sudden and irrational urge to grab the zulfiqar from Ali’s hands, to keep the man who’d held her as she fell apart on the beach from taking another life.
Ali’s last opponent was more skilled than his fellows, however, dancing away as he defended himself against Ali’s whirling strikes. There was mad delight in his kohl-lined copper-brown eyes—shafit eyes—as though he was enjoying the challenge.
Not for long, though, because Ali’s next strike cleanly lopped off the metal head of the other warrior’s staff. Ali shoved an elbow in the man’s face, provoking a loud crack, and then swept his legs out. The djinn fell hard, his headcloth rolling away.
Nahri gasped. It wasn’t a man Ali had been fighting, but rather a young woman, her red-black braids tumbling free. Blood streamed from her nose as she crawled back on her elbows, looking at Ali with wide, frightened eyes.
“Please don’t kill me!” she begged.
Ali lowered the zulfiqar, but his face remained hard as he stalked after her. “Who are you?”
“Traders!” she cried. “Merchants from Takedda. Please, my prince!”
“Rather well armed to be merchants in a foreign land,” Ali scoffed. “Try again.”
She abruptly smiled, triumph washing away her frightened facade. “You’re right. We’re not merchants. We’re pirates.” She licked her teeth and inclined her head toward the foundation wall. “They are too.”
Nahri glanced up.
Over a dozen armed djinn stared back at her, crossbows drawn.
A Sahrayn man, wearing a long dagger on his forearm, stepped forward. “It seems we’ve won the hunt,” he said with a leer. “Daevabad’s missing royals are ours.”
18
ALI
Ali strained against the chains wrapping his limbs, the iron shackles burning his wrists. “Cowards,” he hissed as a pirate added yet another loop around his legs. “You outnumber me twenty to one and are still so afraid you weigh me down in iron? What kind of man are you?”
The man pulled the additional chain tighter. “The kind who doesn’t want to die.”
As the man stepped back, Ali spotted Nahri. The pirates had forced them onto the beached sandship, lowering their weapons only when the “Daevabadi royals” were shackled. Nahri wasn’t wearing the blanket of chains he was, but fury surged in Ali’s heart at the sight of her bound ankles. “Maybe next time, I’ll just kill you.”
“And that’s why you’re staying like this until we get to Daevabad.”
“So here’s the prince responsible for stripping our magic.” The Sahrayn pirate who’d gleefully announced “winning” them strode forward, his sandals clicking on the wooden deck. A few steps behind was the shafit girl Ali had fought. The man bowed in Nahri’s direction. “And, of course, our blessed Banu Nahida. May the fires burn brightly for you, my lady.”
No matter what humble roots Nahri claimed in Egypt, the imperious look she leveled on the pirate was all Nahid. “And you are?”
“Your savior!” He touched his heart. “Call me al Mudhib.”
Ali eyed him. Judging from the lines on his sun-beaten face, al Mudhib had to be at least a century and a half old. His beard was entirely silver—and bright as the metal itself, an unnatural hue. He was broadly built and richly dressed in a sleeveless linen tunic accented with colorful silk embroidery depicting fighting snakes. Corded muscle and burns covered his exposed arms, and a turban in a flowing fabric like liquid gold wrapped around his head.
The weapon at his waist was Muntadhir’s khanjar.
Ali glared. “That’s my brother’s blade.”
Al Mudhib shrugged. “I can’t imagine he has much need for it now, being ash and all.”
“Ali.” Nahri’s voice cut a warning before Ali could test his chains. She turned back to the pirate. “You call yourself my savior, and yet you’ve shackled me to your boat.”
“A precaution,” al Mudhib explained. “You see, we’re all a bit confused finding you so cozy with your kidnapper.”
“Her kidnapper?” Ali repeated. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Haven’t you heard?” Al Mudhib’s eyes danced with mirth. “Our new ruler, may God—sorry, the Creator,” he amended, using the Divasti word, “bless her reign, sent her Afshin charging out with the awful story. That instead of accepting Manizheh’s mercy, the treacherous Qahtani prince kidnapped her daughter, stole Suleiman’s seal, and fled to his marid masters.” Al Mudhib gave Nahri a wide, toothy grin. “Your mother is so very upset. She’s warned that no one shall have their magic restored until her daughter and wretched captor are returned to Daevabad. And the one doing that returning? Ah, they are to be well rewarded.”
They say I did what? Oh, but Ali was feeling murderous.