A Master of Djinn

by P. Djèlí Clark

  Ahmad seemed to contemplate this, before rolling his shoulders in a shrug. “When you have faith, it really doesn’t matter.” With those final words he left her there, his odd gait carrying him into the shadows like a god back to his realm.

  It was near midnight when she reached her apartment. You have to go home eventually, her mother often said. She caught sight of two figures in blue gallabiyahs standing at her door, in heated discussion. One was the bewab, Mahmoud. The second one was … Fatma frowned. The second man looked remarkably like Mahmoud as well. Same portly build. Same receding graying hair. As she came close, both turned to her, surprise on their faces, and she stopped in her tracks. There were two Mahmouds. That same red-brown face, bushy eyebrows—even that look that could weigh and judge in a moment. She blinked, and wondered whether this night had finally taken its toll on her mind.

  “Good night, Captain,” one of the Mahmouds greeted.

  “We know how this might seem,” the other said.

  “But we can explain,” the first finished, palms open.

  Fatma looked between them. “Are there two of you?” She needed that confirmed first.

  “Yes,” both replied.

  That was a relief. “Which one of you is Mahmoud?”

  “I am Mahmoud.”

  “And I am also Mahmoud.”

  Seriously? “Then which one of you is my doorman?”

  The two exchanged an awkward look. “Both of us.”

  She nodded, though that made absolutely no sense. “You were going to explain…?”

  “My brother and I are both the bewab of this building,” one Mahmoud said.

  Twins. She’d already deduced as much. “This whole time, there’ve been two of you?”

  “When we came to Cairo, it was not easy finding work,” one spoke. “Everyone wants mechanics for the factories or expects you to have skills in machinery. What do old men like us know of such things? This was the best work we could find.”

  Fatma listened, things falling into place—the way Mahmoud seemed always on duty, or didn’t appear to sleep, or how he knew everything that was going on. “Does the building owner know?”

  A Mahmoud shook his head. “And we would keep it so. We have traded shifts quietly, outside of everyone’s view.” The two put on identical sheepish looks. “We were careless tonight. Brothers will argue.”

  “The owner’s only paying one of you? Why do double the work if not double the pay?”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” one answered. “We are offered a place to sleep and live, so long as we mind the building.”

  “We mind it so well,” the other picked up, “we’re paid more than most bewab in the city at comparable places, wallahi.”

  “More than twice as much, wallahi!” the first exclaimed. “The owner does this because he believes one man is doing such tremendous work. He feels good in knowing that he is so generous in his rewards. If he were to find out there are two of us…”

  Fatma thought she understood. It was the perfect racket. Sort of. Maybe? She was a bit perturbed they’d fooled her for so long. What kind of investigator was this unaware of what was going on right in front of her eyes? Thoughts of Siti flashed in her head, knotting her stomach.

  “Your secret’s safe with me,” she told them.

  “God keep you, Captain,” a Mahmoud said thankfully. “We Sa’idi can always be counted up to keep each other’s secrets.”

  He looked over her disheveled clothing. “The Ministry is working you even harder than usual.” His tone went low as if he were delivering some secret information. “We hear the palace was attacked!”

  Of course they had. Fatma just nodded, not wanting to get into it.

  “You catch that son of a shoe making these troubles!” the other Mahmoud exclaimed as he ushered her inside. “We do not believe his lies! I do not care if he is al-Jahiz returned twice over, wallahi!”

  “Wallahi, he belongs in a prison!” his brother finished.

  She walked through the open door, then stopped to peer back at them. “How do you keep it up? Pretending to be one person? Knowing that you have to hide what you are?”

  Both men shrugged. “We already know who we are,” one answered.

  “We all do what we must do,” the other said. “The first lesson we learned in Cairo.”

  Well, she couldn’t fault them there. You made a place in this city however you could.

  She took the elevator up. When she got to her door, she fumbled for the key before opening it and stepping inside. The place was dark. Just as she’d left it. But not empty.

