The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,166

collapsed in a nearby chair, letting her head fall into her hands. “The king wasn’t just here to see an old friend, Nahri. He was here to count the empty beds and ask why you’re not treating more patients. There’s a waiting list—twenty pages deep and growing—for appointments with you. And those are just the nobles—the Creator only knows how many others in the city need your skills. If the Qahtanis had their way, every bed in here would be filled.”

“Then people need to be more patient!” Nahri countered. “Daevabad lasted twenty years without a healer—surely she can wait a bit longer.” She leaned against the washbasin. “My God, even human physicians study for years, and they’re dealing with colds, not curses. I need more time to be properly trained.”

Nisreen let out a dry, humorless laugh. “You’ll never be properly trained. Ghassan might want the infirmary filled, but he’d be pleased if your skills never went beyond the basic. He’d probably be happiest if half your patients died.” When Nahri frowned, her assistant straightened up, looking at her in surprise. “Do you not understand what’s going on here?”

“Apparently not in the least.”

“They want you weak, Nahri. You’re the daughter of Banu Manizheh. You marched into Daevabad with Darayavahoush e-Afshin at your side the day a mob of shafit tried to break into the Daeva Quarter. You nearly killed a woman out of irritation . . . did you not notice that your guards were doubled after that day? You think the Qahtanis want to let you train?” Nisreen gave her a disbelieving look. “You should be happy you’re not forced to wear an iron cuff when you visit their prince.”

“I . . . But they let me have the infirmary. They pardoned Dara.”

“The king had no choice but to pardon Darayavahoush—he is beloved among our people. Were the Qahtanis to harm a hair on his head, half the city would rise up. And as for the infirmary? It is symbolic, as are you. The king wants a Nahid healer as a herder wants a dog, occasionally useful but entirely dependent.”

Nahri stiffened in anger. “I’m no one’s dog.”

“No?” Nisreen crossed her arms, her wrists still covered in ash and blood. “Then why are you playing into their hands?”

“What are you talking about?”

Nisreen drew closer. “There is no hiding your lack of progress in the infirmary, child,” she warned. “You entirely ignored the Daevas who came to see you at the Grand Temple—and then you stormed out without a word. You neglect your fire altar, you eat meat in public, you spend all your free time with that Qahtani zealot . . .” Her face darkened. “Nahri, our tribe doesn’t think lightly of disloyalty; we’ve suffered too much at the hands of our enemies. Daevas who are suspected of collaboration . . . life is not easy for them.”

“Collaboration?” Nahri was incredulous. “Staying on good terms with the people in power isn’t collaboration, Nisreen. It’s common sense. And if my eating kebab bothers a bunch of gossipy fire worshippers—”

Nisreen gasped. “What did you say?”

Too late Nahri remembered the Daevas hated the term. “Oh, come on, Nisreen, it’s just a word. You know I didn’t—”

“It’s not just a word!” Furious red spots blossomed in Nisreen’s pale cheeks. “That slur has been used to demonize our tribe for centuries. It’s what people spit when they rip off our women’s veils and beat our men. It’s what the authorities charge us with whenever they want to raid our homes or seize our property. That you—of all people—would use it . . .”

Her assistant stood, pacing farther into the infirmary with her hands laced behind her head. She glared back at Nahri. “Do you even want to improve? How many times have I told you how important intention is in healing? How critical belief is when wielding magic?” She spread her hands, gesturing to the infirmary surrounding them. “Do you believe in any of this, Banu Nahri? Care anything for our people? Our culture?”

Nahri dropped her gaze, a guilty flush filling her cheeks. No. She hated how quickly the answer leaped to her mind, but it was the truth.

Nisreen must have sensed her discomfort. “I thought not.” She took the crumpled blanket lying abandoned at the foot of the sheikh’s bed and silently spread it over his body, her fingers lingering on his brow. When she glanced up, there was open despair in her face. “How can you be the Banu Nahida when you care nothing