The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,35

songbirds. His midnight blue robe smoked and swirled about his feet, and he’d unwrapped his turban to let it fall to his shoulders, his head covered only by the flat charcoal cap. Its white embroidery shone pink in the rosy morning light.

He looks like he belongs here, she thought. Like a ghost forgotten in time, searching for its long-dead companions. Judging from the way he spoke of Daevabad, Nahri assumed him to be some sort of exile. He probably missed his people.

She shook her head; she didn’t intend to let a flash of sympathy convince her to keep playing companion to a lonely daeva. “Dara?”

“I saw a play here once with my father,” he reminisced. “I was young, probably my first tour of the human world . . .” He studied the stage. “They had actors waving brilliant blue silks to represent the ocean. I thought it magical.”

“I’m sure it was lovely. Can I have the carpet?”

He glanced back. “What?”

“The carpet. You sleep on it every day.” She let a note of complaint slip into her voice. “It’s my turn.”

“So share with me.” He nodded at the temple. “We’ll find a place in the shade.”

She felt her cheeks grow slightly hot. “I’m not sleeping alongside you in some temple dedicated to fish orgies.”

He rolled his eyes and dropped the rug. It landed hard on the ground, sending up a cloud of dust. “Do as you wish.”

I intend to. Nahri waited until he had stalked back into the temple before dragging the carpet to the far end of the stage. She pushed it off and flinched at the heavy thump, half-expecting the daeva to run out and tell her to hush. But the theater stayed empty.

She knelt on the rug. Though the river was a long, hot walk away, she didn’t want to leave until she was certain Dara was fast asleep. It didn’t usually take long. The comment about flying over the river wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned becoming exhausted by magic. Nahri supposed it was a type of labor like any other.

She reviewed her supplies. It wasn’t much. Besides the clothes on her back and a sack she’d made from the remains of her abaya, she had the waterskin and a tin of manna—stale-tasting crackers Dara had given her that landed in her stomach like weights. The water and manna might keep her fed, but they wouldn’t put a roof over her head.

It doesn’t matter. I might not get another opportunity like this. Pushing away her doubts, she tied the bag closed and rewrapped her headscarf. Then she picked up some kindling and crept back into the temple.

She followed the smell of smoke until she found the daeva. As usual, Dara had lit a small fire, letting it burn beside him as he slept. Though she’d never asked why—it obviously wasn’t for warmth during the hot desert days—the presence of the flames seemed to comfort him.

He was fast asleep under the shadow of a crumbling arch. For the first time since they’d met, he’d taken off his robe and was using it as a pillow. Underneath he wore a sleeveless tunic the color of unripe olives and loose, bone-colored pants. His dagger was tucked into a wide black belt tied tight around his waist, and his bow, quiver of arrows, and scimitar were between his body and the wall. His right hand rested on the weapons. Nahri’s gaze lingered on the sight of his chest rising and falling in sleep. Something stirred low in her belly.

She ignored it and lit her kindling. His fire flared, and in the improved light, she noticed the black tattoos covering his arms, bizarre, geometrical shapes, as if a calligrapher had gone mad on his skin. The largest mark was a slender, ladderlike structure with what looked like hundreds of meticulously drawn, unsupported rungs snaking out from his left palm and twisting up his arm to disappear under his tunic.

And I thought the tattoo on his face was strange . . .

As she followed the lines, the light illuminated something else as well.

His ring.

Nahri stilled; the emerald winked in the firelight as if greeting her. Tempting her. His left hand rested lightly on his stomach. Nahri stared at the ring, transfixed. It had to be worth a fortune and yet didn’t even look snug on his finger. I could take it, she realized. I’ve taken jewelry off people while they were awake.

The kindling grew warm in her hand, the fire burning uncomfortably close.