To his credit, the young ruler carried out these acts half-heartedly while secretly signing a treaty with the djinn: allowing them to live out in the open and become Egyptian citizens. After the British were routed, the new republic retained the monarchy, though most governing power resided with an elected parliament. For his role in the so-called Stable Revolution, the djinn constructed the king a grand residence—meant to demonstrate their skill and affirm their place in the new Egyptian society. They named it al-Hadiyyah, the gift.
Fatma walked the garden of the palace paying little attention to its many wonders—not the marble domes that shone like gleaming clouds in the night, or topiaries of fantastic beasts that dotted the grounds. Her job tonight wasn’t to gawk. She was part of a silent army of guards, soldiers, police, and agents—tasked to assure the imposter calling himself al-Jahiz didn’t mar the king’s summit.
She stopped to allow servants in royal livery passage—each escorting mechanical gold and purple ostriches on thin leashes of glittering pearls. The clockwork gears of the avian automatons ticked rhythmically, glimpses of machinery visible behind their amber eyes.
The actual summit began tomorrow, where leaders and diplomats would attempt to prevent the growing prospect of conflict in Europe. Egypt sat as one of the great powers now, and there was a fearsome possibility it could be drawn into any conflagration.
But that was none of her business. Her duties were on the festivities tonight—held in the sprawling palace gardens to welcome foreign dignitaries, both human and otherwise. They arrived by the hour from where they were housed at Abdeen Palace, departing chauffeured automobiles and gilded steam carriages.
The men wore Western suits and decorated martial uniforms, alongside kaftans and modish Turkish coats with gold epaulets. For the women Parisian styles with Cairene influences dominated, with floral hijabs and intricate embroidery.
Some opted for more traditional dress. Soudanese fakirs stood out in green gallabiyah, with scarves bearing the tricolor of the Revolutionary Republic. A dignitary from one of the liberated Indian states was draped in a stunning lapis-blue sari with gold accents. She stood conversing with a boy in his teens, wearing a long white shirt over loose trousers, and a striped shawl. Likely the Abyssinian heir—come in place of his ill emperor. This didn’t account for the djinn, whose fanciful garb defied imagination. One Marid dazzled in robes of shifting hues, while a watery Jann clothed herself in a gown of fine mist.
Fatma had chosen a dark suit for tonight. It balanced a black striped waistcoat and white shirt with a silver tie pinned in place by a blue bauble that matched blue-on-silver cuff links. The bowler was new, its velvet covering catching more than one eye. Especially the Englishmen, with their drab Edwardian attire. Jealous, no doubt. She put an extra swagger in her stroll as she passed them, eyes pretending to follow a set of colorful gas lanterns floating above the gathering like jellyfish. A marker for Hamed. He stood across the garden directly beneath, his Ministry uniform traded in for a stylish kaftan, with stitching along the sleeves and collar. Hadia was at his side, in a burgundy gown with beaded embellishment that followed up to her hijab. The two looked the part of a wealthy and modern married Cairene couple, as was the entire point. The king had no intent of giving the appearance his palace was under siege. Agents and police were to be as inconspicuous as possible. Hamed gave a slight nod. She returned a flick of her bowler. Another circuit of the garden complete and no signs of anything amiss.
She should have been relieved. There’d been no sightings of the imposter since the attack, much to the content of the city administrators. But she was reminded that he’d done the same just before unleashing a sandstorm and ghuls on the Ministry. A part of her was itching to face off with him again. They’d be ready this time. Eat your enemy for lunch, before he can eat you for dinner, her mother’s voice urged.
A commotion caught her ears, and she gripped her cane, heart quickening. But it was only applause. Not hard to make out the reason. The king and queen were walking out among the crowd, surrounded by a swirl of attendants, royal guards, and clerks. The king was an older man, the hair under his velvet red tarboosh more gray than black, as was the moderately sized moustache on his aging face. He wore regalia common to monarchs of the day—a military suit garlanded with gaudy gold stars and medals, and an embroidered sash that ran crosswise over his chest.
