The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,3

didn’t question his background, and he didn’t ask why a former pickpocket could diagnose illnesses better than the sultan’s personal physician. Their strange partnership rested on avoiding those two subjects.

She entered the apothecary, quickly sidestepping the battered bell meant to announce customers. Crowded with supplies and impossibly chaotic, Yaqub’s shop was her favorite place in the world. Mismatched wooden shelves crammed with dusty glass vials, tiny reed baskets, and crumbling ceramic jars covered the walls. Lengths of dried herbs, animal parts, and objects she couldn’t identify hung from the ceiling while clay amphorae competed for the small amount of floor space. Yaqub knew his inventory like the lines of his palms, and listening to his stories of ancient Magi or the hot spice lands of the Hind transported her to worlds she could hardly imagine.

The pharmacist was bent over his workbench, mixing something that gave off a sharp, unpleasant scent. She smiled at the sight of the old man with his even older instruments. His mortar alone looked like something from the reign of Salah ad-Din. “Sabah el-hayr,” she greeted him.

Yaqub made a startled noise and glanced up, knocking his forehead into a hanging garlic braid. Swatting it away, he grumbled, “Sabah el-noor. Can’t you make some noise when you enter? Scared me half to death.”

Nahri grinned. “I like to surprise you.”

He snorted. “Sneak up on me, you mean. You get more like the devil each day.”

“That’s a very unkind thing to say to someone who brought you a small fortune this morning.” She pushed up on her hands to perch on his workbench.

“Fortune? Is that what you call two bickering Ottoman officials banging down my door at dawn? My wife nearly had a heart attack.”

“So buy her some jewelry with the money.”

Yaqub shook his head. “And ambergris! You’re lucky I even had some in stock! What, could you not convince him to paint his door in molten gold?”

She shrugged, picking up one of the jars near his elbow and taking a delicate sniff. “They looked like they could afford it.”

“The younger one had quite an earful to say about you.”

“You can’t please everyone.” She picked up another jar, watching as he added some candlenut kernels to his mortar.

He put the pestle down with a sigh, holding his hand out for the jar, which she reluctantly handed back. “What are you making?”

“This?” He returned to grinding the kernels. “A poultice for the cobbler’s wife. She’s been dizzy.”

Nahri watched another moment. “That won’t help.”

“Oh, really? Tell me again, Doctor, who did you train under?”

Nahri smiled; Yaqub hated when she did this. She turned back to the shelves, hunting for the familiar pot. The shop was a mess, a chaos of unlabeled jars and supplies that seemed to get up and move on their own. “She’s pregnant,” she called over her shoulder. She picked up a vial of peppermint oil, swatting away a spider that crawled over the top.

“Pregnant? Her husband said nothing.”

Nahri pushed the vial in his direction and added a gnarled root of ginger. “It’s early. They probably don’t know yet.”

He gave her a sharp look. “And you do?”

“By the Compassionate, don’t you? She vomits loudly enough to wake Shaitan, may he be cursed. She and her husband have six children. You think they’d know the signs by now.” She smiled, trying to reassure him. “Make her a tea from these.”

“I haven’t heard her.”

“Ya, grandfather, you don’t hear me come in either. Maybe the fault lies with your ears.”

Yaqub pushed away the mortar with a disgruntled noise and turned to the back corner where he kept his earnings. “I wish you’d stop playing Musa bin Maimon and find yourself a husband. You’re not too old, you know.” He pulled out his trunk; the hinges groaned as he opened the battered top.

Nahri laughed. “If you could find someone willing to marry the likes of me, you’d put every matchmaker in Cairo out of business.” She pawed through the random assortment of books, receipts, and vials on the table, searching for the small enamel case where Yaqub kept sesame candies for his grandchildren, finally finding it beneath a dusty ledger. “Besides,” she continued, plucking out two of the candies, “I like our partnership.”

He handed her a small sack. Nahri could tell from its weight that it was more than her usual cut. She started to protest, but he cut her off. “Stay away from men like that, Nahri. It’s dangerous.”

“Why? The Franks are in charge now.” She chewed her candy, suddenly curious.