Zaynab chose that moment to take her arm, pulling her toward the market, and Nahri happily let herself be towed. Almost unconsciously, she palmed a ripe orange from a fruit stand as they passed. Stealing it was probably reckless, but there was something so freeing about strolling crowded city streets. It might not be Cairo, but the rustle of impatient passersby, the aroma of street food, and knots of men emerging from the mosque were familiar enough to briefly ease her homesickness. She was anonymous again for the first time in years, and it was delightful.
They slowed to a stroll once they entered the shadowed depths of the market. Nahri looked around, dazzled. A glassworker was turning hot sand into a speckled bottle with her fiery hands while across the lane a wooden loom worked by itself, bright woolen threads wrapping and twisting to pattern a half-completed prayer mat. From a stall packed with flowers came a rich aroma, a perfumer sprinkling rosewater and musk over a glittering tray of molten ambergris. Next door, a pair of hunting cheetahs in jeweled collars lounged on elevated cushions, sharing a storefront with squawking firebirds.
Zaynab stopped to stroke the large cats while Nahri wandered ahead. Down an adjacent lane was a row of booksellers, and she immediately headed for them, captivated by the volumes laid out in rows on rugs and tables. While a few books had an aura of magic, their covers bound in scales and pages shimmering gently, the majority looked human-made. Nahri wasn’t surprised; of all the djinn tribes, the Geziris were said to be closest to the humans with whom they silently shared their land.
She browsed the nearest stall. Most of the books were in Arabic, and the sight sent an odd pang through her. It was the first language she’d learned to read, and a skill she could never entirely divorce in her mind from the young prince who’d taught her. Not wanting to think of Ali, she glanced idly at the next table. A book with a sketch of a trio of pyramids rested in its center.
Nahri was there the next moment, reaching for the book like she might have grabbed a long-lost friend in an embrace. They were Giza’s famed Pyramids, all right, and as she flipped through the pages, she recognized more of Cairo’s distinctive landmarks: the twin minarets of the Bab Zuweila gate and the vast interior of the Ibn Tulun mosque. There were women in the black dresses Nahri had once worn gathering water from the Nile, and men sorting piles of sugarcane.
“You have a good eye, miss.” An older Geziri man ambled forth. “That’s one of my newest human acquisitions, and I’ve never seen anything like it. A Sahrayn trader picked it up crossing the Nile.”
Nahri ran her hands over the first page. The book was written in a script she’d never seen. “What language is this?”
The man shrugged. “I’m not certain. The lettering appears similar to some of the old Latin texts I have. The trader who picked it up didn’t stay in Egypt long; he said it looked as though the humans were engaged in some sort of war.”
Some sort of war. Her fingers pressed harder on the book. Egypt had been freshly subjugated by the French when Nahri left, ruled by the Ottomans before that—it was seemingly Nahri’s destiny to belong to an occupied people wherever she went. “How much do you want for this?”
“Three dinars.”
Nahri narrowed her eyes at him. “Three dinars? Do I look as though I’m made of gold?”
The man seemed shocked. “That … that is the price, miss.”
“Maybe for someone else,” she said scornfully, masking her glee while feigning insult. “I won’t give you a coin over ten dirhams.”
He gaped. “But that’s not how we—”
Zaynab was suddenly there, seizing Nahri’s arm in a tight grip. “What are you doing?”
Nahri rolled her eyes. “It’s called bargaining, sister dear. I’m sure you’ve never had to do such a thing but—”
“Geziris do not bargain in our community markets.” Zaynab’s words dripped with revulsion. “It breeds discord.”
Nahri was scandalized. “So you just pay whatever they ask?” She couldn’t believe she’d married into such a naive people. “What if they’re cheating you?”
Zaynab was already handing three gold coins to the bookseller. “Perhaps it would be better to stop thinking that everyone is cheating you, no?” She pulled Nahri away and pushed the book into her hands. “And stop making a scene. The point is to not get caught.”
Nahri clutched the book to her chest, a little abashed. “I’ll pay you back.”
“Don’t insult me.” Zaynab’s voice turned gentler. “You’re not the first outspoken fool for whom I’ve bought overpriced human books on this street.”
Nahri darted a look at the princess. She wanted to press her as much as she wanted to change the subject. And that, in essence, was how she felt about Alizayd al Qahtani.
Let it go. There were plenty of other ways to pester her sister-in-law. “I’m hearing rumors you’re being courted by a noble from Malacca,” she said brightly as they resumed walking.
Zaynab drew to a stop. “Where did you hear that?”
“I like to converse with my patients.”
The princess shook her head. “Your patients should learn to hold their tongues. You should learn to hold your tongue. Surely, I deserve that much for buying your book about odd human buildings.”
“Do you not want to marry him?” Nahri asked, peeling the orange she’d stolen.
“Of course, I don’t want to marry him,” Zaynab replied. “Malacca is across the sea. I’d never see my family.” Disdain entered her voice. “Besides which, he has three other wives, a dozen children, and is approaching his second century.”
“So refuse the match.”
“That’s my father’s decision.” Zaynab’s expression tightened. “And my suitor is a very wealthy man.”
Ah. Muntadhir’s concerns about the state of the city’s treasury suddenly made more sense. “Can’t your mother object?” she asked. Queen Hatset thoroughly intimidated Nahri, and she couldn’t imagine the woman allowing her only daughter to be packed off to Malacca for any amount of gold.
Zaynab seemed to hesitate. “My mother has a more important battle to fight right now.”
They’d wandered down a quieter street that ran past the Citadel. Its heavy stone walls loomed high overhead, blocking the blue sky in a way that made Nahri feel nervous and small. Through a pair of open doors came the sound of laughter and the distinctive sizzling clash of zulfiqar blades.
Not certain how to respond, she handed Zaynab half of her orange. “I’m sorry.”
Zaynab stared at the fruit, uncertainty blooming in her gray-gold eyes. “You and my brother were enemies when you married,” she said haltingly. “Sometimes it seems like you still are. How … how did you …?”
“You find a way.” The words unfurled from a hard place within Nahri, one that she’d retreated to countless times since she’d been plucked from the Nile and dropped in Cairo, alone and afraid. “You’d be amazed by the things a person can do to survive.”
Zaynab looked taken aback. “You make me feel as though I should tell Muntadhir to keep a blade under his pillow.”