The Kingdom of Copper

He’d shaped about forty of them into warriors, including a handful of young women. Dara had at first balked at that, finding it unorthodox and improper. Then Banu Manizheh had bluntly pointed out that if he could fight for a woman, he could fight beside one, and he had to admit she’d been right. One of the women, Irtemiz, was by far his most talented archer.

But his good mood vanished the second he caught sight of their corral. A new horse was there: a golden mare whose finely tooled saddle hung over the fence.

Dara’s heart dropped. He recognized that mare.

Kaveh e-Pramukh had arrived early.

A gasp from behind stole his attention. “This is your camp?” It was Abu Sayf, the zulfiqari who’d nearly killed Mardoniye and yet had oddly proven far less maddening on their return trek than his younger tribesman. He asked the question in fluent Divasti; he’d told Dara that he’d been married to a Daeva woman for decades. His gray eyes scanned the neat row of tents and wagons. “You move,” he noted. “Yes, I suppose you would. Easier to stay hidden that way.”

Dara met his gaze. “You would do well to keep such observations to yourself.”

Abu Sayf’s expression dimmed. “What do you plan to do with us?”

I do not know. It was also not a thing Dara could think about—not when the sight of Kaveh’s horse was making him so anxious he felt sick.

He glanced at Mardoniye. “See that the djinn are secured, but get them water for washing and something hot to eat.” He paused, glancing at his tired band of soldiers. “And do the same for yourselves. Your rest is well earned.”

Dara turned toward the main tent. Emotions swirled inside him. What did one say to the father of a man they had nearly killed? Not that Dara had meant to do so; he remembered nothing about his assault on the warship. The time between Nahri’s strange wish and Alizayd tumbling into the lake that ill-fated night was shrouded in fog. But he remembered what he’d seen afterward far too well: the body of the kind young man he’d taken under his wing slumped on the boat deck, his back riddled with Dara’s arrows.

His stomach fluttering with nerves, Dara coughed outside the tent flap, alerting those inside to his presence before he called out. “Banu Nahida?”

“Come in, Dara.”

He ducked inside and immediately starting coughing more as he inhaled the cloud of acrid purple smoke that greeted him—one of Manizheh’s many experiments. They lined the enormous slate table she insisted on lugging around with them, her equipment taking up an entire wagon.

She was at the table now, seated on a cushion behind a floating glass flask and holding a long pair of forceps. A lilac-hued liquid boiled inside the flask, giving off the purple smoke.

“Afshin,” she greeted him warmly, dropping a small, wriggling silver object into the boiling liquid. There was a metallic squeal, and then she stepped back, pulling aside her facecloth. “Your mission was a success?”

“The Geziri scouts are being secured as we speak,” he said, relieved that Kaveh was nowhere to be seen.

Manizheh’s brow arched. “Alive?”

Dara scowled. “As requested.”

A small smile lit her face. “It is much appreciated. Please tell your men to bring me one of their relics as soon as possible.”

“Their relics?” Djinn and Daeva alike all wore relics—a bit of blood, sometimes a baby tooth or lock of hair, often paired with a holy verse or two, all bound in metal and worn on the person. They were safeguards, to be used to bring a soul back into a conjured body should one be enslaved by an ifrit. “What do you want with their …”

The question died on his lips. Kaveh e-Pramukh had emerged from the inner room to join them.

Dara just managed to keep his mouth from falling open. He wasn’t sure what surprised him more: that Kaveh had stepped out of the small, private chamber in which Manizheh slept, or that the grand wazir looked terrible. He might have aged fifteen years, not five, his face scored by lines and his hair and mustache mostly silver. He was thin, the shadowed swells under his eyes indicating a man who had seen too much and not slept enough.

But by the Creator, did those eyes find him. And when they did, they filled with all the anger and betrayal that had undoubtedly been seething inside him since that night on the boat.

Manizheh caught the wazir’s wrist. “Kaveh,” she said softly.

The practiced words of regret vanished from Dara’s mind. He crossed the room, falling to his knees.

“I am so sorry, Kaveh.” The apology tumbled inelegantly from his lips. “I never meant to hurt him. I would have taken a blade to myself had I—”

“Sixty-four,” Kaveh cut in coldly.

Dara blinked. “What?”

