That may have been so, but Nahri could not help thinking about how affectionately Ghassan had spoken of the other man. “It figures my next failure would be a friend of the king.”
“Is that what’s worrying you?” The sympathy vanished from her assistant’s face “Could you not put your patient’s needs above your own for once? And you’ve not yet failed. We haven’t even started.”
“You just said there was nothing we could do!”
“We’ll try to keep him alive until his wife arrives.” Nisreen headed toward the apothecary shelves. “He’ll suffocate when the infection reaches his lungs. There’s a procedure that will give him a little more time, but it’s very precise and you’ll have to be the one to do it.”
Nahri didn’t like the sound of that. She hadn’t tried another advanced procedure since nearly strangling the Daeva woman with the salamander.
She reluctantly followed Nisreen. In the light of the flickering torches and blazing fire pit, her apothecary looked alive. Various ingredients twitched and shuddered behind the hazy, sandblasted glass shelves, and Nahri did the same at the sight. She missed Yaqub’s apothecary, full of recognizable—and reliably dead—supplies. Ginger for indigestion, sage for night sweats, things she knew how to use. Not poisonous gases, live cobras, and an entire phoenix dissolved in honey.
Nisreen pulled free a pair of slender silver tweezers from her apron and opened a small cabinet. She carefully plucked out a glimmering copper tube about the length of a hand and skinny as a smoking cheroot. She held it at arm’s length, jerking away when Nahri reached for it.
“Don’t touch it with your bare skin,” she warned. “It’s Geziri made, from the same material as their zulfiqar blades. There’s no healing from the injury.”
Nahri pulled back her hand. “Not even for a Nahid?”
Nisreen gave her a dark look. “How do you think your prince’s people took Daevabad from your ancestors?”
“Then what am I supposed to do with it?”
“You will insert it into his lungs and then his throat to relieve some of the pressure as his ability to breathe burns away.”
“You want me to stab him with some magical Geziri weapon that destroys Nahid flesh?” Had Nisreen suddenly developed a sense of humor?
“No,” her assistant said flatly. “I want you to insert it into his lungs and then his throat to relieve some of the pressure as his ability to breathe burns away. His wife lives on the other side of the city. I fear it will take time to reach her.”
“Well, God willing, she moves faster than him. Because I am not doing anything with that murderous little tube.”
“Yes, you are,” Nisreen said, rebuking her. “You’re not going to deny a man a final good-bye with his beloved because you’re afraid. You are the Banu Nahida; this is your responsibility.” She pushed past her. “Prepare yourself. I’ll get him ready for the procedure.”
“Nisreen . . .”
But her assistant was already returning to the ailing man’s side. Nahri quickly washed up, her hands shaking as she watched Nisreen help the sheikh sip a cup of steaming tea. When he groaned, she pressed a cool cloth to his brow.
She should be the Banu Nahida. It was not the first time the thought had occurred to Nahri. Nisreen cared for their patients like they were family members. She was welcoming and warm, confident in her abilities. And despite her frequent grumblings about the Geziri, there was no hint of prejudice as she tended to the old man. Nahri watched, trying to squash the jealousy flaring up in her chest. What she would give to feel competent again.
Nisreen looked up. “We’re ready for you, Banu Nahri.” She glanced down at the cleric. “It will hurt. You’re sure you don’t want some wine?”
He shook his head. “N-no,” he managed, his voice trembling. He glanced at the door, the movement obviously causing him pain. “Do you think my wife—” He let out a hacking, smoky cough.
Nisreen squeezed his hand. “We’ll give you as much time as we can.”
Nahri chewed the inside of her cheek, unnerved by the man’s emotional state. She was used to looking for weakness in fear, for gullibility in grief. She had no idea how to make small talk with someone about to die. But still she stepped closer, forcing what she hoped was a confident smile.
The sheikh’s eyes flickered to her. His mouth twitched, as if he might be trying to return her smile, and then he gasped, dropping Nisreen’s hand.
Her assistant was on her feet in a flash. She pulled apart the man’s robe to reveal a blackened chest, the skin smoldering. A sharp, septic odor filled the air as Nisreen’s precise fingers ran up his sternum and then slightly to the left.
She seemed unbothered by the sight. “Bring the tray over here and hand me a scalpel.”
Nahri did so, and Nisreen sank the scalpel into the man’s chest, ignoring his gasp as she cut away a section of burning skin. She clamped the flesh open and beckoned Nahri closer. “Come here.”
Nahri leaned over the bed. Just below the rush of foamy black blood was a billowing mass of glimmering gold tissue. It fluttered softly, slowing as it took on an ashen hue. “My God,” she marveled. “Are those his lungs?”
Nisreen nodded. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” She picked up the tweezers holding the copper tube and held it out to Nahri. “Aim for the center and gently insert. Don’t go deeper than a hair or two.”
Her brief sense of wonderment vanished. Nahri looked between the tube and the man’s fading lungs. She swallowed, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe herself.
“Banu Nahida,” Nisreen prompted, her voice urgent.
Nahri took the tweezers and held the tube over the delicate tissue. “I-I can’t,” she whispered. “I’m going to hurt him.”
His skin suddenly flared, the lungs crumpling into powdery ash as the burning embers swept toward his neck. Nisreen quickly pushed aside his long beard, exposing his neck.
“The throat then, it’s his only chance.” When she hesitated, Nisreen glared. “Nahri!”
Nahri moved, bringing the tube swiftly down to where Nisreen pointed. It went in as easily as a hot knife through butter. She felt a moment of relief.
And then it sank deep.
“No, don’t!” Nisreen grabbed for the tweezers as Nahri tried to pull the tube back up. A terrible sucking sound came from the sheikh’s throat. Blood bubbled and simmered over her hands, and his entire body seized.
Nahri panicked. She held her hands against his throat, desperately willing the blood to stop. His terrified eyes locked on hers. “Nisreen, what do I do?” she cried. The man seized again, more violently.
And then he was gone.
She knew it immediately; the weak beat of his heart shuddered to a stop, and the intelligent spark flickered out of his gray gaze. His chest sank, and the tube whistled, the air finally escaping.
Nahri didn’t move, unable to look away from the man’s tortured face. A tear trailed from his sparse lashes.
Nisreen closed his eyes. “He’s gone, Banu Nahida,” she said softly. “You tried.”
I tried. Nahri had made this man’s last moments a living hell. His body was a wreck, his lower half burned away, his bloody throat torn open.