A Master of Djinn

by P. Djèlí Clark

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It took another day to get a meeting with the angels.

  Fatma was surprised they’d even agreed to see her. Angels hardly deigned to answer the request of mortals—even government officials. The Ministry usually had to draft repeated missives before getting, at most, a brief, perfunctory response.

  So imagine her shock at not only being granted an audience but with the Angelic Council no less. True, the letter she’d gotten was authored more like a summons—Your presence is required before the Grand Council of Higher Angels … and so on. But when was the last time any agent met with their ruling body? She guessed the words “Seal of Sulayman” written in her request did the trick.

  “You think they were expecting us?” Hadia asked. She kept adjusting her hijab as they walked—a swath of white silk, patterned in gold leaves.

  “With them, who knows,” Fatma replied. “Let’s do another one.”

  They stopped under the shade of a building, and she reached into her light gray suit jacket to draw out a bit of paper—the same one Rami had given them. She read the contents before passing it to Hadia. Since yesterday, they’d made certain to check the note frequently—to thwart the confounding spell.

  Halfway back from the bookseller, they’d completely forgotten what they were doing or why. An hour had passed before Fatma, by chance, pulled the note from her pocket and read it with curiosity—sending everything flooding back. Now they kept a schedule. They’d even made copies, tucked into pockets or anywhere they might look. It was tedious, but they couldn’t afford to lose more time.

  Though the imposter hadn’t been seen since the king’s summit, his effects were still felt. Friday wasn’t a workday, but the streets were emptier than usual. Even the Jahiziin were lying low. Many feared this was a calm before the storm. Rumors circulated that al-Jahiz was readying to attack the city, whipping an army of ghuls before him. City administrators appealed for calm, lest mass panic trigger an evacuation. Fatma didn’t even want to imagine that traffic nightmare.

  “I wonder what they want?” Hadia asked, still fidgeting with her hijab. “The angels.”

  “You ever met one?” Fatma asked as they ascended a lengthy set of steps.

  Hadia shook her head. “I caught a glimpse of one once in Alexandria, soaring far away.”

  “Not the same up close. When you’re in there, try not to look them in the eye. It helps.”

  “I should be fine. These aren’t true angels after all. True angels reside in heaven with God, having no free will. These things are something else entirely.”

  Fatma knew the recitation. But the woman’s words sounded rehearsed. And she was still fidgeting. “I’ve dealt with them before, so let me do most of the talking. Keep the note ready. If I start straying or looking confused, make me read it.”

  “I can do that,” Hadia assured. “I hope they have a way of removing this thing.” She motioned a hand about her head at the unseen spell. Fatma hoped so too. It was impossible getting anything done like this. Arriving at the top of the stairs, they stopped to stare at the structure looming before them.

  The citadel. It had been built in the twelfth century and had since seen numerous additions, the last under Muhammad Ali Basha, the Great. It was one of the oldest medieval buildings in Cairo, joined to several masjid—including one named for the basha. That had been its greatest claim to fame, until the angels arrived. They’d established their leadership here immediately, in Al-Gawhara Palace. No one had objected. One rarely did when angels were concerned. Since their arrival sometime after the djinn, they’d commandeered numerous such historical buildings, often paying the government large sums for their lease.

  Al-Gawhara had been built by Muhammad Ali, on the same avenue where he’d invited several hundred Mamluke leaders to a feast—only to slaughter them all. It was widely believed the basha’s secret djinn advisor played a decisive role in this consolidation of power, rendering the Mamlukes’ weapons to sand in their very hands. It was an odd choice for the supposed angels to make their sanctum, but who ever knew their reasoning. The palace was rebuilt yet again to house them, refitted with floors that towered near as high as the masjid named for Muhammad Ali, and several rounded domes that took up most of the southern enclosure.

  Two big men in white robes and turbans stood guarding an entrance. Each held long lances ending in a gold crescent and Star of David crowned by a pointed cross. Angels liked to cover all their bases. The men inspected Fatma and Hadia with dazed expressions on their beefy faces.

