“He probably volunteered,” Nisreen cut in coldly. “Not that we’ll ever know. Ghassan’s already had him smuggled back to Am Gezira—and warned me that if I spoke of what happened, he’d cut your throat.”
Nahri recoiled. But not just at the threat. At her own sudden memory of Ali’s rushed apology on the boat. He had said nothing, letting them rush into the trap he knew awaited.
Nisreen seemed to read her mind. “My lady, forget the Qahtanis. Worry about your people for once. Daevas are being killed—hung from the palace walls—simply for demanding justice, for a mere inquiry, into the death of one of our own. Daeva men are being dragged from their homes, interrogated and tortured. We’ve been stripped of royal protection, our quarter left undefended—half our shops in the Grand Bazaar have already been looted.” Her voice broke. “Just this morning, I heard word a Daeva girl was snatched from her palanquin and raped by a mob of shafit men while the Royal Guard stood by.”
The blood left Nahri’s face. “I . . . I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
Nisreen sat on the bench opposite her. “Then listen to me. Nahri, the Qahtanis are not your friends. This is how it always happens with them. One of us steps out of line—one of us thinks about stepping out of line—and hundreds pay the price.”
The door to the hammam swung open. A Geziri soldier barged in.
Nisreen jumped to her feet, blocking Nahri from sight. “Have you no decency?”
He rested his hand on his zulfiqar. “Not for the Scourge’s whore.”
The Scourge’s whore? His words sent a rush of fear through Nahri. Her hands were shaking so badly that Nisreen had to help her dress, pulling a loose linen gown over Nahri’s head and tying her shalvar pants.
Nisreen draped her own black chador over Nahri’s wet hair. “Please,” she begged in Divasti. “You’re the only one left. Forget your grief. Forget our words here. Tell the king whatever he needs to hear to grant you mercy.”
The impatient soldier seized her wrist and pulled her toward the door. Nisreen followed. “Please, Banu Nahri! You must know he loved you; he wouldn’t want you to throw away—”
The soldier shut the door in Nisreen’s face.
He dragged Nahri along the garden path. It was an ugly day; gray clouds bruised the sky, and an icy wind brought a smattering of rain against her face. She pulled the chador tight around her and shivered, wishing she could disappear into it.
They crossed the rain-slick pavilion toward a small wooden gazebo nestled between a wild herb garden and an ancient, sprawling neem tree. The king was alone and looked as composed as ever, his black robes and brilliant turban not the slightest bit damp.
Despite Nisreen’s warning, Nahri didn’t bow. She squared her shoulders, looking him dead in the eye.
He dismissed the soldier. “Banu Nahida,” he greeted her. His expression was calm. He motioned to the opposite bench. “Why don’t you sit?”
She sat, ignoring the urge to slide to the side of the bench farthest from him. His eyes hadn’t left her face.
“You look better than when I saw you last,” he commented lightly.
Nahri flinched. She only vaguely recalled the king’s arrival on the boat. The way Suleiman’s seal had crashed down a second time while soldiers dragged her, thrashing and screaming, from Dara’s ashes.
She wanted to get this conversation over with as quickly as possible—to get away from him as quickly as possible. “I know nothing,” she said, rushing. “I don’t know who helped him, I don’t know what—”
“I believe you,” Ghassan interrupted. Nahri gave him a surprised look, and he continued. “I mean, I don’t particularly care, but for what it’s worth, I do believe you.”
Nahri fidgeted with the hem of her chador. “Then what do you want?”
“To know where you stand now.” Ghassan spread his hands. “Twenty-one men are dead and my streets aflame. All because that damnable Afshin decided—in what I imagine was a hotheaded moment of the deepest stupidity—to kidnap you and my son and flee Daevabad. I’ve heard strikingly different accounts of how this happened,” he continued. “And I’ve decided on one.”
She arched an eyebrow. “You’ve decided on one?”
“I have,” he replied. “I think two drunk men got in an idiotic brawl over a woman. I think one of those men—still bitter about losing a war, driven half mad by slavery—snapped. I think he decided to take what belonged to him by force.” He gave her an intent look. “And I think you’re very fortunate that my younger son, injured in the brawl earlier, was in the infirmary to hear your screams.”
“That’s not what happened,” Nahri said heatedly. “Dara would never—”
The king waved her off. “He was a volatile man from an ancient and savage world. Who can really understand why he chose to lash out the way he did? To steal you from your bed like some uncivilized brute from the wilds of Daevastana. Of course you went along; you were terrified, a young girl under his sway for months.”
Nahri was normally good at checking her emotions, but if Ghassan thought she was going to publicly paint Dara as some barbarian rapist and herself as a helpless victim, he was mad.
And he wasn’t the only one with leverage. “Does this charming story of yours include the part where your son was possessed by the marid and used Suleiman’s seal?”
“Alizayd was never possessed by the marid,” Ghassan said, sounding completely self-assured. “What a ridiculous thing to suggest. The marid have not been seen for millennia. Alizayd never fell in the lake. He was caught in the ship’s rigging and climbed back aboard to slay the Afshin. He’s a hero.” The king paused and pressed his lips into a bitter smile, his voice wavering for the first time. “He always was a talented swordsman.”
Nahri shook her head. “That’s not what happened. There were other witnesses. No one is going to believe—”
“It is far more believable than Manizheh having a secret daughter hidden away in a distant human city. A girl whose very bearing would suggest an almost entirely human pedigree . . . forgive me, what did we say it was? Ah, yes, a curse to affect your appearance.” The king pressed his long fingers together. “Yes, I sold that story quite well.”
His frankness took her aback; she had thought it odd how easily the king accepted her identity when even she herself doubted it. “Because it’s the truth,” she argued. “You were the one to mistake me for Manizheh when I first arrived.”
Ghassan nodded. “A mistake. I cared greatly for your mother. I saw a Daeva woman walk in with an Afshin warrior at her side, and my emotions briefly overtook me. And who knows? You may very well be Manizheh’s daughter—you clearly have some Nahid blood . . .” He tapped the seal on his cheek. “But I see human in you as well. Not much; if your parents were clever, they could have hidden it—there are plenty in our world who do. But it’s there.”
His confidence shook her. “You would have let Muntadhir marry someone with human blood?”
“To secure peace between our tribes? Without hesitation.” He chuckled. “Do you think Alizayd the only radical? I have lived long enough—and seen enough—to know that blood does not account for everything. There are plenty of shafit who can wield magic with as much skill as a pureblood. Unlike my son, I recognize that the rest of our world is not ready to accept such a thing. But as long as no one else learned what you were . . .” He shrugged. “The exact composition of my grandchildren’s blood would not have bothered me one whit.”