“Sixty-four. It is the number of Daevas who were killed in the weeks following your death. Some died after being interrogated, innocents who had nothing to do with your flight. Others because they protested what they saw as your unjust murder at the hands of Prince Alizayd. The rest because Ghassan let the shafit attack us, in an effort to muscle our tribe back into compliance.” Kaveh’s mouth thinned. “If you are going to offer useless words of remorse, you should at least be reminded of the extent of what you’re responsible for. My son lives. Others do not.”

Dara’s face burned. Did Kaveh not think he regretted, down to his marrow, what his actions had led to? That he wasn’t reminded of his mistake every day as he watched over the traumatized remnant of the Daeva Brigade?

He gritted his teeth. “So in your eyes I should have stood silently by as Banu Nahri was forced to marry that lecherous sand fly?”

“Yes,” Kaveh said bluntly. “That is exactly what you should have done. You should have bowed your damn head and taken the governorship in Zariaspa. You could have quietly trained a militia for years in Daevastana while Banu Nahri lulled the Qahtanis into a false sense of peace. Ghassan is not a young man. Alizayd and Muntadhir could have easily been manipulated into warring against each other once Muntadhir took the throne. We could have let the Geziris destroy themselves and then swept in to take over with minimal bloodshed.” His eyes flashed. “I told you we had allies and support outside Daevabad because I trusted you. Because I didn’t want you to do something rash before we were prepared.” His voice turned scornful. “I never imagined the supposedly clever Darayavahoush e-Afshin, the rebel who almost beat Zaydi al Qahtani, would risk us all because he wanted to run away.”

The fire under Manizheh’s flask flared, and with it, Dara’s anger. “I was not running—”

“That’s enough,” Manizheh cut in, glaring at them both. “Afshin, calm yourself. Kaveh …” She shook her head. “Whatever the consequences, Dara acted to protect my daughter from a fate I fought for decades. I cannot fault him for that. And if you think Ghassan wasn’t looking for a reason to crack down on the Daevas the instant a Nahid and Afshin strolled through the gates of Daevabad, you clearly do not know him at all.” She gave them another sharp look. “Tearing each other apart is not why we are here.” She gestured to a heap of floor cushions arranged around her fire altar. “Sit.”

Chastened, Dara obeyed, rising to his feet and moving toward the cushions. After a few moments, Kaveh did the same, still glowering.

Manizheh placed herself between them. “Would you conjure some wine?” she asked Dara. “I suspect you could both use it.”

Dara was fairly certain that the only thing Kaveh wanted to do with wine was throw it in his face, but he obeyed. With a snap of his fingers, three brass goblets appeared, filled with the dark amber hue of date wine.

He took a sip, trying to calm himself. Causing fires to explode was not going to alleviate Kaveh’s concerns about his temper. “How is he?” he asked carefully. “Jamshid. If I may inquire.”

Kaveh stared at the altar. “He didn’t wake for a full year. It took another for him to be able to sit up and use his hands. He’s walking with a cane now, but …” His voice broke, his hand trembling so hard he nearly spilled his wine. “He hasn’t handled being injured well. He loved being a warrior … he wanted to be like you.”

The words were like a blow. Ashamed, he dropped his gaze, though not before he caught sight of Manizheh. Her hand was clenched around her goblet so tightly that her knuckles were turning white.

She spoke. “He will be all right, Kaveh. I promise you. Jamshid will be healthy and whole and have everything that has been denied him.”

The intensity in her voice took Dara aback. In the years he’d known her, Manizheh’s calm was constant. Rather reassuring, in fact. The type of absolute unflappability he preferred in a leader.

They are friends, he reminded himself. Small surprise she was so protective of Kaveh’s son.

Deciding Jamshid was perhaps not the safest subject, Dara moved on, all while quietly working to calm the magic pulsing through his veins. “And how is Banu Nahri?” he asked, forcing a bland distance into his voice.

“Surviving,” Kaveh replied. “Ghassan keeps her on a tight leash. All of us. She was wed to Muntadhir less than a year after your death.”

“He no doubt forced her,” Manizheh said darkly. “As I said, he tried to do the same to me for decades. He was obsessed with uniting our families.”

“Well, he certainly underestimated her. She took Ghassan for everything she could during the marriage negotiations.” Kaveh sipped his wine. “It was actually a bit frightening to watch. But Creator bless her. She ended up signing the bulk of her dowry over to the Temple. They’ve been using it for charitable work: a new school for girls, an orphanage, and assistance for the Daevas ruined in the assault on the Grand Bazaar.”

