The Kingdom of Copper

“Cursed salt. We bewitch our cargo before crossing Am Gezira, and none but our own can handle it. I suppose the fact that you just did means you’re Ayaanle, after all.” He grinned as if he had said something enormously witty.

Looking doubtful, Lubayd reached to take the salt from Ali’s hands and then let out a yelp. His friend yanked his hand away, both the salt and his skin sizzling from the contact.

Musa wrapped a long arm around Ali’s shoulder. “Come, cousin. We should talk.”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT,” ALI DECLARED. “WHETHER OR NOT Ta Ntry’s taxes make it to Daevabad is not my concern.”

“Cousin … show some compassion for family.” Musa sipped his coffee and then made a face, setting it aside. They were in Bir Nabat’s central meeting place: a large sandstone chamber in the cliffs, its corners dotted with tall columns wrapped in ribbons of carved snakes.

Musa lounged against a worn cushion, his tale of woe finally complete. Ali kept catching sight of curious children peeking past the entrance. Bir Nabat was extremely isolated; someone like Musa, who flaunted the Ayaanle’s legendary wealth so openly in his sumptuous robe and heavy gold ornaments, was probably the most exciting thing to happen since Ali’s own arrival.

Musa spread his hands; his rings winked in the firelight. “Are you not headed home for Navasatem anyway? Certainly the king’s own son would not miss the generation celebrations.”

Navasatem. The word rang in Ali’s mind. Originally a Daeva holiday, Navasatem was now when all six tribes celebrated the birth of a new generation. Intended to commemorate the anniversary of their emancipation and reflect upon the lessons taught by Suleiman, it had turned into a frenetic celebration of life itself … Indeed, it was an old joke that there was typically a swell in life ten months after because so many children were conceived during the wild festivities. Like most devout djinn, Ali had mixed feelings about a full month of feasts, fairs, and wild revelry. Daevabad’s clerics—djinn imams and Daeva priests alike—typically spent the time clucking their tongues and admonishing their hungover flock.

And yet, in his previous life, Ali had looked forward to the celebrations for years. Navasatem’s martial competitions were legendary and, young age notwithstanding, he’d been determined to enter them, to sweep them, earning his father’s admiration and the position his name had already bought: Muntadhir’s future Qaid.

Ali took a deep breath. “I am not attending Navasatem.”

“But I need you,” Musa implored, sounding helpless. “There is no way I can continue on to Daevabad alone.”

Ali gave him an incredulous look. “Then you shouldn’t have left the main route! You could have found assistance at a proper caravanserai.”

“We should kill him and take his cargo,” Aqisa suggested in Geziriyya. “The Ayaanle will think he perished in the desert, and the lying fool deserves it.”

Lubayd touched her fingers, easing them away from the hilt of her zulfiqar. “People won’t think much of our hospitality if we start killing all the guests who lie.”

Musa glanced between them. “Am I missing something?”

“Just discussing where we might host you for the evening,” Ali said lightly in Djinnistani. He pressed his fingers together. “Just so I’m clear. You left the main route to come to Bir Nabat—an outpost you knew could not afford to host you and your animals—in order to foist your responsibilities upon me?”

Musa shrugged. “I do apologize.”

“I see.” Ali sat back and gave the circle of djinn a polite smile. “Brothers and sisters,” he started. “Forgive the burden, but would you mind giving me a few moments alone with my … what did you call yourself again?”

“Your cousin.”

“My cousin.”

The other djinn rose. Thabit gave him a pointed look. He clearly knew Ali well enough to hear the danger in his voice even if Musa did not. “Do not get blood on the rugs,” he warned in Geziriyya. “They are new.”

The others were barely gone before Musa let out an overwrought sigh. “By the Most High, how have you survived for so long in this backwater?” He shuddered, picking at the goat that had been prepared for him, a goat one of the villagers had been readying for his daughter’s wedding and happily offered when he learned they had a guest. “I didn’t think djinn still lived like—ah!” he cried out as Ali grabbed him by his silver-embroidered collar and threw him to the ground.

“Does our hospitality not please you?” Ali asked coldly, drawing his zulfiqar.

“Not current—wait, don’t!” Musa’s gold eyes went bright with terror as flames licked down the copper blade. “Please!”

“Why are you really here?” Ali demanded. “And don’t give me any more nonsense about your travel woes.”

