He shrugged. “I was waiting for a good time. Didn’t want to seem … creepy.”
Siti blew out a breath. “That ship’s sailed, Ahmad.”
“The Ministry’s doing the best we can,” Fatma told him. “We’re hunting every lead.”
Ahmad’s dark eyes glittered. “I think I’ve found one of those. A lead.” He met their puzzled looks. “I’ll take you there. It’s something you have to see for yourselves.”
* * *
Fatma snuck glances at Ahmad opposite her in the automated carriage. The man had pulled out his silver scarab beetle lighter to start a third Nefertari, blowing cigarette smoke out the window. There was a more crocodilian look to him: as if his face had elongated.
“Didn’t he have more of a nose this morning?” she whispered.
Beside her, Siti spared a look. Her voice had lost its slur, and she seemed sober and alert. “He’s been like this for a while. Whatever’s happening seems to have sped up.”
“What kind of magic is that?” Fatma asked.
“No idea. Not my temple.”
“Looks like some kind of transmogrification. You’re not into anything like that, are you?”
“Don’t worry. Hathor isn’t turning me into a golden cow, if that’s what you mean.”
“And Sekhmet?”
Siti flashed a lioness’s grin. “Can’t tell you all my secrets. But the Lady is always near.”
Fatma tried to imagine the fierce goddess inside the woman, peering out from behind her eyes. On second thought, she decided that wasn’t an image she wanted to conjure up. She returned instead to trying to judge their location. Somewhere outside the city proper. They’d been riding for almost a half hour, and their guide was tight-lipped on where they were going.
“You really think this is a good idea?”
“Figure we can at least see what this is,” Siti answered.
“What if he’s what you first said? A homicidal maniac? He thinks he’s a crocodile god.”
Siti mocked seriousness. “You think he’s taking us to be eaten by his crocodile minions?”
“I hope you can still tell jokes when we’re being fed alive.”
“Sobek holds no taste for mortal flesh,” Ahmad broke in. “But has excellent hearing.”
Siti laughed while Fatma, a bit abashed, returned to the window. The carriage turned off a main road into one of the old factory districts, where dilapidated buildings rose up about them.
“We get out here,” Ahmad said, flicking away a cigarette butt.
Fatma winced as they stepped onto the dirt roadway, dust settling on her cognac brogues. This had been an early factory district in Cairo after the coming of the djinn. People streamed in from villages, eager for better pay in the bustling city. The factories eventually closed up—moving out to new manufacturing hubs like Helwan and Heliopolis. But many people remained: packed into slums arrayed around the decaying remains of industry.
“This way.” Ahmad walked out ahead. They followed, picking across uneven ground. What passed for houses here were barely shacks: hovels of brick, mortar, even mud. In some, small fires burned, and at times the occasional lamp of luminous alchemical gas.
“Easy to forget places like this exist,” Siti murmured, eyeing old women bearing buckets.
“Modernity has its drawbacks,” Fatma added as several young men ran by excitedly.
“What are all these people doing out so late?”
Fatma was wondering the same. Places like this always had activity, even their own after-hours entertainment. But these people milled about like it was midday. She looked harder. Not milling. Most were headed in the same direction as they were, to a towering old factory building near the slums’ center.
She caught up with Ahmad. “Where are you taking us?”
In answer, he stopped someone: a boy of no more than twelve in an ill-fitting gallabiyah. He scrunched up his snub nose and opened his mouth to protest but froze at Ahmad’s face.
“A bit of your time,” the man hissed. “And something for your trouble.”
The boy’s eyes grew, and his fingers quickly snatched up the coin in Ahmad’s hand.
“God reward you, basha. I mean, djinn.”
Fatma smirked. Honest mistake.
“Tell the lady where you’re going,” Ahmad said.
“To see the man in black!” the boy blurted excitedly. “The man with the gold mask!”
Fatma stared at Ahmad, then back to the boy. “What man in a gold mask?”
The boy recoiled. “They say it’s ill luck to speak his name! But he performs wonders! Wallahi, I have seen them with my own eyes!”
