The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,164

hear the king crowing about what good hands he’s in?”

Nisreen beckoned her toward the apothecary shelves. “Trust me, Banu Nahri, King Ghassan knows how serious the situation is. Sheikh Auda’s condition is familiar to our people.” She sighed. “The burn is advancing quickly. I sent a messenger to retrieve his wife. We’ll just try to keep him as comfortable as possible until then.”

Nahri stared at Nisreen. “What do you mean? There must be something else we can try.”

“He’s dying, Banu Nahida. He will not last the night.”

“But—”

“You cannot help them all.” Nisreen laid a gentle hand on her elbow. “And he’s elderly. He’s lived a good, long life.”

That may have been so, but Nahri could not help thinking about how affectionately Ghassan had spoken of the other man. “It figures my next failure would be a friend of the king.”

“Is that what’s worrying you?” The sympathy vanished from her assistant’s face “Could you not put your patient’s needs above your own for once? And you’ve not yet failed. We haven’t even started.”

“You just said there was nothing we could do!”

“We’ll try to keep him alive until his wife arrives.” Nisreen headed toward the apothecary shelves. “He’ll suffocate when the infection reaches his lungs. There’s a procedure that will give him a little more time, but it’s very precise and you’ll have to be the one to do it.”

Nahri didn’t like the sound of that. She hadn’t tried another advanced procedure since nearly strangling the Daeva woman with the salamander.

She reluctantly followed Nisreen. In the light of the flickering torches and blazing fire pit, her apothecary looked alive. Various ingredients twitched and shuddered behind the hazy, sandblasted glass shelves, and Nahri did the same at the sight. She missed Yaqub’s apothecary, full of recognizable—and reliably dead—supplies. Ginger for indigestion, sage for night sweats, things she knew how to use. Not poisonous gases, live cobras, and an entire phoenix dissolved in honey.

Nisreen pulled free a pair of slender silver tweezers from her apron and opened a small cabinet. She carefully plucked out a glimmering copper tube about the length of a hand and skinny as a smoking cheroot. She held it at arm’s length, jerking away when Nahri reached for it.

“Don’t touch it with your bare skin,” she warned. “It’s Geziri made, from the same material as their zulfiqar blades. There’s no healing from the injury.”

Nahri pulled back her hand. “Not even for a Nahid?”

Nisreen gave her a dark look. “How do you think your prince’s people took Daevabad from your ancestors?”

“Then what am I supposed to do with it?”

“You will insert it into his lungs and then his throat to relieve some of the pressure as his ability to breathe burns away.”

“You want me to stab him with some magical Geziri weapon that destroys Nahid flesh?” Had Nisreen suddenly developed a sense of humor?

“No,” her assistant said flatly. “I want you to insert it into his lungs and then his throat to relieve some of the pressure as his ability to breathe burns away. His wife lives on the other side of the city. I fear it will take time to reach her.”

“Well, God willing, she moves faster than him. Because I am not doing anything with that murderous little tube.”

“Yes, you are,” Nisreen said, rebuking her. “You’re not going to deny a man a final good-bye with his beloved because you’re afraid. You are the Banu Nahida; this is your responsibility.” She pushed past her. “Prepare yourself. I’ll get him ready for the procedure.”

“Nisreen . . .”

But her assistant was already returning to the ailing man’s side. Nahri quickly washed up, her hands shaking as she watched Nisreen help the sheikh sip a cup of steaming tea. When he groaned, she pressed a cool cloth to his brow.

She should be the Banu Nahida. It was not the first time the thought had occurred to Nahri. Nisreen cared for their patients like they were family members. She was welcoming and warm, confident in her abilities. And despite her frequent grumblings about the Geziri, there was no hint of prejudice as she tended to the old man. Nahri watched, trying to squash the jealousy flaring up in her chest. What she would give to feel competent again.

Nisreen looked up. “We’re ready for you, Banu Nahri.” She glanced down at the cleric. “It will hurt. You’re sure you don’t want some wine?”

He shook his head. “N-no,” he managed, his voice trembling. He glanced at the door, the movement obviously causing him pain. “Do