The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,25

All he’d inherited from his father was his dark steel eyes. And tonight, he’d have to give even those up.

Ali opened the vial and tapped a few drops into each eye. He bit back a curse. God, it burned. He’d been warned that it would, but the pain took him aback.

He made his bleary-eyed way to the midan, the central plaza at Daevabad’s heart. It was empty at this late hour; the neglected fountain in its center cast wild shadows on the ground. The midan was enclosed by a copper wall gone green with age, the wall in turn broken up by seven equally spaced gates. Each gate led to a different tribal district with the seventh opening into the Grand Bazaar and its overcrowded shafit neighborhoods.

The midan’s gates were always a sight to behold. There was the Sahrayn Gate, black-and-white-tiled pillars wrapped in grapevines heavy with purple fruit. Beside it was that of the Ayaanle, two narrow, studded pyramids crowned with a scroll and a salt tablet. The Geziri Gate was next, nothing but a perfectly cut stone archway, his father’s people preferring function over form as always. It looked even plainer beside the richly decorated Agnivanshi Gate with its rose-colored sandstone sculpted into dozens of dancing figures, their delicate hands holding flickering oil lamps so small that they resembled stars. Next to that was the Tukharistani Gate, a screen of polished jade reflecting the night sky, carved in an impossibly intricate pattern.

And yet impressive as they all were, the final gate—the gate that would catch the first rays of sunlight each morning, the gate of Daevabad’s original people—outshone them all.

The Daeva Gate.

The entrance to the Daevas’ quarter—for the fire worshippers had arrogantly taken their race’s original name as their own tribal one—sat directly across from the Grand Bazaar, its enormous paneled doors painted a pale blue that could have been plucked directly from a fresh-washed sky, and embedded with white and gold sandstone disks set in a triangular pattern. The doors were held open by two massive brass shedu, the statues all that were left of the mythical winged lions the ancient Nahids were said to have ridden into battle against the ifrit.

He made his way toward the entrance, but he’d barely gotten halfway there when two figures stepped out from beneath the gate’s shadow. Ali stopped. One of the men quickly raised his hands and moved into the moonlight. Anas.

His sheikh smiled. “Peace be upon you, brother.” He was dressed in a homespun tunic the color of dirty wash water, his head uncharacteristically bare.

“And upon you peace.” Ali eyed the second man. He was shafit—that much was apparent from his rounded ears—but looked Sahrayn, with the North African tribe’s fiery red-black hair and copper eyes. He wore a striped galabiyya, its tasseled hood half drawn.

The man’s eyes widened at the sight of Ali. “This is your new recruit?” He laughed. “Are we so desperate for fighters that we’re taking crocodiles barely out of their shell?”

Outraged by the slur against his Ayaanle blood, Ali opened his mouth to protest, but Anas cut in. “Watch your tongue, Brother Hanno,” he warned. “We are all djinn here.”

Hanno didn’t look bothered by the admonishment. “Does he have a name?”

“Not one that concerns you,” Anas said firmly. “He’s here merely to observe.” He nodded at Hanno. “So go on. I know you like to show off.”

The other man chuckled. “Fair enough.” He clapped his hands, and a swirl of smoke shrouded his body. When it dissipated, his dirty galabiyya had been replaced by an iridescent shawl, a mustard-colored turban decorated with pheasant feathers, and a bright green dhoti, the waist cloth typically worn by Agnivanshi men. As Ali watched, his ears lengthened, and his skin brightened to a dark, luminous brown. Black braids crawled out from under his turban, stretching to sweep the hilt of the Hindustani talwar now sheathed at his waist. He blinked, his copper eyes turning the tin color of an Agnivanshi pureblood. A steel relic band clanged into place around his wrist.

Ali’s mouth fell open. “You’re a shapeshifter?” he gasped, hardly believing the sight before him. Shape-shifting was an incredibly rare ability, one which only a few families in each tribe possessed and even fewer managed to master. Talented shapeshifters were worth their weight in gold. “By the Most High . . . I didn’t think the shafit even capable of such advanced magic.”

Hanno snorted. “You purebloods always underestimate us.”

“But . . .” Ali was still stunned. “.