“You look exhausted.” Yaqub nodded to the storage room. “I have another blanket in there. Why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll head home and see if I can’t find the two of you some clean clothes.”
Shame blossomed through her once again. “I don’t want to take advantage of your hospitality.”
“Oh, stop.” Yaqub was already rising to his feet. “You don’t always have to do everything on your own.” He waved her off. “Go rest.”
Nahri found the second blanket upon a thin, rolled pad and spread them both on the floor. She grunted in relief as she collapsed. It felt heavenly to lie flat, a small mercy to her battered body. She reached out, finding Ali’s wrist at her side and taking his pulse once more.
Slower. Only by a count or two, and his damp skin still burned—but it didn’t scorch. He shifted in his sleep, murmuring under his breath.
She slipped her fingers through his. “A woman is sleeping beside you and holding your hand,” she warned, her voice breaking. “Surely you need to wake up and immediately cease such forbidden behavior.”
There was no response. Nahri hadn’t expected one and yet still felt herself fighting an edge of grief.
“Don’t die in my debt, al Qahtani. I’ll come find you in Paradise, I swear, and they’ll kick you out for associating with such a disrespectful thief.” She squeezed his hand. “Please.”
4
DARA
The twisting tunnel that led to the palace dungeons was as bleak as its end point, a narrow corridor that burrowed deep into the city’s bedrock, lit only by the occasional torch and smelling of mildew and old blood. Ancient Divasti graffiti spoke to its origins in the time of the Nahid Council, but Dara had never been down here.
He’d heard stories, of course. Everyone had—that was the point. Rumors of bodies left to rot into a gruesome carpet of bones and decaying viscera, a cruel welcome to new inmates who might suddenly find confessing their crimes a better alternative. The torture was said to be worse—illusionists who could make you hallucinate the deaths of your loved ones and poisons that melted flesh. There was no light and little air, just tight cells of death where one would slowly go mad.
Had Zaydi al Qahtani succeeded in capturing him, Dara had no doubt that would have been his fate. What better propaganda than the last Afshin, the rebel Scourge, driven to insanity beneath the stolen shedu throne? Such punishment had still been on Dara’s mind when he’d escorted Nahri to Daevabad, and it had taken every bit of courage and bluster he’d had to stare Ghassan al Qahtani in the eye while envisioning himself being dragged away to spend eternity in a dark stone cage.
Dara had never imagined, however, that the haughty emir at Ghassan’s side, the heir apparent wrapped in every wealth and privilege, would be the one who ended up here instead.
Dara stepped closer to Manizheh as they turned the corner. “Did you know Muntadhir well when you lived in Daevabad?”
Manizheh shook her head. “He was barely out of boyhood when I left, and the djinn children of the harem believed me a witch who could break their bones with a single glance.”
“But you can do that.”
“Answers your question, doesn’t it? But no, I didn’t know Muntadhir well. He was precious to his mother, and she was careful to keep him away from me. He was young when she died, but Ghassan had him moved out of the harem and into the emir’s quarters. And from what I’ve heard, he handled his abrupt transition into public adulthood by pouring everything he could down his throat and sleeping his way through the nobility.”
There was no missing the disdain in her response, but Dara wasn’t so ready to underestimate the son Ghassan had raised to rule a divided city.
“He’s not a fool, Banu Nahida,” he warned. “He’s reckless and intemperate when drunk, but no fool—especially when it comes to politics.”
“I believe you. Indeed, I’m relying on the fact that he’s not a fool, because it would be quite foolish for him to decide not to talk to us.”
Dara had little doubt what she was alluding to. “It does not work as well as you think,” he said. When Manizheh glanced at him, questioning, Dara was blunter. “Torture. Hurt a man badly enough and he will say anything to make it stop, regardless of whether or not it is true.”
“I trust you have the experience to make such a judgment.” Manizheh’s expression was contemplative. “So perhaps there’s another way to reach him.”
“Such as?”
“The truth. I’m hoping it’s such an unexpected departure from the way our families typically deal with each other that it might startle him into some truths of his own.”
Gushtap, one of Dara’s surviving soldiers, stood beside a heavy iron door, a wall torch throwing blazing light on his harrowed face. He caught sight of them, jerking to attention and offering a shaky bow. “Banu Nahida.”
“May the fires burn brightly for you,” Manizheh greeted him. “How is our prisoner?”
“Quiet for now, but we had to chain him to the wall—he was smashing his head into the door.”
Manizheh blanched, and Dara explained. “Muntadhir thinks I’ve returned from hell to avenge myself on his family. Killing himself before I can do it more painfully likely seems a sound plan.”
Manizheh sighed. “Promising.” She laid a hand on Gushtap’s shoulder. “Go take some tea for yourself and send another to relieve you. No one should have to serve in this crypt long.”
Relief lit the young man’s face. “Thank you, Banu Nahida.”
The door creaked when Dara pushed it open, the heavy wood scraping the floor. And though he trusted his men about the chains, he still found himself reaching for his knife before stepping into the black cell. The memory of the slaughtered Geziris was fresh in his mind, and Dara knew how he would react if he were suddenly face-to-face