  Siti sat in the chair by the balcony with her head in her hands, Ramses lounging in her lap. At seeing the door open she lifted the cat away and stood, coming forward. Fatma stepped back, more by instinct, and Siti broke her stride, going still, hands clenched at her side. Neither spoke, until Fatma closed the door. Siti took a few tremulous steps, bringing them closer. Her dark eyes held worry, and streaks on her face showed where tears had left their mark.

  “Are you…” she began, voice tremoring. She reached out a hand, and Fatma tried not to flinch. Siti’s fingers pulled back before trying again, touching at the cloth Fatma wore about her neck. Hadia had given the hijab to her, when she’d seen the wounds. Siti’s hands shook as she unwrapped the fabric. When she saw the deep bruises beneath, her face seemed to break. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Something about the statement sent a spike of anger through Fatma, and she fought to control her roiling emotions. Pulling away, she wrapped the hijab back about her neck and sat down heavily on the edge of her bed.

  “You’re a djinn,” she said. A declaration rather than a question.

  “Yes,” Siti answered, her voice low. Even after seeing it with her own eyes, the admission still staggered Fatma, and she took a deep breath to steady herself.

  “And no,” Siti continued. “I mean, I’m a half-djinn. Or however that works out.”

  Fatma looked up sharply. By “half-djinn,” people often meant a nasnas, a troublesome creature that was literally as its name described—with a half a head, half a body, and even only one arm and leg. She’d been gifted her janbiya for banishing a particularly nasty nasnas troubling the clan of a visiting Azd dignitary. But that’s not what Siti meant. She was speaking to something even more fantastic, of which even the Ministry knew little.

  “One of your parents was a djinn,” Fatma reasoned. It was the only thing that made sense. If any of this made sense. “Your father.”

  Siti’s face tightened. She walked back to the chair, making space besides Ramses and wrapping her arms about herself. “I don’t really know much about him. My mother claims he came to her the first time as a laughing breeze, while she was out tending goats. The second as a shower of coins that fell from a clear sky. The third time, he was a man—tall and beautiful, with golden horns, skin that shone like polished ebony, and eyes that twinkled with starlight.” She scoffed. “Or at least, that’s how my mother remembers it. She was just a girl. Not even fifteen. He had probably lived hundreds of lives. Their tryst was short, just long enough to keep his attention before he wandered off to whatever new fancy caught his eye. Long enough to leave me in her belly.”

  Fatma took it all in. The Ministry had been dwelling on this probability. Djinn hadn’t only come back into the world, they’d become part of it—working, living, and interacting with humans. Sex was a foregone conclusion. Rumors of the carnal insatiability of some djinn were the stuff of bawdy jokes and songs. But there were also relationships, some serious. Djinn procreation, at least with other djinn, remained shrouded in mystery. No one had ever seen a djinn infant or child. Half-djinn, however, were popular in old stories and folklore. Bilquis, the queen of Sheba, was claimed to be a half-djinn, among other famed personages—all reputedly gifted with supernatural powers. With the return of djinn, the Ministry predicted the world would once again enter an age of people who could no longer merely be called human—born to magic
al lineages and with unpredictable, unknowable capabilities.

  “Which one are you?” Fatma asked. “The person sitting here now, or…” An image of the inhuman being she’d seen tonight flashed across her thoughts: those curving ram horns, sharp teeth, and feline eyes.

  “Both are me. I’m exactly who you see now. How I see myself most of the time. And sometimes … I’m who you saw earlier. I know, it’s hard to understand.”

  That was an understatement. Fatma had an easier time understanding the two Mahmouds. She was reminded of Siti’s aunt, Madame Aziza. What was it the old woman had said? That Siti was like the wind. Too much of her father in her. Those words took on new meaning. So much did now. Siti’s seeming abilities—the magic that granted her speed, allowing her to scale walls, or leap distances humanly impossible. The question of that magic had always nagged at Fatma’s mind. But she’d never asked. Maybe you didn’t really want to know. Maybe you knew the answer would lead to something like this. Another thought wormed its way into her head. The dizzying high she felt around Siti. The woman’s almost electric touches. No, the thought had been there all night. She was just finally confronting it.