Fatma wanted to press further, but Ahmad released the boy, who promptly ran off. “What’s going on?” she demanded.
He walked faster. “When you told me of a mysterious man at the Worthington estate, I recalled rumors I’ve heard. Whispers, of a man in black, visiting places like this.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“I wanted to be certain. Until today, I’d thought it a street tale.”
“I haven’t heard about any of this,” Siti said, looking dubious.
“You’ve been away. And while the Temple of Hathor cultivates more upscale worshippers, the acolytes of Sobek walk among the less fortunate.”
“We don’t have an upscale—” Siti began defensively, but Fatma cut her off. This wasn’t the time. Besides, they’d reached the old factory. It turned out not to be much of a building at all but the crumbling frame of one: missing a roof and two sides. In the space, a crowd had gathered in the dozens. She followed their rapt gazes to the top of a wall, where a figure stood speaking.
Fatma gaped.
He was exactly as Abigail Worthington had described—tall and draped in black robes. He wasn’t alone. To his right stood a figure in black shirt and breeches. He remained still, as the tall man’s words echoed in the night.
“… I have come to find my people lost,” he rumbled. “Cairo has become a place of decadence, where wealth is hoarded, while many are left in destitution. Where is the rich man who gives alms? Where is the physician to heal? Where is the promise modernity offered?”
Cries of approval came from the crowd, amid calls to continue. Fatma pushed past Ahmad, striving to get a better look.
“When I first came, I walked among those like you,” the man continued. “Those society had discarded. I have returned now, not among the mighty but the low. To fill ears that will listen! To teach who would learn! To set right what was turned wrong!”
More cries now of consent. Fatma reached the front of the crowd, craning her neck to see. She leaned in close to an old man beside her.
“Uncle, who is this?”
“It is him!” he answered, never lowering his gaze. “The one who has returned!”
“Who?” she demanded. “Who has returned?”
He looked at her this time, his white bearded face incredulous. “They say we should not speak his name, but it is the Great Teacher, the Inventor, the Master of Djinn.” He whispered in wonder. “Al-Jahiz!”
Fatma stared back, stunned. She looked to Siti, who seemed equally dazed.
Ahmad gave a solemn nod. “On the streets of Cairo, in the places we have forgotten, people say al-Jahiz has returned. A mysterious man wearing a gold mask. Just as the one fleeing the murder of a brotherhood dedicated to al-Jahiz. What do you suppose are the chances of that?”
Not answering, Fatma instead peered back to the man on the wall. He stood, arms behind his back, drinking in the crowd’s praise. He surveyed them and then looked directly to where she stood. For a moment their gazes locked, and she shuddered. His face was concealed behind a gold mask. Yet even from this distance she could see his eyes—the intensity of them. For a moment the two only stared at each other. Then he held up a hand and pointed down. The silent figure beside him jerked his head as if coming alive—before hurtling from the wall toward the ground below.
She gasped. H
e should have died from that height—at least four stories. Or broken half the bones in his body. But they landed in a crouch, boots sending up billowing dust.
Fatma blinked. Wait, they? One man jumped from that wall. She was certain. But now there were two! Identical! Wearing the same masks: black and carved in the faces of men. They glanced at one another before stalking forward, lanky bodies moving like jackals.
“Fatma!”
Siti’s warning came just as one of the figures rushed them. Fatma barely had time to bring up her cane, blocking a fist and dancing back as he came at her again. There was a growl, and Siti surged past, aiming for the man. But his companion joined the fray, legs darting kicks she was forced to slap away.
Fatma stumbled as the crowd pulled back from the combatants. The man was fast—unnaturally so. There was no hope in getting her sword out; he never gave her a chance. She was forced to use her cane to block as he pressed the attack. She needed to do something soon or—
In a blur he was in her guard, and a fist connected with her side. There was a flaring lance of pain that would have doubled her over. But she didn’t even have time before he slapped her chest with a flat palm. It felt like being hit by stone. Her feet lifted off the ground, and she landed hard on her back. God! That hurt! Everywhere! Stunned, she looked up to see him slinking forward like a cat after prey. Fumbling for her sword, she got it free just as he descended on her, a fist drawn.