“I’m here to help you, you wild fool! To provide you with a way to return to Daevabad!”

“Help me? Your scheming was the reason I was sent away in the first place!”

Musa held up his hands in surrender. “To be fair … that was another branch of the family—stop!” he shrieked, scrambling back as Ali pressed the blade closer. “Are you crazy? I’m your blood! And I’m under guest-right!”

“You are not my guest,” Ali countered. “I am not from Bir Nabat. And Am Gezira is a dangerous—what did you call it?—backwater?” He spat in offense. “Traders disappear all the time. Especially ones foolish enough to go traipsing about alone with such wealth.”

Musa’s eyes locked on his. There was determination under the fear. “I made it very clear where I was headed. If my cargo doesn’t make it to Daevabad in time to pay for Navasatem, the king will come looking for it.” He lifted his chin. “Would you invite such trouble upon your new brothers and sisters?”

Ali stepped back, the flames vanishing from his blade. “I’m not getting drawn into another scheme. And I will kill you myself before you threaten these people.”

Musa rolled his eyes. “I was warned you had a temper.” He straightened up, brushing the sand off his robe. “And a rather alarmingly close relationship with your zulfiqar.” He crossed his arms. “But I’m not leaving without you. A not-inconsiderable amount of risk and cost went into this. Another man might be grateful.”

“Find him, then,” Ali shot back.

“And that would be it? You’d really go back to picking through human trash and selling dates when I’m offering to help you return to Daevabad before it falls apart?”

“Daevabad is not falling apart.”

“No?” Musa stepped closer. “Does news from the capital not make it to this forsaken place? Crime is soaring, and the economy is so bad that the Royal Guard can barely afford to feed its soldiers, let alone provision them with proper weapons.”

Ali gave him an even look. “And what part did the Ayaanle play in those economic woes?”

Musa spread his hands. “Why should we be fair to a king who exiles our prince? A king who turns his back on his own family’s legacy and does nothing as shafit are sold at auction blocks?”

“You’re lying.” Ali eyed the man with scorn. “Not that your people would care about the shafit or the city. Daevabad is a game to the Ayaanle. You sit in Ta Ntry, counting your gold and playing with other people’s lives.”

“We care far more than you think.” Musa’s eyes flashed. “Zaydi al Qahtani wouldn’t have taken Daevabad without the Ayaanle. Your family would not be royalty without the Ayaanle.” His mouth lifted in a slight smile. “And let’s be honest … rising crime and political corruption do have a tendency to disrupt business.”

“And there it is.”

“That’s not all it is.” Musa shook his head. “I don’t understand. I thought you’d be thrilled! I’d be heartbroken if I was banished from my home. I know I’d do anything to return to my family. And your family …” His voice softened. “They’re not doing well.”

Apprehension raced down Ali’s spine. “What are you talking about?”

“How do you think your mother responded to your being exiled? You should be relieved she’s restricted herself to a trade war rather than an actual one. I hear your sister is heartbroken, that your brother falls further into drink every day, and your father …” Musa paused, and Ali did not miss his calculated tone when he spoke again. “Ghassan’s a vengeful man, and his wrath has fallen directly on the shafit he believes stirred you to treason.”

Ali flinched, the last line finding its mark. “I can’t do anything about any of that,” he insisted. “Every time I tried, it hurt the people I cared about. And I have even less power now than I did then.”

“Less power? Alizayd the Afshin-slayer? The clever prince who has learned to make the desert bloom and travels with a pack of Am Gezira’s fiercest warriors?” Musa eyed him. “You underestimate your appeal.”

“Probably because I know intimately how much of that is nonsense. I’m not going to Daevabad.” Ali crossed to the entrance to beckon his companions back. “My decision is final.”

“Alizayd, would you just—” But Musa was wise enough to fall silent as the others joined them.

“My cousin apologizes for abusing the hospitality of Bir Nabat,” Ali announced. “He intends to depart at dawn and says we may take a fifth of his inventory to compensate our loss.”

Musa whirled on him. “What?” he said hotly in Ntaran. “I certainly did not!”

“I will gut you like a fish,” Ali warned in the same tongue before slipping back into Djinnistani: “… to compensate our loss,” he repeated firmly, “and refill the bellies of the children gone hungry while his camels gorge. Additionally, have someone take his provisions and replace them with locusts and dates.” He watched as Musa went from incredulous to outraged. “You said you were feeling weak. I suggest a change in diet. Such food has made us very hardy.” He clicked his teeth. “You get used to the crunch.”

