The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,22

no sign of the sun in the misty sky. Fog shrouded the great city of brass, obscuring its towering minarets of sandblasted glass and hammered metal and veiling its golden domes. Rain seeped off the jade roofs of marble palaces and flooded its stone streets, condensing on the placid faces of its ancient Nahid founders memorialized on the murals covering its mighty walls.

A chilly breeze swept through the winding streets, past intricately tiled bathhouses and the thick doors protecting fire temples whose altars had burned for millennia, bringing the smell of damp earth and tree sap from the thickly forested mountains that surrounded the island. It was the type of morning that sent most djinn scurrying indoors like cats fleeing rain, back to beds of smoky silk brocade and warm mates, burning away the hours until the sun reemerged hot and proper to scald the city to life.

Prince Alizayd al Qahtani was not one of them. He pulled the tail of his turban across his face and shivered, hunching his shoulders against the cold rain as he walked. His breath came in a steamy hush, the sound amplified against the damp cloth. Rain dripped from his brow, evaporating as it crossed his smoky skin.

He went over the charges again in his mind. You have to talk to him, he told himself. You have no choice. The rumors are getting out of hand.

Ali stuck to the shadows as he neared the Grand Bazaar. Even at this early hour, the bazaar would be busy: sleepy merchants undoing the curses that had protected their wares throughout the night, apothecaries brewing potions to energize their first customers, children carrying messages made of burnt glass that shattered upon revealing their words—not to mention the bodies of barely conscious addicts wasted on smuggled human intoxicants. With little desire to be seen by any of them, Ali turned down a dark lane, a detour that took him so deep into the city that he could no longer glimpse the tall brass walls that enclosed it.

The neighborhood he entered was an old one, crowded with ancient buildings mimicking human architecture lost to time: columns carved with Nabatean graffiti, friezes of Etruscan satyrs, and intricate Mauryan stupas. Civilizations long dead, their memory captured by the curious djinn who’d passed through—or by nostalgic shafit trying to re-create their lost homes.

A large stone mosque with a striking spiral minaret and black and white archways stood at the end of the street. One of the few places in Daevabad where djinn purebloods and shafit still worshipped together, the mosque’s popularity with traders and travelers from the Grand Bazaar made for an unusually transient community . . . and a good place to be invisible.

Ali ducked inside, eager to escape the rain. He’d no sooner slipped off his sandals than they were snatched away by a zealous ishtas, the small, scaled creatures obsessed with organization and footwear. For a bit of fruit and negotiation, Ali’s shoes would be returned to him after prayer, scrubbed and fragrant with sandalwood. He continued, passing a pair of matching marble ablution fountains, one flowing with water for the shafit while its partner swirled with the warm black sand most purebloods preferred.

One of the oldest in Daevabad, the mosque consisted of four covered halls enclosing a courtyard open to the gray sky. Worn down by the feet and brows of centuries of worshippers, its red and gold carpet was thin but immaculate—whatever self-cleaning enchantments had been woven in with its threads still held. Large, hazy glass lanterns filled with enchanted flames hung from the ceiling, and nuggets of frankincense smoldered in corner braziers.

It was mostly empty this morning, the benefits of communal prayer perhaps not outweighing the vile weather for many of its usual congregants. Ali took a deep breath of the fragrant air as he scanned the scattered worshippers, but the man he was looking for had yet to arrive.

Maybe he’s been arrested. Ali tried to dismiss the dark thought as he approached the gray marble mihrab, the niche in the wall indicating the direction of prayer. He raised his hands. Despite his nerves, as Ali began to pray, he felt a small measure of peace. He always did.

But it didn’t last long. He was finishing his second rakat of prayer when a man knelt quietly beside him. Ali stilled.

“Peace be upon you, brother,” the man whispered.

Ali avoided his gaze. “And upon you peace,” he said softly.

“Were you able to get it?”

Ali hesitated. “It” was the fat