The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,100

glanced up at them, his gunmetal gray gaze briefly flickering past her face. “Pilgrims?” he asked, sounding bored.

Dara kept his gaze low. “Yes. From Sarq—”

The guard waved him off. “Go,” he said distractedly, nearly knocking Nahri over as he turned to help his fellows with the long-suffering salt traders.

Nahri blinked, surprised by how easily that had gone.

“Come on,” Dara whispered, tugging her forward. “Before they change their minds.”

They slipped through the open doors.

As the full force of the city hit her, Nahri realized the walls must have held sound in as well as magic because they were standing in the loudest, most chaotic place she’d ever seen, surrounded by waves of jostling people.

Nahri tried to peer over their heads to look down the crowded street. “What is this place?”

Dara glanced around. “The Grand Bazaar, I believe. We had ours in the same location.”

Bazaar? She gave the frenzied scene a dubious glance. Cairo had bazaars. This looked more like a cross between a riot and the hajj. And it wasn’t so much the number of people that astounded her, but the variety. Pureblooded djinn strode through the crowds, their odd and ephemeral grace marking their difference among the mob of more human-looking shafit. Their attire was wild—literally; in one case she saw a man pass by with an enormous python settled over his shoulders like a contented pet. People wore glowing robes the color of turmeric and dresses like wound-up sheets, held together by shells and razor-sharp teeth. There were headdresses of glittering stones and wigs of braided metals. Capes of bright feathers and at least one robe that looked like a skinned crocodile, its toothy mouth resting on its wearer’s shoulder. A spindly man with an enormous smoking beard ducked by, and a girl holding a basket swept past Nahri, bumping her with one hip. The girl briefly glanced back, letting her gaze linger appreciatively on Dara. A spark of annoyance lit in Nahri, and one of the girl’s long black braids let out a wriggle like a stretching snake. Nahri jumped.

Dara, meanwhile, just looked irritated. He eyed the bustling crowd with open displeasure, giving the muddy street an unimpressed sniff. “Come,” he said, pulling her forward. “We’ll attract attention if we just stand here gawking.”

But it was impossible not to gawk as they pushed their way through the crowd. The stone street was wide, lined with dozens of market stalls and unevenly stacked buildings. A dizzying maze of covered alleys snaked off the main avenue, crowded with foul heaps of decaying garbage and stacked crates. The air was ripe with the smell of coal and cooking aromas. Djinn shouted and gossiped all around her; vendors hawked their wares while customers haggled.

Nahri couldn’t identify half of what was being sold. Hairy purple melons quivered and trembled beside ordinary oranges and dark cherries, while midnight black nuggets the size of fists were piled between cashews and pistachios. Bolts of giant folded rose petals scented the air between those of patterned silk and sturdy muslin, and a jewelry merchant swung a pair of earrings toward her, painted glass eyes that seemed to wink. A stout woman in a bright purple chador poured a smoking white liquid into several different braziers, and a little boy with fiery hair tried to coax a golden bird twice his size from a rattan cage. Nahri nervously edged away; she’d had her fill of large birds.

“Where’s the Grand Temple?” she asked, dodging a puddle of iridescent water.

Before Dara could answer, a man peeled off from the crowd and planted himself in front of them. He was dressed in stone-colored trousers and a close-fitting crimson tunic that reached his knees. A matching flat cap was perched upon his black hair.

“May the fires burn brightly for you both,” he greeted them in Divasti. “Did I hear you say the Grand Temple? You are pilgrims, yes? Here to pay devotion to the glory of our dear, departed Nahids?”

His flowery words were so obviously recited that Nahri could only smile in recognition. A fellow hustler. She looked him over, noting his black eyes and sharp golden cheekbones. He was clean shaven save for a neat black mustache. A Daeva con artist.

“I can take you to the Grand Temple,” he continued. “I have a cousin with a little tavern. Very fair prices for the rooms.”

Dara shoved past the man. “I know the way.”

“But there is still the matter of accommodation,” the man persisted, hurrying to keep up with them. “Pilgrims from the