The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,140

to stop. Nahri normally didn’t mind; the taciturn young prince she’d first met had become her most enthusiastic source of information about the djinn world, and strangely enough, she was beginning to enjoy their afternoons together, the one bright spot in her monotonous, frustrating days.

But she also knew the issue of the shafit was one which divided their tribes—the one which had led to the bloody overthrow of her ancestors at the hands of his.

She held her tongue, and they kept walking. The white marble corridor shone with the saffron-hued light of sunset, and she could hear a few latecomers still singing the call to prayer from the city’s distant minarets. She tried to slow her steps, enjoying another few moments of peace. Returning to the infirmary each day—to inevitably fail at something new—was like donning weighted sackcloth.

Ali spoke again. “I don’t know if you would be interested, but the traders who recovered that lock also found some sort of lens for observing the stars. Our scholars are attempting to restore it before the arrival of a comet in a few weeks.”

“You’re sure it’s not just a pair of spectacles?” she teased.

He laughed. “God forbid. They’d die of disappointment. But if you like, I can arrange a viewing.” Ali hesitated as a servant reached for the infirmary doors. “Perhaps my brother, Muntadhir, can join us. His expedition is due back by then and . . .”

Nahri had stopped listening. A familiar voice caught her attention as the infirmary door opened, and she rushed in, praying her ears weren’t deceiving her.

They weren’t. Sitting at one of her worktables, looking as harassed and handsome as always, was Dara.

Her breath caught in her throat. Dara was bent low in conversation with Nisreen, but he abruptly straightened up when he caught sight of Nahri. His bright eyes met hers, filled with the same swirl of emotions she suspected was on her face. Her heart felt ready to leap out of her chest.

By the Most High, get hold of yourself. Nahri shut her mouth, realizing it was hanging open as Ali entered the room behind her.

Nisreen shot to her feet, pressing her palms together. She bowed. “My prince.”

Dara stayed seated. “Little Zaydi . . . salaam alaykum!” he greeted in atrociously accented Arabic. He grinned. “How is your wrist?”

Ali drew up, looking indignant. “You should not be here, Afshin. The Banu Nahida’s time is precious. Only those who are ill or injured—”

Dara abruptly raised a fist and then smashed it through the heavy, sandblasted glass table. The top shattered, sparkling shards of hazy glass cascading over the Afshin and the floor. He didn’t even flinch; instead, he raised his hand and looked at the jagged pieces of glass embedded in his skin with mock surprise. “There,” he deadpanned. “I’m injured.”

Ali stepped forward with an angry expression, and Nahri sprang into action, Dara’s lunatic act snapping her into focus. Likely breaking at least a dozen rules of protocol, she grabbed the prince by the shoulders and spun him around toward the door. “I think Nisreen and I can handle this,” she said with forced cheer as she pushed him out. “You wouldn’t want to miss prayer!” The astonished djinn was opening his mouth to protest when she smiled and shut the door in his face.

She took a deep breath to steady herself before turning back.

“Leave us, Nisreen.”

“Banu Nahida, that is not appropriate . . .”

Nahri didn’t even look at the other woman, her gaze directed at Dara alone. “Go!”

Nisreen sighed, but before she could leave, Dara reached out to touch her wrist. “Thank you,” he said with such sincerity that Nisreen blushed. “My heart is greatly lightened by knowing someone like you serves my Banu Nahida.”

“It is my honor,” Nisreen replied, sounding uncharacteristically flustered. Nahri couldn’t blame her; she’d felt that way often enough in Dara’s presence.

But she definitely was not feeling that way right now. She knew Dara could sense it; the moment Nisreen left, some of the bravado vanished from his face.

He gave her a weak smile. “You’ve taken very quickly to ordering people around.”

Nahri picked her way through the remains of her destroyed table. “Have you completely lost your mind?” she demanded as she reached for his hand.

He stepped back. “I might ask you the same. Alizayd al Qahtani? Really, Nahri? Could you not find an ifrit to befriend?”

“He’s not my friend, you fool,” she said, grabbing again for his hand. “He’s a mark. One I was having luck with until you sauntered