Jamshid sucked for air, blinking rapidly. “Oh, Baba,” he whispered. He bit his lip, his gaze dropping to the floor as if to hide the whirl of emotions in his face.
Nahri was gripping the screen so hard it hurt. She wanted to drag him away. She wasn’t going to pretend to mourn Kaveh, but the sight of her brother trying to hide his grief in public—before djinn he considered enemies—broke her heart.
Hatset was still composed. “Where is the emir now?”
“Awaiting execution with his sister.”
Jamshid jerked up, fresh shock blossoming across his face. At Hatset’s side, even Wajed let out a short gasp.
Hatset, though, Hatset was steel, her golden eyes narrowing as though the other man were an insect. A lying insect barely worth her time. “Sources have assured me that my daughter is not in Manizheh’s custody.”
“Your sources are out-of-date.” Saman spread his hands. “I am but a messenger, Lady Hatset, and I was commanded to pass on a warning. The fates of Ghassan’s treacherous sons are decided, but our Banu Nahida wishes to extend to you one last mercy. Return Baga Jamshid unharmed within five days, and she will spare your daughter.”
“Five days?” It was Wajed now. “You can’t get to Daevabad in five days.”
“I can do it in three,” Saman corrected. “Banu Manizheh has been blessed with great magic. New magic, unlike anything her predecessors have known. The simurgh I traveled with are but a small part. Baga Jamshid will return with me, and your daughter will be granted clemency.”
“So that means they’re both still alive?” Jamshid had recovered, his expression urgent. “Muntadhir and Zaynab?”
The ambassador gave him a careful look. “For now, Baga Nahid. But our lady is grieving and rightfully angry, and there is no one in Daevabad to speak for them.”
Nahri pressed her lips in a thin line, hearing the words he didn’t say. Clearly the ambassador wasn’t a fool. Jamshid wasn’t acting like some cowed prisoner, and his relationship with Muntadhir was public knowledge. Manizheh wanted to tempt him. To leave open the possibility that if Jamshid returned to her, he could beg for Muntadhir’s life.
Hatset was glaring at the envoy with naked hate. She nodded rudely at the chest. “And the other part of your message?”
Saman crossed to the chest. “The Banu Nahida has heard rumors you may be welcoming a pair of refugees soon. This displeases her. Surely you’d agree that we are stronger as a united people. I know she is helping my tribe to see that.
“So she wishes to make clear what happens to Daevas who don’t obey.”
He opened the chest, kicking it over to spill the contents. Dozens—scores—of blood-spattered brass amulets fell to the ground.
Relics. Daeva relics.
Nahri was suddenly done with watching from behind a screen.
She shoved open the door, ignoring the soldier who moved to help her. Nahri was not dressed to impress—she was in the plain cotton gown and striped leggings she’d worn all day, splotches of dried blood splashed across her chest and mud staining the bottom of her trousers. The humidity had left her hair wild, curls escaping the scarf she’d tied at the back of her neck.
But Nahri didn’t need fancy clothes to announce who she was, not when she could literally sense the blood that drained from Saman’s face when she walked into the majlis with every bit of arrogance she possessed. “Why don’t you explain to me exactly what was done to these Daevas who supposedly disobeyed?”
Saman stared at her, blinking rapidly. “Banu Nahri,” he stammered. “I … may the fires burn brightly for you. Forgive me, I did not expect—”
“To see me. Yes, obviously.” Nahri pointed to the relics. “Explain.”
“As I told the Baga Nahid, the—the situation has grown more dire.” Saman’s practiced words came out a little less steady now, the man clearly rattled by her unexpected presence. “Banu Manizheh wished our tribe to know the price of letting the djinn divide it.”
“And that price is being given to the ifrit? Is that what you’re implying? Because Manizheh has lost the right to call herself anything but a traitor if she gave another Daeva to the ifrit.”
Saman’s eyes darted up at the word “traitor,” heat entering his expression. A true believer, then. “And what would one call allying with the man who stole Suleiman’s seal?”
Nahri held up her hand and conjured a pair of flames, Suleiman’s ring gleaming in their light. “Misinformation.”
The shock that blossomed across the man’s face was almost worth the whole experience. “That’s—that’s not what we were told.”
“Then your sources are out-of-date,” Nahri said, coldly repeating his words. “I will give you one more chance to explain what happened to the Daevas these relics belonged to.”
He buckled. “They were executed for treason, that’s all I know. And though they would have deserved it, I am certain the Banu Nahida would have never done anything as foul as giving them to the ifrit.”
“Then you’re a naive fool. How many?”
“How many what?”
Nahri took another step in his direction, and he recoiled. “How many Daevas did she execute? Our people, Saman. How many relics did you bring?”
His heart was racing so fast Nahri thought it might give out. “I don’t kn—”
“Then count.”
Saman was visibly shaking. But he obeyed, reaching for a handful of amulets. His lips moved wordlessly.
“Out loud,” Nahri commanded. “Come—you arrived boasting of how wonderful Manizheh is and presented her gift with such flourish. Surely you’re not ashamed to delve into it, to hold each one and call aloud the Daeva she killed.”
The majlis was as silent as a tomb. Saman glanced around, but no one was saving him here, and Nahri’s expression must have been lethal enough to make him swiftly return to counting.
“One, two …” The clink of the relics echoed across the vast chamber. “Three, four …”
It took several minutes for him to get through them all, and by
