The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,5

The neighborhood was in southern Cairo, squeezed between the remains of ancient Fustat and the Mokattam hills, and it wasn’t an area she knew well.

The chicken she was carrying took advantage of Nahri’s distraction to kick her in the ribs, and Nahri swore, tucking it tighter under her arm as she pushed past a thin man balancing a board of bread on his head and narrowly avoided a collision with a gaggle of giggling children. She picked her way through a growing pile of shoes outside an already packed mosque. The neighborhood was crowded; the French invasion had done little to stop the waves of people coming to Cairo from the countryside. The new migrants arrived with little more than the clothing on their backs and the traditions of their ancestors, traditions often denounced as perversions by some of the city’s more irritated imams.

The zars were certainly denounced as such. Like belief in magic, belief in possession was widespread in Cairo, blamed for everything from a young bride’s miscarriage to an old woman’s lifelong dementia. Zar ceremonies were held to placate the spirit and heal the afflicted woman. And while Nahri didn’t believe in possession, the basketful of coins and the free meal earned by the kodia, the woman who led the ceremony, were too tempting to pass up. And so, after spying on a number of them, she started hosting her own—albeit extremely abbreviated—version.

Tonight would be the third one she held. She’d met with an aunt from the afflicted girl’s family last week and arranged to hold the ceremony in an abandoned courtyard near their home. By the time she arrived, her musicians, Shams and Rana, were already waiting.

Nahri greeted them warmly. The courtyard had been swept clean, and a narrow table, covered with a white cloth, set in the center. Two copper platters sat at either end of the table, laden with almonds, oranges, and dates. A fair-size group had gathered, the female members of the afflicted girl’s family as well as about a dozen curious neighbors. Though all looked poor, no one would dare come to a zar empty-handed. It would be a good take.

Nahri beckoned to a pair of small girls. Still young enough to find the whole thing terribly exciting, they raced over, their little faces eager. Nahri knelt and folded the chicken she’d been carrying into the arms of the elder.

“Hold him tight for me, okay?” Nahri asked. The girl nodded, looking self-important.

She handed her basket to the younger girl. She was precious, with big dark eyes and curly hair pulled into messy braids. No one would be able to resist her. Nahri winked. “You make sure everyone puts something in the basket.” She tugged one of her braids and then waved the girls away before turning her attention to the reason she was here.

The afflicted girl’s name was Baseema. She looked about twelve and had been outfitted in a long white dress. Nahri watched as an older woman attempted to tie a white scarf around her hair. Baseema fought back, her eyes wild, her hands flapping. Nahri could see that her fingertips were red and raw from where she’d bitten her nails. Fear and anxiety radiated off her skin, and kohl streaked her cheeks from where she’d tried to rub it from her eyes.

“Please, beloved,” the older woman begged. Her mother; the resemblance was obvious. “We’re just trying to help you.”

Nahri kneeled beside them and took Baseema’s hand. The girl stilled, only her eyes darting back and forth. Nahri pulled her gently to her feet. The group fell silent as she laid a hand upon Baseema’s brow.

Nahri could no more explain the way she healed and sensed illness than she could explain how her eyes and ears worked. Her abilities had so long been a part of her that she had simply stopped questioning their existence. It had taken her years as a child—and a number of painful lessons—to even realize how different she was from the people around her, like being the only sighted person in a world of the blind. And her abilities were so natural, so organic, that it was impossible to think of them as anything out of the ordinary.

Baseema felt unbalanced, her mind alive and sparking beneath Nahri’s fingertips but misdirected. Broken. She hated how quickly the cruel word leaped to mind, but Nahri knew there was little she could do for the girl other than temporarily soothing her.

And put on a good show in the process—she wouldn’t