The City of Brass (The Daevabad Trilogy #1) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,85

flash in the dark. “I hope you’ll forgive my impertinence. I didn’t mean to pull you away from your evening amusements.”

Ali made a face. “It’s no bother, trust me.”

Rashid smiled again. “Good.” He gestured to the Tukharistani Gate. “I was on my way to see an old friend in the Tukharistani Quarter, and thought you might like to come along. You’ve mentioned wanting to see more of the city.”

It was a kind, if slightly strange, offer. Ali was the king’s son; he wasn’t someone you casually invited for tea. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“It’s no intrusion at all. My friend runs a small orphanage. In truth, I thought it might be good for a Qahtani to be seen there. They’ve fallen on rough times recently.” Rashid shrugged. “Your choice, of course. I know you’ve had a long day.”

Ali had, but he was also intrigued. “I’d like that very much, actually.” He returned Rashid’s smile. “Lead the way.”

By the time they reached the heart of the Tukharistani Quarter, clouds had drawn past the sky, veiling the moon and bringing a light mist of rain. The weather did nothing to dissuade the crowds of merrymakers and evening shoppers, however. Djinn children chased each other through the crowd, running after conjured-up pets of smoke while their parents gossiped under metal canopies hastily erected to block the rain. The sound of the raindrops striking their battered copper surfaces echoed throughout the quarter. Enclosed glass globes of enchanted fire hung from the storefronts, reflecting the puddles and dizzy array of colors on the bustling street.

Ali narrowly avoided two men haggling over a glittering golden apple. A Samarkandi apple, Ali recognized; a lot of djinn swore a single bite of its flesh was as effective as a Nahid’s touch. Though Ali’s Tukharistani wasn’t great, he could hear pleading in the prospective buyer’s voice, and he glanced back. Rust-colored metal growths covered the man’s face, and his left arm ended in a stump.

Ali shuddered. Iron poisoning. It wasn’t terribly uncommon, especially among djinn travelers who might drink from a stream without realizing it ran over banks rich in the deadly metal. Iron built up in the blood for years, before striking violently and without warning, causing limbs and skin to atrophy. Deadly and swift, it was nonetheless easily cured by a single visit to a Nahid.

Except there weren’t any more Nahids. And that apple wouldn’t help the doomed man, nor would the myriad other “cures” hawked to desperate djinn by unscrupulous con artists. There was no substitute for a Nahid healer, and that was a dark truth that most people—Ali included—tried not to think about. He averted his eyes.

Thunder rumbled, oddly distant. Perhaps a storm was brewing past the veil hiding the city. Ali kept his head down, hoping to avoid both the rain and the curious glances of passersby. Even out of uniform, his height and royal finery gave him away, provoking startled salaams and hurried bows in his direction.

When they reached a fork in the main road, Ali noticed a striking stone monument twice his height, built of worn sandstone, roughly shaped like an elongated bowl, almost like a boat placed on its stern. The top had started to crumble, but as they passed, he spotted new incense at its base. A small oil lamp burned inside, throwing flickering light on a long list of names in Tukharistani script.

The Qui-zi memorial. Ali’s skin crawled as he recalled what happened to the ill-fated city. Which Afshin’s handiwork had that atrocity been again? Artash? Or was it Darayavahoush? Ali frowned, trying to remember his history lessons. Darayavahoush, of course; Qui-zi was why people started calling him the Scourge. A nickname to which the Daeva devil had thoroughly committed, judging from the horrors he would later perpetrate during his rebellion.

Ali glanced again at the memorial. The flowers inside were fresh, and he wasn’t surprised. His people had long memories, and what had happened at Qui-zi was not a thing easily forgotten.

Rashid finally stopped outside a modest two-story dwelling. It was not a particularly impressive sight; the roof tiles were cracked and covered in black mold, and dying plants in broken pots were scattered out front.

His secretary tapped lightly on the door. A young woman opened it. She gave Rashid a tired smiled that vanished as soon as she spotted Ali.

She dropped into a bow. “Prince Alizayd! I . . . peace be upon you,” she stammered, her Djinnistani laced with the thick accent of Daevabad’s