The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,114

of a slew of enthralled masters was not something Nahri wished to dwell upon. She bit her lip, wordlessly watching as a handful of servants joined them on the pavilion, each bearing a silver platter loaded with food. The one closest to her, a stout woman with biceps as thick as Nahri’s legs, staggered from the weight of her platter and nearly dropped it in Nahri’s lap when she set it down.

“God be praised,” Nahri whispered. There was enough food in front of her to break the fasts of an entire Cairo neighborhood. Piles of saffron-hued rice glistening with buttery fat and studded with dried fruit, mounds of creamy vegetables, stacks of fried almond-colored patties. There were sheets of flatbread as long as her arms and small clay bowls filled with more varieties of nuts, herbed cheeses, and fruit than she could identify. But it all paled compared to the platter in front of her, the one which nearly toppled the servant carrying it: a whole pink fish resting in a bed of bright herbs, two stuffed pigeons, and a copper pot of meatballs in a thick yoghurt sauce.

Her gaze fell upon an oval dish piled with spiced rice, dried limes, and glistening chicken pieces. “Is that . . . kabsa?” She was pulling the dish toward her, helping herself before Zaynab could answer. Starving, exhausted, and having subsisted on stale manna and lentil soup for weeks, Nahri didn’t particularly care if she came off as uncouth. She closed her eyes, savoring the taste of the roasted chicken.

She caught sight of the princess’s amused expression as she eagerly scooped up more of the spiced rice. “Are you such a fan of Geziri cuisine, then?” Zaynab smiled, the expression not quite meeting her eyes. “I’ve never known a Daeva to eat meat.”

Nahri remembered Dara saying that, but shrugged it off. “I ate meat in Cairo.” She coughed, a lump in her throat from swallowing so quickly. “Do you have any water?” she choked out to one of the servants.

Across from her, Zaynab delicately pecked at a bowl of glistening black cherries. She nodded toward a glass carafe. “There is wine.”

Nahri hesitated, still a little leery of alcohol. But as she started to cough again, she decided a few sips wouldn’t hurt. “Please . . . thank you,” she added as a servant poured a generous goblet and handed it over. She took a long sip. It was far drier than the date wine Dara conjured up, crisp and cool. And rather refreshing; sweet without being overly so, with a delicate hint of some sort of berry.

“That’s delicious,” Nahri marveled.

Zaynab smiled again. “I’m glad you like it.”

Nahri kept eating, taking a few sips of wine every now and then to clear her throat. She was vaguely aware of Zaynab droning on about the history of the gardens; the sun had grown hot, but a gentle breeze blew over the cool water. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the faint sound of glass wind chimes. She blinked and leaned heavily into the soft cushions, a strange heaviness creeping over her limbs.

“Are you all right, Nahri?”

“Mmm?” She looked up.

Zaynab gestured toward Nahri’s goblet. “You may wish to ease up on that. I hear it’s rather potent.”

Nahri blinked, struggling to keep her eyes open. “Potent?”

“Supposedly. I wouldn’t know myself.” She shook her head. “The lectures I would get from my little brother if he caught me drinking wine . . .”

Nahri looked at her goblet. It was full—she realized now just how careful the servants had been to keep it full—and she had no idea how much she’d consumed.

Her head swam. “I . . .” Her voice came out in an embarrassing slur.

Zaynab gave her a mortified look, pressing a hand to her heart. “I’m sorry!” she apologized, her voice sugar sweet. “I should have guessed your . . . upbringing would not have exposed you to such things. Oh, Banu Nahida, do be careful,” she warned as Nahri fell forward on her palms. “Why don’t you rest?”

Nahri felt herself being helped into an impossibly soft mound of cushions. A servant started to fan her with a large paddle of palm fronds while another spread a thin canopy to block the sun.

“I . . . I can’t,” she tried to protest. She yawned, her vision going fuzzy. “I should find Dara . . .”

Zaynab laughed lightly. “I’m sure my father can handle him.”

Somewhere in a back corner of her mind, Zaynab’s confident laugh nagged