The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,181

you?” he wheezed.

By the Most High, is that what he thought he was interrupting? She pressed one of his hands. “No,” she assured him. “Of course not. I’m fine.”

“Nahri, we need to go,” Dara warned in a low voice. “Now.”

Ali looked between them, and shock bloomed in his face. “You’re running away with him? But you . . . you told my father—”

There was a loud knock on the door leading to the outer corridor. “Banu Nahida?” a muffled male voice called. “Is everything all right?”

Ali straightened up. “No!” he boomed. “It’s the Af—”

Nahri clapped her hand over his mouth. Ali jerked back, looking betrayed.

But it was too late. The banging on the door grew louder. “Prince Alizayd!” the voice shouted. “Is that you?”

Dara swore and rushed to the door to lay his hands on the door pulls. The silver instantly melted, winding across the doors in a lacelike pattern to lock them together.

But Nahri doubted it would keep anyone out for long. He has to go, she realized, something breaking in her heart.

And though she knew he had no one to blame but himself, Nahri still choked on the words. “Dara, you need to go. Run. Please. If you stay in Daevabad, the king will kill you.”

“I know.” He snatched Ali’s zulfiqar as the coppery snake tried to slither past, and it instantly re-formed in his hands. He crossed to her desk and emptied a glass cylinder containing some of her instruments. He rifled through the random tools and plucked out a bolt of iron. It melted in his hands.

Nahri stilled. Even she knew he shouldn’t have been able to do that.

But Dara barely winced as he reshaped the soft iron into a skinny length of rope. “What are you doing?” she demanded as he bent and yanked Ali’s hands away from hers. He wrapped the soft metal around the prince’s wrists, and it instantly hardened. The banging outside grew louder, smoke seeping under the door.

Dara beckoned to her. “Come.”

“I already told you: I’m not leaving Daevabad—”

Dara pressed the zulfiqar to Ali’s throat. “You are,” he said, his voice quietly firm.

Nahri went cold. She met Dara’s eyes, praying she was wrong, praying that the man she trusted above all others was not really forcing this choice upon her.

But in his face—his beautiful face—she saw intent. A little regret, but intent.

Ali chose that particularly ill-advised moment to open his mouth. “Go to hell, you child-murdering, warmongering—”

Dara’s eyes flashed. He pressed the zulfiqar harder against Ali’s throat.

“Stop,” Nahri said. “I . . .” She swallowed. “I’ll go. Don’t hurt him.”

Dara moved the zulfiqar away from the prince, looking relieved. “Thank you.” He jerked his head at Ali. “Watch him a moment.” He quickly crossed the room, heading toward the wall behind her desk.

Nahri felt numb. She sat beside Ali, not trusting her legs.

He stared at her with open bewilderment. “I’m not sure whether to thank you for just saving my life or accuse you of betrayal.”

Nahri sucked in her breath. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

Ali dared a glance at Dara and then lowered his voice. “We’re not going to get away,” he warned, his worried eyes meeting hers. “And if my father thinks you’re responsible . . . Nahri, you gave him your word.”

A heavy grinding sound interrupted them. Nahri looked up to see Dara painstakingly pulling apart the stone wall along its decorative edges, smoke and bright white flames licking at his hands. He stopped once the gap was large enough to squeeze through.

“Let’s go.” Dara grabbed Ali by the back of his robe and dragged him along, pushing him through first. The prince fell hard, to his knees.

Nahri flinched. She couldn’t tell herself that Ali was just a mark anymore; he’d become a friend, there was no denying it. And he was a kid in comparison to Dara, decent-hearted and kind, whatever his faults.

“Give me your robe,” she said curtly as Dara turned back to her. Nahri hadn’t had time to dress, and she would be damned if she was going to be dragged through Daevabad in her bedclothes.

He handed it over. “Nahri, I . . . I’m sorry,” he said in Divasti. She knew his words were sincere, but they didn’t help. “I’m just trying to—”

“I know what you’re trying to do,” she rebuked him, her tone sharp. “And I’m telling you: I’ll never forgive you if something happens to him—and I’ll never forget what you did here tonight.”

She didn’t wait for a response;