“Keep back! Or—”
Before she could finish, he threw himself on the blade. It slipped through shirt and flesh, burying into his chest. He stopped, inspecting the weapon that had probably punctured a lung. He’d be spitting up blood in that mask soon. Damn! She hadn’t wanted that! He lifted his head up to stare at her with unblinking eyes—black on black with not a hint of white. Then he pushed forward, driving the sword through him. Fatma glared in disbelief. No blood appeared on the silver blade. Instead she thought she saw a fine mist of black, like particles of sand. He pushed closer, until their faces almost touched—staring, with those inhuman eyes.
There was a sharp call, and the man pulled back, black mist forming where a wound should have been. Fatma watched as he moved to his twin, whom Siti had been fighting. The two touched—and in a blink were one. With a terrific leap he flew into the air, landing back atop the wall beside the man in the gold mask. Fatma scrambled to her feet, ignoring her stinging chest to clutch her side and stare up at them. What in all the worlds was going on?
Siti, however, was having none of it.
With a lioness’s roar, she snatched off her wig and flung it up at them. Then she hurled herself at the wall—hanging on by something sharp and metallic. Fatma recognized the gloves with silver claws. Did she take those things everywhere? Growling, she began to climb, still wearing her gown but barefoot now. Ahmad wasn’t the only one gifted with odd magic. Siti carried her own peculiar sorcery: magic that made her faster, stronger. She scaled a third of the bricks in moments, carried up by anger and sheer bullheadedness. Watching her ascent, Fatma wondered if a goddess didn’t reside within the woman. Then the wall erupted into flames.
Fatma reared back as the fire’s glare lit the night, red as blood, its heat on her skin. Siti let go. She should have landed in a broken heap, but managed to drop on all fours—as graceful as a cat. Before either could say a word, the flames vanished. Atop the wall, both figures had vanished as well.
“Cowards!” Siti shouted. “I almost had him!”
“You okay?” Fatma staggered toward her.
Siti flexed a set of smoking claws. “Didn’t even touch me.” Her angry eyes rounded in alarm. “You’re hurt!”
Fatma grunted in pain as the taller woman reached over to support her. “Took a hit to the side. Think he might have—” She let out a breath. It hurt to talk. “Cracked a rib.”
Siti wrapped an arm about her, taking her weight. “They were stronger than they looked.”
Fatma nodded. She recalled the corpse with its head turned around. Inhumanly strong.
“I don’t think they meant to injure you,” Ahmad said. He’d backed off with the crowd during the fight and now returned. He looked over Fatma, reassessing. “Not gravely at least.”
Siti rounded on him. “A lot of good you were! Some help would have been nice!”
The man gave a crocodilian wince. “I thought you were handling things. Besides, I think their intent was to send you a message, nothing more.”
“What message was that?” Siti asked testily.
Ahmad gestured to the wall. The brick was scorched, but in some places the stone remained untouched, leaving script written from top to bottom.
“Okay,” Siti admitted. “That’s a message.”
As Fatma read the words, she felt her teeth clench along with her stomach:
BEHOLD, I AM AL-JAHIZ.
AND I HAVE RETURNED.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Unlike most government offices, the Ministry didn’t close on Fridays. It was manned by a skeleton crew, and a custodial staff of boilerplate eunuchs maintained by the sentient building. As Fatma walked with Hadia, she barely paid attention to the emptiness or the odd quiet. Her mind was still on last night.
“I usually spend Friday with my cousins,” Hadia was saying. “But I’m glad you rang.”
Fatma realized she hadn’t asked Hadia to come in—just sort of demanded it. That was rude. But it spoke to how rattled she was. She’d made up her mind to come in this morning. She’d even opted for a sensible suit—blue with a maroon tie and sturdy brown shoes. Playing the dandy would have to wait. Well, except for the gold tie pin and matching cuff links. Not to mention the bowler and cane. Did the violet pin-striped shirt count as dandy?