  “Did you ever…” It took a hard swallow to continue. “Did you use djinn magic on me? Did you make us happen?”

  Siti stared as if she’d been slapped. Shock morphed into hurt, and then into anger that flashed in her eyes. “I would never do that. I’m not my father. I didn’t think you would have to ask.” Her voice tremored again, this time with all the emotions that passed across her face.

  “Didn’t you?” Fatma shot back, her own emotions seizing her. “You lied to me. How do you expect me to react?”

  “I didn’t lie. The person who laughs with you, who dances with you, who shares your bed, who washes your hair. That’s me!”

  “But that other person is you too. You said as much. They’re both you.”

  Siti didn’t argue, going silent. “I wanted to tell you,” she said at last. “There were so many times I came close. But how could I speak about what I am to Agent Fatma, at the Ministry of Alchemy, Enchantments, and Supernatural Entities? I’m right there, in the last word of your damned title. All I saw was you regarding me as some curiosity. A specimen to study. Just another thing that needed minding.”

  Ramses meowed, a warning they were getting too loud, and Fatma felt her face flush. Would that have really been her reaction? Was it part of her reaction now? She recalled Benny’s words on secrets. Usually the secrets we keep deep down … we hide away because we’re afraid what other people might think. How they might judge us, if they knew. Maybe that was worth considering. But there was more at stake here.

  “That other you tried to kill me tonight.” Her hand went reflexively to her neck. “Is it something you can’t control? When you’re … a djinn.” The word was still hard to say.

  Siti closed her eyes, as if facing the memory was too much. “When I’m my other self, I feel … free. Everything is just—more. Every sensation. Every awareness. And I love that.” She opened her eyes again, fixing on Fatma. “Do you know where I go at night? When I leave your bed before dawn? To fly. To soar above the city. If you could see it the way I do—like a glittering jewel to snatch up!” Her hand reached to mimic the motion, a moment of joy lighting her face.

  “I don’t have sad tales to tell you. I’m not some tragic character from a story, lost between two worlds. I revel in who I am. What I am.” Her voice hardened. “That monster, he took that from me. Took away my freedom.” She tapped a forefinger to her temple, face contorting as she searched for words to explain. “I could hear his voice. In my head. Like he was inside me, shouting, so I couldn’t hear anything else. The part of me that’s me, got lost in that voice. I tried to fight, but he just pushed me aside. I was there but not there—buried somewhere deep, sunken away, while my body did what he wanted. What he demanded. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  Fatma searched Siti’s face, and what she saw there left her shaken. The most daring and reckless person she’d ever known was terrified. She remembered staring into her lifeless half-djinn eyes. Zagros had that same empty look as he tried to murder her. She recalled the king’s djinn advisor, forced into silence. And an Ifrit, tamed into a faithful hound.

  “The imposter … he can control djinn,” she said breathlessly. The revelation chilled her.

  Siti nodded grimly. “He’s more dangerous than we ever thought. Far more.”

  That was putting it lightly. It wasn’t just dangerous, it was a disaster! Worse, this imposter had a plan. Everything he’d done was methodical, with purpose. And now he’d stolen the means to re-create the Clock of Worlds. None of this was good. In fact, it was terrible. They had vastly underestimated what they were up against.

  Fatma looked to Siti, tracing the outline of her face, which had taken to stare out the balcony, imagining her fingers running along its curves.

  “What stopped you, then? From killing me?”

  Siti looked back solemnly, then gave a surprising laugh, wiping a tear from one cheek. “You did. That beautiful voice of yours, calling out my name. It was like throwing a rope into a dark hole. I grabbed it and climbed up, until I could get out.”

  Fatma was quiet. Siti may have heard her voice, but it wasn’t her name that had broken that trance. “You didn’t answer when I called your name,” she said finally. “You only answered to this.” She fished a piece of jewelry from her jacket, fashioned as a snarling lioness. She hadn’t discarded the brooch since ripping it away. Siti accepted the silver carving, her face bemused. So she had no idea, then. No memory of what actually happened.

