The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,147

who’d been found in the arms of her dead father—Nahri was drained in every manner a person could be.

She sat back from the girl and took several deep breaths, trying to steady herself. But the acrid smell of smoke and blood turned her stomach. Her vision blurred, and she squinted, trying to see past a wave of dizziness.

Subha put a hand on her shoulder. “Easy,” she said as Nahri swayed. “You look ready to faint.” She pressed a waterskin into her hands. “Drink.”

Nahri took it gladly and drank, pouring some into her hands to splash onto her face. “We will catch and punish the men who did this,” she promised. “I swear.”

The other doctor didn’t even bother to feign a nod. “Maybe in another world.”

Too late, Nahri registered the sound of hoofbeats. There were a few alarmed cries, and Nahri dropped the waterskin as she whirled around, half fearing the mob had returned.

It was almost worse. It was Ghassan.

The king wasn’t alone, of course. The Qaid and a contingent of the Royal Guard, all very well armed, were behind him, as were Muntadhir and Kaveh. Her blood raged at the sight of the grand wazir. If Kaveh had a hand in the attack that had led to this awful reprisal, he would pay. Nahri would make damn sure of it. But she’d also be careful—she wasn’t going to shout accusations she couldn’t prove like Ali had and then have them used against her.

She straightened up. “Subha, your family is in the hospital?”

The other doctor nodded. “They’re with Razu.”

“Good.” Nahri wiped her hands on her smock. “Would you join them? I think it best you not draw the king’s attention right now.”

Subha hesitated. “And you?”

“I need to put some men in their place.”

But Ghassan didn’t even glance her way as Nahri ducked out of the tent and approached. He was off his horse and striding across the bloody cobblestones straight for his son, as if there was no one else in the street.

Ali seemed to notice a half-moment too late. Covered in blood and dust, he had not stopped moving since they arrived, doing whatever the shafit asked of him: cleaning debris, repairing tents, distributing blankets.

He raised his hands. “Abba—”

Ghassan struck him across the face with the metal hilt of his khanjar.

The crack echoed across the street, the camp going silent at the sound. Nahri heard Ali gasp, and then his father hit him again and he staggered back, blood streaming down his face.

“On your knees,” Ghassan snapped, pushing Ali to the ground when he didn’t move fast enough. He unsheathed his zulfiqar.

Horrified, Nahri ran toward them, but Muntadhir was faster, jumping from his horse and striding forward. “Abba, wait—”

“Do it.” Ali’s voice, wracked with anguish, cut his brother off. He spat blood and then glared at his father, his eyes blazing. “End this facade,” he choked, his voice breaking on the word. “Just do it!”

Ghassan’s hand stayed on the zulfiqar. “You disobeyed me,” he accused. “I told you I would handle things. How dare you come here? How dare you risk your brother’s wife?”

“Because your way of handling things is to let people die! To let everyone who is not us spend so much time fighting each other that they can’t oppose you!”

The charge hung in the air like a lit match. People were staring in visible shock at the Qahtani men.

It looked as if it took Ghassan every bit of self-control he had to lower his zulfiqar. He spun around, turning his back on his son and motioning to the Royal Guard. “Take Prince Alizayd to the dungeon. Perhaps a few months sleeping with the corpses of those who’ve defied me will teach him to hold his tongue. And then tear the rest of this place down.”

Nahri stepped directly in his path. “Absolutely not.”

Ghassan gave her an annoyed look. “Stand down, Banu Nahri,” he said condescendingly. “I do not have the patience for one of your self-important speeches right now. Let your husband punish you as he sees fit.”

It was exactly the wrong thing to say.

The ground below her feet gave a single, angry jolt. There were a few cries of surprise as some of the horses were startled and reared. Filthy and fed up, Nahri barely noticed. Energy was crackling down her limbs, the city pulsing angrily in her blood. She had not come to this place—to the hospital they’d rebuilt on the bones of their slaughtered ancestors—to be brushed aside. She had not publicly broken her people’s