“That must make her popular with our people. A clever move,” Manizheh assessed softly before her expression turned grim. “And regarding the other part of their marriage … Nisreen is keeping an eye on that situation, yes?”

Kaveh cleared his throat. “There will be no child between them.”

Dara’s insides had been churning as they spoke, but Kaveh’s carefully worded response made his skin prickle. It did not sound like Nahri had much of a say in that either.

The words were leaving his mouth before he could stop them. “I think we should tell her the truth about what we are planning. Your daughter,” he burst out. “She is smart. Strong-willed. She could be an asset.” Dara cleared his throat. “And she did not quite seem to … appreciate being left in the dark the last time.”

Manizheh was already shaking her head. “She is safe in the dark. Do you have any idea what Ghassan would do to her if our conspiracy were uncovered? Let her innocence protect her a bit longer.”

Kaveh spoke up, more hesitant. “I must say Nisreen has been suggesting the same, Banu Nahida. She’s grown very close to your daughter and hates lying to her.”

“And if Nahri knew, she might be able to better protect herself,” Dara persisted.

“Or she might reveal us all,” Manizheh countered. “She is young, she is under Ghassan’s thumb, and she has already shown a predilection for cutting deals with djinn. We cannot trust her.”

Dara stiffened. The rather curt assessment of Nahri offended him, and he struggled not to show it. “Banu Nahida—”

Manizheh raised a hand. “This is not a debate. Neither of you know Ghassan like I do. You do not know the things he is capable of. The ways he finds to punish the ones you love.” A flicker of old grief filled her eyes. “Ensuring that he cannot do such things to another generation of Nahids is far more important than my daughter’s feelings about being left in the dark. She can yell at me about that when Ghassan is ash.”

Dara lowered his gaze, managing a bare nod.

“Perhaps we can discuss our preparations then,” Kaveh said. “Navasatem is approaching, and it would be an excellent time to attack. The city will be caught up in the chaos of celebration and the palace’s attention focused on the holiday.”

“Navasatem?” Dara’s head jerked up. “Navasatem is less than eight months away. I have forty men.”

“So?” Kaveh challenged. “You’re free of Suleiman’s curse, aren’t you? Can you not tear down the Citadel with your hands and let your blood beasts loose on the city? That is what Banu Manizheh has told me you can do. That is the reason you were brought back.”

Dara gripped his cup tightly. He knew he was viewed as a weapon—but this unvarnished assessment of his worth still stung. “It is more complicated than that. I am still learning to control my new abilities. And my men need more training.”

Manizheh touched his hand. “You are too humble, Darayavahoush. I believe you and your warriors are more than ready.”

Dara shook his head, not as ready to concede on military matters as he was on personal ones. “We cannot take Daevabad with forty men.” He looked between them urgently, willing them to listen. “I spent years before the ifrit killed me contemplating how to best capture the city. Daevabad is a fortress. There is no scaling the walls, and there is no tunneling under them. The Citadel has thousands of soldiers—”

“Conscripts,” Kaveh cut in. “Poorly paid and growing more mutinous by the day. At least a dozen Geziri officers defected after Alizayd was sent to Am Gezira.”

Thoughts of besieging Daevabad vanished from Dara’s mind. “Alizayd al Qahtani is in Am Gezira?”

Kaveh nodded. “Ghassan sent him away within days of your death. I thought it might have been temporary, until things calmed, but he hasn’t returned. Not even for Muntadhir’s wedding.” He took another sip of his wine. “Something is going on, but it’s been difficult to discern; the Geziris hold their secrets close.” A little relish filled the other man’s face. “Admittedly, I was happy to see him fall from favor. He’s a fanatic.”

“He is more than that,” Dara said quietly. A buzz filled his ears, smoke curling around his fingers. Alizayd al Qahtani, the self-righteous brat who’d cut him down. The young warrior whose dangerous combination of deadly skill and unquestioning faith had reminded Dara a little too much of his younger self.

He knew quite well how that had turned out. “He should be dealt with,” he said. “Swiftly. Before we attack Daevabad.”

