Fatma started. “Because … it’s wrong.” She looked back to the Ifrit. “I know what she did to all of you. What she made you do. She deserves justice. But not this. I understand—”
“You understand slavery?” the Ifrit asked.
Fatma wavered at an answer. Her eyes flickered to Ahmad’s closed hand, at what lay buried within. But she knew, even if she could hold the ring again, she wouldn’t use it to place this tormented djinn under her control—even to undo what he’d done. “I thought you were a pacifist,” she managed finally.
The Ifrit turned, spreading his fiery wings. “That is why she still lives.” In a billowing of blistering wind he flew up into the air, and soared away.
Siti placed an arm about her waist, and leaned in to whisper. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not your way. But djinn have their own justice. You’ve done what you could. You’ve saved us from what she unleashed.” Fatma opened her mouth, but the other woman pressed on. “To play with power like that is to tempt the judgment of the gods. Give her your pity if you want, but I won’t have you taking blame for what she brought on herself!”
Fatma gave up, allowing her head to slump upon Siti’s shoulder as weariness claimed her. She stared at Abigail’s open mouth and her eyes that stared out at nothing—dead and empty. The haunting djinn lullaby came to her unbidden.
The Nine Lords are sleeping. Do we want to wake them? Look into their eyes and they’ll burn your soul away.
Magic. It always exacted a price.
EPILOGUE
Fatma wiped up the last bits of soup from her plate with some flatbread. Siti’s aunt made the best mulukhiya, with pieces of lamb soft enough to melt on the tongue. It joined an array of dishes spread out on a long table—large platters of chicken stewed in chili sauce and even some fatta with thick chunks of stewed beef. She looked up to see Madame Aziza gazing in approval from where she sat at the table’s head. The proprietor of Makka liked to be certain that people enjoyed her food. That meant taking not only a second helping but a third and fourth. With the appetite Fatma had right now, that wasn’t a problem.
She and Hadia had come to the Nubian eatery to celebrate the end of their case. Aasim was there as well. The inspector seemed to be trying to eat for all of them. At the moment he sat jawing it up with Uncle Tawfik while enjoying a plate of raw camel liver blended into a spicy mixture with onions soaked in vinegar. Tawfik claimed the Nubian dish had potent nutritious qualities; the amount the two had downed so far, it seemed they were out to cure every ailment.
Siti sat directly across from her, between Hamed and Onsi. The three chatted it up like old friends. It was odd to see Hamed so casual and carefree with his tongue. The way he stared at Siti, however … that look was recognizable enough. It didn’t help that she was a hopeless flirt.
“This is amazing!” Hadia raved beside her. She practically moaned, swallowing a mouthful of fish in caramel-colored rice. “Thought I’d have to go all the way back to Alexandria for some decent sayadeya.”
“This city has everything you need,” Fatma replied. “If you know where to look.”
“And it’ll be here tomorrow, praise God,” Hadia said.
“Praise God,” Fatma murmured. It would be here, though it had taken a beating.
Two days had passed since the night at Abdeen Palace. Since she had faced Ifrit Lords and stopped the world from being overrun by an army of subjugated djinn. And it already felt like two weeks, or two months. A lot had happened in the past forty-eight hours.
She looked down to the Sunday evening edition of Al-Masri sitting on the table. The front page of the newspaper was filled with stories about Abigail Worthington being unmasked as the imposter, drowning out almost everything on the king’s summit—which had also miraculously survived. The city’s administrators were especially keen on getting the word out. Not that they really needed bother. Cairo’s rumor mill worked well enough, with the onetime witness Moustafa in the streets pronouncing the claimed al-Jahiz a fraud. The Forty Leopards helped spread the word, ferrying him from place to place to give his accounts.
A chastened Alexander Worthington had agreed to help the Ministry in any way to uncover the extent of his sister’s crimes. Abigail had been remanded into his custody, now left in a catatonic state. Her coconspirators—Victor Fitzroy, Bethany and Darlene Edginton, and Percival Montgomery—were all being held and charged as accomplices for her crimes. London had declined to invoke extradition, and their families back in England were being investigated for collusion. There were no plans at present to rebuild the Worthington estate—as much of it now sat in a sinkhole carved out by Ifrit.
Most of Cairo had been untouched by the battle. But parts of downtown were a wreck. The cleanup was already under way. Djinn architects were making grand proposals to rebuild what was destroyed. At least the reign of terror had come to an end. People were out everywhere now—as if making up for time kept cooped up in their homes. The hate attacks had ended. Siti said shop owners in the Khan had even helped repair the damage to Merira’s store. It was good to know the city could mend—though there were lingering wounds.