Beside him, the queen wore a red gown that cascaded to flow along the garden. She was younger, and it showed on her plump face. His second wife, who was remarkably of common birth—a trait that endeared her, and thus the monarchy, to the people. A shrewd-faced man in a black suit shared the space with them. The prime minister. The power structure that held together modern Egypt, all gathered in this one place.
Keeping a short distance behind the entourage was a djinn, almost lanky and somehow familiar. His dark suit brought out his milk-white skin and midnight blue horns. It took a moment to place him. From the Jasmine. How could she forget that unnaturally handsome face? One of the king’s advisors perhaps? Another stipulation in the treaty signed with the djinn. She wondered if they knew of his late-night exploits?
“Agent Fatma?”
Fatma turned to find a tall woman striding toward her. Abigail Worthington—who’d thankfully decided to not make mockery of local customs. She wore a rose-colored evening gown that flowed with the airy feel of chiffon and satin. A black silk sash finished with silver and pearls cinched at the waist, and purple lilacs were worked onto the shoulders. It was eye-catching enough to almost miss the bandage still covering her right hand. Behind came the usual retinue—Darlene and Bethany, in matching wine-hued gowns, their hazel eyes judgmental. Broad-chested Victor and the ever-smirking Percival brought up the rear, in black tuxedos.
“Good evening, Abigail,” Fatma greeted. Then remembering, “I mean, Abbie.”
“I hadn’t expected to see you here!” She used her uninjured hand to pat dark red tresses piled into a fanciful pompadour, then leaned in to whisper. “I heard of the attack on the Ministry! Horrid! Do you expect that … madman … to appear here?” Fear tinged her voice.
“We’re here to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Fatma assured. She looked over the small group. “Where’s your brother?”
Abigail sighed, making a face. “Alexander shall be a late body. Spent all day again with his head in the company books. I’m sure he’ll be along presently.”
Fatma frowned. “I’d think he’d want to be here. This summit was your father’s doing.”
Abigail gazed about with a fond sadness in her blue-green eyes. “Father would have been so proud. He very much wanted to see more peace in this world.”
“We all do,” Fatma replied.
A cough came from Victor—who was eyeing a boilerplate eunuch with a tray of drinks.
“That, I believe, is my cue,” Abigail said. “Victor feared this entire event would be dry. Or worse, only stocked with wine. I think he’s happy to see stiffer refreshments provided for we Occidentals. If you will excuse me, agent.” She turned, leading her troupe in search of likely mischief. Fatma shook her head. What it would be like to have no responsibility beyond her own whims. Speaking of which, it was time to start up her rounds again.
She began her way through the garden, eyes sharp. She hadn’t gotten a quarter of the way before someone tapped her shoulder.
“Pardon me, zir.”
Fatma turned to face a tall woman in a long white gossamer dress. Her face was hidden behind a cloud of a veil strung with pearls and capped by a broad white hat. She spoke English, but with a strong French accent.
“I wuz wondering where I might find ze powder room?”
Fatma gestured to the palace. “There’s a place to freshen up in there.”
“Ah! Magnifique! And tell me, how might I get you out of that fabulous zoot?”
Fatma started—then noticed the silver brooch pinned on the right side of the woman’s gown. A carving of a snarling lioness. Dark smoky
eyes stared back. Familiar eyes. One winked.
“Siti?” she blurted out.
A chuckle came from behind the veil. “Had you going there.”
Fatma was at a loss. “What are you doing here? How are you even here?”
Siti tapped the lioness brooch. “Merira knows … people. Got an invitation.” She produced a small letter between white-gloved fingers, addressed to some woman Fatma never heard of, with a French name.
“Siti, you can’t just crash a royal event!”
The woman waved the invitation about. “Not crashing. Invited.”
“That’s not you.”
“Non? But who elz would it be?” Siti asked, that silly French accent returning.
Fatma released a breath, trying to keep patient. “I’m working here.”
“I’m working too,” Siti replied, shifting back to Arabic. “Merira wants me here. In case our friend shows his face. He’s decided to take on the temples. Set people after us. Well, we’re not taking it lying down.”
