The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,112

a setting sun—flew past. It vanished into the trees with a low growl that could have come from a lion ten times its size, and Nahri jumped.

“This is your garden?” she asked in disbelief. A tiled path stretched before them, broken by gnarled, thorned roots and shrouded by moss. Tiny glass globes filled with dancing flames floated over it, illuminating its twisting route into the garden’s dark heart.

Alizayd looked insulted. “I suppose my people don’t keep the gardens as immaculate as your ancestors did. We find ruling the city to be a more appropriate use of time than horticulture.”

Nahri was losing patience with this royal brat. “So Geziri hospitality doesn’t involve stabbing your guests, but does allow for threats and insults?” she asked with mock sweetness. “How fascinating.”

“I . . .” Alizayd looked taken aback. “I apologize,” he finally muttered. “That was rude.” He stared at his feet and motioned toward the path. “If you please . . .”

Nahri smiled, feeling vindicated, and they continued. The path turned into a stony bridge hanging low over a glimmering canal. She glanced down as they crossed. The water was the clearest she’d ever seen, gurgling over smooth rocks and shining pebbles.

Before long they came upon a squat stone building rising from the vines and crowded trees. It was painted a cheerful blue with columns the color of cherries. Steam seeped from the windows, and a small herb garden hugged its exterior. Two young girls knelt among the bushes, weeding and filling a thatched basket with delicate purple petals.

An older woman with lined skin and warm brown eyes emerged from the building as they approached. Shafit, Nahri guessed, noticing her round ears and sensing the familiarity of a fast heartbeat. The woman wore her graying hair in a simple bun and was dressed in some complicated garment wound about her torso.

“Peace be upon you, sister,” Alizayd greeted her when she bowed, in a far kinder tone than he had used with Nahri. “My father’s guest has had a long journey. Do you mind caring for her?”

The woman gazed at Nahri with undisguised curiosity. “It would be an honor, my prince.”

Alizayd briefly met her eyes. “My sister will join you soon, God willing.” She could not tell if he was joking when he added, “She is better company.” He didn’t give her a chance to respond, turning abruptly on his heel.

An ifrit would be better company than you. At least Aeshma had briefly attempted to be charming. Nahri watched as Alizayd quickly returned the way they’d come, feeling more than a little uneasy, until the shafit woman gently took her arm and guided her into the steamy bathhouse.

In minutes, a dozen girls were attending to her; the servants were shafit of a dizzying array of ethnicities, speaking Djinnistani with snatches of Arabic and Circassian, Gujarati and Swahili, along with more languages she couldn’t identify. Some offered tea and sherbet while others carefully assessed her wild hair and dusty skin. She had no idea who they thought she was, and they were careful not to ask but treated her as if she were a princess.

I could get used to this, Nahri thought what felt like hours later as she lolled in a warm bath, the water thick with luxurious oils, and the steamy air smelling of rose petals. One girl massaged her scalp, working a lather into her hair while another massaged her hands. She let her head fall back and closed her eyes.

She was far too drowsy to realize the room had gone silent before a clear voice jolted her out of her reverie.

“I see you have made yourself comfortable.”

Nahri’s eyes shot open. A girl sat on the bench opposite her bath, her legs delicately crossed underneath the most expensive-looking dress Nahri had ever seen.

She was stunning, with a beauty so unnaturally perfect Nahri knew in a moment not a drop of human blood ran through her veins. Her skin was dark and smooth, her lips full, and her hair carefully hidden under a simple ivory turban embellished with a single sapphire. Her gray-gold eyes and elongated features resembled the younger prince so sharply there could be no doubt who she was. Alizayd’s sister, the princess Zaynab.

Nahri crossed her arms and sank back under the bubbles, feeling exposed and plain. The other woman smiled, clearly enjoying her discomfort, and dipped a toe into the bath. Diamonds winked from a gold anklet.

“You’ve got the whole palace in quite an excitement,” she continued. “They’re preparing a