Ali reached for his brother’s wrist. “It’s fine, Dhiru. I shouldn’t have—”
Muntadhir cut him off with a raised palm. “Apologize, Khanzada,” he repeated. “Now.”
She quickly pressed her palms together and lowered her eyes. “Forgive me, Prince Alizayd. I did not mean to insult you.”
“Good.” Muntadhir shot a look at the musicians so reminiscent of their father it made Ali’s skin crawl. “What are you all staring at? Play on!”
Ali swallowed, too embarrassed to look at anyone in the room. “I should go.”
“Yes, you probably should.” But before Ali could rise, his brother grabbed him by the wrist. “And don’t ever disagree with me in front of these men again,” he warned in Geziriyya. “Especially when you’re the one being an ass.” He let go of Ali’s arm.
“Fine,” Ali muttered. Muntadhir still had a strand of pearls looped around Rupa’s neck like some extravagant leash. The girl was smiling, but the expression didn’t meet her eyes.
Ali pulled a heavy silver ring off his thumb as he stood up. He met the shafit girl’s gaze and then dropped the ring on the table. “My apologies.”
He took the dark steps that led to the street two at a time, struck by his brother’s swift response. Muntadhir clearly hadn’t agreed with Ali’s behavior, but had still defended him, had humiliated his own lover to do so. He hadn’t even hesitated.
We are Geziri. It’s what we do. Ali was just clear of the house when a voice spoke up behind him.
“Not quite to your taste?”
Ali glanced back. Jamshid e-Pramukh lounged outside Khanzada’s door, smoking a long pipe.
Ali hesitated. He didn’t know Jamshid well. Though Kaveh’s son served in the Royal Guard, he did so in a Daeva contingent whose training was segregated—and purposefully inferior. Muntadhir spoke highly of the Daeva captain—his bodyguard for over a decade and his closest friend—but Jamshid was always quiet in Ali’s presence.
Probably because his father thinks I want to burn down the Grand Temple with all the Daevas inside it. Ali could only imagine the things said about him in the privacy of the Pramukh household.
“Something like that,” Ali finally replied.
Jamshid laughed. “I told him to take you someplace quieter, but you know your brother when he sets his mind on a thing.” His dark eyes sparkled, his voice warm with affection.
Ali made a face. “Fortunately, I think I’ve worn out my invitation.”
“You’re in good company then.” Jamshid took another drag from the pipe. “Khanzada hates me.”
“Really?” Ali couldn’t imagine what the courtesan would have against the mild-mannered guard.
Jamshid nodded and held out the pipe, but Ali demurred. “I think I’ll just head back to the palace.”
“Of course.” He motioned down the street. “Your secretary’s waiting for you in the midan.”
“Rashid?” Ali frowned. He didn’t have any further business this evening that he could recall.
“He didn’t get around to offering his name.” A hint of annoyance flickered in Jamshid’s eyes, gone in a moment. “Nor did he want to wait here.”
Odd. “Thank you for letting me know.” Ali started to turn away.
“Prince Alizayd?” When Ali turned back, Jamshid continued. “I’m sorry for what happened in our quarter today. We’re not all like that.”
The apology took him aback. “I know,” Ali replied, unsure of what else to say.
“Good.” Jamshid winked. “Don’t let my father get to you. It’s a thing at which he excels.”
That brought a smile to Ali’s face. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. He touched his heart and brow. “Peace be upon you, Captain Pramukh.”
“And upon you peace.”
11
Nahri
Nahri took a long swig of water from the skin, swirled it around in her mouth, and spat. She’d have given her last dirham to drink without feeling grit in her teeth. She sighed and leaned heavily against Dara’s back, letting her legs hang loose on the horse.
“I hate this place,” she mumbled into his shoulder. Nahri was used to sand—she dealt with the storms that coated Cairo in a hazy yellow dust every spring—but this was unbearable.
They’d left the last oasis days ago, stealing a new horse and making one last push across open, unprotected ground. Dara said there was no choice; everything between the oasis and Daevabad was desert.
It had been a brutal crossing. They barely spoke, both too weary to do more than hold on to the saddle and continue in companionable silence. Nahri was filthy; dirt and sand clung to her skin and matted her hair. It was in her clothes and her food, under her nail beds and in between her toes.
“It’s not much farther,” Dara assured her.
“You always say that,” she muttered. She shook out a cramped arm and then wrapped it around his waist again. A few weeks ago she would have been too embarrassed to hold him so boldly, but now she no longer cared.
The landscape began to change, hills and scrubby, frail trees replacing the bare dirt. The wind picked up, blue clouds rolling in from the east to darken the sky.
When they finally stopped, Dara slid off the saddle and pulled away the filthy cloth that covered his face. “Praise be to the Creator.”
She took his hand as he helped her down. No matter how many times she dismounted, it always took a few minutes for her knees to remember how to work. “Are we there?”
“We’ve reached the Gozan River,” he replied, sounding relieved. “Daevabad’s threshold is just across the water, and none but our kind can pass through it. Not ifrit, not ghouls, not even peris.”
The land came to an abrupt end in a cliff that overlooked the river. In the gloomy light, the wide, muddy river was an unappealing brownish-gray, and the other side didn’t look promising. All Nahri could see was more flat dirt. “I think you may have overstated Daevabad’s charms.”
“Do you really think we’d leave a vast magical city open to the eyes of any curious human onlooker? It’s hidden.”
“How are we going to cross?” Even from up here, she could see whitecaps cresting on the rushing water.
Dara peered over the edge of the limestone cliff. “I could try to enchant one of the blankets,” he suggested, not sounding optimistic. “But let’s wait until tomorrow.” He nodded at the sky. “It looks like it’s about to storm, and I don’t want to risk crossing in bad weather. I remember these cliffs being pocked with caves. We’ll shelter in one for the night.” He started to lead the horse down a twisting, narrow path.
Nahri followed. “Any chance I could make a trip to the riverbank?”
“Why?”
“I smell like something died in my clothes, and I have enough dirt caked on my skin to make a double of myself.”
He nodded. “Just be careful. The way down is steep.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Nahri trekked down the sharp hill, zigzagging past rocky boulders and stunted trees. Dara hadn’t lied. She tripped twice and cut her palms on the sharp rocks, but the chance to bathe was worth it. She stayed close to the riverbank as she quickly scrubbed her skin, ready to jump back if the current grew too strong.