“Two hundred and sixty-four,” she repeated. “Tell me, ambassador, for I’m a bit new at politics, but I’m fairly certain if nearly three hundred people had been plotting a coup, Manizheh would have gotten wind of it earlier.”
Saman flushed but anger swept his face. He obviously didn’t enjoy being humiliated by a young woman in a court full of djinn. “I trust she did what was necessary.”
“I’m certain you do. Consider her message passed on.” She glanced at Wajed. “Qaid, the cells below the castle haven’t flooded yet, have they?”
He was glaring at the ambassador with open hostility. “Not entirely.”
“Good. Please take this man to one of them. See that he is fed and cared for.” She inclined her head at Saman. “Do those pitiful creatures Manizheh pulled from the grave need anything, or can they just continue decaying on the beach?”
Saman glowered at her. “They wait to return to Banu Manizheh.” He glanced at Jamshid and Hatset. “I suggest you heed her warning, Lady Hatset. There won’t be another one.”
Hatset’s eyes flashed. “And I suggest you leave before our Banu Nahida stabs you.”
The ambassador didn’t struggle when the soldiers grabbed him, but he planted his feet at the door. “Baga Nahid, please,” he begged, turning to Jamshid. “You are a sensible man. Go home. Take your sister. There may still be mercy.”
Jamshid’s gaze darted to hers, but he said nothing as Saman was dragged out. With a nod, Hatset dismissed the rest of the soldiers.
The queen’s bravado lasted only until the three of them were alone, and then she leaned back against her cushion and let out a shaky breath. “Zaynab,” she whispered.
Jamshid had shot to his feet. “I’m going back. I’ll talk to our mother, make her see reason. Surely this is an exaggeration. No Daeva would give another to be enslaved by the ifrit.”
Nahri walked over to the chest of relics. She picked one up, examining it in the shafts of light shining through the windows. Daevas wore their relics in amulets around the neck, and though the amulets were always brass, they came in a wild assortment of forms. The one she’d picked up was decorated with raised half-moons encircled by tiny inlaid rubies. Blood had dried in the grooves.
Who did you belong to? Was it one of the Daevas who’d stood up and bowed before Nahri when Ghassan humiliated her in the throne room? Or maybe one of the shy youths she’d teased in the Temple garden? A priest who’d dug through the dusty archives to retrieve her family’s books or the men who’d pressed homemade sweets on her when they’d visited the infirmary? Perhaps it had been a noblewoman who’d worn this amulet, one of the ones who’d kept Nahri silent company during her wedding, forming a quiet but firm line between their Banu Nahida and the gossiping djinn?
Maybe these relics had belonged to scheming nobles. Or maybe they’d been patriots, or something in between. Either way, when Nahri looked at these relics, she didn’t see bloody pieces of brass. She saw people. Her people, flawed and broken and bigoted in their own way, but still hers.
And Manizheh had butchered them. To send a message.
Dara, please say you had no part in this. Nahri was dimly aware of Jamshid and Hatset arguing, but it wasn’t Shefala’s majlis that Nahri saw right now. It was Daevabad the day she first arrived, the mysterious island of magic growing nearer as the ferry cut through the lake. The ziggurats and temples, minarets and towers, all looming over the walls upon which her ancestors had carved their visage.
Welcome to Daevabad, Banu Nahida. How proud and excited Dara had been that day. Nahri realized only later how nervous he must also have been—that in his own way, he’d taken a shaky step on a bridge to peace they both learned too late hadn’t been steady enough for him.
Nahri replaced the relic and closed the chest. “Jamshid, you can’t go back.”
He stopped in mid-fight with the queen. “Why not?”
“He certainly can,” Hatset insisted. “If he doesn’t, Zaynab might die.”
Nahri softened her voice. “You said yourself that it was unlikely Manizheh had her. This is probably a bluff.”
“I don’t care. Not this time.” A piece of Hatset’s carefully composed expression cracked. “I have lost my husband to Manizheh and my son to the marid. I will not lose my daughter. If Manizheh is bluffing, she has called me true.”
“And I might be able to sway her,” Jamshid persisted. “Convince her to let Muntadhir and Zaynab—”
“Will you both just listen for a moment?” Nahri pleaded. “You think Manizheh doing this means she has the upper hand, that we are outmatched. But it doesn’t. It means she’s desperate. This isn’t the act of the woman I met on the roof of the palace. She’s killing Daevas she should be wooing. She’s lost her partner. She’s breaking. And if we give in now, she’s never going to stop. She needs to be removed, not rewarded.”
“And how do you suggest we do that?” Hatset asked. “You took Suleiman’s ring from my son, but you haven’t been able to restore anyone’s magic. Jamshid has yet to find the miracle you were hoping would be in the Nahid texts. And Alizayd …” Trembling, the queen gripped the edge of her divan. “There is no one else with his standing who could pull together the shafit, djinn, and Royal Guard. We’ve been avoiding what his loss means, and now it is here. We have no viable path toward retaking Daevabad.”
“So we submit to a woman who makes Ghassan look like a saint? That’s your solution?”
“We survive,” Hatset said. “We try and make sure our children, our families, and as many people as possible live through this, and hope there may come another day to fight.” She gave Nahri a baffled look. “I would think you of all people would understand this.”
Nahri did understand,
