Fatma accepted the message with thanks, though the librarian had already taken his leave.
Hadia watched after him. “Is he always like that?”
“No. Sometimes he’s actually in a bad mood.” She read over the note. “I think we might have a reason to go out into the field today. Ever been to Cité-Jardin?”
Hadia shook her head. “No one I know has that kind of money.”
“Then consider this a chance to visit. Just got a tip. Someone there we might talk to, who knows something about this Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz. Let’s grab lunch first. Hungry?”
“Starving!” Hadia all but whimpered. “But, umm.” She gestured toward the dial of zodiac characters above the swinging pendulum. “Do you think we can make time for al-salah? It’s Friday. There’s a masjid that opens to women. It’s on the way, I think. And the sermon’s quick.”
Fatma turned to eye the clock, a bit guilty at her impatience.
“Or we could just pray here,” Hadia offered. “Just staying steadfast on deen.”
“No,” Fatma said. New partner, new concessions. “It’s fine. I actually wouldn’t mind.” Just the thing to clear her head. “Only, I don’t have a hijab. Just more bowlers.”
Hadia reached into her bag, pulling out a blue headscarf. “Stay prepared!”
CHAPTER NINE
Entering Cité-Jardin was always jarring. One moment you were in the bustle of downtown Cairo—with shops and restaurants still open on a Friday for locals and the trolleys full of tourists. But walk over a few streets, and you crossed into a place with no honking horns or crackling aerial trams, no pedestrians chattering politics or shouting street vendors. Just the humming of birds and wind rustling the branches of leafy trees.
Cité-Jardin had been built by a djinn architect. He’d lived in this world before the coming of al-Jahiz and had sailed off with Napoleon’s armies to see Paris. He returned to Egypt after the Emerging and convinced the new government to let him design a development—one he claimed would speak to Cairo’s place as an international city. The result was modernity accented with inspiration drawn from the natural world. The buildings—mostly embassies—were carved with leaves or repeating vines. The houses were mansions: multistory villas with archways and columns in the likeness of bundled reeds, all encircled by a forest of trees and bushes. Incandescent electric lamps lined the roads, like saplings crowned with orbs of colored glass.
Fatma took in the organic opulence and serenity. Prayer had been a good idea. She remembered as a girl staying home on Fridays while her father and male relatives all went to the masjid. Being able to share that today with other women was … refreshing. And it always helped clear her head—Probably you should make a habit of doing it more. She silenced her mother’s admonitions, listening instead to Hadia.
“… so I tell him just because Friday prayer isn’t an obligation for women doesn’t mean I can’t attend. What children am I caring for?” She had been sharing thoughts on women and faith since leaving the masjid, hardly stopping as they ate lunch on the go—skewered beef kofta and baladi bread. “I’ve heard in China there are masjid just for women. Can you imagine? Maybe we could try that here. Should bring it up at an EFS meeting.”
“You’re in the Egyptian Feminist Sisterhood?” Fatma asked. They watched an automobile roll past—a six-wheeled black luxury vehicle with ivory running boards.
“Spent my summer in Alexandria marching for the vote.” She made the victory sign of the suffrage movement. “I have a cousin in the Cairo chapter. Supposed to attend next week.”
“You have a lot of cousins.” Fatma had lost track of how many.
“We’re a very big family. Would you like to come? To an EFS meeting? Always looking to bring in women from the professions—to show we aren’t all just factory workers.” Then added hastily, “Not that there’s anything wrong with factory work.”
Fatma could think of many things wrong with factory work—low wages, unsafe machines, harassing male bosses who often acted like jailers. But she got the point.
“I’ll think on it,” she replied, noncommittal. She donated to the EFS and generally supported their causes. But who even had time for politics? Hadia was set to say more—perhaps a recruitment pitch—when someone slipped alongside them.
“Nice day for a walk,” Siti said by way of a greeting.
Fatma started at the woman’s unexpected appearance. She wore a tied-off sun-yellow kaftan that looked amazing against her skin, paired with blue breeches and tall laced tan boots.
