in the city, but today she didn’t care. Muntadhir’s signature below hers was an indecipherable scrawl—the king had literally forced his hand just before her future husband spat at her feet and stormed off.

They went to the massive audience hall next, the place in which she’d first laid eyes on the Qahtanis. Nahri could sense the size of the crowd before she entered, the anxious breathing and quickened heartbeats of thousands of pureblood djinn. She stared at her feet as she followed the king onto the green marble platform, stopping at the level just below him. Then she swallowed and lifted her gaze to a sea of stony faces.

Daeva faces. Ghassan had ordered a representative of every noble family, every trading company and craft guild, every priest and scholar—anyone of elite standing in the Daeva tribe—to come hear Nahri’s testimony. Despite dozens of arrests and public executions, her tribesmen continued to protest at the palace walls, demanding justice for Dara’s murder.

She was here to end that.

Nahri unfurled the scroll she’d been given. Her hands shook as she read out the charges she’d been ordered to say. She did not deviate from the script once nor did she allow herself to dwell on the words condemning the man she loved in the most vulgar of terms, the words destroying the reputation of the Afshin who’d sacrificed everything for his people. Her voice stayed flat. Nahri suspected her audience was savvy enough to realize what was going on, but she didn’t care. If Ghassan wanted a performance, he should have thought to ask for one.

Even so, there were tears in her eyes when she finished, and her voice was thick with emotion. Filled with shame, she dropped the scroll and forced herself to look at the crowd.

Nothing. There was no horror, no disbelief among the blackeyed Daevas before her. Indeed, the vast majority looked just as impassive as they had when she first walked in.

No, not impassive.

Defiant.

An old man stepped out from the crowd. Wearing the bright crimson robes of the Grand Temple, he made for a striking sight; an ash mark split his lined face and a tall, azure cap crowned his soot-covered head.

Kartir, Nahri recognized him, remembering the kindness he’d shown her back in the temple. She cringed now as he took another step toward her. Her stomach clenched; she expected some sort of denouncement.

But Kartir did nothing of the sort. Instead, he brought his fingertips together in the traditional Daeva show of respect, dropped his gaze, and bowed.

The priests behind him immediately followed suit, and the motion rippled out across the crowd as the entire audience of Daevas bowed in her direction. No one said a word. Nahri drew in her breath, and then from just behind her, she heard a heart begin to beat faster.

She stilled, certain she was imagining things and then glanced back. Ghassan al Qahtani met her gaze, an unreadable expression in his eyes. The sun brightened in the window behind him, reflecting off the dazzling gems in his throne, and she realized what he sat upon.

A shedu. The throne was carved in the shape of the winged lion that was her family’s symbol.

Ghassan sat upon a Nahid throne.

And he didn’t look pleased. She suspected the impromptu display of Daeva unity was not what he intended. She felt for him—truly. It was frustrating when someone upended your well-laid plans.

It’s why you never stopped plotting alternatives.

His face turned colder, and so Nahri smiled, the first time she’d done so since Dara’s death. It was the smile she’d given the basha, the smile she’d given to hundreds of arrogant men throughout the years just before she swindled them for all they were worth.

Nahri always smiled at her marks.