It was the fact that he couldn’t that did.
THE SUN WAS WELL RISEN OVER A SOGGY BIR NABAT BY the time the rupture was fixed. Ali was so tired he had to be helped from the cistern. His fingers were swollen from groping the rock, his senses numb from the cold water.
Lubayd pushed a cup of hot coffee into his hands. “We’ve salvaged what we could. I don’t think there was much harm to any crops, but several of the aqueducts will need to be repaired. And there was rather extensive damage to the trellis in the fig orchard.”
Ali nodded mutely. Water streamed down his limbs, echoing the cold rage welling inside him. “Where is he?”
Lubayd’s reluctant silence confirmed Ali’s suspicions. He’d known as soon as he dived into the cistern and found that the rocks limiting the spring had been moved. No Geziri would have swum so deep, and none would have ever dared sabotage a well. But an Ayaanle man who’d been taught to swim as a child? One who’d never gone thirsty? He might have.
“Gone, departed in the chaos,” Lubayd finally answered. He cleared his throat. “He left his cargo.”
Aqisa dropped down next to them. “We should let it rot in the desert,” she said bitterly. “Salvage what we can, sell what we can’t, and let the rest sink below the sands. To hell with the Ayaanle. Let them explain to the king.”
“They will find a way to blame us,” Ali said softly. He stared at his hands. They were shaking. “Stealing from the Treasury is a capital offense.”
Lubayd knelt before him. “Then we’ll take the damned salt,” he said firmly. “Aqisa and I. You’ll stay in Am Gezira.”
Ali tried to clear the lump growing in his throat. “You can’t even touch it.” Besides, this was his family’s mess; it wasn’t right to foist responsibility for dealing with it on the people who’d saved him.
He stood up, feeling unsteady. “I … I’ll need to organize repairs first.” The words made him sick. The life he’d been carefully putting together in Bir Nabat had been turned upside down in a night, carelessly cast aside by outsiders in the name of their own political calculations. “We’ll leave for Daevabad tomorrow.” The words sounded odd in his mouth, unreal somehow.
Lubayd hesitated. “And your cousin?”
Ali doubted they would find Musa, but it was worth a try. “No man who would sabotage a well is kin of mine. Send a pair of fighters after him.”
“And should they find him?”
“Drag him back. I’ll deal with him when I return.” Ali’s hands tightened on his cup. “And I will return.”
“Ow! By the Creator, are you doing that on purpose? It didn’t hurt nearly as bad last time!”
Nahri ignored her patient’s complaint, her attention focused instead on his neatly splayed lower midsection. Metal clamps held open the skin, white-hot to keep the wound clean. The shapeshifter’s intestines shimmered a pale silver—or at least they would have shimmered had they not been studded with stubborn bits of rocky growths.
She took a deep breath, centering herself. The infirmary was stifling, and she’d been working on this patient for at least two grueling hours. She had one hand pressed against his flushed skin to dull the pain of the procedure and keep it from killing him. With the other, she manipulated a pair of steel tweezers around the next growth. It was a complicated, time-consuming operation, and sweat beaded her brow.
“Damn it!”
She dropped the stone into a pan. “Stop turning into a statue, and you won’t have to deal with this.” She briefly paused to glare at him. “This is the third time I’ve had to treat you … people are not meant to shift into rocks!”
He looked a little ashamed. “It’s very peaceful.”
Nahri threw him an exasperated look. “Find another way to relax. I beg you. Stitches!” she called aloud. When there was no response, she glanced over her shoulder. “Nisreen?”
“One moment!”
From across the crowded infirmary, she caught sight of Nisreen dashing between a table piled high with pharmaceutical preparations and another with instruments due for a magical scalding. Nisreen picked up a silver tray, holding it over her head as she navigated the tightly packed cots and huddles of visitors. The infirmary was standing room only, with more people pushed into the garden.
Nahri sighed as Nisreen squeezed between a bouncing Ayaanle artist hexed with exuberance and a Sahrayn metalworker whose skin was covered in smoking pustules. “Imagine if we had a hospital, Nisreen. An enormous hospital with room to breathe and staff to do your busywork.”
“A dream,” Nisreen replied, setting down her tray. “Your stitches.” She paused to admire Nahri’s work. “Excellent. I never get tired of seeing how far your skills have progressed.”
“I’m barely allowed to leave the infirmary, and I work all day. I’d hope my skills had progressed.” But she couldn’t entirely hide her smile. Despite the long hours and grueling work, Nahri took great satisfaction in her role as a healer, able to help patients even when she couldn’t fix the myriad other problems in her life.
She closed the shapeshifter up quickly with the enchanted thread and then bound the wound, pressing a cup of opium-laced tea into his hands. “Drink and rest.”
“Banu Nahida?”
Nahri glanced up. A steward dressed in royal colors peeked in from the doors leading to the garden, his eyes going wide at the sight of her. In the moist heat of the infirmary, Nahri’s hair had grown wild, black curls escaping her headscarf. Her apron was splashed with blood and spilled potions. All she needed was a fiery scalpel in one hand to look like one of the mad, murderous Nahids of djinn lore.
“What?” she asked, trying to keep her irritation in check.
The steward bowed. “The emir would like to speak with you.”
Nahri gestured to the chaos around her. “Now?”
“He is waiting in the garden.”
Of course he is. Muntadhir was practiced enough in protocol to know she couldn’t entirely snub him if he showed up in person. “Fine,” she grumbled. She washed her hands and removed her apron, then followed the steward outside.
Nahri blinked in the bright sunshine. The wild harem garden—more jungle than garden, really—had been pruned back and tamed on the land facing the infirmary by a team of dedicated Daeva horticulturists. They’d been giddy at the assignment, eager to recreate the glorious palace landscapes the Nahids had been famous for, even if only in miniature. The infirmary’s grounds were now starred with silver-blue reflecting pools, the walkways lined with perfectly pruned pistachio and apricot trees and lush rosebushes laden with delicate blooms that ranged from a pale, sunny yellow to the deepest of indigos. Though most of the herbs and plants used in her work were grown in Zariaspa on the Pramukh family estates, anything that needed to be fresh when used was planted here, in neatly manicured corner plots bursting with shuddering mandrake bushes and dappled yellow henbane. A marble pavilion overlooked it all, set with carved benches and invitingly plump cushions.
Muntadhir stood there now, his back to her. He must have come from court because he was still dressed in the smoky gold-edged black robe he wore for ceremonial functions, his brightly colored silk turban dazzling in the sun. His hands rested lightly upon the balustrade, the lines of his body commanding as he gazed upon her garden.
“Yes?” she asked brusquely