“Didn’t recognize me, crocodile?” the shapeshifter spat.
Ali’s left arm was bent behind his back. He tried to shove Hanno off with his free hand, and in response, the shafit man twisted the blade. Ali screamed into the rag, and his arm fell back. Hot blood spread across his tunic, turning the fabric black.
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Hanno mocked. “Iron blade. Very expensive. Ironically enough, bought with the last of your money.” He shoved the knife deeper, stopping only when it hit the stone behind Ali.
Black spots blossomed in front of Ali’s eyes. It felt like his stomach was filled with ice, ice that was steadily extinguishing the fire that dwelled inside him. Desperate to get the blade out, he tried to knee the other man in the stomach, but Hanno easily evaded him.
“‘Give him time,’ Rashid tells me. Like we’re all purebloods with centuries to muse on what’s right and wrong.” Hanno pressed his weight on the knife, and Ali let out another muffled scream. “Anas died for you.”
Ali scrambled for purchase on Hanno’s shirt. The Tanzeem man yanked the knife out and plunged it higher, dangerously close to his lungs.
Hanno seemed to read his thoughts. “I know how to kill purebloods, Alizayd. I wouldn’t leave you half dead and take the chance of you being rushed to that fire-worshipping Nahid people say you’re fucking in the library.” He leaned in close, his eyes filled with hate. “I know how . . . but we’re going to do this slowly.”
Hanno made good on the threat, pushing the knife higher with such an exaggerated, agonizing unhurriedness that Ali would swear he felt each individual nerve tear. “I had a daughter, you know,” Hanno started, grief stealing into his eyes. “About your age. Well, no . . . she never got to be your age. Would you like to know why, Alizayd?” He wiggled the blade, and Ali gasped. “Would you like to know what purebloods like you did to her when she was just a child?”
Ali couldn’t find the words to apologize. To plead. The rag fell from his mouth, but it didn’t matter. All he could manage was a low cry when Hanno twisted the knife yet again.
“No?” the shapeshifter asked. “That’s fine. It’s a story better told to the king. I intend to wait for him, you know. I want to see his face when he finds these walls covered in your blood. I want him to wonder how many times you screamed for him to come save you.” His voice broke. “I want your father to know what it feels like.”
Blood puddled at Ali’s feet. Hanno held him tight, crushing his left hand. Something stung from inside his palm.
The glass lens from the telescope.
“Emir-joon?” He heard a familiar voice from the stairs. “Muntadhir, are you still here? I’ve been looking—”
Jamshid e-Pramukh emerged from the staircase, a blue glass bottle of wine dangling from one hand. He froze at the bloody scene.
Hanno wrenched the knife free with a snarl.
Ali slammed his forehead into the other man’s.
It took every bit of strength he could muster, enough to send his own head spinning and to draw a dull crack from Hanno’s skull. The shapeshifter reeled. Ali didn’t hesitate. He struck out hard with the glass lens and slashed his throat open.
Hanno staggered back, dark red blood pouring from his throat. The shafit man looked confused and a little frightened. He certainly didn’t look like a would-be assassin now; he looked like a broken, grieving father covered in blood. Blood that had never been black enough for Daevabad.
But he was still holding the knife. He lurched toward Ali.
Jamshid was faster. He brought the wine bottle up and smashed it over Hanno’s head.
Hanno dropped, and Jamshid caught Ali as he fell. “Alizayd, my God! Are you . . .” He glanced in horror at his bloody hands and then lowered Ali into a sitting position. “I’ll get help!”
“No,” Ali said, croaking the word, tasting blood in his mouth. He grabbed Jamshid’s collar before he could rise. “Get rid of him.”
The command came out in a growl, and Jamshid stiffened. “What?”
Ali fought for breath. The pain in his stomach was fading. He was fairly certain he was about to pass out—or die, a possibility which probably should have bothered him more than it did. But he was focused on only one thing—the shafit assassin lying at his feet, his hand clutching a blade wet with Qahtani blood. His father would murder every mixed-blood in Daevabad if he saw this.
“Get . . . rid of him,” Ali breathed. “That’s an order.”
He saw Jamshid swallow, his black eyes darting between Hanno and the wall. “Yes, my prince.”
Ali leaned against the stone, the wall icy cold in comparison to the blood soaking his clothes. Jamshid dragged Hanno to the parapet; there was a distant splash. The edges of his vision darkened, but something glittered on the ground, catching his attention. The telescope.
“N-Nahri . . . ,” Ali slurred as Jamshid returned. “Just . . . Nahri—” And then the ground rushed up to meet him.
24
Nahri
Urgent.
The word rang through Nahri’s mind, tying her stomach into knots as she hurried back to the infirmary. She wasn’t ready for anything urgent; indeed, she was tempted to slow her pace. Better for someone to die waiting rather than be murdered directly by her incompetence.
Nahri pushed open the infirmary door. “All right, Nisreen, what—” She abruptly shut her mouth.
Ghassan al Qahtani sat at the bedside of one of her patients, a Geziri cleric far into his third century who was slowly turning to charcoal. Nisreen said it was a fairly common condition among the elderly, fatal if untreated. Nahri had pointed out that being three hundred was a condition that should soon prove fatal, but treated the man anyway, putting him near a steamy vaporizer and giving him a dose of watery mud charmed by an enchantment Nisreen had coached her through. He had been in the infirmary for a few days, and had seemed fine when she left: fast asleep, with the burning contained to his feet.
A chill crept down her spine as she watched the fondness with which the king squeezed the sheikh’s hand. Nisreen was standing behind them. There was a warning in her black eyes.
“Your Majesty,” Nahri stammered. She quickly brought her palms together and then, deciding it couldn’t hurt, bowed. “Forgive me . . . I didn’t realize you were here.”
The king smiled and stood. “No apology necessary, Banu Nahida. I heard my sheikh wasn’t doing well and came by to offer my prayers.” He turned back to the old man and touched his shoulder, adding something in Geziriyya. Her patient offered a wheezy response, and Ghassan laughed.
He approached, and she forced herself to hold his gaze. “Did you enjoy your evening with my children?” he asked.