“Get back, Nahri,” he said, wiping off the mud that concealed his tattoo. “Let me handle this.”
“Handle it?” Nahri kept her voice low, but anxiety swelled inside her. “Did you not hear the guard? There are soldiers coming!”
He shook his head. “They’re not here now, and I’ve seen enough Daevas killed in my lifetime.” He turned back toward the mob.
Nahri heard a few gasps of disbelief from the men nearest them, and then whispers began to race through the crowd.
The shafit man burst into laughter. “Oh, you poor soul, what in God’s name have you done to your face? You think you’re an Afshin?”
A stout man twice Dara’s size in a blacksmith’s apron stepped forward. “He has slave eyes,” he said dismissively. “He’s obviously deranged—who but a madman would wish to be one of those demons?” He raised an iron hammer. “Step aside, fool, or be struck down first. Slave or not, you’re still only one man.”
“I am only one man, aren’t I? How kind of you to share your concerns—perhaps we should even the odds.” Dara waved his hands toward the gate.
Nahri’s first thought was that he motioned for her—which, while flattering, was a deeply flawed estimation of her abilities. But then the brass lion at her side shivered.
She backed away as it stretched, the metal groaning as the statue arched its back like a house cat. The one on the other side of the gate shook out its wings, opened its mouth, and roared.
Nahri wouldn’t have thought any sound could rival the terror-inducing howl of the marid’s river serpent, but these came close. The first lion cried back to its fellow just as loudly, a horrible growl mixed with the grating of rocks that shook her to her core. It belched a fiery plume of smoke, like coughing up a hair ball, and then strolled toward Dara with a sinewy grace completely at odds with its metal form.
Judging from the screams of the mob, Nahri suspected animating winged lions that breathed flames was not a regular occurrence in the djinn world. About half ran for the exits, but the rest hoisted their weapons, looking more determined than ever.
Not the shafit man—he looked entirely bewildered. He gave Dara a searching look. “I-I don’t understand,” he stammered as the ground started to rumble. “Are you working with—”
The shafit blacksmith was not similarly deterred. He raised an iron hammer and rushed forward.
Dara had barely raised his scythe when an arrow slammed into the blacksmith’s chest, followed swiftly by another tearing through his throat. Dara glanced back in surprise as trumpeting filled the air around them.
A massive beast emerged from the gate leading to the bazaar. Twice the size of a horse, with gray legs as thick as tree trunks, the creature flapped a pair of fanlike ears and raised its long trunk to let out another angry bellow. An elephant, Nahri realized. She had seen one once, on a private estate she had robbed.
The elephant’s rider ducked under the gate, a long silver bow in his hands. He coolly surveyed the chaos in the plaza. The archer appeared about her age—not that that meant anything among the djinn; Dara could pass as a man in his thirties, and he was older than her civilization. The rider also looked Daeva; his eyes and wavy hair were as black as hers, but he wore the same uniform as the Geziri soldiers.
He sat easily on the elephant, his legs propped up on a cloth saddle, his body swaying with the animal’s movements. She saw him startle at the sight of the animated statues and raise his bow again before hesitating, likely realizing arrows were no match for the brass beasts.
More soldiers poured out from the other gates, pushing back the fleeing mob and fanning out to prevent any men from escaping. A coppery sword flashed, and someone screamed.
A trio of Geziri soldiers advanced on Dara. The closest drew his weapon, and one of the lions bounded over, growling as it whipped a metal tail through the air.
“Stop!” It was the archer. He quickly slid off the elephant, landing gracefully on the ground. “He’s a slave, you fools. Leave him alone.” He handed his bow to another man, and then raised his hands as he approached them. “Please,” he said, switching to Divasti. “I mean you no—”
His gaze locked on the mark on Dara’s temple. He made a small, choked sound of surprise.
Dara did not look similarly impressed. His bright eyes scanned the archer from his gray turban to his leather slippers, and then he made a face as if he’d downed an entire carafe of sour wine. “Who are you?”
“I . . . my name’s Jamshid.” The archer’s voice came out in a whisper of disbelief. “Jamshid e-Pramukh. Captain,” he added in a stammer. His gaze darted between Dara’s face and the cavorting lions. “Are you . . . I mean . . . it’s not—” He shook his head, abruptly cutting himself off. “I think I should take you to meet my king.” He glanced at Nahri for the first time. “Your . . . ah . . . companion,” he decided, “may join you as well if you desire.”
Dara twisted his scythe. “And should I desire to—”
Nahri stomped hard on his foot before he could say something stupid. The rest of the soldiers were busy picking through the crowd, separating the men from the women and children, though Nahri saw some awfully young boys pushed up against the same wall as the men. Several were weeping and a few were praying, dropped in such familiar prostration that she had to tear her eyes away from the sight. She wasn’t sure what passed for justice in Daevabad, nor how the king punished people who insulted him and threatened another tribe, but from the doomed looks in the eyes of the men as they were rounded up, she could make plenty of guesses.
And she didn’t want to join them. She gave Jamshid a gracious smile through her veil. “Thank you for your invitation, Captain Pramukh. We would be honored to meet your king.”
“The fabric is too thick,” Nahri complained. She sat back, letting the curtain go with a frustrated sigh. “I can’t see anything.” As she spoke, the palanquin that had been brought for them lurched forward and back, settling at an awkward angle that nearly spilled her into Dara’s lap.
“We are ascending the hill that leads to the palace,” Dara said, his voice low. He rolled his dagger in his hands and stared at the iron blade, his eyes flashing.
“Will you put that thing away? There are dozens of armed soldiers about—what are you going to do with that?”
“I’m being delivered to my enemy in a floral box,” Dara replied and flicked the chintzy curtains with the dagger. “I might as well be armed.”
“Did you not say dealing with the djinn was preferable to being drowned by river demons?”
He threw her a dark look and continued to twirl the knife. “To see a Daeva man dressed like them . . . serving that usurper—”
“He’s not a usurper, Dara. And Jamshid saved your life.”