The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,4

“Is it true Frankish women go about naked in the street?”

The pharmacist shook his head, used to her impropriety. “French, child, not Frankish. And God prevent you from hearing such wickedness.”

“Abu Talha says their leader has the feet of a goat.”

“Abu Talha should stick to mending shoes . . . But don’t change the subject,” he said, exasperated. “I’m trying to warn you.”

“Warn me? Why? I’ve never even talked to a Frank.” That wasn’t for lack of effort. She’d tried selling amulets to the few French soldiers she’d encountered, and they’d backed away like she was some sort of snake, making condescending remarks about her clothing in their strange language.

He locked eyes with her. “You’re young,” he said quietly. “You have no experience with what happens to people like us during a war. People who are different. You should keep your head down. Or better yet, leave. What happened to your grand plans of Istanbul?”

After counting her savings this morning, the mere mention of the city soured her. “I thought you said I was being foolish,” she reminded him. “That no physician would take on a female apprentice.”

“You could be a midwife,” he offered. “You’ve delivered babies before. You could go east, away from this war. Beirut, perhaps.”

“You sound eager to be rid of me.”

He touched her hand, his brown eyes filled with concern. “I’m eager to see you safe. You’ve no family, no husband to stand up for you, to protect you, to—”

She bristled. “I can take care of myself.”

“—to advise you against doing dangerous things,” he finished, giving her a look. “Things like leading zars.”

Ah. Nahri winced. “I hoped you wouldn’t hear about those.”

“Then you’re a fool,” he said bluntly. “You shouldn’t be getting caught up in that southern magic.” He gestured behind her. “Get me a tin.”

She fetched one from the shelf, tossing it to him with a bit more force than was necessary. “There’s no ‘magic’ to it at all,” she dismissed. “It’s harmless.”

“Harmless!” Yaqub scoffed as he shoveled tea into the tin. “I’ve heard rumors about those zars . . . blood sacrifices, trying to exorcise djinn . . .”

“It’s not really meant to exorcise them,” Nahri corrected lightly. “More like an effort to make peace.”

He stared at her in utter exasperation. “You shouldn’t be trying to do anything with djinn!” He shook his head, closing the tin and rubbing warm wax over the seams. “You’re playing with things you don’t understand, Nahri. They’re not your traditions. You’re going to get your soul snapped up by a demon if you’re not more careful.”

Nahri was oddly touched by his concern—to think that just a few years ago he’d dismissed her as a black-hearted fraudster. “Grandfather,” she started, trying to sound more respectful. “You needn’t worry. There’s no magic, I swear.” Seeing the doubt on his face, she decided to be more frank. “It’s nonsense, all of it. There’s no magic, no djinn, no spirits waiting to eat us up. I’ve been doing my tricks long enough to learn none of it’s real.”

He paused. “The things I’ve seen you do—”

“Maybe I’m just a better trickster than the rest,” she cut in, hoping to assuage the fear she saw in his face. She didn’t need to scare off her only friend simply because she had a few strange skills.

He shook his head. “There are still djinn. And demons. Even scholars say so.”

“Well, the scholars are wrong. No spirit has come after me yet.”

“That’s very arrogant, Nahri. Blasphemous, even,” he added, looking taken aback. “Only a fool would speak in such a way.”

She lifted her chin defiantly. “They don’t exist.”

He sighed. “No one can say I didn’t try.” He pushed the tin over. “Give that to the cobbler on your way out, will you?”

Nahri pushed off the table. “Are you doing inventory tomorrow?” Arrogant she might be, but she rarely passed on an opportunity to learn more about the apothecary. Yaqub’s knowledge had greatly advanced her own instincts for healing.

“Yes, but come early. We have a lot to get through.”

She nodded. “God willing.”

“Now go buy some kebab,” he said, nodding at the purse. “You’re all bones. The djinn will want more to eat should they come for you.”

By the time Nahri reached the neighborhood where the zar was taking place, the sun had blinked behind the crowded landscape of stone minarets and mud-brick flats. It vanished into the distant desert, and a low-voiced muezzin began the call to maghrib prayer. She paused, briefly disoriented by the loss of light.