Manizheh gave him a skeptical look. “You do not think Ghassan would find it suspicious should his son turn up dead in Am Gezira? Presumably in whatever brutal fashion you’re currently imagining?”

“It is worth the risk,” Dara argued. “I too was a young warrior in exile when Daevabad fell and my family was slaughtered.” He let the implication linger. “I would strongly suggest you not let such an enemy have a chance to grow. And I wouldn’t be brutal,” he added quickly. “We have time aplenty for me to track him down and get rid of him in a way that would leave nothing for Ghassan to question.”

Manizheh shook her head. “We don’t have time. If we are to attack during Navasatem, I can’t have you spending weeks wandering the Am Gezira wastelands.”

“We are not going to be able to attack during Navasatem,” Dara said, growing exasperated at their stubbornness. “I cannot yet even cross the threshold to enter Daevabad, let alone conquer it.”

“The threshold is not the only way to enter Daevabad,” Manizheh replied evenly.

“What?” Dara and Kaveh said the word together.

Manizheh took a sip of her wine, seeming to savor their shock. “The ifrit think there might be another way to enter Daevabad … one for which you may have Alizayd al Qahtani to thank. Or the creatures pulling his strings anyway.”

“The creatures pulling his strings,” Dara repeated, his voice growing hollow. He’d told Manizheh everything about that night on the boat. About the magic that had overpowered him and stolen his mind. About the prince who’d climbed out of Daevabad’s deadly lake covered in tentacles and scales, whispering a language Dara had never heard, raising a dripping blade. She’d come to the same impossible conclusion. “You don’t mean …”

“I mean it is time we go speak to the marid.” A little heat entered Manizheh’s expression. “It is time we get some vengeance for what they have done.”

“Sheen,” Ali said, marking the letter in the damp sand before him. He glanced up, his gaze turning severe at the sight of two boys tussling in the last row. They immediately stopped, and Ali continued, motioning for his students to copy the letter. They obediently did so, also on the sand. Slates and chalk required resources Bir Nabat didn’t have to spare, so he taught his lessons in the cool grove where the canals met and the ground was reliably wet. “Who knows a word that starts with ‘sheen’?”

“Sha’b!” a little girl in the center piped up while the boy sitting beside her shot his hand into the air.

“I start with sheen!” he declared. “Shaddad!”

Ali smiled. “That’s right. And do you know who you share your name with?”

His sister answered. “Shaddad the Blessed. My grandmother told me.”

“And who was Shaddad the Blessed?” he asked, snapping his fingers at the boys who’d been fighting. “Do either of you know?”

The smaller one shrank back while the other’s eyes went wide. “Um … a king?”

Ali nodded. “The second king after Zaydi the Great.”

“Is he the one who fought the marid queen?”

The grove went dead silent at the question. Ali’s fingers stilled on the damp sand. “What?”

“The marid queen.” It was a little boy named Faisal who’d spoken up, his face earnest. “My abba says one of your ancestors defeated a marid queen, and that’s why you can find our water.”

The simple words, said so innocently, went through Ali like a poisoned blade, leaving sick dread creeping through his limbs. He’d long suspected quiet rumors circulated in Bir Nabat about his affinities with water, but this was the first time he’d heard himself mentioned in relation to the marid. It was probably nothing; a half-remembered folktale given new life when he started discovering springs.

But it was not a connection he could let linger. “My ancestors never had anything to do with the marid,” he said firmly, ignoring the churning in his stomach. “The marid are gone. No one has seen them in centuries.”

But he could already see eager curiosity catching ahold of his students. “Is it true they’ll steal your soul if you look too long at your reflection in the water?” a little girl asked.

“No,” an older one answered before Ali could open his mouth. “But I heard humans used to sacrifice babies to them.” Her voice rose in fear-tinged excitement. “And if they didn’t give them up, the marid would drown their villages.”

“Stop,” one of the youngest boys begged. He looked near tears. “If you talk about them, they’ll come for you in the night!”

“That’s enough,” Ali said, and a few children shrank back, his words coming out sharper than he’d intended. “Until you’ve mastered your letters, I don’t want to hear anything more about—”

Lubayd ran into the grove.

“Forgive me, brother.” His friend bent over, clutching his knees as he caught his breath. “But there is something you need to see.”

