The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,124

sorry. Look . . .” Nahri wracked her mind for the girl’s name, but she had been so bombarded by new information each day, it eluded her. “Could I have a few minutes to myself?”

The girl blinked like a frightened kitten. “No. I-I mean . . . I cannot leave, Banu Nahida,” she pleaded in a tiny whisper. “I am to be available—”

“I can take care of Banu Nahri this morning, Dunoor.” A calm, measured voice spoke up from the garden.

The shafit girl bowed and was gone, fleeing before the speaker parted the curtains. Nahri raised her eyes to the ceiling. “You’d think I ran around lighting people on fire and poisoning their tea,” she complained. “I don’t understand why people here are so afraid of me.”

Nisreen entered the chamber without a sound. The older woman moved like a ghost. “Your mother enjoyed a rather . . . fearsome reputation.”

“Yes, but she was a true Nahid,” Nahri countered. “Not some lost shafit who can’t conjure up a flame.” She joined Nisreen on the pavilion overlooking the gardens. The white marble flushed pink in the rosy dawn light, and a pair of tiny birds twittered and splashed in the fountain.

“It’s only been a couple of weeks, Nahri. Give yourself time.” Nisreen gave her a sardonic smile. “Soon you’ll be capable of conjuring up enough flames to burn down the infirmary. And you’re not a shafit, no matter your appearance. The king said so himself.”

“Well, I’m glad he’s so certain,” Nahri muttered. Ghassan had done his part in their deal, publicly declaring Nahri to be Manizheh’s long-lost, pureblooded daughter, claiming her human appearance was the result of a marid curse.

Yet Nahri herself was still not convinced. With every passing day in Daevabad, she became more attuned to the differences between purebloods and shafit. The air grew warm around the elegant purebloods; they breathed deeper, their hearts beat more slowly, and their luminous skin gave off a smoky odor that stung her nose. She could not help but compare the iron scent of her red blood; the salty taste of her sweat; the slower, more awkward way her body moved. She certainly felt shafit.

“You should eat something,” Nisreen said lightly. “You have an important day ahead of you.”

Nahri picked up a pastry and turned it over in her hands before putting it back down, feeling nauseated. “Important” was an understatement. Today was the first day Nahri was going to treat a patient. “I’m sure I can just as easily kill someone on an empty stomach.”

Nisreen gave her a look. Her mother’s former aide was one hundred and fifty years old—a number she offered with the air of someone discussing the weather—but her sharp black eyes seemed ageless.

“You’re not going to kill anyone,” Nisreen said evenly. She said everything with such confidence. Nisreen struck Nahri as one of the most steadily capable people she’d ever met, a woman who’d not only easily thwarted Zaynab’s attempt to embarrass Nahri, but had also handled over a century’s worth of God only knew what sort of magical maladies. “It’s a simple procedure,” she added.

“Extracting a fire salamander from someone’s body is simple?” Nahri shuddered. “I still don’t understand why you chose this as my first assignment. I don’t see why I even have a first assignment. Physicians train for years in the human world, and I’m expected to just go out and start cutting magical reptiles out of people after listening to you lecture for a few—”

“We do things differently here,” Nisreen interrupted. She pushed a cup of hot tea in Nahri’s hands and motioned her back inside the room. “Take some tea. And sit,” she added, pointing to a chair. “You cannot see the public looking like that.”

Nahri obeyed, and Nisreen retrieved a comb from a nearby chest and started on Nahri’s hair, raking it down her scalp to separate the braids. Nahri closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of the comb’s sharp teeth and the expert tugging of Nisreen’s fingers.

I wonder if my mother ever braided my hair.

The tiny thought bubbled up, a crack in the armor Nahri had settled over that part of herself. It was a foolish notion; from the sound of things, Nahri had no sooner been born than her mother had been killed. Manizheh never had the chance to braid Nahri’s hair, nor witness her first steps; she hadn’t lived long enough to teach her daughter Nahid magic, nor listen to her complain about arrogant, handsome men eager to rush after