  Fatma handed over their invitation to one of them. He took it, letting out a sigh of wonder at the scripted fiery holy tongue that moved and writhed about. Returning it, he stepped aside, opening the door to let them pass through.

  The inside of the onetime palace had been transformed into a place of angels. One or two very small ones—no bigger than children—flitted through the air on mechanical wings to the accompaniment of music: Gregorian chants, lilting nasheeds, and odes to whirling dervishes. Beneath, human and djinn workers in all white went about their businesses of maintaining the domicile. All shared the same dazed expression as the guards.

  Fatma looked to Hadia, who wasn’t that far off. She was staring at an angel walking the hallway. He was more like the ones she was used to—a giant in a clockwork construction resembling a man, with four long arms and great wings of jade and cobalt. His true ethereal body was ensconced within the machine framework and glowed like light become flesh.

  “Are you going to be alright, Hadia? Hadia!”

  The woman turned sharply at her name, looking unsettled.

  “Do you remember why we’re here?” Fatma asked. Now she had a confused look on her face, which didn’t disappear until shown the note.

  “Sorry,” Hadia said, color tinging her cheeks. “I just hadn’t realized they were so … I mean they’re not real angels, but…” She glanced about. “Aheeh! This place. It’s just a bit overwhelming. So massive. Bigger on the inside. Another illusion? Like Siwa’s apartment?”

  Fatma shook her head, taking in the towering columns and high vaulted ceilings. “Angels don’t do illusions. This is magic of the very high kind. The Ministry believes the inside of the building functions as extra-dimensional exponential space. Technically, we may not even be in Cairo right now.”

  “Technically, agent, you aren’t,” someone confirmed.

  They turned to find a djinn with ridged ochre horns striding toward them. She wore a slender white gown and a pleasant silver smile on her ebony face. “Good morning, Agents Fatma and Hadia. I’m Azmuri, your escort to the Council.”

  They returned the greeting. “I didn’t know we needed an escort,” Fatma said.

  “We’ve found this space confounding to mortals,” Azmuri explained. “We’ve had, ah, incidents, where some have become lost for days. Sometimes weeks. You have your letter of summons?”

  Fatma held up the invite. So she’d been right about that.

  “Excellent,” the djinn pronounced. “If you could spare a moment, there are the necessary forms.” She motioned to another figure they hadn’t even noticed—a short man with that same dazed look on his face. He held a stack of papers in one hand and a set of pens. Fatma grimaced.

  Angels were notorious for their bureaucracy. They required every little thing be recorded, signed, stamped, and reviewed—often in triplicate. Cairenes joked that they must have invented paperwork. Taking a pen, she looked over the first form, getting almost dizzy at the printed blocks of legalese before scribbling her name in five places. Eight more forms followed. By the time it was done, her hand was cramping.

  “I hope I’m not signing away my free will or fondest memories,” Hadia muttered.

  “Oh no,” Azmuri replied. “Those forms are much longer.” Hadia stopped her signing midway at the remark, before seeing the smirk on the djinn’s lips. A joke. At least, Fatma hoped so. When they’d finished, Azmuri dismissed the man and turned back to them.

&
nbsp; “Now that’s out of the way I’ll take you to the Council. Follow me, please.”

  They set out, the djinn leading them through the cavernous hall and down one of the many corridors. As they walked, Fatma noted the large open rooms—where people performed odd labors. One was filled entirely with veiled women, seated at desks in orderly rows and using brushes to scrawl out fiery holy tongue onto parchment. As they passed, one of the women began laughing uncontrollably, falling out of her chair. She was picked up and led away, another woman assuming her place and taking up her work. A second room displayed whirling dervishes in colorful dress, all chanting a dhikr and spinning longer than should have been possible. A third held a great machine of rotating gears with men and women moving about frantically to maintain it. Fatma stopped to watch, the Clock of Worlds coming uncomfortably to mind.

  “What does that do?” she asked.

  “Hmm?” Azmuri glanced distractedly. “Oh, that’s the machine that keeps the world going.” At seeing their stunned faces, the djinn smiled. “A joke, agents. Please, come.”

  “Is there really such a machine?” Hadia asked, catching up. “Keeping the world going?”

