The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,47

a public setting?”

Muntadhir’s head jerked up. “Daevabad is restless enough without such gossip being spread. It hurts morale and causes people to lose faith in their king.”

“So does arbitrarily arresting people who happen to have wealth and land that can be confiscated for the Treasury.” Jamshid’s eyes narrowed. “Of course, by ‘people’ I mean ‘Daevas.’ We all know the rest of the tribes aren’t suffering the same treatment.”

Muntadhir was shaking his head. “He’s trying to keep the peace, Jamshid. And let’s not pretend your people make that easy.”

Jamshid’s mouth pressed into a disappointed line. “This isn’t you, Muntadhir. And since we’ve established I’m the only one who’s honest with you … let me warn you that you’re going down the same path you say ruined your father.” He turned away. “Give my greetings to Nahri.”

“Jamshid—”

But he was already leaving, making his way toward the place where Nahri was hiding. Quickly, she retreated to edge of the steps as though she’d just arrived.

“Jamshid!” she said, greeting him with false cheer. “What a lovely surprise!”

He managed a smile, though it didn’t meet his eyes. “Banu Nahida,” he replied, his voice a little hoarse. “Apologies. I didn’t mean to intrude upon your evening.”

“It’s all right,” she said gently, hating the heartbreak still writ clearly across his face. Muntadhir wasn’t looking at them; he’d walked to the edge of the balcony, his attention focused on the twinkling fires of the city below. She touched Jamshid’s shoulder. “Come see me tomorrow. I have a new poultice I want to try on your back.”

He nodded. “Tomorrow.” He moved past her, disappearing down into the palace.

Nahri took a few steps forward, feeling uncertain. “Peace be upon you,” she called out to her husband. “If it’s a bad time …”

“Of course not.” Muntadhir turned around. Nahri had to give him credit: though he was pale, his face was swept of the emotion that had been there only moments ago. She supposed a few decades in Daevabad’s royal court taught one that ability. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I was not expecting you so soon.”

Obviously. She shrugged. “I finished early.”

Muntadhir nodded. “Let me call a servant,” he suggested, crossing the balcony. “I’ll have them bring some food.”

Nahri caught his wrist. “Why don’t you sit?” she suggested softly. “I’m not hungry and I thought we could talk first.”

They’d no sooner sunk into the cushions than Muntadhir was reaching for the wine bottle. “Would you like some?” he asked, filling his cup to the top.

Nahri watched. She wasn’t Jamshid, and she didn’t feel comfortable stopping him. “No … thank you.” He drank back most of his cup and then refilled it. “Is everything well?” she ventured. “The meeting with your father …”

Muntadhir winced. “Can we talk about something else? For a little while at least?”

She paused. Nahri was madly curious to discover what he’d been discussing with Ghassan that had led to his fight with Jamshid, but perhaps a change in subject would pull him from his dark mood.

And she certainly had a subject ready to discuss. “Of course. Actually, I came across someone interesting in the garden after you left. A shafit man with a hole in his skull.”

Muntadhir choked, coughing a spray of wine into his hand. “You found a dead shafit in your garden?”

“Not dead,” Nahri corrected lightly. “He looked quite well otherwise. He said a surgeon had done the procedure to save his life. A shafit surgeon, Muntadhir.” Admiration crept into her voice. “Someone skilled enough to bore a hole in a man’s skull, sew it back up, and keep him alive. And it looked perfect. I mean, it felt a bit spongy where the bone was gone, but—”

Muntadhir raised a hand, looking slightly ill. “I don’t need to hear the details.” He glanced at his crimson wine, a little revulsion passing across his face, and then set it down. “So what of it?”

“What of it?” Nahri exclaimed. “That speaks to extraordinary talent! That physician might have even trained in the human world. I convinced the man in the garden to give me a name and the street where he works.”

“But why would you want such information?” Muntadhir asked, looking perplexed.

“Because I want to find him! For one … I am the Banu Nahida. I should ensure he’s a real doctor and not some … con artist taking advantage of desperate shafit.” Nahri cleared her throat. “But I’d also just love to meet him. He could be a valuable asset; after all, I still find much of