The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,163

tasting blood in his mouth. He grabbed Jamshid’s collar before he could rise. “Get rid of him.”

The command came out in a growl, and Jamshid stiffened. “What?”

Ali fought for breath. The pain in his stomach was fading. He was fairly certain he was about to pass out—or die, a possibility which probably should have bothered him more than it did. But he was focused on only one thing—the shafit assassin lying at his feet, his hand clutching a blade wet with Qahtani blood. His father would murder every mixed-blood in Daevabad if he saw this.

“Get . . . rid of him,” Ali breathed. “That’s an order.”

He saw Jamshid swallow, his black eyes darting between Hanno and the wall. “Yes, my prince.”

Ali leaned against the stone, the wall icy cold in comparison to the blood soaking his clothes. Jamshid dragged Hanno to the parapet; there was a distant splash. The edges of his vision darkened, but something glittered on the ground, catching his attention. The telescope.

“N-Nahri . . . ,” Ali slurred as Jamshid returned. “Just . . . Nahri—” And then the ground rushed up to meet him.

24

Nahri

Urgent.

The word rang through Nahri’s mind, tying her stomach into knots as she hurried back to the infirmary. She wasn’t ready for anything urgent; indeed, she was tempted to slow her pace. Better for someone to die waiting rather than be murdered directly by her incompetence.

Nahri pushed open the infirmary door. “All right, Nisreen, what—” She abruptly shut her mouth.

Ghassan al Qahtani sat at the bedside of one of her patients, a Geziri cleric far into his third century who was slowly turning to charcoal. Nisreen said it was a fairly common condition among the elderly, fatal if untreated. Nahri had pointed out that being three hundred was a condition that should soon prove fatal, but treated the man anyway, putting him near a steamy vaporizer and giving him a dose of watery mud charmed by an enchantment Nisreen had coached her through. He had been in the infirmary for a few days, and had seemed fine when she left: fast asleep, with the burning contained to his feet.

A chill crept down her spine as she watched the fondness with which the king squeezed the sheikh’s hand. Nisreen was standing behind them. There was a warning in her black eyes.

“Your Majesty,” Nahri stammered. She quickly brought her palms together and then, deciding it couldn’t hurt, bowed. “Forgive me . . . I didn’t realize you were here.”

The king smiled and stood. “No apology necessary, Banu Nahida. I heard my sheikh wasn’t doing well and came by to offer my prayers.” He turned back to the old man and touched his shoulder, adding something in Geziriyya. Her patient offered a wheezy response, and Ghassan laughed.

He approached, and she forced herself to hold his gaze. “Did you enjoy your evening with my children?” he asked.

“Very much.” Her skin prickled; she could swear she felt the power literally radiating off him. She couldn’t resist adding, “I’m sure Alizayd will report everything later.”

The king’s gray eyes twinkled, amused by her gall. “Indeed, Banu Nahida.” He gestured at the old man. “Please, do what you can for him. I’ll rest easier knowing that my teacher is in the hands of Banu Manizheh’s daughter.”

Nahri bowed again, waiting until she heard the door close to hurry to the sheikh’s side. She prayed she hadn’t already said or done something rude in front of him, but knew that was unlikely—the infirmary put her in a foul mood.

She forced a smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” he rasped. “God be praised, my feet finally stopped hurting.”

“There is something you should see,” Nisreen said softly. She lifted the sheikh’s blanket, blocking his view so Nahri could examine his feet.

They were gone.

Not only were they gone—reduced to ash—but the infection had swept up his legs to take root in his skinny thighs. A smoldering black line licked toward his left hip, and Nahri swallowed, trying to conceal her horror.

“I-I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better,” she said with as much cheer as she could muster. “If you’ll just . . . ah, let me confer with my assistant.”

She dragged Nisreen out of earshot. “What happened?” she hissed. “You said we fixed him!”

“I said no such thing,” Nisreen corrected her, looking indignant. “There’s no cure for his condition, especially at his age. It can only be managed.”

“How is that managing it? The enchantment seems to have made him worse!” Nahri shuddered. “Did you not just