“Rang your office three times before I sent the messenger eunuch,” Siti continued idly, matching their pace.
“Wasn’t by a phone,” Fatma said. “Didn’t think you’d have anything for me so quick. Didn’t expect to run into you either.” She hoped her face fully conveyed the what-in-damnation-are-you-doing-here she was trying to affect.
On the trek home last night they’d come up with a hasty course of action. Things seemed to be coalescing around Lord Worthington’s mysterious secret society. Siti was to talk to Merira about the Brotherhood’s members. Fatma would head into the office, and get a refresher on al-Jahiz. This, however, was not part of the plan.
“Never underestimate me.” Siti winked. She turned to Hadia. “You must be the partner. A new lady Spooky Boy! The Ministry’s going to get a glowing write-up from the EFS.”
Hadia, who had watched their exchange, looked understandably confused.
“This is Siti,” Fatma said. “She’s…” Words, for some reason, sent her tongue into a knot.
“One of Agent Fatma’s informants,” Siti stepped in smoothly.
“Oh! Yes, of course. I’m Agent Hadia.”
“Good to meet you, Agent Hadia,” Siti returned, accepting an offered handshake.
“How do you know Agent Fatma?”
Siti grinned roguishly. “We’ve worked closely.” She leaned in, whispering, “You see, I’m an idolater!”
Hadia’s eyes grew to look like dark plums, and she froze, still holding Siti’s hand. Fatma wanted to pull her bowler over her face. Why was the woman like this? When Hadia found her voice again, she only said: “I thought ‘idolater’ was offensive.”
“Only when you use it.” Siti released her hand. “But we call each other that all the time.” She shrugged at Hadia’s bafflement. “It’s an idolater thing. You wouldn’t understand.”
“What we don’t understand,” Fatma quipped, “is why you’re here. Not what we agreed.”
Siti appeared unfazed. “We never agreed on anything. I told you I’d speak to my people and get you a name—which I did. There was no discussion on where I should or shouldn’t be. I think I have a right to be here. Two of this killer’s victims were from my community. We watch out for our own.”
Fatma knew it was pointless to protest. Siti’s mind was stubbornly unchangeable once made up. She could declare this Ministry business—order her to leave. But the woman didn’t respond well to authority.
They settled into an awkward silence. Hadia, who strode between, glanced at both several times before working up the courage to speak. “Might I ask, what, ah, temple you belong to?”
“Hathor,” Siti answered. “But I’m more partial to Sekhmet.”
“Sekhmet. In theological alchemy we studied ancient and Hellenistic Egypt. If I recall, she’s a goddess of battle?”
“The Eye of Ra. When humankind sought to overthrow Ra, his daughter Hathor didn’t take too kindly. In her anger, she became Sekhmet—the fiery lioness. Then broke some things.”
Hadia frowned. “Didn’t she almost wipe out the world?”
“The goddess really gets into her work. Lucky for humankind, Thoth tricked her with beer she thought was blood. Put her right to sleep. Woke up in a better mood.”
Fatma could almost hear the ayah Hadia was likely reciting in her head. To her credit, she held her composure. “So what is it you do at the temple?”
“I look after things. Fix things. Put things t
ogether.” Siti flashed a sharp smile. “Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I get to break things too.”
“We’re here,” Fatma said, eager to end the conversation. They stood before a white house that boasted some three stories. It was capped with triangular red roofs in Western fashion, but with a stone façade cut to mimic mashrabiyas. If windows were anything to go by, it held at least a dozen rooms—or more.
“That’s fancy,” Siti remarked.
Fatma confirmed the address on the message. “How’d you find this”—she looked again at the name—“Nabila al-Mansur? Wait, is she related to the al-Mansur steel industrialists?”
“Same family,” Siti confirmed. “Though they have their hands in a bit of everything now. Merira put the word out among the temples. My head priestess,” she explained for Hadia’s benefit. “Anyway, there was one curious tip. From someone who works at Al-Masri.”
“The newspaper?” Hadia asked. “A reporter?”