“If you’re found out—”
Siti scoffed. “Found out? As if it’s hard to play and act among this lot. Look at them. That’s all they do—play and act. Not a real face in the bunch.” She laughed throatily. “In a crowd like this, I can fit right in.”
As if to prove her point, she whirled to a passing man and rattled off something in that French-accented English. He appeared startled, but stammered back in what she thought was German. In moments he was escorting her to a waiting boilerplate eunuch offering drinks. Siti laughed richly with him, turning to spare a winking glance.
The woman is incorrigible, Fatma thought. And she looks good in that dress too.
“I think that German will propose marriage before the evening is through,” someone assessed. A woman stood near, watching Siti’s antics with amusement. She looked in her thirties, with a plumpness that extended to her round cheeks. Her English carried inflections from the western parts of the continent. Her dress—with its bright greens and blues—bore the same. But what stood out was her company.
Standing beside the woman was a djinn. Tall and striking, her deep blue skin was wrapped in robes as gold as her twisting horns, though her face was a stark chalk white—so that it looked as if she wore a mask. Dizzying scents surrounded her—frankincense and cracked shea nuts, fragrant peppers and sweetened coconuts. She peered down imperiously with bright silver eyes, and Fatma pulled her gaze away, feeling flustered.
The woman, not appearing to notice, still stared after Siti—head cocked beneath a sun-yellow hijab that seemed more an elaborate crown. “I wager she’s very interesting to be around. I saw you talking. You are a friend of hers? But forgive me my manners. I’m Amina.”
“Fatma. Happy chance at meeting you.”
“I’m happier.” The woman smiled. She gestured to the djinn. “This is Jenne.”
Fatma turned back to acknowledge the djinn, then did a double take. Jenne was now a man—no less imperious or striking, and with those same intoxicating scents. Those silver eyes regarded Fatma briefly, then took to inspecting a set of manicured claws.
“I must apologize again,” Amina said, abashed. “Jenne doesn’t mean to be rude. But you know how Qareen are. This one has been with my family for ages.”
A Qareen. That explained things. Well, somewhat. True Qareen were said to be personal djinn tied to individuals: a type of lifelong companion or shadow, even perhaps one’s spirit double. This particular type of djinn, however, did far more—attaching to whole lineages, like living heirlooms that passed themselves down through time. While they were popularly referred to as Qareen, the Ministry officially listed them among the unclassifiable djinn. As a rule they could be troublesome, flighty, or fiercely protective of those they bonded with—one never knew.
“I’ve been eyeing that man over there in the silk clothes,” Amina said. Her chin motioned to the figure in question. “An advisor and consort of the late Chinese empress dowager. Rumor claims he’s actually of dragon blood, and over a hundred years old.”
“Two hundred,” Fatma corrected.
The woman’s eyes widened. “We have dragons in my country. Temperamental beasts who will drink up rivers if given the chance. Are they very different in China?”
“No one’s actually seen a Chinese dragon,” Fatma related. “People claiming their blood, yes. But actual dragons remain elusive.”
“Well,” the woman murmured, eyeing the advisor with interest. “I’d like to know what a man with dragon blood is like. Are you one of the dignitaries?”
“I’m with the Egyptian government.”
“A local. I thought by the suit you were English. Do you know many people here?”
“I’m not that high in the government. Just with a particular agency.”
“Agent Fatma, then. I haven’t yet met many Egyptians, sequestered as we are at Abdeen Palace. Odd housing us in the very place al-Jahiz bored into the Kaf—as if to make certain we understand Egypt’s place in the world.”
Fatma didn’t doubt the intent. It was said that Abdeen Palace still bore the residue of the formidable magic al-Jahiz had wrought—and that it could be felt, like a shiver on your soul.
The woman assessed her, pursing a set of full lips. “You don’t look like a bureaucrat. They don’t dress near as well.” She plucked a glass from a passing boilerplate eunuch, offering another to Fatma—who declined. The Qareen took two, and downed them in one gulp. “I’ve often wondered, with your modern city, why you don’t just put these machine-men in charge? I’d give anything for a handful, over the men who govern us.”
