She seemed unbothered by the sight. “Bring the tray over here and hand me a scalpel.”
Nahri did so, and Nisreen sank the scalpel into the man’s chest, ignoring his gasp as she cut away a section of burning skin. She clamped the flesh open and beckoned Nahri closer. “Come here.”
Nahri leaned over the bed. Just below the rush of foamy black blood was a billowing mass of glimmering gold tissue. It fluttered softly, slowing as it took on an ashen hue. “My God,” she marveled. “Are those his lungs?”
Nisreen nodded. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” She picked up the tweezers holding the copper tube and held it out to Nahri. “Aim for the center and gently insert. Don’t go deeper than a hair or two.”
Her brief sense of wonderment vanished. Nahri looked between the tube and the man’s fading lungs. She swallowed, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe herself.
“Banu Nahida,” Nisreen prompted, her voice urgent.
Nahri took the tweezers and held the tube over the delicate tissue. “I-I can’t,” she whispered. “I’m going to hurt him.”
His skin suddenly flared, the lungs crumpling into powdery ash as the burning embers swept toward his neck. Nisreen quickly pushed aside his long beard, exposing his neck.
“The throat then, it’s his only chance.” When she hesitated, Nisreen glared. “Nahri!”
Nahri moved, bringing the tube swiftly down to where Nisreen pointed. It went in as easily as a hot knife through butter. She felt a moment of relief.
And then it sank deep.
“No, don’t!” Nisreen grabbed for the tweezers as Nahri tried to pull the tube back up. A terrible sucking sound came from the sheikh’s throat. Blood bubbled and simmered over her hands, and his entire body seized.
Nahri panicked. She held her hands against his throat, desperately willing the blood to stop. His terrified eyes locked on hers. “Nisreen, what do I do?” she cried. The man seized again, more violently.
And then he was gone.
She knew it immediately; the weak beat of his heart shuddered to a stop, and the intelligent spark flickered out of his gray gaze. His chest sank, and the tube whistled, the air finally escaping.
Nahri didn’t move, unable to look away from the man’s tortured face. A tear trailed from his sparse lashes.
Nisreen closed his eyes. “He’s gone, Banu Nahida,” she said softly. “You tried.”
I tried. Nahri had made this man’s last moments a living hell. His body was a wreck, his lower half burned away, his bloody throat torn open.
She took a shaky step away, catching sight of her own singed clothes. Her hands and wrists were coated in blood and ash. Without another word, she crossed to the washbasin and started fiercely scrubbing her hands. She could feel Nisreen’s eyes on her back.
“We should clean him up before his wife gets here,” her assistant said. “Try to—”
“Make it look like I didn’t kill him?” Nahri cut in. She didn’t turn around; the skin on her hands smarted as she scoured them.
“You didn’t kill him, Banu Nahri.” Nisreen joined her at the sink. “He was going to die. It was only a matter of time.” She went to lay a hand on Nahri’s shoulder, and Nahri jerked away.
“Don’t touch me.” She could feel herself losing control. “This is your fault. I told you I couldn’t use that instrument. I’ve been telling you since I arrived that I wasn’t ready to treat patients. And you didn’t care. You just keep pushing me!”
Nahri saw something crack in the older woman’s face. “Do you think I want to?” she asked, her voice oddly desperate. “Do you think I would be pushing you if I had any other choice?”
Nahri was taken aback. “What do you mean?”
Nisreen collapsed in a nearby chair, letting her head fall into her hands. “The king wasn’t just here to see an old friend, Nahri. He was here to count the empty beds and ask why you’re not treating more patients. There’s a waiting list—twenty pages deep and growing—for appointments with you. And those are just the nobles—the Creator only knows how many others in the city need your skills. If the Qahtanis had their way, every bed in here would be filled.”
“Then people need to be more patient!” Nahri countered. “Daevabad lasted twenty years without a healer—surely she can wait a bit longer.” She leaned against the washbasin. “My God, even human physicians study for years, and they’re dealing with colds, not curses. I need more time to be properly trained.”
Nisreen let out a dry, humorless laugh. “You’ll never be properly trained. Ghassan might want the infirmary filled, but he’d be pleased if your skills never went beyond the basic. He’d probably be happiest if half your patients died.” When Nahri frowned, her assistant straightened up, looking at her in surprise. “Do you not understand what’s going on here?”
“Apparently not in the least.”
“They want you weak, Nahri. You’re the daughter of Banu Manizheh. You marched into Daevabad with Darayavahoush e-Afshin at your side the day a mob of shafit tried to break into the Daeva Quarter. You nearly killed a woman out of irritation . . . did you not notice that your guards were doubled after that day? You think the Qahtanis want to let you train?” Nisreen gave her a disbelieving look. “You should be happy you’re not forced to wear an iron cuff when you visit their prince.”
“I . . . But they let me have the infirmary. They pardoned Dara.”
“The king had no choice but to pardon Darayavahoush—he is beloved among our people. Were the Qahtanis to harm a hair on his head, half the city would rise up. And as for the infirmary? It is symbolic, as are you. The king wants a Nahid healer as a herder wants a dog, occasionally useful but entirely dependent.”
Nahri stiffened in anger. “I’m no one’s dog.”
“No?” Nisreen crossed her arms, her wrists still covered in ash and blood. “Then why are you playing into their hands?”
“What are you talking about?”
Nisreen drew closer. “There is no hiding your lack of progress in the infirmary, child,” she warned. “You entirely ignored the Daevas who came to see you at the Grand Temple—and then you stormed out without a word. You neglect your fire altar, you eat meat in public, you spend all your free time with that Qahtani zealot . . .” Her face darkened. “Nahri, our tribe doesn’t think lightly of disloyalty; we’ve suffered too much at the hands of our enemies. Daevas who are suspected of collaboration . . . life is not easy for them.”
“Collaboration?” Nahri was incredulous. “Staying on good terms with the people in power isn’t collaboration, Nisreen. It’s common sense. And if my eating kebab bothers a bunch of gossipy fire worshippers—”
Nisreen gasped. “What did you say?”