  To Fatma’s discomfort, the djinn’s only answer was another silver smile.

  They turned down more corridors to finally stop at a set of tall gold doors with more guards. These were djinn, scaled and bearing sharp weapons.

  “We’ve arrived, agents,” Azmuri said. “I’ll wait here to escort you back out.”

  She spoke to the djinn guards in another tongue, and the two pulled open the doors to allow admittance and reveal what lay inside.

  Seated about a wide round table in chairs carved for giants were four angels.

  Their clockwork bodies were sculptures of art more than machinery, with gears that ticked like hearts and steel fibers mimicking muscle. Each turned at once to regard them, with four sets of brilliant gazes. Fatma choked back a gasp and instead stepped forward, pulling out her badge and introducing herself. She waited for Hadia to do the same, but the woman just stood stupefied again, staring up into those brilliant eyes. She’d distinctly told her not to do that. She gave Hadia a hard nudge that sent her fumbling to lift her badge. But all that managed to escape her throat was a small “urk.”

  “We know who you are, agents,” one of the angels spoke. His voice was a melodic rumble: a beautiful song mingled with thunder. Like all angels he wore a mask with oval cutouts for eyes. This one was made of glittering gold, as if dipped in starlight. It matched his body, wrought of black iron except for the tips of his wings that also shimmered gold. “I am called Leader here.”

  Of course he was. As with djinn, angels didn’t share their true names. They instead took on titles related to their purpose. Fatma followed a gesture from one of Leader’s four arms toward two chairs small enough to fit them. She took one, leading a dazed Hadia into another.

  “We are still awaiting another of our number,” Leader said. Two of his hands sat folded on the table near a folder that looked far too small for them to handle. Fatma only now noticed there was a fifth giant chair left empty. The angel’s words carried a tinge of annoyance, which seemed to fit his mask—with its flat expression and set lips. “While we wait, perhaps it is best you meet the others.”

  “I am Harmony,” another angel greeted warmly. This one had a voice like a woman and wore a mask with a fixed pleasant smile. Her full rounded body was the color of an ever-shifting rainbow, so that no place stayed the same hue.

  “I am Discord,” a third stated brusquely. His body was sharp and angular, looking as if you might cut yourself at a touch. It was bone white, down to the wingtip, with not a hint of color. He stared out from behind a scowling black mask.

  “I am Defender,” a fourth boomed. He appeared aptly named, with a bulky clockwork body and six thick arms—two more than she saw on most angels. He was silver and crimson, with a mask that looked carved for a hero’s statue.

  No sooner had he finished than the gold doors parted and another angel bustled in. Like the others, this one towered at least twelve feet. Four mechanical arms extended from bronze shoulders, while shiny platinum wings tinged by dashes of crimson and gold sat behind a broad back.

  At the sight, Fatma felt her body seize up. It was an involuntary thing, which she could no more control than a sneeze or an itch. She was on her feet in an instant, drawing her pistol, heart thumping until the sound filled her ears.

  “Maker!” she growled. It should have been impossible. She had seen this angel die—plunge knives into his own flesh in sacrifice. Yet he was here now, alive! She’d recognize that translucent alabaster mask with its permanent faint smirk anywhere. It haunted her nightmares. She didn’t know what a bullet could even do to one of these creatures. But she’d find out.

  The angel stopped, cocking a head at the gun—more curious than afraid.

  “You are late,” Leader admonished.

  “Apologies,” Maker said, surprisingly with a melodic woman’s voice. “I think this mortal wishes to do me harm. Fascinating!”

  Leader turned to Fatma, only now noticing her standing there with the gun. Hadia never even broke from her awe.

  “Please stop her,” Harmony moaned. “It will make things disagreeable.”

  “No,” Discord countered. “I want to see what happens.”

  Defender only rumbled his mechanical throat.

  “I wanted you here on time so I could explain,” Leader chided. “She believes you to be the other Maker, with whom she had an … unpleasant … experience.”

  “Can she not see I am not him?” Maker asked.

  “As I have told you on several occasions, mortal perception is limited,” Leader replied.

