The pirate gaped. “Wait, you’re telling the truth? You’ve got human blood? And no one knows?”
You fool, what are you doing? But strangely enough, Nahri felt relieved, almost dizzy with this small release. “Ali knows.”
“Pillow talk?”
“You’re not the only one who can shove someone overboard.”
“Well, don’t you have some pointy edges?” Fiza whistled. “A Nahid shafit. Damn, how scandalous.”
Nahri’s head began to pound. “Yes,” she said weakly, going from dizzy to nauseous. “I’m aware.”
“So why are you telling me? You know I’m a criminal, yes? We sell scandalous information.”
Why was Nahri telling Fiza? She’d just given Ali a lecture on safety and now here she was, spilling her most dangerous secret to an even more dangerous person.
“I don’t know,” she muttered. “I think I find you a kindred spirit.” Then she shrugged, considering. “Though I guess you’re a good test for coming clean with others.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because no one would believe a criminal if I said you were lying.”
Fiza smacked her shoulder. “You were the one who picked the locks, weren’t you?” When Nahri offered a wry grin, Fiza laughed. “I’d be tempted to offer you a place on my crew if I wasn’t worried you’d turn on me the second the wind shifted.”
“And I might be tempted to take you up on the offer if my mother wasn’t slaughtering innocents in Daevabad. But I have to go back. It’s the right thing to do.”
“What the hell is the right thing to do?”
“Believe me, you don’t want to find out.”
21
DARA
Creator forgive him, Muntadhir al Qahtani might have been right.
Dara dodged a pack of excited children as they raced one another across the throne room, shaking brass noisemakers and swinging sparklers. Following them was a troupe of entertainers—acrobats walking on their hands or on stilts and dark-eyed beauties whirling, their braids snapping across the air. Men in brilliant silks, wearing enough jewelry to pay for Dara’s threadbare army, were laughing uproariously in gathered groups, jade cups of expensive wine splashing beaded cushions.
The throne room in which his life had been knocked off course was unrecognizable, its solemn air of history giving way to a spectacular feast that Dara suspected would soon not be fit for the pious ladies who’d already set up a formidable wall of sterneyed elders between their pretty, marriageable daughters and any lovelorn young men. In one corner, a storyteller was regaling an enthralled group of wide-eyed youngsters with glamorous puppets set against painted backdrops. Seeing a wooden archer with green coin eyes, Dara grimaced and turned away.
Still, it was the kind of scene he had dreamed of for centuries. Daeva music filled the air, songs whose lyrics and rhythms had changed from his time but were still recognizable, and a banquet to feed hundreds had been laid out, copper platters and carved quartz bowls upon a bright aquamarine cloth that ran the entire length of the eastern wall. An atmosphere of wild relief gripped the crowd.
Of course they’re relieved. The rich are once again dancing and feasting while the rest of the city starves in fear. For though Dara could not help but enjoy this small sign of celebration, he suspected the laughing Daeva nobles around him had once bowed to Ghassan with the same smiles they now presented to Banu Manizheh. This was not a holiday for the common people of his tribe: it was a very pretty bribe—designed by Muntadhir, of all people—to convince the nobles who had sidled up to the Qahtanis for generations that they should instead throw their support to the Banu Nahida.
The absence of magic was unsettling as well. Though Dara had done what he could—conjuring jewel-bright lanterns to float overhead and butter-soft roses that climbed the walls and continuously blossomed, their perfumed petals showering the floor and guests—there should have been more, and it was eerie to see something so essential to his people stripped from them.
Suleiman’s eye, this is why people call you brooding.
Forcing a more pleasant expression onto his face, Dara abruptly helped himself to the blue glass bottle of wine nearest him, feeling a sudden desire to get drunk and not particularly caring that it clearly belonged to a circle of pearl-draped noblemen, whose protesting mouths snapped shut the moment they looked up from their game of dice to see who’d stolen their wine.
Taking a long swig, Dara turned away to study Manizheh, dressed in ceremonial garments and sitting upon the sparkling shedu throne, Kaveh at her side. A long line of people waited to greet them.
The sight of her sent more apprehension creeping over him. Manizheh had consented to his working with Muntadhir—seeming surprised but pleasantly so—but she had yet to invite him back to court, and seeing her now, a perfect portrait of the noble and sacred Nahids, Dara wondered if she ever would. Their years together in the sparse mountain camp, surviving brutal winters and dreaming of a less bloody conquest, suddenly seemed very far away. Dara had seen Manizheh at her worst; forget his insubordination, he must be an unwelcome reminder of the true cost of all this spectacle. The weapon that, if she was wise, Manizheh would keep stashed away until needed.
But Dara didn’t want to only be a weapon anymore. So, the wine buzzing pleasantly in his veins, he decided to join her. Ignoring the queuing nobles, he strode up, prostrating himself on the carpet. “May the fires burn brightly for you, my lady.”
“And for you, Afshin,” Manizheh said, her voice warm. “Please rise.”
He did so, catching Kaveh look askance at the wine bottle Dara was doing a poor job of concealing in the folds of his tunic.
The grand wazir raised his eyebrows. “You really have taken to partnering with Muntadhir.”
“Oh, let him be, Kaveh,” Manizheh chided. “I have no doubt our Afshin has already patrolled this
