The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,146

a wave of embarrassment, he nevertheless kept her hand pressed against the wall.

“You tried twice,” he chided. “That’s nothing. Do you know how long it took for me to call up flames on my zulfiqar?” He stepped back. “Try again.”

She let out an annoyed huff but didn’t drop her hand. “Fine. Azar.”

There wasn’t even a spark; her face twisted with disappointment. Ali hid his own frown, knowing this should have been easy for someone like Nahri. He chewed the inside of his lip, trying to think.

And then it came to him. “Try it in Arabic.”

She looked surprised. “In Arabic? You really think a human language is going to call up magic?”

“It’s one that has meaning to you.” Ali shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt to try.”

“I suppose not.” She wiggled her fingers, staring at her hand. “Naar.”

The dusty air above her open palm smoked. Her eyes widened. “Did you see that?”

He grinned. “Again.”

She needed no convincing now. “Naar. Naar. Naar!” Her face fell. “I just had it!”

“Keep going,” he urged. He had an idea. As Nahri opened her mouth, Ali spoke again, suspecting that what he said next would likely end either with her conjuring up a flame or punching him in the face. “What do you think Darayavahoush is up to today?”

Nahri’s eyes flashed with outrage—and the air above her palm burst into fire.

“Don’t let it go out!” Ali grabbed her wrist again before she could smother it, holding her fingers out to let the little flame breathe. “It won’t hurt you.”

“By the Most High . . . ,” she gasped. Firelight danced across her face, reflecting in her black eyes, and setting the gold ornaments holding her chador in place aglow.

Ali let go of her wrist and then stepped back to retrieve their extinguished torch. He held it out. “Light it.”

Nahri tipped her hand to let the flame dance from her palm to the torch, setting it ablaze. She looked mesmerized . . . and far more emotional than he’d ever seen her. Her typically cool mask had vanished; her face was shining with delight, with relief.

And then it was gone. She lifted an eyebrow. “Would you like to explain the purpose of that last question?”

He dropped his gaze, shifting on his feet. “Sometimes magic works best when there’s a little . . .” He cleared his throat, searching for the least inappropriate word he could think of. “Ah, emotion behind it.”

“Emotion?” She abruptly swept her fingers through the air. “Naar,” she whispered, and a slash of fire danced in front of her. She grinned when Ali jumped back. “I suppose anger works just as well then.” But she was still smiling when the tiny embers fell to the ground, winking out in the sand. “Well, whatever your intent, I appreciate it. Truly.” She glanced up at him. “Thank you, Ali. It’s nice to learn some new magic here.”

He tried to offer a casual shrug, as if teaching potentially deadly skills to his ancestral enemy was something he did all the time—and not, as it suddenly dawned upon him, a thing that should have been considered more carefully. “You needn’t thank me,” he insisted, his voice slightly hoarse. He swallowed and then abruptly crossed to retrieve the scroll from where she’d dropped it. “I . . . I guess we should look at what we came down here for in the first place.”

Nahri followed. “You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” she said again. “It was just a passing curiosity.”

“You wanted to know about Egyptian marid.” He tapped the scroll. “This is the last surviving account of a djinn meeting one.” He unfurled it. “Oh.”

“What?” Nahri asked, peeking over his arm. She blinked. “Suleiman’s eye . . . what is that supposed to be?”

“I have no idea,” Ali confessed. Whatever language the scroll was in was unlike any he’d ever seen, a confusing spiral of miniature pictograms and wedge-shaped marks. The letters—if they were letters—were crammed in so tight, it was difficult to see where one ended and the next began. From opposing corners, an inky path—a river perhaps, maybe the Nile—had been painted, its cataracts marked by more bizarre pictograms.

“I don’t suppose we’ll be getting any information from that,” Nahri sighed.

Ali hushed her. “You shouldn’t give up on things so quickly.” An idea unfurled in his head. “I know someone who might be able to translate this. An Ayaanle scholar. He’s retired now, but he might be willing to help us.”

Nahri looked reluctant. “I’d rather not