Indignation simmered in Musa’s eyes, but he didn’t speak. Ali stood, pressing a hand to his heart in the traditional Geziri salute. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. I’ll wake you at dawn for prayer.”

“But of course,” Musa said, his voice newly cool. “One must never forget their obligations.”

Ali didn’t like the look in his eyes, but having made his point, he turned for the exit. “Peace be upon you, cousin.”

“And upon you peace, prince.”

ALI SLEPT HARD; HE ALWAYS DID HERE. HE DREAMT HE was back in Daevabad on the lovely pavilion overlooking the harem gardens, lost in his books. A cool breeze, a wet breeze, gently swung his hammock. The water soaked through the fabric, through his dishdasha, clammy and cold fingers upon his skin …

“Ali!”

Ali’s eyes snapped open. His hand flew to his khanjar, the dagger a silver gleam in the dark tent. He caught sight of Lubayd, the other man staying wisely out of reach, and dropped the blade.

It landed with a splash in the pool of water nearly level with his bed cushion. Ali shot up in alarm at the sight of his flooded tent, then flew to his feet, quickly snatching up his books and his notes.

“Come,” Lubayd said, already holding open the tent flap. “It looks to be the worst rupture we’ve had.”

The scene outside was mayhem. The water in the courtyard was waist high, and judging from its turbulence, still gushing out of the cistern below. The cairns Ali used to block off the canals were nowhere to be seen, probably washed away.

He swore. “Wake the rest. Anyone with a working pair of hands needs to get down to the fields and orchards. Don’t let the soil get oversaturated.”

Lubayd nodded, his usual humor vanished. “Don’t drown.”

Ali pulled off his robe and waded through the courtyard. He made sure Lubayd was gone before he submerged to check on conditions underground. Drowning didn’t worry him.

It was the fact that he couldn’t that did.

THE SUN WAS WELL RISEN OVER A SOGGY BIR NABAT BY the time the rupture was fixed. Ali was so tired he had to be helped from the cistern. His fingers were swollen from groping the rock, his senses numb from the cold water.

Lubayd pushed a cup of hot coffee into his hands. “We’ve salvaged what we could. I don’t think there was much harm to any crops, but several of the aqueducts will need to be repaired. And there was rather extensive damage to the trellis in the fig orchard.”

Ali nodded mutely. Water streamed down his limbs, echoing the cold rage welling inside him. “Where is he?”

Lubayd’s reluctant silence confirmed Ali’s suspicions. He’d known as soon as he dived into the cistern and found that the rocks limiting the spring had been moved. No Geziri would have swum so deep, and none would have ever dared sabotage a well. But an Ayaanle man who’d been taught to swim as a child? One who’d never gone thirsty? He might have.

“Gone, departed in the chaos,” Lubayd finally answered. He cleared his throat. “He left his cargo.”

Aqisa dropped down next to them. “We should let it rot in the desert,” she said bitterly. “Salvage what we can, sell what we can’t, and let the rest sink below the sands. To hell with the Ayaanle. Let them explain to the king.”

“They will find a way to blame us,” Ali said softly. He stared at his hands. They were shaking. “Stealing from the Treasury is a capital offense.”

Lubayd knelt before him. “Then we’ll take the damned salt,” he said firmly. “Aqisa and I. You’ll stay in Am Gezira.”

Ali tried to clear the lump growing in his throat. “You can’t even touch it.” Besides, this was his family’s mess; it wasn’t right to foist responsibility for dealing with it on the people who’d saved him.

He stood up, feeling unsteady. “I … I’ll need to organize repairs first.” The words made him sick. The life he’d been carefully putting together in Bir Nabat had been turned upside down in a night, carelessly cast aside by outsiders in the name of their own political calculations. “We’ll leave for Daevabad tomorrow.” The words sounded odd in his mouth, unreal somehow.

Lubayd hesitated. “And your cousin?”

Ali doubted they would find Musa, but it was worth a try. “No man who would sabotage a well is kin of mine. Send a pair of fighters after him.”

“And should they find him?”

“Drag him back. I’ll deal with him when I return.” Ali’s hands tightened on his cup. “And I will return.”

