The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,69

was panic in his bright eyes. “It was hunting us.”

“You mean it belonged to the ifrit? They broke into my home?” Nahri asked, her voice rising. Her skin crawled at the thought of those creatures in her tiny stall, rifling through the few precious things she owned. And what if that hadn’t been enough? What if they’d gone after her neighbors? After Yaqub? Her chest tightened.

“It wasn’t an ifrit. The ifrit can’t control rukhs.”

“Then what can?” Nahri didn’t like the cold stillness that had overtaken him.

“Peris.” He threw the headdress to the ground, the movement sudden and violent. “The only creatures who can control ruhks are peris.”

“Khayzur.” She took a shaky breath. “But why?” she stammered. “I thought he liked me.”

He shook his head. “Not Khayzur.”

She couldn’t believe his naiveté. “What other peris even know about me?” she pointed out. “And he rushed off after finding out about my Nahid heritage—probably to go tell his friends.” She started walking toward the rukh’s other leg. “I bet my teacup is tied over. . . .”

“No.” Dara reached for her hand. Nahri flinched, and he immediately pulled back, a flash of hurt in his face. “I . . . Forgive me.” He swallowed and turned toward the horse. “I’ll try not to touch you again. But we need to leave. Now.”

The sadness in his voice cut her deeply. “Dara, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“There’s no time.” He gestured for her to climb into the saddle, and she did so reluctantly, taking the bloody sword when he handed it to her.

“I will need to ride with you,” he explained, pulling himself up and settling in behind her. “At least until we find another horse.”

He kicked the horse into a trot and despite his promise, she fell back against his chest, momentarily taken aback by the smoky heat and warm press of his body. He’s not dead, she tried to assure herself. He can’t be.

He pulled the horse to an abrupt stop where he’d thrown his bow and quiver. He raised his hands, and they flew to him like loyal sparrow hawks.

Nahri ducked as he swung the weapons over her head, looping both over his left shoulder. “So what do we do now?” She thought back to Khayzur’s easy banter and Dara’s quip about how the peri could rearrange the landscape with a single sweep of his wings.

“The only thing we can,” he said, his breath soft against her ear. He snatched up the reins again, holding her tight. There was nothing affectionate or remotely romantic about the gesture; it was desperation, like a man clinging to a ledge.

“We run.”

10

Ali

Ali squinted and tapped the delicate stem of the scales on the desk in front of him, aware of the expectant eyes of the other three men in the room. “They look even to me.”

Rashid bent down to join him, the silver scale platters reflected in the military secretary’s gray eyes. “It could be hexed,” he offered in Geziriyya. He jerked his head in the direction of Soroush, the Daeva Quarter’s muhtasib. “He might have come up with some type of curse that would weigh the coins in his favor.”

Ali hesitated, glancing at Soroush. The muhtasib, the market official in charge of exchanging Daeva currency with the myriad others used in Daevabad, was trembling, his black gaze locked on the floor. Ali could see ash staining his fingertips; he’d been nervously touching the charcoal mark on his brow since they entered. Most religious Daevas wore such a mark. It was a sign of their devotion to the Nahids’ ancient fire cult.

The man looked terrified, but Ali couldn’t blame him—he had just been visited by the Qaid and two armed members of the Royal Guard for a surprise inspection.

Ali turned back to Rashid. “We have no evidence,” he whispered back in Geziriyya. “I can’t arrest a man with no evidence.”

Before Rashid could respond, the door to the office swung open. The fourth man in the room, Abu Nuwas—Ali’s very gruff and very large personal guard—was between the door and the prince in a moment, his zulfiqar drawn.

But it was only Kaveh, not looking particularly impressed by the enormous Geziri warrior. He peered under one of Abu Nuwas’s large raised arms, his face turning sour when he met Ali’s eyes. “Qaid,” he greeted him flatly. “Do you mind telling your dog to back down?”

“It’s fine, Abu Nuwas,” Ali said before his guard could do something rash. “Let him in.”

Kaveh stepped over the threshold. As he glanced between