The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,84

the queen’s employ—and that news of her argument with Muntadhir had already been relayed.

But Nahri was not discussing her marital woes with this woman. She feigned a smile. “Forgive my tardiness. I had a patient.”

Hatset’s golden eyes twinkled. “No apology necessary.” She gestured to Nahri’s dress. “That is quite lovely. A little different, to be sure, but very beautiful.” Her voice took on a teasing tone. “Alu, doesn’t she look pretty?” she asked her son.

Ali’s gaze was darting everywhere but at Nahri. “I, er, yes,” he stammered. “I should go. The men will be expecting me.”

Hatset grabbed his wrist. “Remember to talk to people … and about things other than hadith and economics, for the love of God, Alizayd. Tell some exciting stories about Am Gezira.”

Ali rose to his feet. Nahri hated to admit such a thing, but he looked striking in his new clothes, the beautifully dyed robe highlighting his haughty features and luminous dark skin. She supposed that’s what happened when you let your mother dress you.

He kept his gaze on the floor as he passed her. “In peace,” he said softly.

“Go jump in the lake,” she returned under her breath in Arabic. She saw him tense but he didn’t stop.

Hatset smiled as she watched him walk away, her expression both proud and fiercely protective.

Of course she’s proud; she’s probably been conspiring to get him back here for years. Nahri had been turning over in her mind the conversation she’d overheard between Muntadhir and Jamshid since her run-in with Ali. She wondered if there was any truth to her husband’s concerns about the deadly intentions of the “mother” she now knew was Hatset.

The queen’s gaze shifted back to Nahri. “Dear one, why are you still standing? Sit,” she commanded, gesturing to the cushion next to Zaynab. “My daughter has already accidentally knocked aside the tent panel in front of us to improve our view. And you always hide yourself away at these things.” She nodded at the platters surrounding them. “I’ve had the kitchens bring out some vegetarian dishes for you.”

Nahri went from baffled to suspicious in one fell swoop. Hatset was clearly up to something—so much so that the queen was barely attempting to hide it with her question about Muntadhir and her exuberant friendliness. And the rather obvious comment to Ali about her dress.

Nahri’s cheeks suddenly burned. Oh, no … she was not letting herself get dragged between the estranged brothers that way. She had enough problems of her own. But neither could she be rude. Hatset was the queen—wealthy, powerful, and with as much of an iron fist when it came to the harem as her husband held over the city. Daevabad’s royal harem was enormously influential; here marriages between their world’s most powerful families were debated, and here posts and contracts were given out that changed lives … all under the watchful eye of the djinn queen.

So when Hatset again gestured to the cushion next to Zaynab, Nahri sat.

“I take it you knock aside tent panels with the same frequency that your empty litter dallies in the Geziri bazaar?” she whispered to her sister-in-law. Zaynab rolled her eyes, and Nahri continued, gesturing at the platters of fruit and pastries spread before her. “This reminds me of the first time we met. I mean … before you purposely got me so intoxicated I passed out.”

Zaynab shrugged. “I was trying to be a good host,” she said airily. “How was I to know the potency of such forbidden substances?”

Nahri shook her head, stealing a glance through the billowing tent partitions at the men’s section. The jeweled stakes pinning the silk had indeed been knocked aside in front of them, giving Nahri a fairly good view. Ahead, the Qahtani men sat with their closest retainers on a beautiful white jade platform that floated upon the lush grass. The platform was stunning, its edges carved with an assortment of leaping oryxes, sly-eyed sphinxes, and soaring simurghs. Precious stones and gems highlighted the length of a horn, the sweep of a tail, and the delicate array of feathers on a wing. The men reclined upon silk cushions, wine cups and spun glass water pipes scattered about them.

At the center of course, was Ghassan al Qahtani. Nahri’s skin prickled as she looked at the djinn king. It always did—there was far too much history between them. The man who held her life in his hands, who controlled her as thoroughly as if he’d locked her away, her chains the lives