“Ow! By the Creator, are you doing that on purpose? It didn’t hurt nearly as bad last time!”

Nahri ignored her patient’s complaint, her attention focused instead on his neatly splayed lower midsection. Metal clamps held open the skin, white-hot to keep the wound clean. The shapeshifter’s intestines shimmered a pale silver—or at least they would have shimmered had they not been studded with stubborn bits of rocky growths.

She took a deep breath, centering herself. The infirmary was stifling, and she’d been working on this patient for at least two grueling hours. She had one hand pressed against his flushed skin to dull the pain of the procedure and keep it from killing him. With the other, she manipulated a pair of steel tweezers around the next growth. It was a complicated, time-consuming operation, and sweat beaded her brow.

“Damn it!”

She dropped the stone into a pan. “Stop turning into a statue, and you won’t have to deal with this.” She briefly paused to glare at him. “This is the third time I’ve had to treat you … people are not meant to shift into rocks!”

He looked a little ashamed. “It’s very peaceful.”

Nahri threw him an exasperated look. “Find another way to relax. I beg you. Stitches!” she called aloud. When there was no response, she glanced over her shoulder. “Nisreen?”

“One moment!”

From across the crowded infirmary, she caught sight of Nisreen dashing between a table piled high with pharmaceutical preparations and another with instruments due for a magical scalding. Nisreen picked up a silver tray, holding it over her head as she navigated the tightly packed cots and huddles of visitors. The infirmary was standing room only, with more people pushed into the garden.

Nahri sighed as Nisreen squeezed between a bouncing Ayaanle artist hexed with exuberance and a Sahrayn metalworker whose skin was covered in smoking pustules. “Imagine if we had a hospital, Nisreen. An enormous hospital with room to breathe and staff to do your busywork.”

“A dream,” Nisreen replied, setting down her tray. “Your stitches.” She paused to admire Nahri’s work. “Excellent. I never get tired of seeing how far your skills have progressed.”

“I’m barely allowed to leave the infirmary, and I work all day. I’d hope my skills had progressed.” But she couldn’t entirely hide her smile. Despite the long hours and grueling work, Nahri took great satisfaction in her role as a healer, able to help patients even when she couldn’t fix the myriad other problems in her life.

She closed the shapeshifter up quickly with the enchanted thread and then bound the wound, pressing a cup of opium-laced tea into his hands. “Drink and rest.”

“Banu Nahida?”

Nahri glanced up. A steward dressed in royal colors peeked in from the doors leading to the garden, his eyes going wide at the sight of her. In the moist heat of the infirmary, Nahri’s hair had grown wild, black curls escaping her headscarf. Her apron was splashed with blood and spilled potions. All she needed was a fiery scalpel in one hand to look like one of the mad, murderous Nahids of djinn lore.

“What?” she asked, trying to keep her irritation in check.

The steward bowed. “The emir would like to speak with you.”

Nahri gestured to the chaos around her. “Now?”

“He is waiting in the garden.”

Of course he is. Muntadhir was practiced enough in protocol to know she couldn’t entirely snub him if he showed up in person. “Fine,” she grumbled. She washed her hands and removed her apron, then followed the steward outside.

Nahri blinked in the bright sunshine. The wild harem garden—more jungle than garden, really—had been pruned back and tamed on the land facing the infirmary by a team of dedicated Daeva horticulturists. They’d been giddy at the assignment, eager to recreate the glorious palace landscapes the Nahids had been famous for, even if only in miniature. The infirmary’s grounds were now starred with silver-blue reflecting pools, the walkways lined with perfectly pruned pistachio and apricot trees and lush rosebushes laden with delicate blooms that ranged from a pale, sunny yellow to the deepest of indigos. Though most of the herbs and plants used in her work were grown in Zariaspa on the Pramukh family estates, anything that needed to be fresh when used was planted here, in neatly manicured corner plots bursting with shuddering mandrake bushes and dappled yellow henbane. A marble pavilion overlooked it all, set with carved benches and invitingly plump cushions.

Muntadhir stood there now, his back to her. He must have come from court because he was still dressed in the smoky gold-edged black robe he wore for ceremonial functions, his brightly colored silk turban dazzling in the sun. His hands rested lightly upon the balustrade, the lines of his body commanding as he gazed upon her garden.

“Yes?” she asked brusquely as she stepped into the pavilion.