“Better. A secretary. To the editor. Belongs to the Cult of Isis. Haughty types, but we get along alright. Anyway, notice how lacking news stories are about Lord Worthington’s death?”
Fatma had checked the paper again today. “They make it sound like the fire was at best an accident. Nothing about a secret brotherhood. Strange.”
“Purposeful,” Siti replied. “The secretary says the morning after Lord Worthington’s death, she arrived at work to find the printers in a snit. They had to dump an entire batch of morning dailies and reprint the headlines—on orders that came in at 4:00 a.m. That day, she took a call for the editor. She listens in every now and then, to keep the temples up on things. This caller thanked her editor for keeping talk from the paper that might embarrass the English Basha. Pressed him hard to keep it up.”
Fatma had thought that Aasim’s work. This was even more interesting. “Let me guess. The caller was one Nabila al-Mansur.”
Siti winked. “You’re catching on. The secretary also passed on that the al-Mansur family is a major financial benefactor to the city’s papers. Betting she made that call more than once.”
“So much for a free press,” Hadia muttered.
“Talk that might embarrass the English Basha,” Fatma repeated. “Like dying at a meeting of his own secret occult society.”
“I’d put that high on the list,” Siti agreed. “Merira said that before he approached the temples for his little club, he tried to entice a more high-class crowd. The al-Mansurs fit the bill.”
Fatma suspected the same. They walked a tree-lined path to the front door—its black surface carved with interlocking stars. It took two heavy poundings of the brass knocker to bring someone. The servant, a young woman in white, took in the trio blankly until Fatma flashed a badge, and she scurried off to fetch her mistress.
When Nabila al-Mansur came to the door, the idea Fatma had formed of the woman didn’t do her justice. She wasn’t tall but of surprising girth—not plump but sturdy, wearing a modern silk gallabiyah with gold fringes, contrasting with a hastily wrapped traditional black hijab. Well past her middling years, her face bore its share of wrinkles, but her eyes were two sharp points. She stared down at them over a hawkish nose, with a measuring glare only a patrician could master.
“Well?” she asked with an impatient click of the tongue.
“Peace be upon you, Madame Nabila. I’m Agent Fatma, and this is Agent Hadia. We’re with the Ministry of Alchemy, Enchantments, and Supernatural Entities.”
Madame Nabila scanned their badges, one hazel eye glaring like an owl. “What does the Ministry need of me?”
“We wanted to ask you about Lord Worthington.”
“He’s dead. Has that changed?”
So she was going to be difficult. “His death took place in the company of a certain brotherhood that we have reason to believe you know about.”
That got her attention. Her lips pursed tight as her eyes drew sharper. After a while, she settled back to adjust her headscarf. “Very well, come in.” Her gaze flickered to land on Siti. “But your abda is going to have to wait outside.”
Fatma stiffened, and beside her Hadia gave an audible intake. The slur was common enough—hurled against Nubians and anyone with dark skin. A none-too-subtle reminder of a recent past. But Cairo was the boasted modern city. And it was now frowned upon to use such language. At least in public.
“She’s not my … servant,” Fatma said, unable to properly explain Siti’s presence.
“Whoever she is, she waits here. I won’t allow abeed in my home.”
Fatma opened her mouth in a flare of anger, but Siti cut in.
“Fine by me.” Her tone was nonchalant. “Don’t think I want to go in there anyway.” She paused, thoughtful. “You know what’s funny? My family’s been living along the Nile for thousands of years. Certainly, much longer than the descendants of some Mamluks—so jumped-up and full of themselves they forget they came here only recently. As slaves.” She said the last word with emphasis, before turning in a carefree stroll.
Madame Nabila scowled at her back. “How rude. Abeed. God put no light in their complexion.” Shaking her head, she led them inside.
Fatma spared a glance at Siti before following, letting a servant shut the door behind.
“I used to have abeed work for me,” Madame Nabila went on. “Terrible thieves. Wallahi, you had to watch the women make your bread in the morning, or they would pilfer sacks of flour. I dismissed them outright when I discovered it and will not have their kind back.”
