“Sit, my friend,” Nahri said quietly. “I can see the blood leaving your face.”
“Okay,” Ali murmured, obeying.
The next family feud was not his.
Jamshid was pacing back and forth, looking at his sister as if she’d just suggested they befriend a karkadann. “Nahri, I’ve made clear to you that I’m on your side, but are you sure about this? Daevabad has always been ruled by a Nahid or a Qahtani. Our people don’t know anything else.”
“I think our people are more capable than you give them credit for. But yes.” She glanced at Ali, sounding a little nervous. “This feels right. On the extremely small chance we recover the city, I think we owe it to Daevabad to put things as right as we can and then let the city take it from there. Personally, the only place I want to rule is my hospital.”
“We just have to win a war first,” Ali said bleakly.
Jamshid shook his head. “If you want to convince people not to sell you out to my mother, you’ll stop calling it a war.”
Ali gave him a baffled stare. “It felt pretty warlike, Pramukh. Soldiers fighting, palaces falling.”
“But our peoples are not at war. Not entirely.” Jamshid looked at them. “May I be a politician for a moment, since clearly neither of you is inclined?” When Nahri rolled her eyes and Ali made a sour face, he continued. “You need to discredit them. Don’t call it a war, because ‘war’ implies there’s leadership and strategy on the other side. Call them criminals instead. Call them monsters. Make the thought of a world under their rule so personally threatening that people feel the only thing they can do is fight.”
There was silence for a long moment. “That’s not actually a bad idea,” Ali finally said.
Jamshid threw him an annoyed glare. “Glad to surprise you.”
“Can you do that, though?” It was Nahri, looking at her brother. “I’ve crossed our mother already, but you haven’t, Jamshid. And it’s going to be both your parents you’re standing up to. The ones you’re calling monsters.”
“They won’t be the only ones in Daevabad we’re calling monsters,” Jamshid warned.
Nahri’s eyes flashed before her expression closed in on itself. “He let Issa go.” She didn’t need to say Darayavahoush’s name—it was clear who they were talking about. “Maybe he’s not as loyal to Manizheh as we think. Maybe he could be an asset.”
Ali forced himself to stay silent. Darayavahoush might not have succeeded in killing Muntadhir, but he’d stood at Manizheh’s side as she planned to massacre Daevabad’s Geziri population. Ali was no innocent and knew plenty of them had blood on their hands, but the Afshin had cities’ worth.
And yet he loves her. Ali didn’t have to speak Divasti to know Darayavahoush had been pleading with Nahri just before she brought the ceiling down on his head. Indeed, the first time the Afshin had tried to steal her away, it had been to stop Nahri from marrying Muntadhir. It might be a controlling, terrible kind of love, but it was there. And it was dangerous.
Perhaps a reminder to you as well, then, to keep your heart from ruling your head.
Thankfully, Jamshid replied. “We have no way to find out, Nahri, and it’s too risky to proceed on the assumption Dara is anything but loyal to Manizheh. If what Issa says is true, it’s the Afshin holding that city for her. He needs to be removed.”
Removed. How careful a word. “The books,” Ali reminded them just as carefully. “There might be information about magic vanishing, about whatever Darayavahoush is now, and about how to stop him.”
Nahri rose to her feet. “Then I guess it’s decided.” There was a new edge in her voice. “Come on, Jamshid. Let’s go search through our family’s stolen books for a way to murder our Afshin yet again.”
Ali stood to follow her. “Nahri—”
“It’s fine.” But Nahri didn’t look fine. She looked like she was clinging to her last brittle veneer of control. “It was always going to be like this.”
“Then let me at least—”
“No. This part, Ali?” Nahri pushed past him. “I think it’s better we’re on our own.”
27
DARA
Dara stalked down the line of sparring men. “No,” he said impatiently, cutting between one pair. “Your shield is not doing you any good down by your knees. Raise it up and then actually hold your sword. What sort of grip is this? A bird could knock it out of your hand.”
The young man’s face went red. “Forgive me, Afshin.”
“I do not wish to forgive you. I wish for you to listen and do as I tell you before you get someone killed.”
Irtemiz made her way over, her cane tapping on the arena sand. “Why don’t I work with these two for a while?” she offered diplomatically. “And it’s been a long, brutal day in this sun. Maybe they deserve a break?”
“They can have a break when they show some improvement.” Dara glowered at his newest and least favorite batch of recruits. At Kaveh’s suggestion, each of the Daeva noble houses had given a youth to military training. In theory, it was a good idea. Daeva military officers had always been pulled from the nobility. They were positions of great honor, ones that would entwine the nobles more closely into Manizheh’s regime, making clear their livelihood depended on her.
But Dara doubted these young men and “great honor” would ever meet. They were merchant brats, and if a few seemed eager, the rest did not.
Irtemiz spoke again, her voice raised in false cheer. “Afshin, could I speak to you a moment about our new arms? The blacksmiths guild sent over an updated design.”
“A moment,” he grumbled, following her to the shaded pavilion.
Irtemiz collapsed into a cushioned bench. “Why don’t you have something to drink?” she suggested, pulling over a pitcher of apricot juice.
“I am not thirsty. Where are these designs?”
She gave him a sheepish smile. “They’ve not actually been delivered yet. I just wanted to give the men
