“Is there a problem, agent?”
“I used a gun to hit a gold mask, and it cracked. Gold shouldn’t crack that easy.”
“Very good,” Dr. Hoda commended. “Look back at the mask.”
Fatma did, and almost dropped it. The crack was gone. The mask’s surface was unblemished—except for a slight dent where the fracture had been.
“What’s going on?” Hadia asked, equally stunned.
Dr. Hoda chuckled. “Denting a gold mask seems more reasonable, doesn’t it? Lay the mask flat on the table. Good. Now, I don’t believe this is gold. I’m going to show you. When I do, you won’t believe it’s gold either.” She took a small hammer from a set of nearby tools and, with a firm swing, brought it down on the edge of the mask. A piece broke away, and she followed up by smashing it to gold dust.
“That’s impossible,” Hadia breathed.
“That’s an illusion,” Fatma rejoined, understanding dawning.
“An illusion,” Dr. Hoda agreed. “Whose magic works by getting you to play a part in your own deception. When you first struck the mask, you probably weren’t consciously thinking of it being gold and all the properties that should entail. So it cracked. However, I asked you to identify it as gold. That even made it feel heavy like gold. When you realized that cracking a solid gold mask was unlikely, the illusion rearranged into a dent to make more sense in your mind. Now, I’ve sowed new doubts, breaking off a section of a supposedly gold mask and grinding it to dust.” She leaned forward, tapping a forefinger beneath one eye. “Do you still believe it’s gold that you’re looking at?”
Fatma shook her head. “It can’t be. So why do I still see gold?”
“Because you’re stubborn,” Dr. Hoda snapped. “Keep telling the mask what it should be and it will keep trying to meet your expectations. Stop expecting anything. Just let it be what it really is.”
Fatma looked at the mask. Let it be what it really is. How exactly was she supposed to do that? She stared at it for a long while. Nothing. She scowled at it. Still nothing. She picked the mask up. Still heavy. No, gold felt heavy. Only this wasn’t gold. It was just a mask. That’s all she really knew. It could be made of anything. It was just a mask.
The change happened quickly.
One second, she was holding a broken gold mask. The next, something else—dull and gray, with the crack again running along its length. Hadia’s gasp told her she saw it too.
Dr. Hoda whooped a triumphant laugh. She took the mask from Fatma and turned it over, running careful fingers along its underside. “Clay.” She gestured to the table, where the gold dust had turned into bits of broken earth. “It’s just clay.”
Fatma stared in disbelief. “Did you know all along?”
“Not exactly. When I saw the crack, I knew it couldn’t be gold. But it wouldn’t change for me. This illusion appeared attuned to you—making your perception the focal point. Perhaps because you were the last to see it woven around the person meant to be concealed.”
“But the mask appeared as gold to us as well,” Hadia put in. “You’re saying that’s because Fatma believed it was gold?”
“Illusion magic often works by creating a mass shared delusion,” the doctor explained. “Some people in a crowd see a man in a gold mask. Then, like a contagion, they spread the deception to others. Soon, everyone sees a gold mask.”
“Who would be able to create that type of illusion?” Hadia asked.
“Why, only a djinn. This imposter has djinn allies, I hear.”
More likely under his control, Fatma corrected quietly. “Could an Illusion djinn do this?”
The doctor pondered the question. “Unlikely,” she concluded. “Illusion djinn are able to change their appearance or that of a place they inhabit—where they’re strongest. They’re likely behind stories of thirsty people seeing water in the desert that isn’t there. Or the man granted riches, only to later find the glittering jewels are rocks. Notorious tricksters. Their illusions vanish as soon as they’re no longer in proximity.” She gestured at the clay mask. “This illusion carried on long after it was separated from its weaver. That’s potent magic—beyond an Illusion djinn.”
Fatma shared a disappointed look with Hadia. Not Siwa, then. “What about an Ifrit?”
Dr. Hoda’s eyes widened. “Oh yes! Fire magic! Very potent!”
It made sense, Fatma reasoned. If you could control djinn, go with the more powerful. She turned to the lock of hair. “What about this? Can I try what I did with the mask? Maybe it’s an illusion too.”
