The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,21

of the Gozan.”

“And hope she finds her way past the veil? Hope the Qahtani family believes the word of some lost, human-looking girl should she somehow make it to the palace?” Khayzur looked appalled. “You are an Afshin, Dara. Her life is your responsibility.”

“Which is why she’d be better off in Daevabad without me,” Dara argued. “Those sand flies would likely murder her just to punish me for the war.”

The war? “Wait,” Nahri cut in, not liking the sound of this Daevabad at all. “What war?”

“One that ended fourteen centuries ago and over which he’s still holding a grudge,” Khayzur answered. At that, Dara knocked over his teacup and stalked off. “A skill at which he’s most adept,” the peri added. The daeva threw him a jewel-eyed glare, but the peri pressed on. “You’re only one man, Dara; you can’t hold the ifrit off forever. They will kill her if they find her. Slowly and gleefully.” Nahri shivered, a prickle of fear running over her skin. “And it will be entirely your fault.”

Dara paced the edge of the rug. Nahri spoke up again, not particularly keen on a pair of bickering magical beings deciding her fate without any input from her.

“Why would this Daevabad be safer than Cairo?”

“Daevabad is your family’s ancestral home,” Khayzur replied. “No ifrit can pass its veil—none can, save your race.”

She glanced at Dara. The daeva stared out at the setting sun, muttering angrily under his breath as smoke curled around his ears. “So it’s full of people like him?”

The peri gave her a weak smile. “I’m sure you will find a greater . . . breadth of temperaments in the city itself.”

How encouraging. “Why are the ifrit after me in the first place?”

Khayzur hesitated. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave that explanation to your Afshin. It’s a lengthy one.”

My Afshin? Nahri wanted to ask. But Khayzur had already turned his attention back to Dara. “Have you come to your senses yet? Or do you intend to let this nonsense over blood purity ruin another life?”

“No,” the daeva grumbled, but she could hear the indecision in his voice. He clasped his hands behind his back, refusing to look at either of them.

“By the Maker . . . go home, Dara,” Khayzur urged. “Have you not suffered enough for this ancient war? The rest of the Daeva tribe made peace long ago. Why can’t you?”

Dara twisted his ring, his hands trembling. “Because they didn’t witness it,” he said softly. “But you are correct about the ifrit.” He sighed and turned around, his face still troubled. “The girl is safest—from them anyway—in Daevabad.”

“Good.” Khayzur looked relieved. He snapped his fingers, and the tea supplies disappeared. “Then go. Travel as fast as you can. But discreetly.” He pointed to the rug. “Do not overly rely on this. Whoever sold it to you did a terrible job on the charm. The ifrit might be able to track it.”

Dara scowled again. “I did the charm.”

The peri lifted his delicate brows. “Well . . . then perhaps keep those close,” he suggested with a nod to the weapons piled under the tree. He rose to his feet, shaking out his wings. “I will not delay you further. But I’ll see what I can learn of the girl—should it be useful, I’ll try to find you.” He bowed in Nahri’s direction. “An honor to meet you, Nahri. Good luck to you both.”

With a single flap of his wings, he rose in the air and vanished into the crimson sky.

Dara stepped into his boots and swung the silver bow over one shoulder before smoothing the carpet out. “Let’s go,” he said, tossing his other weapons onto the rug.

“Let’s talk,” she countered, crossing her legs. She wasn’t moving from the carpet. “I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers.”

“No.” He dropped beside her on the rug, his voice firm. “I saved your life. I’m escorting you to the city of my enemies. That’s enough. You can find someone in Daevabad to bother with your questions.” He sighed. “I suspect this journey will already be long enough.”

Enraged, Nahri opened her mouth to argue and then stopped, realizing the rug now held all their supplies, as well as she and Dara both.

No horses. No camels. Her heart skipped a beat. “We’re not really going to—”

Dara snapped his fingers, and the carpet shot into the air.

4

Ali

It was a miserable morning in Daevabad.

Though the adhan, the call to dawn prayer, rang out across the wet air, there was