The Bruising of Qilwa Read online

  Praise for The Bruising of Qilwa

  “I loved this gorgeous book about blood magic, chosen family and refugees in a hostile city. Naseem Jamnia has created a rich, complex world in a very short space, and I am so into it. I’ve read a lot of books lately about empires and rulers and warfare, and it’s so refreshing to read a book that’s about healers. People in this book are trans, nonbinary, asexual and aromantic, and it's never a big deal but does matter to their characters, which I just adore. Firuz works as an assistant healer at a clinic run by the kindly Kofi, while teaching the novice blood-magic user Afsoneh and helping their brother Parviz to do a kind of top surgery. But a mysterious ailment is hurting people all over the city, and Firuz needs to find the cause before their fellow refugees are blamed. Jamnia deftly reveals a subtle but potent theme: when marginalized people are scared to use their power, because they’re afraid others will hate them for it, bad things result. The Bruising of Qilwa left me wanting way more of this world and its magical systems—but above all, I wanted to spend way more time with these amazing characters. I need a whole series about Firuz, Parviz and Afsoneh. You should definitely savor this one.”

  —Charlie Jane Anders, author of All the Birds in the Sky

  “Naseem Jamnia is a bold, visionary writer and The Bruising of Qilwa makes for a superb introduction to their nuanced and evocative Persian-inspired fantasy. The good news is that there are many more brilliant novels already in this writer’s literary quiver. Get ready for them; they’re coming! Jamnia is fierce and dangerous—in all the best ways.”

  —David Anthony Durham, author of the Acacia Trilogy

  “An incredibly timely story, told by a deft hand that manages to weave a fascinating magic system together with all-too-real issues into something truly, wonderfully, not seen before. Equal parts slice of life, fantasy tale, medical drama and mystery blend into a book not soon to be forgotten, one that should be on everyone’s tbr!”

  —Alice Scott, Barnes & Noble

  “I adored this city, with its vibrant history and super-fresh magic system, but I loved these astonishing complex vivid characters even more. A fun and fast-paced ride that keeps you guessing all the way.”

  —Sam J. Miller, author of Boys, Beasts & Men

  “With prose that reads like lush poetry, The Bruising of Qilwa builds an intricate world full of history, magic, and life.”

  —Z. R. Ellor, author of Silk Fire

  “A fascinating medical mystery in a rich, complex world I didn’t want to leave.”

  —Shannon Chakraborty, author of The City of Brass

  “The Bruising of Qilwa transports you to a lushly-described, beautifully imagined world where magic and medicine meet. Heartfelt relationships temper the grim reality of a flawed world with a creeping, strange new disease. A delightful read.”

  —Neon Yang, author of the Tensorate series

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  Tachyon Publications LLC

  1459 18th Street #139

  San Francisco, CA 94107

  415.285.5615

 

  The Bruising of Qilwa

  © 2022 by Naseem Jamnia

  This is a work of fiction. All events portrayed in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form without the express permission of the author and the publisher.

  Interior and cover design by Elizabeth Story

  Author photo by Jeramie Lu

  Tachyon Publications LLC

  1459 18th Street #139

  San Francisco, CA 94107

  415.285.5615

  www.tachyonpublications.com

 

  Series editor: Jacob Weisman

  Editor: Jaymee Goh

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61696-378-1

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-61696-379-8

  Printed in the United States by Versa Press, Inc.

  First Edition: 2022

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To December and Phoebe, who tried to teach me to write a short story and got this instead;

  to Terry, who always believes in me;

  and to Gabe, my forever reader; and

  to the migrants around the world who leave their histories in search of a different future.

  This book was written on traditional territories belonging to the Numu, Wašiw, Newe, and Nuwu peoples.

  How many ways can you splice a history? Price a country? Dice a people? Slice a heart? Entice what’s been erased back into story? My-gritude.

  Have you ever taken a word in your hand, dared to shape your palm to the hollow where fullness falls away? Have you ever pointed it back to its beginning? Felt it leap and shudder in your fingers like a dowsing rod? Jerk like a severed thumb? Flare with the forbidden name of a goddess returning? My-gritude.

  Have you ever set out to search for a missing half? The piece that isn’t shapely, elegant, simple. The half that’s ugly, heavy, abrasive. Awkward to the hand. Gritty on the tongue.

  Migritude.

  — Shailja Patel, “How Ambi Became Paisley,” from Migritude

  I want both my countries

  to be right

  to fear me.

  We have lost

  whatever

  we had to lose.

  — Kaveh Akbar, “Reading Farrokhzad in a Pandemic,” from Pilgrim Bell: Poems

  In the early sun-swept hours of the morning, when purples and pinks smeared across the sky like blood, Firuz-e Jafari looked for a job.

  It had taken a mere fifteen minutes to walk from the Underdock to their destination. Down unlit streets they stepped, keeping watch for broken glass and wooden splinters, stepping around plumped rodent carcasses, tails run over by carts or feet. The sailors and fisherfolk, up before dawn, filled the air with laughter and chatter and other sounds of their trades, interrupted but not discontinued by the muezzin’s call to prayer. The briny smell of the sea and mingled odors of rotted fish and garbage faded as Firuz walked. As the crossing into the next district—the residential buffer between the largest market and the docks—transitioned from broken stones to smooth, wooden planks, Firuz’s pace slowed until they found what they sought.