“Definitely an illusion,” the doctor confirmed. “I put it under spectral analysis. It’s drenched in djinn magic. But a mask is one thing—a created object. Hair is a different matter. It belongs to this imposter, a part of him. He’s woven that illusion tightest of all. You’ll have to try very hard.”
She did. A few times. But the hair remained as it was.
“Don’t blame yourself,” Dr. Hoda soothed. “We’re dealing with very strong illusion magic. Your mind doesn’t have the first hint on how to see past it. I can use an alchemical treatment to make it easier for you.”
“How long will that take?” Fatma asked.
Dr. Hoda bent to scrutinize the piece of hair. “Days. Weeks.”
“We don’t have that. We need it done immediately.”
“Winds often blow against the way ships want!” the doctor snapped, sounding uncannily like Fatma’s mother. “The solution to loosen up magical bonds could also dissolve the hair itself. Go too fast, and you’ll end up with nothing.” Seeing Fatma’s insistent stare she rolled her eyes. “I think I can make something that speeds up the rate of magical decay but won’t cause physical erosion. That will still take many, many hours.”
“How many hours is that exactly?”
“‘Many’ means ‘many,’” Dr. Hoda reiterated testily. “It’s your illusion. If you want to unravel it sooner, find a way for your mind to see past it. Go hunt some clues or something. Isn’t that what you do?”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Fatma said appreciatively, knowing well enough when not to push.
They left the lab, letting the doctor get on with her work. Boarding the elevator, Fatma gave an order she hadn’t in a very long time. “Floor Zero.”
When the doors opened again, it was to a hallway lined with arched wooden doors inscribed with red calligraphy. Floor Zero was the official designation for the Ministry’s holding cells, created with the help of djinn. There were no guards here; the calligraphic inscriptions served as wards against even the most powerful magic. Today there was only one occupant. She stopped at a door and fished out a gold key, fitting it into the lock.
“You sure about this?” Hadia asked. “What if he’s still … how he was?”
“I don’t think it works that way. The control wears off once the imposter’s gone.”
“Let’s be on the safe side.” She unhooked a black truncheon hanging from the wall, priming the lever until the bulbous end crackled. Fatma couldn’t begrudge her caution. She turned the key, pushing the door open.
Zagros sat on a cot that looked far too small for his bulk. The djinn librarian was dressed in his usual long-sleeved khalat, his back to them. He faced a blank wall, not bothering to move at hearing the door. A bowl of uneaten food sat in the corner, alongside a jug of water.
“Good morning, Zagros.”
The djinn stiffened at Fatma’s voice. His horned head turned slowly about, golden eyes taking her in from behind silver spectacles. There was nothing dead in that gaze now. Just resignation. Neither had seen the other since the day of the attack. This first meeting was as awkward as expected. His stare lingered awhile before returning to the wall.
“I’m sorry for what happened,” he rumbled, the bells on his ivory tusks tingling.
At least he was talking.
“Why don’t we discuss that.” Fatma pulled up a stool and sat. Hadia shadowed her, eyes wary and black truncheon at the ready. “You’re facing serio
us charges. Besides trying to kill me, the Ministry thinks you helped break into the vault. That you’re in league with the imposter.”
Zagros gave no response. He’d gone still again, a rock carved in the shape of a djinn.
“But we know that’s not true, is it?” Fatma asked. “So why do you let people believe that? Why not defend yourself?”
More silence.
“The Ministry could keep you here for a long time. With nothing to do but stare at that wall. Probably hire someone else for the library. Let them rearrange all your books. Maybe create an entirely new ordering system.”
Her words elicited the smallest tremor, but the djinn returned to his stoic pose.
Fatma frowned. He must really be far gone to shrug that one off. Might as well lay her cards on the table. “I know about the voice. The one in your head. That made you want to kill me. I know how you heard it not just in your ears but everywhere.” That certainly got his attention. He turned back to her, eyes rounding. She went on, remembering Siti’s description. “I know when you tried to kill me, it wasn’t really you. That the real you was buried somewhere deep inside. That you had to watch yourself do all those things, helpless to stop it.”
