The Kingdom of Copper (The Daevabad Trilogy #2) - S. A. Chakraborty Page 0,86

that. Muntadhir was clenching his wine cup, and Nahri didn’t miss the quiet way Jamshid lowered her husband’s hand.

“I will, however, save you from such a thing,” Ghassan said. “Indeed, I’ve something else planned. My chefs have been furiously attempting to outdo each other in advance of Navasatem, so I issued them a challenge this evening. Prepare their finest dish, and my son will choose the best cook to design the menu for the generation celebrations.”

Nahri grew a bit intrigued at that. Five years in Daevabad had yet to completely inure her to its marvels, and she was sure whatever the royal chefs conjured would be magnificent indeed. She watched as more servants wound their way through the royal platform, some pouring rosewater over the hands of the men while others refilled cups. Turning away a wine bearer, Ali beckoned politely to a young man holding a glass pitcher icy with condensation.

Before the servant could reach the prince, Jamshid stopped him, holding out his arm in a slightly rude—or perhaps inebriated—manner. He took the pitcher and poured his own glass of what Nahri recognized as tamarind juice, before pushing it back at the other man. He took a sip and then set his cup down, reaching out to quickly squeeze Muntadhir’s knee.

Ghassan clapped his hands again and then Nahri wasn’t looking at Jamshid.

Because a damned boat had joined them.

Carved from teak and large enough to fit the royal family, the boat swept in on a wave of conjured smoke, a miniature version of the great sewn ships said to sail the Indian Ocean. On its silk sail, the emblem of the Sahrayn tribe had been painted, and indeed the man accompanying it was Sahrayn, his striped hood thrown back to reveal red-streaked black hair.

He bowed low. “Majesty, Your Royal Highnesses, peace be upon you all.”

“And upon you peace,” Ghassan replied, looking bemused. “An impressive presentation. What do you have for us, then?”

“The finest of delicacies from Qart Sahar: cave eels. They are found only in the deepest, most forbidden cisterns of the Sahara. We capture them alive, bringing them back in great vats of saltwater, and then prepare them in a scented broth of the most delicate perfumes and preserved vinegars.” He beamed, gesturing to the boat … no, to the vat, Nahri realized, catching sight of several sinuous shapes churning in the dark liquid filling the bottom. “They have been swimming in there a whole fortnight.”

The look on Ali’s face was almost enough to make the whole evening worth it. He choked on his tamarind juice. “Swimming … they’re still alive?”

“But of course.” The Sahrayn chef gave him a puzzled look. “The thrashing makes the meat sweeter.”

Muntadhir finally smiled. “Sahrayn eels. Now that is an honor, brother.” He took a sip of his wine. “I believe the first bite belongs to you.”

The chef beamed again, looking ready to burst with pride. “Shall I, my prince?”

Ali looked ill but motioned for him to continue.

The chef plunged a glittering brass trident into the vat, provoking a metallic shriek that drew startled yelps from the audience. The eel was still squirming as he quickly spun it into a nest and then placed it gingerly on a brightly patterned tile. He presented it to Ali with a flourish.

Muntadhir was watching with open delight on his face, and Nahri had to admit that in this, she and her husband were united.

Ali took the tile and choked down a bite of eel, swallowing hard before he spoke. “It’s … it’s very good,” he said weakly. “It certainly tastes like it did a lot of thrashing.”

There were tears in the chef’s eyes. “I will carry your compliments to my grave,” he wept.

The next two competitors did not offer quite the same level of presentation, though the diners looked considerably more pleased by the skewers of minced rukh kebab—Nahri could only imagine how someone had caught one of those—grilled with golden Tukharistani apples, studded with whole spices, and served while still aflame.

They were removing the largest platter of kabsa Nahri had ever seen, a shrewd move made by the Geziri chef who probably suspected a prince living in the countryside might long for comfort food after some of the competition’s more “creative” dishes, when Ghassan frowned.

“Strange,” he said. “I did not see the competitor from Agni—”

A simurgh soared into the garden with a shriek.

The glittering firebird—twice the size of a camel—swept over the crowd, its smoking wings setting an apricot tree aflame. By the time it fluttered