  Over the doorway, a painted wooden sign read Kofi’s Clinic in cracked and faded letters. Underneath, in a smaller but darker script, someone had translated it into Dilmuni, as if the Free Democratic City-State of Qilwa was still part of the queendom. Firuz’s stomach backflipped, rebelled despite their lack of breakfast. Already the humid air was warm; droplets dribbled down the back of their neck. The clinic wouldn’t officially open for another few hours, but if the rumors were true, Healer Kofi would already be here, readying for the day’s steady stream of those who needed him. Firuz needed him, all right, though not quite in the capacity of a healer.

  “The door is open,” rumbled a deep voice from within. “Come in.”

  The voice carried over on a slight breeze, brushing past Firuz’s ears like gentle lips. It brought smells of mint and ginger, which should have soothed them. Healer smells. Familiar smells. They reached to tug at a length of hair that no longer existed—they’d cut their hair the day before, in preparation for this meeting, back to its usual top crop—before pushing through, ready to persuade this Kofi person to take them on, no matter the objections.

  The clinic waiting room burst with cushions and blankets, a myriad of mismatched chairs. Along the left-hand wall rose a slate board, still smudged with chalk from what might have been yesterday’s patient names. The opposite wall framed a tapestry that both set Firuz’s teeth on edge and made them want to hug themself. On a crimson background with golden triangles circling the edges towered the eaglelike Shahbaaz, with Ous wings outstretched, orbs clutched in Ous talons. Despite their mother’s often frustrating devotion, Firuz had not worshipped in years; still, the emblem of their god was an aching reminder of the home they’d only recently left behind.

  How strange, to see it in a Qilwan clinic.

  Only one person stood inside, an umber-skinned individual with coils haloing their head, wearing the colorful, geometrically patterned clothes the city-state was famous for—in this case, a yellow piraahan embroidered with a repeating tear-drop boteh pattern in red, oranges, and a touch of blue. “Be right with you,” they said without turning, arms kilter as they sorted herbs on a back workbench. Even from the entrance, Firuz smelled the basil flowers, noted the black sticks of licorice root in a pile to the side.

  “Of course. Take your time.” Firuz sat in one of the front seats, the cushion buoying their descent. They ran a hand over the fabric, soft cotton and bumps of goldoozi, embroidered flowers. No tears, not even
evidence of wear. New, or cared for? Firuz doubted Kofi had discretionary funds enough to supply the clinic with new upholstery, not now. The clinics around the city were overwhelmed with plague victims, though Kofi’s was the only one willing to treat the refugees fleeing from Dilmun. Refugees who had nothing, who flocked to Qilwa’s streets with their terrified bodies, who brought with them—so said the argument—a disease wiping out swaths of the city, leaving behind a patchwork of neighborhoods with the sick and the healthy alike, everyone worrying they would be next.

  The herb sorter soon finished, stepping over baskets on the floor towards Firuz: tall, thin, and bowed like a rice plant. Firuz remembered their manners and rose. Qilwans were big on handshakes and eye contact, unlike the Sassanian and Dilmuni tradition of kissing cheeks. “I’m sorry to barge in so early.”

  The other did not smile, but they did not look annoyed either. “It is no matter, as this is when I am usually here. I am called Kofi.”

  Did everyone in this place present themselves with only their names? How could someone look at you and assume what you wanted to be called, in a language that designated distinctions? Three weeks in Qilwa and Firuz still wasn’t used to it, kept expecting the Dilmuni introduction. Fortunately, they had heard stories, knew Kofi did not care what forms of address people used, but generally acquiesced to moving through the world as a man.

  “I’m they-Firuz.” Reminding themself to keep firm their grip, Firuz was dismayed at the unexpectedly limp grasp of their own clammy palm. They steeled their countenance and did not wipe their hand afterward.

  Kofi jutted out his chin. “Your pendant. May I?”

  “Huh?” Firuz touched the golden amulet they’d worn somewhat religiously for the last year, into which they’d etched a short spell to keep bugs away. It resembled a slender dagger, its top curving into a diamond before narrowing at the hilt. The shape, a ward. The runes, a prayer. “Oh, of course.” They passed it over, hiding a grimace as they did so; already they could feel the buzz of insects ganging up on them. Their skin crawled.

  The healer squinted at the metal, held it up to the light. “Interesting work. Yours?”

  Spots peppered Firuz’s vision as their toes tingled. Could Kofi tell Firuz wasn’t an adept in structural magic based on the calligraphy curving along the side? Such sloppy rune work surely outed their true magical affinity, doomed them before they’d even stated their request.

  They played with the buttons on their shirt, willed the palpitations to calm, their muscles to loosen. Kofi, focused on the necklace, did not seem to notice Firuz’s delay in answering. All he wanted to know was about the pendant. He hadn’t asked about the magical background Firuz, as a Sassanian refugee, had to hide. “I’m—I’m a structuralist.”