Anyway, she was going to be serious. It was hard to admit, but Ahmad was right. She should have followed up on this masked man. Instead, she’d pushed the case into the background, waiting on Aasim. Part of that was Siti—whose return affected her in more ways than she cared to admit. But just because she took time off, didn’t mean this city did.
“Stay prepared,” she said as they reached the elevator. “Best advice I can give you as an agent.” Hadia wore her Ministry coat, with the long dark skirts, a bag slung over a shoulder. Her hijab however was a dark forest green. Was she trying to match Fatma’s past suit? “But thanks for coming in. There’s been a development in our case.”
“Of course. Although I’m curious to know what kind of development happened between last night and this morning?” The doors to the elevator parted, and they stepped inside.
“More than you’d guess,” Fatma answered. “Basement.”
The elevator began to descend, and she turned to find Hadia waiting expectantly. Choosing her words, she recounted the previous night—leaving out Siti, of course, and referring to Ahmad as an “informant.” As she spoke she let a hand fall at her side. Siti had carried her home, bandaged the wound, then curled around her in bed, humming a song that brought on a deep sleep. When she awoke, the woman was gone, of course. So was the pain. Nothing now but a dull sting. Odd. Maybe she hadn’t cracked a rib as feared—just taken a glancing blow. When she finally finished, Hadia breathed out, as if she’d been the one talking.
“Your night was definitely more exciting than mine. Al-Jahiz! Returned!”
“Stop elevator,” Fatma commanded, and they halted with a lurch. She fixed her eyes on Hadia, voice stern. “This figure in black. Whoever he is, he may be involved in a mass murder. He may be a criminal. But he’s not al-Jahiz. A lot of our work deals with peeling back illusion. Don’t get caught up in it.”
Hadia accomplished a wincing nod. “You’re right. Of course.”
Fatma ordered the elevator to resume.
“But you’re thinking there’s a connection,” Hadia reasoned. “A man about the city claiming to be al-Jahiz leaving fiery calling cards. Members of a brotherhood dedicated to him found burned alive.”
“And someone fitting his description identified at the scene of the
crime,” Fatma added.
“But why did this … imposter … attack you?”
Fatma had pondered that, and still didn’t have a good answer. “Maybe I stood out.”
“What about the Ifrit? Did you see one?”
“Not exactly. Saw fire that moved oddly, but that’s all.”
Hadia looked confused. “Then why are we going to the basement?”
“Because that’s where the library is located.”
“Right. And we’re going to the library because…?”
Fatma fixed her best blank look. “Because it has all the books.” The elevator doors parted, and she stepped out, leaving Hadia with a baffled expression that soon turned to awe.
The Ministry housed one of the largest libraries in the city. It took up much of the lower parts of the building—two whole floors of books and manuscripts that spanned centuries, from all over the world. As she understood, a few weren’t from this world at all. They sat in wall shelves, extending almost to the high ceiling—reached by ladders that slid along railings. Other shelves were stacked neatly on either end. A second level in the center held rarer works. At the back of the room, an enormous pendulum swung back and forth, made up of an iron cable ending in a giant gold sun disc inscribed with geometric patterns. At the top of the antique clock was a half-moon dial that gave time with signs of the zodiac.
“Ayou!” Hadia gawped.
“You haven’t even seen the vault.” Fatma smirked, walking off.
Hadia hurried to follow. “Wait? There’s a vault? What’s in the vault?”
Fatma didn’t answer. Some things a new recruit just had to learn for themselves. She took them to a space in the center of the floor, where long tables with runners were arranged for reading. Standing before one was the library’s only occupant.
Zagros was the Ministry’s librarian: a Marid the size of a rhinoceros, if it stood up on two legs. And you dressed it in long-sleeved indigo blue robes embroidered with lilacs: what she thought was a khalat. Unlike a rhinoceros, the djinn had skin of pale lavender, and four golden twisting ram horns striped in amethyst. But his disposition was similar to a rhinoceros. He guarded the library zealously and was infamous for banishing agents for the slightest infraction. Most complained he was fussy, unlikable, and easily irritated. Fatma knew better. The truth was, the djinn was just an incredible snob.
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