Zagros’s jaws went slack. A thousand questions seemed poised on his tongue as his eyes searched her for answers. Then something seemed to close within him. The light in his gaze faded back to dull resignation. Slowly he turned to the wall, resuming what he seemed intent on making his eternal stare.
“This is ridiculous!” Fatma snapped, losing her patience. “I know you didn’t try to kill me. I know that the imposter can somehow control djinn. Why are you set on letting everyone think you’re a traitor? Why don’t you exonerate yourself?”
There was a long stretch of silence before he uttered in a rumbling whisper, “I cannot.”
“What do you mean you can’t? Are you protecting someone?”
“I cannot.” The words were still a whisper, but more insistent.
“Or are you just ashamed to admit what happened to you?”
“I cannot!” His voice came strained.
“That’s not good enough!”
Zagros turned, and when she saw his face, she started. It had gone a pale lavender—coursing with sweat and contorted in pain. His lips worked, fighting to squeeze out the smallest sounds.
“He can’t answer you!” Hadia said, recoiling. “Don’t you see? He’s choking! Make him know he doesn’t have to answer!”
She was right! The muscles in the djinn’s neck bulged, and his golden eyes rolled back as he sputtered. Fatma jumped to her feet. “I’m not asking you anymore! Stop!”
Zagros let out a lengthy wheeze, clutching his throat. He heaved in great ragged bellows, before his shoulders slumped and his breathing returned to normal. Fatma looked in bewilderment to Hadia, who just shook her head. What in all the worlds was that?
“You work so hard,” Zagros’s voice came quietly. “To perfect yourself. To cultivate an impeccable air. And in the end, it can all be taken away from you. In an instant.” His gold eyes rolled up to look at them. “Do you know that I am, in truth, a half-djinn?”
Fatma’s eyebrows rose. Another half-djinn? She took in his massive size. “Half of what?” she blurted out before she could stop herself.
“My mother was a daeva,” he intoned.
Ah. That she could see. Daeva were distant cousins of djinn from Persia and its neighboring regions—though some djinn balked at claims of kinship. Highly reclusive, what little the Ministry knew of daeva came from Zoroastrian writings and oral folklore. One thing the sources all agreed upon, was that as a class of beings they were highly disagreeable. And that was putting it lightly.
“I grew up with all the stereotypes of being half-daeva,” Zagros continued. “That our daeva blood made us quick-tempered. That we were wild, untamed—prone to violence and destruction. My father’s family warned him my mother might tear him limb from limb on their wedding night. In truth she only tried to do so once. Perhaps twice.”
Right, Fatma thought. Definitely disagreeable.
“I worked hard to counteract that bias. I became the most dignified of djinn. I carried myself with grace. So that none could cast aspersions on my lineage. All of that taken from me now—at last reduced to the half-civilized daeva prone to murderous rage.” He released a weary sigh. “It is a terrible thing, this politics of being perceived as respectable. To be forced to view your frailties through the eyes of others. A terrible thing.”
Fatma wondered at that. She hadn’t asked Siti how djinn treated those of partial blood. But from what she knew of immortals, they could be as foolish on such matters as humans.
“Then let us help you,” she urged. “Let us clear your name!”
Zagros opened his mouth only to have it snap shut again, seemingly against his will. He hung his horned head, shaking it in submission. Fatma realized it was futile to ask again. This wasn’t obstinance. There was magic at work here. He was being prevented from talking.
“Just like Siwa,” Hadia whispered, sharing her unspoken thoughts.
Fatma ground her teeth in frustration. Someone was throwing roadblocks in their way, whenever they got close. At this rate this case would never be solved. She motioned to Hadia that they should go. There was nothing to be gotten here. They’d made it to the door when Zagros called out.
“Have you ever read One Thousand and One Nights?”
Both women turned back to him.
“A very influential set of tales,” he went on, gaze still on the wall. “The Ministry library has several bound versions. But don’t bother with any of those. There’s a bookseller. Rami. In Soor al-Azbakeya. He’s the one to buy from.” He paused, as if choosing his words delicately. “Ask him to show you what you cannot see.”