  Fatma listened, the bits of information forcing her to reassess. This Maker spoke with a woman’s voice. Younger too. And talked as if they’d never met. Slowly, the pistol lowered.

  “Another Maker?” she asked. “Why?”

  “To replace the last Maker,” Leader answered. As if that should explain everything.

  Fatma felt her heart slowly return to normal, accepting that this wasn’t the rogue angel after all. She sat down again, putting up her pistol yet too shaken to feel shame at her outburst. Her eyes lingered on Maker, following the angel’s every move.

  “Now that we have all arrived,” Leader spoke, “to the matter at hand.” He addressed Fatma. “We know why you are here.”

  Fatma turned to stare up at him, a bit confused.

  “The Seal of Sulayman,” Harmony mentioned helpfully.

  The memory came rushing back, to Fatma’s embarrassment. She was getting distracted.

  “You know of the ring,” Leader continued. “You’ve either reasoned it out for yourself, or visited the bookseller. We suspected you might in due time.”

  “I told them so!” Maker added. The angel’s face was impassive, but her words rang with excitement. “When I learned of how you handled my predecessor, I was certain you would figure this out as well! You are quite a remarkable mortal!” She turned to the stunned Hadia and added hastily, “Oh, I am sure you are remarkable too.”

  “It seems we and Agent Fatma are fated to cross paths,” Harmony mused.

  “Or she insists to tread where she should not,” Discord quipped.

  Defender, again, rumbled.

  Fatma fixed on Leader. “It was you. The ones who erased all traces of the Seal of Sulayman.”

  “Erased from human understanding, yes,” the angel affirmed. “And memory. It was quite a feat of intricate magic, but we strive to be thorough.”

  Fatma’s anger flared at the casualness of his tone. “What gives you the right to play with our heads? Who left you the arbiters of what we can and can’t know?”

  The angels all regarded her in silence, as if perplexed.

  “She believes we acted on our own,” Maker commented. “Fascinating!”

  Fatma frowned. “What does that mean?”

  Leader opened two of his four p
alms in a placating gesture. “We did not take the initiative of removing your knowledge of the Seal of Sulayman. It was at the request of the djinn.”

  That actually left Fatma speechless.

  “The djinn,” Hadia murmured, like someone slowly emerging from a dream. “The bookseller said as much. They didn’t want us to know about the ring.”

  “They believe such knowledge in your hands is a danger,” Discord affirmed. “Your kind are so wonderfully unpredictable after all.”

  “The only way to be safe, they decided, was to rid you of temptation,” Leader continued. “To that end, they contracted us to weave a grand magic. One that would expunge what you knew and conceal that wisdom from your eyes going forward.”

  “It also stopped the djinn from speaking about it,” Fatma added.

  “Magic abhors imbalance,” Harmony said. “The djinn could not ask for this thing and be exempt. The price exacted for balance was their own silence.”

  “As I have said,” Leader noted with pride, “we strive to be thorough.”

  So that bit hadn’t been intended, Fatma noted. The Ministry regularly released public announcements warning people against making unwise compacts with djinn. Bartering with beings who counted centuries of experience almost always put you on the losing end. Maybe they should have given similar warnings to the djinn about contracting with angels.

  “Your grand magic has some gaps,” Fatma said. “Some people can see through it—like the bookseller. You’ve been abducting him, trying to erase his memories. But he keeps coming back to it. He keeps finding a way around the magic.”

  Sets of mechanical wings shifted awkwardly. Defender did his usual rumbling. Fatma had seen another of those gaps yesterday. She’d told Siti about the ring. The woman had never heard of it, the magic seeming to do its work on her human side. But after Fatma explained it to her once, she didn’t need reminding. Her djinn side also had no problem speaking on it.

  “This is correct,” Maker said. She turned to address Fatma directly. “I saw the structural dangers in the weaving as soon as I arrived on this plane. The magic is like the fabric about your airships. Attempt to wrap it around too big a frame, and it becomes taut. Weak points develop, and soon you are in danger of an unraveling! I warned of this, but would they listen to me, whose very essence is that of constructing—”