Dara glanced around. “The Grand Bazaar, I believe. We had ours in the same location.”
Bazaar? She gave the frenzied scene a dubious glance. Cairo had bazaars. This looked more like a cross between a riot and the hajj. And it wasn’t so much the number of people that astounded her, but the variety. Pureblooded djinn strode through the crowds, their odd and ephemeral grace marking their difference among the mob of more human-looking shafit. Their attire was wild—literally; in one case she saw a man pass by with an enormous python settled over his shoulders like a contented pet. People wore glowing robes the color of turmeric and dresses like wound-up sheets, held together by shells and razor-sharp teeth. There were headdresses of glittering stones and wigs of braided metals. Capes of bright feathers and at least one robe that looked like a skinned crocodile, its toothy mouth resting on its wearer’s shoulder. A spindly man with an enormous smoking beard ducked by, and a girl holding a basket swept past Nahri, bumping her with one hip. The girl briefly glanced back, letting her gaze linger appreciatively on Dara. A spark of annoyance lit in Nahri, and one of the girl’s long black braids let out a wriggle like a stretching snake. Nahri jumped.
Dara, meanwhile, just looked irritated. He eyed the bustling crowd with open displeasure, giving the muddy street an unimpressed sniff. “Come,” he said, pulling her forward. “We’ll attract attention if we just stand here gawking.”
But it was impossible not to gawk as they pushed their way through the crowd. The stone street was wide, lined with dozens of market stalls and unevenly stacked buildings. A dizzying maze of covered alleys snaked off the main avenue, crowded with foul heaps of decaying garbage and stacked crates. The air was ripe with the smell of coal and cooking aromas. Djinn shouted and gossiped all around her; vendors hawked their wares while customers haggled.
Nahri couldn’t identify half of what was being sold. Hairy purple melons quivered and trembled beside ordinary oranges and dark cherries, while midnight black nuggets the size of fists were piled between cashews and pistachios. Bolts of giant folded rose petals scented the air between those of patterned silk and sturdy muslin, and a jewelry merchant swung a pair of earrings toward her, painted glass eyes that seemed to wink. A stout woman in a bright purple chador poured a smoking white liquid into several different braziers, and a little boy with fiery hair tried to coax a golden bird twice his size from a rattan cage. Nahri nervously edged away; she’d had her fill of large birds.
“Where’s the Grand Temple?” she asked, dodging a puddle of iridescent water.
Before Dara could answer, a man peeled off from the crowd and planted himself in front of them. He was dressed in stone-colored trousers and a close-fitting crimson tunic that reached his knees. A matching flat cap was perched upon his black hair.
“May the fires burn brightly for you both,” he greeted them in Divasti. “Did I hear you say the Grand Temple? You are pilgrims, yes? Here to pay devotion to the glory of our dear, departed Nahids?”
His flowery words were so obviously recited that Nahri could only smile in recognition. A fellow hustler. She looked him over, noting his black eyes and sharp golden cheekbones. He was clean shaven save for a neat black mustache. A Daeva con artist.
“I can take you to the Grand Temple,” he continued. “I have a cousin with a little tavern. Very fair prices for the rooms.”
Dara shoved past the man. “I know the way.”
“But there is still the matter of accommodation,” the man persisted, hurrying to keep up with them. “Pilgrims from the countryside tend not to realize how dangerous Daevabad can be.”
“Ah, and I bet you get a handsome cut from this cousin of yours with such fair prices,” Nahri said knowingly.
The man’s smile vanished. “Are you working with Gushnap?” He planted himself in front of them again and squared his shoulders. “I told him,” he said, wagging a finger in her face. “This is my territory and . . . ah!” He shrieked as Dara seized him by his collar and yanked him away from Nahri.
“Let him go,” she hissed.
But the Daeva man had already caught sight of the muddied mark on Dara’s cheek. The color left his face, and he let out a muffled squeal as Dara lifted him off the ground.
“Dara.” Nahri felt a sudden prick behind her ears, the sensation of being watched. She abruptly straightened up and looked over her shoulder.
Her eyes met the curious gray gaze of a djinn across the street. He appeared to be Geziri and was dressed casually in a simple gray robe and turban, but there was a certain erectness to his posture that she didn’t like. As she stared at him, he turned to a nearby stall as if browsing its wares.
It was then that Nahri saw the bazaar crowd was thinning. A few nervous faces disappeared down adjoining alleys, and a copper merchant across the way slammed his metal screen shut.
Nahri frowned. She’d lived through enough violence—the power struggles of various Ottomans, the French invasion—to recognize the quiet tension that overtook a city before it erupted. Windows were being latched and doors pulled closed. A woman shouted for a pair of dawdling children, and an elderly man limped down an alley.
Behind her, Dara was threatening to rip the con artist’s lungs from his chest if he ever saw him again. She touched his shoulder. “We need to—”
Her warning was interrupted by a sudden clang. Down the avenue, a soldier used his scythe to strike a large set of brass cymbals strung from two opposing rooftops. “Curfew!” he cried.
Dara let go of the hustler, and the man fled. “Curfew?”
Nahri could feel the tension of the remaining crowd with every hurried heartbeat. Something’s going on here, something we know nothing about. A quick glance showed her that the Geziri man she’d caught spying was gone.
She grabbed Dara’s hand. “Let’s go.”
She caught snatches of whispers as they hurried through the emptying bazaar.
“That’s what people are saying . . . kidnapped in the dead of night from their marriage bed . . .”
“. . . gathering in the midan . . . the Most High only knows what they think they’re going to accomplish . . .”
“The Daevas don’t care,” she heard. “The fire worshippers get whatever they want. They always do.”