Fatma studied the house—with walls in gilded flowering, marble floors covered in lavish rugs, a grand brass chandelier composed of perhaps a hundred spheres of glowing alchemical gas, and ornate furniture fitted with velvet cushions. Was this obscenely wealthy woman complaining about the theft of some flour?
“We aren’t here for your political views,” Fatma said, cutting off the harangue.
Madame Nabila stopped, eyes inspecting. “You disapprove of the way I talk. No wonder. You carry a bit of the abeed around the nose and lips. In the skin too. I thought el-Sha’arawi were a wealthy and respectable family in the south.”
“We’re not them,” Fatma replied. “Your mistake.”
The older woman’s appraising gaze swung to Hadia. “At least you look to have some untainted blood.”
Hadia regarded her coolly. “And among His wonders is the creation of the heavens and the earth, and the diversity of your tongues and colors. For in this, behold, there are messages indeed for all who are possessed of innate knowledge.” Finishing the ayah, she smiled. “Before God, our blood means nothing. Virtue is in deeds, not the skin.”
Madame Nabila’s face drew to a fine point, obviously unused to reprimands from someone half her age. She turned, muttering about “liberal philosophies,” beckoning them along. They were led through a room of vivid panoramas, including one of airships hovering over the Saladin Citadel.
“You’ve interrupted my hydrotherapy,” Madame Nabila grumbled. She lifted the hem of her gallabiyah to climb a winding staircase, with railings that twisted like vines. “So you’ll just have to talk while I steam.”
At the top she led them to a room with a large bath whose floor and walls were covered in green tiles overlaid with yellow octagonal stars. Several attendants stood—more women in white—beside a large silver box.
As Fatma and Hadia sat on a bench, two attendants helped the woman disrobe. Two more worked dials on the silver box, which parted at a seam that ran down its middle. Inside revealed a small seat, where Madame Nabila stepped in and sat. It was closed again, leaving only her head visible, which craned out from a hole at the top. The box began to hum and hiss, as steam curled up from the hole about Madame Nabila’s head that gave off a sweet, dusky, floral scent. Fatma sniffed. Was that cardamom? Was she steaming herself … in tea?
“Rich people are strange,” Hadia whispered.
That was ever the truth.
“Now,” Madame Nabila said. “What do the two of you want?”
“Alistair and I?” She frowned. “Yes, we were acquainted. Nothing improper. He was a friend of my husband, who passed years ago. We were more business associates. Though for some reason he believed he could confide in me, the way he confided in my husband. Occidentals are always needing someone to confide in, I find.”
“Did he confide in you about the Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz?”
Madame Nabila made a face. “Alistair’s great project. He was always going on to my husband about al-Jahiz. Pestering and questioning, as if we know anything about that madman. After my husband’s passing, he attempted to recruit me. I said no, of course! Warned him he’d be a pariah if it got out. But he was stubborn.”
“What do you know about the Brotherhood?” Fatma asked.
“Not a great deal,” Madame Nabila answered as an attendant flicked sweat from her brow. “That they went about hunting al-Jahiz’s secrets and held odd rituals. Alistair believed those secrets could bring a new age to the world—as if we don’t have enough on our hands.”
“Quærite veritatem,” Fatma quoted.
Madame Nabila huffed. “You’ve seen that outrageous emblem? I think he truly believed it all. Doubt you could say the same for half his brotherhood.”
“If they didn’t share his vision, then why join?”
“Standing and advancement. The Brotherhood became a way for ambitious men at the company to get close to Alistair. The only way, when he picked up from England and moved to Giza permanently. They could even procure funds for projects. Quite the game many played. Though most were wasting their time.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Alistair barely ran the company anymore. Too invested in his brotherhood.”
“Then who was running it?” Hadia asked.
“I assume his son, Alexander.”
“Why did you contact the newspapers to cover for Lord Worthington?” Fatma asked.
Madame Nabila’s eyes widened. “How did you…?” She sighed. “Well, I only have the same answer. Alexander Worthington.”
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