“Boilerplate eunuchs generally don’t have much in the way of thought,” Fatma explained.
The woman chuckled. “And how is that different from men?”
That actually made Fatma smile. But she wasn’t here to socialize. She was set to excuse herself when several new figures stepped up to join them.
One was an older man with white whiskers on a ruddy face, and fitted into a double-breasted suit that looked stretched to its capacity. The second was short, in a plain black suit and in his middling years. His expression was serene, his mouth all but buried within a peppered beard. The third was taller, wearing a blue imperial uniform with gold about the collar and broad cuffs of his coat. His trimmed moustache swept across his upper lip, and he regarded them all with the eyes of someone accustomed to giving commands.
“Let the people replace us with automatons,” the ruddy-faced man huffed in English, “and the rascals will be calling to overthrow them within the year!”
Amina turned to him, arching an eyebrow. “You think they will do any worse?”
The man snorted. “We at least share with the commoners the consanguinity of tissue, bone, heart, blood, and passion. Not the cold unfeeling will of a machine.”
“And yet here we stand,” Amina mused. “Set to decide whether we will be sending those people into war—to shed their tissue, bone, heart, and blood. Perhaps we could use less passion, and more cold unfeeling will.”
The man raised bushy eyebrows, addressing his companions. “Did I not say the fairer sex will soon overtake us in politics and philosophy? Mark my words, our days are numbered!” He turned back good-naturedly. “My apologies, my lady, we overheard your commentary and wished to engage on the matter.” He regarded the Qareen uneasily before returning to Amina. “Pray tell, are you not the princess of Tukulor?”
“There is no more Tukulor,” Amina answered. “But I am a granddaughter of the empire.”
Fatma’s eyes widened. Princess of Tukulor! This was the granddaughter of al-Hajj Umar Tal, the wandering West African mystic who prophesied al-Jahiz’s coming! He had returned to conquer his homeland in a self-proclaimed jihad, until nearby states united to stop him. Tukulor hadn’t survived its founder. What remained knitted into a confederation of caliphates, which together with Sokoto and the help of djinn repelled Europe’s armies. Umar Tal’s legacy was complicated, to put it lightly. Though his de
scendants, like Amina, were all but revered.
“Allow me to make introductions,” the Englishman said. “I am Lord Attenborough, a representative of His Majesty. This is President Poincaré of France.” He indicated the short man in the plain suit. “And the big brooding fellow is General Zhilinsky, representing His Excellency of all the Russias.”
“May I inquire, madame,” Poincaré asked genially, “the purpose of your presence here? Surely the West Soudanic caliphates would not become involved in any conflict that might take place in far-off Europe.”
Amina returned a diplomatic smile. “Conflicts have a habit of spreading—like fires in the brush. The caliphates would not want any … stray embers tossed our way.”
Fatma parsed her words. Both England and France had been routed in their attempts on her homeland. Now the French were struggling with the Algerian territories, and it was no secret the caliphates openly supported the independence movements. If war came, it would extend to those colonies. Stray embers indeed.
“Let us hope, then,” Zhilinsky spoke, “to find a way to resolve our differences without taking to the field. I do not relish sending cavalry to help our French friends fend against caliphate sorcery.”
“What’s this?” a voice broke in. “Yakov, are you going on about your cavalry again?”
A man strode into their midst, wearing an all-white military suit with white epaulets and festooned with medals and emblems. If there was a competition for such things tonight, he was the clear winner. He stood shorter than the other men. But his brashness more than made up for it.
None of that gave Fatma pause. Not even the man’s moustache, brown like his trimmed hair but turned up at the ends in a way that reminded her of her uncles. Nor the small group of men trailing him like dutiful attendants. What startled her was the creature perched on his shoulder: short and squat, with dark green skin, a pencil nose, and long pointed ears. Dressed to mimic the man—down to the medals—it looked like an ugly doll. The name of the thing came to her then. A goblin. Beside them, the Qareen gave a low hiss.
A Master of Djinn Page 22