Fatma exchanged a curious glance with Hadia. “Thank you,” she said uncertainly. Though confused at his advice she decided to push further. “One other thing. Have you ever heard of the Nine Lords?”
Zagros turned to her now. She thought there might actually be surprise in those eyes. “Where did you hear this?”
“The imposter. He sang a song. ‘The Nine Lords are sleeping. Do we want to wake them? Look into their eyes and they’ll burn your soul away.’”
The librarian looked at her with bewilderment before answering. “An old djinn lullaby. My father sang it to me. It tells of nine ancient Ifrit. There’s a fuller rendition: ‘The Nine Lords are sleeping. In their halls of fire. Do we want to wake them? No, we dare not wake them! Look into their eyes and they’ll burn your soul away! Go to sleep, my children, or they’ll burn your soul away!’”
“The imposter has an Ifrit,” Fatma said. “Could that be one of these Nine Lords?”
Zagros shook his head. “The Nine Lords are great djinn. Some of the first formed of smokeless fire. A few blasphemously and boldly claim to have created themselves, pulling their fiery forms from the void. Any Ifrit you have encountered would be as children to them. These Nine Lords were once masters of djinn.”
“Like the stories of djinn rulers and kingdoms?” Hadia asked.
“They were our enslavers,” Zagros growled. “Djinn were held as thralls to their power. Forced to proclaim them our Great Lords. To fight in their ceaseless wars. To raise up monuments in their honor. To toil building them palaces to house their thrones.”
Fatma could hear the ire in his voice. Djinn didn’t appear too fond of these past kings. “What happened to them?”
“These are only stories,” Zagros rumbled. “But it is said that djinn rose up, fought for our freedom, trapping the Nine Lords into an endless sleep and burying them deep within the Kaf. They exist now only in lullabies sung to unruly djinn children as a warning. Be good, heed your elders, or the Nine Lords will awaken—and come for you!” He shrugged heavy shoulders. “But again, these are only stories.”
“You know what the imposter stole,” Fatma said. “The secrets to the Clock of Worlds. Could he be trying to a
waken these Nine Lords?”
Zagros raised a bushy eyebrow at her. “How can one awaken a story?”
With those last words he went silent and spoke no more.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Soor al-Azbakeya sat in the very heart of Cairo. Books were what was sold here—piled on tables, stacked in stalls, sometimes assembled on the street itself. The best places to explore were the shops dotting the buildings—some so small, only their owners could fit inside to grab out what you wanted. More enterprising vendors took up several floors and housed everything from medieval manuscripts on alchemical mathematics to manuals for barometric steam mechanics—not to mention the new rage for trashy western romance novels.
Rami’s Books & Assorted Ephemera was a medium-sized affair. Bigger than the small shops, yet only taking up the second floor of a building—its sign visible from the street below. Fatma and Hadia crossed toward it, pushing through yelling vendors all looking to attract buyers. Being there were few of those, they were especially forceful—thrusting books right under your nose and promising good prices. Fatma almost rapped one man with her cane to get him to step aside. There was only one book she was interested in right now, and one seller.
She and Hadia had stopped to eat, reviewing Zagros’s cryptic remarks over a plate of kofta atop fragrant arugula. Neither had the first idea where to start seeking these Nine Ifrit Lords. But they’d both read The One Thousand and One Nights.
The stories had been popular in Egypt for centuries. With the return of the djinn, they were now treatises for academics to pore over, trying to separate possible truths from fancy. What those tales had to do with all of this, however, was hard to imagine. But they couldn’t afford to turn up their noses at possible leads. Reaching the building, they climbed the stairs to Rami’s.
True to its name, the shop was filled with books. Most were old, bound in worn leather whose scent hung in the air. Gilded brass lamps descended from the ceiling to provide illumination, joined by tallow candles in bronze holders. A surprising extent of antique clocks lined the walls, all synced to the same time. Altogether, the place carried a rustic feel detached from Cairo’s modernity.
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