“I tried. It may have escaped before she died.”
She bit her lip, remembering Baseema’s gentle smile and her mother’s quiet strength. But she had to push away the guilt for now. “So . . . if that was an ifrit, then you’re what? Some kind of djinn?”
He made a disgusted face. “I am no djinn, girl. I am Daeva.” His mouth curled in contempt. “Daeva who call themselves djinn have no respect for our people. They are traitors, worthy only of annihilation.”
The hatred in his voice sent a fresh rush of fear coursing through her body. “Oh,” she choked out. She had little idea what the difference between the two was, but it seemed wise not to press the matter. “My mistake.” She pressed her palms against her knees to hide their trembling. “Do . . . do you have a name?”
His bright eyes narrowed. “You should know better than to ask that.”
“Why?”
“There is power in names. It’s not something my people give out so freely.”
“Baseema called you Afshin.”
The daeva shook his head. “That’s merely a title . . . and an old and rather useless one at that.”
“So you won’t tell me your actual name?”
“No.”
He sounded even more hostile than he had last night. Nahri cleared her throat, trying to maintain her calm. “What do you want with me?”
He ignored the question. “You are thirsty?”
Thirsty was an understatement; Nahri’s throat felt like sand had been poured down it, and considering the events of last night, there was a fair chance that was actually true. Her stomach rumbled as well, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything in hours.
The daeva removed a waterskin from his robe, but when she reached for it, he held it back. “I am going to ask you some questions first. You will answer them. And honestly. You strike me as a liar.”
You have no idea. “Fine.” She kept her tone even.
“Tell me of yourself. Your name, your family. Where your people are from.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Why do you get to know my name if I can’t know yours?”
“Because I have the water.”
She scowled but decided to tell him the truth—for now. “My name is Nahri. I have no family. I have no idea where my people are from.”
“Nahri,” he repeated, drawing the word out with a frown. “No family at all . . . you are certain?”
It was the second time he had asked about her family. “As far as I know.”
“Then who taught you Divasti?”
“No one taught me. I think it’s my native tongue. At least, I’ve always known it. Besides . . .” Nahri hesitated. She never spoke of these things, having learned the consequences as a child.
Oh, why not? Maybe he’ll actually have some answers for me. “I’ve been able to learn any language since I was a child,” she added. “Every dialect. I can understand, and respond to, any tongue spoken to me.”
He sat back, inhaling sharply. “I can test that,” he said. But not in Divasti, rather in a new language with oddly rounded, high-pitched syllables.
She absorbed the sounds, letting them wash over her. The response came to her as soon as she opened her lips. “Go ahead.”
He leaned forward, his eyes bright with challenge. “You look like an urchin who’s been dragged through a charnel house.”
This language was even stranger, musical and low, more like murmuring than speech. She glared back. “I wish someone would drag you through a charnel house.”
His eyes dimmed. “It is as you say then,” he murmured in Divasti. “And you have no idea of your origins?”
She threw up her hands. “How many times must I say so?”
“Then what of your life now? How do you live? Are you married?” His expression darkened. “Do you have children?”
Nahri couldn’t take her eyes off the waterskin. “Why do you care? Are you married?” she shot back, annoyed. He glared. “Fine. I’m not married. I live alone. I work in an apothecary . . . as an assistant of sorts.”
“Last night you mentioned lock picking.”
Damn, he was observant. “Sometimes I take . . . alternative . . . assignments to supplement my income.”
The djinn—no, the daeva, she corrected herself—narrowed his eyes. “You’re some kind of thief, then?”
“That’s a very narrow-minded way of looking at it. I prefer to think of myself as a merchant of delicate tasks.”
“That doesn’t make you any less a criminal.”
“Ah, and yet there’s a fine difference between djinn and daeva?”
He glowered, the hem of his robe turning to smoke, and Nahri quickly changed the subject. “I do other things. Make amulets, provide some healing . . .”
He blinked, his eyes growing brighter, more intense. “So you can heal others?” His voice turned hollow. “How?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I can usually sense sickness better than I can heal it. Something will smell wrong, or there’ll be a shadow over the body part.” She paused, trying to find the right words. “It’s difficult to explain. I can deliver babies well enough because I can sense their position. And when I lay my hands on people . . . I sort of wish them well . . . think about the parts fixing themselves; sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.”
His face grew stormier as she spoke. He crossed his arms; the outline of well-muscled limbs pressed against the smoky fabric. “And those you can’t heal . . . I assume you reimburse them?”
She started to laugh and then realized he was serious. “Sure.”
“This is impossible,” he declared. He rose to his feet, pacing away with a grace that belied his true nature. “The Nahids would never . . . not with a human.”
Taking advantage of his distraction, Nahri snatched the waterskin off the ground and ripped out the plug. The water was delicious, crisp and sweet, like nothing she’d ever tasted.
The daeva turned back to her. “So you just live quietly with these powers?” he demanded. “Haven’t you ever wondered why you have them? Suleiman’s eye . . . you could be overthrowing governments, and instead you steal from peasants!”
His words enraged her. She dropped the skin. “I do not steal from peasants,” she snapped. “And you know nothing of my world, so don’t judge me. You try living on the streets when you’re five and speak a language no one understands. When you get thrown out of every orphanage after predicting which child will die next of consumption and telling the mistress that she has a shadow growing in her head.” She seethed, briefly overcome by her memories. “I do what I need to survive.”
“And calling me?” he asked, no apology in his voice. “Did you do that to survive?”