THE CARAVAN WAS LARGE ENOUGH TO BE VISIBLE FROM a fair distance away. Ali watched it approach from the top of Bir Nabat’s cliffs, counting at least twenty camels moving in a steady, snaking line toward the village. As they left the shadow of a massive sand dune, the sun glinted off the pearly white tablets the animals were carrying. Salt.

His stomach plummeted.

“Ayaanle.” Lubayd took the word from Ali’s mouth, shading his eyes with one hand. “And with a fortune … that looks like enough salt to pay a year’s taxes.” He dropped his hand. “What are they doing here?”

At his side, Aqisa crossed her arms. “They cannot be lost; we are weeks’ travel from the main trade route.” She glanced at Ali. “Do you think they could be your mother’s kin?”

They better not be. Though his companions didn’t know it, his Ayaanle mother’s kin were the ones who’d truly gotten Ali banished from Daevabad. They’d been behind the Tanzeem’s decision to recruit him, apparently hoping the shafit militants would eventually convince Ali to seize the throne.

It had been a ludicrous plot, but in the chaos following the Afshin’s death, Ghassan wasn’t taking the chance of anyone preying on Ali’s conflicted sympathies—let alone the powerful lords of Ta Ntry. Except, of course, the Ayaanle were difficult to punish in their wealthy, cosmopolitan homeland across the sea. So it had been Ali who suffered, Ali who was ripped from his home and tossed to assassins.

Stop. Ali checked the vitriol swirling within him, ashamed of how easily it had come. It was not the fault of the entire Ayaanle tribe, only a handful of his mother’s scheming relatives. For all he knew, the travelers below were perfectly innocent.

Lubayd looked apprehensive. “I hope they brought their own provisions. We won’t be able to feed all those camels.”

Ali turned away, resting his hand on his zulfiqar. “Let’s go ask them.”

THE CARAVAN HAD ARRIVED BY THE TIME THEY climbed down from the cliffs, and as Ali waded through the crowd of bleating camels, he realized Lubayd had been right about the fortune they were carrying. It looked like enough salt to provision Daevabad for a year and was most certainly some type of tax payment. Even the glossy, bright-eyed camels appeared costly, the decorated saddles and bindings covering their golden-white hides far finer than was practical.

But Ali didn’t see the large delegation he would have expected making small talk with Sheikh Jiyad and his son Thabit. Only a single Ayaanle man stood with them, dressed in the traditional bright teal robes that Ayaanle djinn on state business typically donned, their hue an homage to the colors of the Nile headwater.

The traveler turned around, the gold glittering from his ears and around his neck dazzling in the sunlight. He broke into a wide smile. “Cousin!” He laughed as he took in the sight of Ali. “By the Most High, is it possible a prince is under all those rags?”

The man crossed to him before Ali could offer a response, flabbergasted as he was. He held out his arms as if to pull Ali into an embrace.

Ali’s hand dropped to his khanjar. He swiftly stepped back. “I do not hug.”

The Ayaanle man grinned. “As friendly as people said you would be.” His warm gold eyes shone with amusement. “Peace be upon you either way, Hatset’s son.” His gaze traveled down Ali’s body. “You look awful,” he added, switching to Ntaran, the language of his mother’s tribe. “What have these people been feeding you? Rocks?”

Offended, Ali drew up, studying the man, but no recognition came to him. “Who are you?” he stammered in Djinnistani. The common tongue felt strange after so long in Am Gezira.

“Who am I?” the man asked. “Musa, of course!” When Ali narrowed his eyes, the other man feigned hurt. “Shams’s nephew? Cousin to Ta Khazak Ras on your mother’s maternal uncle’s side?”

Ali shook his head, the tangled lines of his mother’s family confusing him. “Where are the rest of your men?”

“Gone. May God have mercy upon them.” Musa touched his heart, his eyes filling with sorrow. “My caravan has been utterly cursed with every type of misfortune and injury, and my last two comrades were forced to return to Ta Ntry due to dire family circumstances last week.”

“He lies, brother,” Aqisa warned in Geziriyya. “No single man could have brought a caravan of such size here. His fellows are probably hiding in the desert.”

Ali eyed Musa again, growing more suspicious. “What is it you want from us?”

Musa chuckled. “Not one to bother with small talk, are you?” He pulled free a small white tablet from his robe and tossed it to Ali.

Ali caught it. He rubbed his thumb over the grainy surface. “What am I supposed to do with a lump of salt?”