The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,123

the streets of Cairo, a girl who once counted herself fortunate to have two plain abayas in decent shape, the contents of that small room were like things out of a dream—a dream that would have ended with her selling them all and raking in the profits, but a dream nonetheless. Silk gowns, lighter than air and embroidered with thread of spun gold; fitted felt coats in a rainbow of colors embellished with a riot of jeweled flowers; beaded slippers so lovely and intricate it seemed a shame to walk in them.

There were more practical clothes, as well, including a dozen sets of the calf-length tunics and richly embroidered fitted pants Nisreen said Daeva women typically wore. An equal number of chadors, the floor-length cloak also endemic to the women of their tribe, hung from glass globes with far more grace than they usually hung from Nahri’s head. She’d yet to get used to the ornate gold headpieces that held the chador in place, and had a tendency to step on the hem and send the whole ensemble crashing to the ground.

Nahri yawned, rubbing the sleep from her eyes before leaning back on her palms to stretch her neck. Her hand landed on a lump: She’d stashed several jewels and a gold armband in the lining of the mattress. She had similar caches throughout the apartment, gifts she’d been given by an unrelenting stream of rich well-wishers. The djinn were clearly obsessed with gems, and she didn’t trust the number of servants passing through her rooms.

Speaking of which . . . Nahri slid her hand away and lifted her eyes, gazing at the small unmoving figure kneeling in the shadows across the room. “By the Most High, do you ever sleep?”

The girl bowed and then stood, Nahri’s voice propelling her into motion like one of those children’s box toys that sprang up when released. “I wish to be of service to you at all times, Banu Nahida. I pray you slept well.”

“As well as I can while being watched all night,” Nahri grumbled in Divasti, knowing the shafit servant couldn’t understand the Daeva tongue. This was the third girl she’d had since arriving, having frightened off the previous two. Although Nahri had always found the idea of servants appealing in theory, the slavish devotions of these timid girls—children really—unnerved her. Their human-hued eyes were an all too familiar reminder of the strict hierarchy that governed the djinn world.

The girl crept forward, keeping her gaze carefully on the floor while bearing a large tin tray. “Breakfast, my lady.”

Nahri wasn’t hungry but couldn’t resist a peek at the tray. What came out of the palace kitchens amazed her just as much as the contents of her wardrobe. Any food she wanted, in any quantity, at any time. Upon this morning’s tray was a steaming stack of fluffy flatbreads sprinkled with sesame seeds, a bowl of blushing apricots, and several of the ground pistachio pastries with cardamom cream she liked. The scent of minty green tea rose from the copper kettle.

“Thank you,” Nahri said and motioned toward the sheer curtains leading to the garden. “You can leave it out there.”

She slid out of bed and wrapped a soft shawl around her bare shoulders. Her fingers brushed the small weight at her hip, as they did at least a dozen times a day. Dara’s dagger. He’d given it to her before he’d gone off on his stupid, suicidal mission to hunt the ifrit.

She closed her eyes, fighting the ache in her chest. The thought of her easily provoked Afshin, surrounded by djinn soldiers, seeking out the same ifrit who’d nearly killed them was enough to catch her breath.

No, she told herself. Don’t even start. Fretting over Dara would help neither of them; the Afshin was more than capable of taking care of himself, and Nahri didn’t need any distractions. Especially not today.

“Shall I comb your hair, my lady?” her servant piped up, pulling her from her thoughts.

“What? No . . . it’s fine like this,” Nahri said distractedly as she brushed her messy curls off her shoulders and crossed the room for a glass of water.

The girl raced her to the jug. “Your robes, then?” she asked as she poured a glass. “I’ve had the ceremonial Nahid garments cleaned and pressed—”

“No,” Nahri cut in, more sharply than she’d intended. The girl shrank back as if she’d been slapped, and Nahri winced at the fear in her face. She hadn’t meant to scare her. “I’m