She briskly finished her last stitch. “You look awful. Let me clean off the blood.”
In the time it took her to dampen a cloth, Ali was asleep on the couch. She pulled off what remained of his bloody tunic and tossed it into the fire, adding her ruined bedding as well. The knife she kept, after wiping it down. One never knew when these things would come in handy. She cleaned Ali up as best she could and then—after briefly admiring her stitches—covered him with a thin blanket.
She sat across from him. She almost wished Nisreen was here. Not only would the sight of the “Qahtani zealot” sleeping in her bedroom likely give the other woman a heart attack, but Nahri would happily throw her hateful comments back in her face by pointing out how successfully she’d healed him.
The door to the servants’ entrance smashed open. Nahri jumped and reached for the knife.
But it was only Muntadhir. “My brother,” he burst out, his gray eyes bright with worry. “Where . . .” His gaze fell upon Ali, and he rushed to his side, dropping to the ground. He touched his cheek. “Is he all right?”
“I think so,” Nahri replied. “I gave him something to help him sleep. It’s best if he doesn’t jostle those stitches.”
Muntadhir lifted the blanket and gasped. “My God . . .” He stared at his brother’s wounds another moment before letting the blanket fall back. “I’m going to kill him,” he said in a shaky whisper, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m going to—”
“Emir-joon.” Jamshid had joined them. He touched Muntadhir’s shoulder. “Talk to him first. Maybe he had a good reason.”
“A reason? Look at him. Why would he cover something like this up?” Muntadhir let out an aggravated sigh before glancing back at her. “Can we move him?”
She nodded. “Just be careful. I’ll come check on him later. I want him to rest for a few days, at least until those wounds heal.”
“Oh, he’ll be resting, that’s for sure.” Muntadhir rubbed his temples. “A sparring accident.” She raised her eyebrows, and he explained. “That’s how this happened, do you understand?” he asked, looking between her and Jamshid.
Jamshid was skeptical. “No one’s going to believe I did this to your brother. The reverse, maybe.”
“No one else is going to see his wounds,” Muntadhir replied. “He was embarrassed by the defeat, and he came to the Banu Nahida alone, assuming their friendship would buy him some discretion . . . which is correct, yes?”
Nahri sensed this wasn’t the best moment to bargain. She ducked her head. “Of course.”
“Good.” He kept his gaze on her a moment longer, something conflicted in its depths. “Thank you, Banu Nahri,” he said softly. “You saved his life tonight—that’s a thing I won’t forget.”
Nahri held the door as the two men made their way out, the unconscious Ali between them. She could still detect the steady beat of his heart, recalling the moment he’d gasped, the wound closing beneath her fingers.
It wasn’t a thing she would forget either.
She closed the door, picked up her supplies, and then headed back to the infirmary to put them away—she couldn’t risk making Nisreen suspicious. It was quiet, a stillness in the misty air. Dawn was approaching, she realized, early morning sunlight filtering through the infirmary’s glass ceiling, falling in dusty rays on the apothecary wall and her tables. Upon the sheikh’s empty bed.
Nahri stopped, taking it all in. The hazy shelves of twitching ingredients that her mother must have known like the back of her hand. The wide, nearly empty half of the room that would have been filled with patients griping about their maladies, assistants twining among them, preparing tools and potions.
She thought again of Ali, of the satisfaction she’d felt watching him sleep, the peace she’d felt after finally doing something right after months of failing. The favorite son of the djinn king, and she’d snatched him back from death. There was power in that.
And it was time for Nahri to take it.
She did it on the third day.
Her infirmary looked like it had been ransacked by some sort of lunatic monkey. Peeled and abandoned bananas lay everywhere—she’d thrown several in frustration—along with the tattered remains of damp animal bladders. The air was thick with the stench of overripe fruit, and Nahri was fairly certain she’d never eat a banana again in her life. Thankfully, she was alone. Nisreen had yet to come back, and Dunoor—after retrieving the requested bladders and bananas—had fled, probably convinced Nahri had gone entirely mad.
Nahri had dragged a table outside the infirmary, into the sunniest part of the pavilion facing the garden. The midday heat was oppressive; right now the rest of Daevabad would be resting, sheltering in darkened bedrooms and under shady trees.
Not Nahri. She held a bladder carefully against the table with one hand. Like the scores before it, she’d filled the bladder with water and carefully laid a banana peel on top.
In the other hand, she held the tweezers and the deadly copper tube.
Nahri narrowed her eyes, furrowing her brow as she brought the tube closer to the banana peel. Her hand was steady—she’d learned the hard way that tea would keep her awake but also make her fingers tremble. She touched the tube to the peel and pressed it down just a hair. She held her breath, but the bladder didn’t burst. She removed the tube.
A perfect hole pierced the banana skin. The bladder beneath was untouched.
Nahri let out her breath. Tears pricked her eyes. Don’t get excited, she chided. It might have been luck.
Only when she repeated the experiment a dozen more times—successful in each instance—did she let herself relax. Then she glanced down at the table. There was one banana peel left.
She hesitated. And then she placed it over her left hand.
Her heart was beating so loudly she could hear it in her ears. But Nahri knew if she wasn’t confident enough to do this, she’d never be able to do what she planned next. She touched the tube to the peel and pressed down.
She pulled it away. Through a narrow, neat hole she could see unblemished flesh.
I can do this. She just needed to focus, to train without a hundred other worries and responsibilities dragging her down, patients she was ill-prepared to handle, intrigue that could destroy her reputation.
Greatness takes time, Kartir had told her. He was right.
Nahri needed time. She knew where to get it. And she suspected she knew the price.
She took a ragged breath, her fingers falling to brush the weight of the dagger on her hip. Dara’s dagger. She’d yet to return it—in fact, she’d yet to see him again after their disastrous encounter at the Grand Temple.
She drew it from its sheath now, tracing the hilt and pressing her palm over the place he would have gripped. For a long moment, she stared at it, willing another way to present itself.
And then she put it down.
“I’m sorry,” Nahri whispered. She rose from the table, leaving the dagger behind. Her throat tightened, but she did not allow herself to cry.
It would not do to appear vulnerable before Ghassan al Qahtani.
25
Ali
Ali dove under the canal’s choppy surface and turned in a neat somersault to kick in the opposite direction. His stitches smarted in protest, but he pushed past the pain. Just a few more laps.