  “That is not what I asked.” Kofi covered his mouth. Something danced in his expression when Firuz caught it—annoyance, or amusement?

  “Wha . . . what?” Firuz slapped the back of their neck, came away unbloodied.

  Now openly smiling, Kofi raised two fingers, twirled them. A breeze began to spin around Firuz, cooling the oppressive heat. As a healer and not a physicker, Kofi had to be a magic user, more likely an adept with training, but Firuz had not heard he was an environmentalist specifically. His precise control of the breeze was a welcome surprise. Difficult, using environmental magic to heal. Interesting.

  Kofi lifted the amulet back over Firuz’s head unselfconsciously. “Did you make this?”

  “Oh!” With the breeze and return of the necklace, Firuz’s posture relaxed. Too bad it would be rude to sit while Kofi stood. “Oh, ah, yes, I did. I tend to be a mosquito’s dream food.” When rumors spread in Firuz’s home country of Dilmun that something hunted Sassanian blood, Firuz had hastened to study structural theory. The pendant had been an early project. A fail-safe, should they need to flee. When, a year later, they did exactly that, Firuz blessed the elder who had counseled them.

  Kofi tittered before clearing his throat. “Don’t worry. I don’t want to steal it, only admiring. It’s good work, clean and steady.” He bustled about, fluffing cushions, checking the supply of chalk by the board on the wall, and leaving to a back room to return with a pitcher of water, which he used to fill the samovar in the corner. The curtains over the windows he left untouched, keeping the clinic shaded. Then he turned his full attention to Firuz. “So, what can I do for you this early morning?”

  Right, there was a reason Firuz was here, and not for dubitable praise. Under one loose sleeve, they dug a long thumbnail into the meat of their index. The sting reminded them of their waiting, hopeful family. “Healer Kofi, I’ve come to see whether you need help in the clinic. I know the plague is spreading. I’ve . . . seen what it does to people.”

  When Firuz had arrived in Qilwa, the plague had already taken hold. Had already seized the lives of Sassanians and Dilmunis and Qilwans alike. Filled the streets with stacked bodies, bloated into the sea separating the island from Dilmun’s coast. Firuz barely shut their eyes at night before the swollen faces of the dead loomed before them: the puffed and cracked lips, eyeballs bulging or else sleepy and half-lidded as though in contemplation, and the stench. The sweet, weighty smell of infection. The blooming rot of a corpse.

  Kofi cupped an elbow while his other hand bracketed his chin, tapped his cheekbone. Fine lines stemmed from the corners of his mouth and eyes, though Firuz could not tell if he was ten or twenty or even thirty years older than themself. “Trained as a healer, have you?”

  “Not . . . not quite. Well, yes.” Firuz pulled their shoulders back, readjusted their feet to stand steady, project a confidence they didn’t feel. “I was unable to complete my training, but I have enough knowledge to be an assistant. I think this plague is curable, and if anyone spent time on people other than the rich, we could get it under control.”

  Kofi’s nostrils flared, the action darkening his otherwise pleasant features. “Ah, yes. Have you heard the governor’s latest plan to streamline how healers see our patients, on suggestion of the university’s scholars?” To Firuz’s shock, Kofi spat on the ground, glaring at the wad of spittle. “Migrants flood the city, an outbreak of disease happens, and what do we do? Bar the gates and hoard resources for ourselves, let people die in the streets instead of granting them a dignified passing. By those who call themselves learned people, no less.” A vein pulsed in Kofi’s temple. He massaged it. “Ah, there I go again, prattling about something I cannot change.” He disappeared again into the back, returning with a wet rag which he used to mop up the evidence of his contempt. “Well, they-Firuz, tell me a bit about your training. I could certainly use the help.”

  Firuz liked how Kofi said their name; usually, the pronoun was dropped after introductions, but from Kofi it sounded affectionate, a nickname. What they did not like was the reasonable request for more information. Their prepared answers faded from their mind as though they’d numbed themself with poppy. “I—ah—did you say you work here alone?” Since Kofi had not done it, they sidled over to the samovar and opened the jar of long tea leaves behind it to dump some in the waiting pot. Potentially a good blend—aromatic and floral.

  Kofi rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. This close, the bags under them hung heavy. “Unfortunately, the governor enticed my last assistant away to head a clinic of her own, and I am left these many months without help.” He sighed as he gathered the baskets on the floor. “I don’t suppose you speak Sassanian? Half of those coming in don’t even know Dilmuni. My love, may hos soul soar in cloudless skies”—here Kofi’s eyes flicked to the tapestry of the Sassanian god—“only taught me a little of the language, before hu died and this was many years ago, when I was still young.”

  Was this a test? Sweat beaded at Firuz’s hairline. Skies, they’d never been this jumpy back home, but if the healer connected Sassanian with training as a healer, then blood magic user probably wasn’t far behind. Not that Kofi would have to make those connections, as long as he looked Firuz in the eyes and knew the subtle red that rimmed them—a feature that developed in most after training, in some if their natural affinity to blood was strong. How would he take it, were he to find out? Firuz didn’t know how Qilwans felt about the Sassanian science, but they feared the possibilities.