The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,6

get paid otherwise. Nahri pushed back the scarf from the girl’s face, sensing she felt trapped. Baseema held one end in a clenched fist, giving it a shake as her eyes locked on Nahri’s face.

Nahri smiled. “You can keep that if you like, dear one. We’re going to have fun together, I promise.” She raised her voice and turned to the audience. “You were right to bring me. There is a spirit in her. A strong one. But we can calm it, yes? Bring about a happy marriage between the two?” She winked and motioned to her musicians.

Shams started on her darbuka, banging out a fierce beat on the old skin drum. Rana took up her pipe and handed Nahri a tambourine—the one instrument she could use without making a fool of herself.

Nahri tapped it against her leg. “I will sing to the spirits I know,” she explained over the music, though there were very few southern women who didn’t know how a zar worked. Baseema’s aunt took up an incense burner, waving plumes of aromatic smoke over the crowd. “When her spirit hears its song, it will make her excitable, and we can proceed.”

Rana started on her pipe, and Nahri beat the tambourine, her shoulders shaking, her fringed scarf swaying with every movement. Transfixed, Baseema followed her.

“Oh, spirits, we beseech thee! We implore and honor thee!” Nahri sang, keeping her voice low so it didn’t crack. While legitimate kodia were trained singers, Nahri was anything but. “Ya, amir el Hind! Oh, great prince, join us!” She started with the song of the Indian prince and moved on to that of the Sea Sultan and then the Great Qarina, the music changing for each one. She’d been careful to memorize their lyrics if not their meanings; she was not particularly worried about the origins of such things.

Baseema grew more animated as they went on, her limbs loosening, the tense lines in her face gone. She swayed with less effort, tossing her hair with a small, self-contained smile. Nahri touched her every time they passed, feeling for the dim areas of her mind and pulling them closer to calm the restless girl.

It was a good group, energetic and involved. Several women stood, clapping their hands and joining the dance. People typically did; zars were as much an excuse to socialize as to deal with troublesome djinn. Baseema’s mother watched her daughter’s face, looking hopeful. The little girls clutched their prizes, jumping up and down in excitement as the chicken squawked in protest.

Her musicians also looked to be enjoying themselves. Shams suddenly struck out a faster beat on the darbuka, and Rana followed her lead, playing a mournful, almost unsettling tune on the pipe.

Nahri drummed her fingers on the tambourine, growing inspired by the group’s mood. She grinned; maybe it was time to give them something a little different.

She closed her eyes and hummed. Nahri had no name for her native tongue, the language she must have shared with her long-dead or forgotten parents. The only clue to her origins, she had listened for it since she was a child, eavesdropping on foreign merchants and haunting the polyglot crowd of scholars outside El Azhar University. Thinking it similar to Hebrew, she’d once spoken it to Yaqub, but he’d adamantly disagreed, adding, unnecessarily, that his people had enough problems without her being one of them.

But she knew it sounded unusual and eerie. Perfect for the zar. Nahri was surprised she hadn’t thought of using it before.

Though she could have sung her market list and no one would have been any the wiser, she stuck to the zar songs, translating the Arabic into her native language.

“Sah, afshin e-daeva . . . ,” she started. “Oh, warrior of the djinn, we beseech thee! Join us, calm the fires in this girl’s mind.” She closed her eyes. “Oh, warrior, come to me! Vak!”

A bead of sweat snaked past her temple. The courtyard grew uncomfortably warm, the press of the large group and crackling fire too much. She kept her eyes closed and swayed, letting the movement of her headdress fan her face. “Great guardian, come and protect us. Watch over Baseema as if—”

A low gasp startled Nahri, and she opened her eyes. Baseema had stopped dancing; her limbs were frozen, her glassy gaze fixed on Nahri. Clearly unnerved, Shams missed a beat on the darbuka.

Afraid of losing the crowd, Nahri struck her tambourine against one hip, silently praying Shams would copy her. She smiled at Baseema