  Fatma’s immediate instinct was to say nothing. Yet weren’t there enough secrets between them? She sighed inwardly and, taking a breath, began to explain—as best as anyone could explain—what she’d called forth and what she’d seen behind the woman’s eyes.

  When she finished, Siti whispered an unfamiliar prayer. “Blessed Lady of Flame, Daughter of Slaughter. She for whom the two skies open at once after she shows herself in splendor!” Her wide eyes fixed on Fatma. “You were blessed to have looked into the Eye of Ra!”

  “I tell you I saw … something … lurking inside you, and that’s your only response?”

  Siti gave a slight shrug. “I’m a child of the goddess. She does with me as she wishes.”

  Fatma couldn’t say why, but for some reason that answer rankled.

  “Besides,” Siti went on. “She came to you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’ve spoken prayers to the Blessed Lady. Given offerings. Praised her many names. Yet she’s never shown me her face. You called her and she came.” Siti paused in thought. “Perhaps you and the goddess share a special bond. One of which until now you were unaware.”

  That, Fatma decided, was absolutely terrifying. She whispered her own prayer and changed the subject.

  “You fled,” she said, her tone accusatory. “When you came back to yourself. You just … left me there.”

  Siti lowered her eyes. “I had to. Seeing what I’d just done. Knowing I could be used, like a thing. I didn’t trust myself. I needed to get as far away from him as possible.”

  Fatma ran a hand through her hair. “I don’t blame you for what happened tonight,” she said at last, surprised that she meant it. “You were being used, and I know you wouldn’t do what you did, intentionally.” The relief that stole over Siti’s face made it hard to say the rest. She plowed on anyway. “But I can’t just make things go back to how they were. You kept a part of yourself from me. Even if you had good reason.” She’d always felt she was only getting pieces of the woman, what she wanted to share. Now she knew it was true. And that hurt. More than she cared to admit. “It’s going to take time for me to work through all that.” Her hand touched the scarf at her neck. Some wounds healed slower than others.

  Siti looked back up. “Time is something I have a lot of,” she replied soberly.

  Fatma st
arted. “Are you saying you’re immortal?”

  “What? Gods no! I’m being metaphorical.”

  “That’s a relief. I don’t think I’d be able to stand you at all if I found out you were going to live forever.” Technically, djinn didn’t live forever. Still, they counted centuries the way people counted decades.

  “Well I’m not going to live a whole millennium,” she amended. “Maybe I’ll see a hundred years. Or two? No one’s really certain.”

  Fatma gawped. Then she recalled something suddenly, another oddity from that night.

  “When I asked the imposter about the Clock of Worlds, he answered with a song. Something about Nine Lords.”

  “Nine Lords who are sleeping,” Siti recalled. “Who would burn your soul away.”

  “You know what that’s about?”

  Siti thought for a moment. “Sounds like some djinn tale. There are lots of them. Always about more awful djinn we should be thankful didn’t come through the Kaf. But I don’t recall anything about Nine Lords. Maybe it’s another story of djinn rulers?”

  There were certainly enough of those. Most were fables, or distorted versions of the truth. Popular folklore, for instance, told of a legendary djinn king who ruled over Mount Kaf, a land of fantastic wonders at the edge of the world. Al-Jahiz had shown that the Kaf was in reality another realm—or realms—rather than some hidden mountain.

  “I want to see you,” Fatma said. “The other you.”

  Siti’s eyebrows rose at the request. “You’re sure about that?”

  Not really, Fatma thought. She’d only decided moments ago. But it felt like something she needed to do.

  Seeing her resolve, Siti stood and walked over, extending a hand. “I’ll do it slow.”

  Fatma took her fingers and felt a small tingle. Then, before her eyes, Siti transformed. Her dark skin turned black until it glinted. Horns a deep red erupted from her head, bending and curving upward while her body grew taller. Slow or not, it was over in several heartbeats. At Siti’s feet, Ramses purred. He’d hopped off the chair, and now nuzzled her legs.