The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,1

“No, there must be something you can do. I’ve heard rumors— People say you made a crippled boy walk by just looking at him. Surely you can help me.”

Nahri leaned back, hiding her pleasure. She had no idea what cripple he was referring to, but God be praised, it would certainly help her reputation.

She touched her heart. “Oh, sir, it grieves me so to deliver such news. And to think of your dear bride being deprived of such a prize . . .”

His shoulders shook as he sobbed. She waited for him to grow a bit more hysterical, taking the opportunity to appraise the thick gold bands circling his wrists and neck. A fine garnet, beautifully cut, was pinned to his turban.

Finally she spoke again. “There might be something, but . . . no.” She shook her head. “It wouldn’t work.”

“What?” he cried, clutching the narrow table. “Please, I’ll do anything!”

“It will be very difficult.”

Arslan sighed. “And expensive, I bet.”

Oh, now you speak Arabic? Nahri gave him a sweet smile, knowing her veil was gauzy enough to reveal her features. “All of my prices are fair, I assure you.”

“Be silent, brother,” the basha snapped, glowering at the other man. He looked at Nahri, his face set. “Tell me.”

“It’s not a certainty,” she warned.

“I must try.”

“You are a brave man,” she said, letting her voice tremble. “Indeed, I believe your affliction has come about from the evil eye. Someone is envious of you, sir. And who wouldn’t be? A man of your wealth and beauty could attract only envy. Perhaps even someone close . . .” Her glance at Arslan was brief but enough to make his cheeks redden. “You must clear your home of any darkness the envy has brought in.”

“How?” the basha asked, his voice hushed and eager.

“First, you must promise to follow my instructions exactly.”

“Of course!”

She leaned forward, intent. “Obtain a mixture of one part ambergris to two parts cedar oil, a good amount. Get them from Yaqub, at the apothecary down the alley. He has the best stuff.”

“Yaqub?”

“Aywa. Ask for some powdered lime rind and walnut oil as well.”

Arslan watched his brother with open disbelief, but hope brightened in the basha’s eyes. “And then?”

“This is where it might get difficult, but, sir . . .” Nahri touched his hand, and he shuddered. “You must follow my instructions exactly.”

“Yes. By the Most Merciful, I swear.”

“Your house needs to be cleansed, and that can only be done if it is abandoned. Your entire family must leave, animals, servants, all. There must not be a living soul in the house for seven days.”

“Seven days!” he cried, then lowered his voice at the disapproval in her eyes. “Where are we to go?”

“The oasis at Faiyum.” Arslan laughed, but Nahri continued. “Go to the second smallest spring at sunset with your youngest son,” she said, her voice severe. “Gather some water in a basket made of local reeds, say the throne verse over it three times, and then use it for your ablutions. Mark your doors with the ambergris and oil before you leave and by the time you return, the envy will be gone.”

“Faiyum?” Arslan interrupted. “My God, girl, even you must know there’s a war on. Do you imagine Napoleon eager to let any of us leave Cairo for some useless desert trek?”

“Be quiet!” The basha banged on the table before turning back to Nahri. “But such a thing will be difficult.”

Nahri spread her hands. “God provides.”

“Yes, of course. So it is to be Faiyum,” he decided, looking determined. “And then my heart will be cured?”

She paused; it was the heart he was worried about? “God willing, sir. Have your new wife put the powdered lime and oil into your evening tea for the next month.” It wouldn’t do anything for his nonexistent heart problem, but perhaps his bride would better enjoy his breath. Nahri let go of his hand.

The basha blinked as if released from a spell. “Oh, thank you, dear one, thank you.” He pushed back the small sack of coins and then slipped a heavy gold ring from his pinkie and handed that over as well. “God bless you.”

“May your marriage be fruitful.”

He rose heavily to his feet. “I must ask, child, where are your people from? You’ve a Cairene accent, but there’s something about your eyes . . .” He trailed off.

Nahri pressed her lips together; she hated when people asked after her heritage. Though she wasn’t what many would call beautiful—years of living on the