He glanced back, his gaze traveling down her body. “You look a sight.”

“I’m working.” She wiped away some of the sweat from her forehead. “What do you need, Muntadhir?”

He turned to face her fully, leaning against the railing. “You didn’t come last night.”

That was what this visit was about? “I was busy with my patients. And I doubt your bed was cold for long.” She couldn’t resist adding the last part.

His lips twitched. “This is the third time in a row you’ve done this, Nahri,” he persisted. “You could at least send word instead of leaving me waiting.”

Nahri took a deep breath, her patience with Muntadhir—already a thing in short supply—diminishing with each second. “I apologize. Next time I’ll send word so you can head straightaway to whatever wine-soaked salon you’re frequenting these days. Now are we done?”

Muntadhir crossed his arms. “You’re in a good mood today. But no, we’re not done. Can we talk somewhere more private?” He gestured to the bright citrus trees in the distance. “Your orange grove, perhaps?”

A protective instinct surged in Nahri’s heart. The orange grove had been planted long ago by her uncle Rustam, and it was precious to her. While not as talented a healer as her mother, Manizheh, Rustam had been a famed botanist and pharmacist. Even decades after his death, the carefully selected plants within the grove grew strong and healthy, their healing powers more potent and their fragrance headier. Nahri had requested the grove be restored to its original glory, enchanted by the privacy and shade afforded by the glen’s thick screen of leaves and brambles, and the feeling of standing on soil once worked by her family’s hands.

“I don’t let anyone in there,” she reminded him. “You know that.”

Muntadhir shook his head, used to her stubbornness. “Then let’s just walk.” He moved toward the steps without waiting for her.

Nahri followed. “What’s happened with the Daeva family I told you about?” she asked as they made their way along the snaking path. If Muntadhir was going to pull her away from work, she might as well take advantage of it. “The ones who were abused by the Royal Guard?”

“I’m looking into it.”

She stopped. “Still? You told me you’d speak to your father last week.”

“And I did,” Muntadhir replied, sounding annoyed. “I can’t exactly go around setting criminals free against the king’s command because you and Jamshid are upset. It’s more complicated than that.” He eyed her. “And the more you interfere, the harder you make it. You know how my father feels about you getting involved in political matters.”

The words struck hard, and Nahri drew up. “Fine,” she said bitterly. “You can go tell him his warning has been passed on.”

Muntadhir grabbed her hand before she could turn away. “I’m not here at his command, Nahri,” he protested. “I’m here because I’m your husband. And regardless of how either of us feels about that, I don’t want to see you hurt.”

He led her toward a shaded bench that faced the canal. It was tucked behind a timeworn neem tree whose boughs curved down in a thick cascade of emerald leaves, effectively curtaining them from view.

He sat, pulling her down beside him. “I hear you had quite the adventure with my sister the other week.”

Nahri instantly tensed. “Did your father—”

“No,” Muntadhir assured. “Zaynab told me. Yes,” he clarified, perhaps noticing the surprise on Nahri’s face. “I know about her little jaunts in the Geziri Quarter. I found out about them years ago. She’s clever enough to keep herself safe, and her guard knows he can come to me if she’s ever in trouble.”

“Oh.” That took Nahri aback. And oddly enough, it made her a little jealous. The Qahtanis might be her ancestral enemies and a bunch of backstabbing opportunists, but the quiet loyalty between the siblings—borne out of the type of familial love Nahri had never known—filled her with a sad sort of envy.

She pushed it away. “I take it she told you about the hospital?”

“She said she’d never seen you so excited.”

Nahri kept her face carefully blank. “It was interesting.”

“It was interesting?” Muntadhir repeated in disbelief. “You, who barely stops talking about your work in the infirmary, discovered your ancestors’ old hospital and a group of freed ifrit slaves, and your only comment is ‘It was interesting’?”

Nahri chewed her lip, debating how to respond. The hospital had been far more than interesting, of course. But the fantasies she’d been spinning since her visit seemed a fragile thing, safest kept to herself.

Muntadhir clearly wasn’t so easily fooled. He took her hand again. “I wish you would talk to me,” he said softly. “I know neither of us wanted this, Nahri, but we could try to make it work. I feel like I have no idea what goes on in your head.” His tone was imploring but there was no hiding a hint of exasperation. “You have more walls up than a maze.”