The frayed social fabric that Abigail had so judiciously exploited remained. Hadia had struck upon the idea of bringing up the conditions in Cairo’s slums at the next Egyptian Feminist Sisterhood meeting. “If women can fight and defeat patriarchy, we can take on inequity!” she’d said. “You just watch!” For Fatma’s part, she was going to insist in their write-up that all materials associated with the Clock of Worlds be permanently destroyed. No telling if brass would listen. But the thing was too dangerous to keep around—no matter how well locked up.
Then of course, there was the Seal of Sulayman.
In her initial debriefing, she claimed the ring had been lost in all the mayhem. Neither the Ministry nor the Angelic Council were happy about that. But they’d have to take the matter up with the self-proclaimed embodiment of the god Sobek. If they ever found him.
“I hear they let out Zagros,” Hadia said. “Without charges. He’ll be back this week.”
“We’ll have to pay him a visit,” Fatma replied. “I look forward to being insulted.”
Across from her, Siti barked a loud laugh, catching her attention. Here was another unexpected loose end. A lot had happened between the two of them in the past weeks. Fatma was still trying to wrap her mind around the woman being a half-djinn. Where that left their already complicated relationship, she wasn’t quite sure. All she knew for certain was that she had fallen hopelessly for the woman. So maybe it wasn’t really that complicated at all. If you steal, steal a camel, she heard her mother whisper. And if you love, love the moon.
“The way you look at my niece,” Madame Aziza remarked. “I remember when men looked at me that way. I was quite the beauty.”
Fatma turned to her, a bit stunned. This old woman didn’t miss a thing! Beside her, Hadia leaned forward. “You are still a beauty, Madame Aziza. Like a flower in greatest bloom.”
The elderly woman smiled, setting off wrinkles. “Now that is poetry. Did you find any to tell my niece? No better way to keep her from running off.”
Fatma found her mouth dry. Madame Aziza’s voice wasn’t loud enough for anyone at the talkative table to hear but herself and Hadia. Yet that was more than enough. She glanced to look into the woman’s large dark eyes, which matched her hijab. Discerning eyes.
“You should ask Onsi for some good love poems,” Hadia murmured idly, sipping from her tea. “He’s very well read. And something of a romantic.” Seeing Fatma’s unspoken question she shrugged. “Have I told you I have a cousin?” She touched a hand to her heart. “Partners rely on each other’s trust. So do friends.”
Friends, Fatma mused. That was even more surprising than partners.
Hadia beamed. “Now, Siti’s told me all about this Jasmine? I want to see it!”
Fatma arched an eyebrow. That would be something. She looked back to Siti, who returned a long considering look that made her in
sides flutter. Oh yes, quite hopeless.
Their brief moment was broken as one of Siti’s younger relatives came by, bearing a small leather pouch. She handed it over to Fatma. “Someone left this with me. A man. He came by earlier but said I should let you finish your dinner before giving it to you.”
Fatma took the pouch. “What did he look like?”
The young woman shook her head. “I can’t say. His head was covered. And it was already dark. But his voice was strange and raspy. I thought he might be ill.”
Fatma looked to Hadia, who was busily talking with another agent and hadn’t noticed. Excusing herself, she moved from the table to a corner before hurriedly undoing the string on the pouch and reaching inside. It held a wooden box and a note, which she unfolded and read:
Agent Fatma,
I hope I find you well. You have my thanks for all that you have done. I go now, to dwell in the sacred place, to my home and temple, where she who is Nephthys yet lives everlasting. There are powers in this world that should not be in the hands of men. Or immortals. And should be forever sealed away where it can cause no mischief. On this we both agree. I have left something in your charge, as I trust it with no other. You may trust me the same.
Lord Sobek, Master of the Waters, the Rager, Lord of Faiyum, Defender of the Land, General of the Royal Armies
P.S.—This is Ahmad.
Holding her breath, she gently opened the wooden box—her heart leaping at the glint that peeked from within. Bracing herself, she threw back the lid. Lying inside was a small silver lighter. Shaped like a scarab beetle.
For some reason the sight made her smile. And she used a red kerchief to dab away the anxious sweat that had broken out just beneath her bowler.
“Good one, Ahmad,” she muttered.
Flicking the lighter once, she closed and tucked it into her jacket, right beside her pocket watch, before walking back to the table. Just in time for dessert.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The first full-length novel! Can you believe it? So many people to thank. First off, Diana Pho—who not only helped me work through this novel bit by bit, but took a chance on that first story of djinn, steampunk, and Cairo. You’re the whole reason Fatma has a home, and a world to grow into! Greatest Auntie Editor ever! Thanks to my agent, Seth Fishman, who is the best critical hype man to have in your corner. Both you and Diana helped make this debut novel better with each suggestion and revision. Thanks to Carl and Ruoxi, who helped me work on the final parts of this book and take it across the finish line. And my earnest gratitude to the whole Tordotcom team—including your magical copy editors—for the hard work of making this book an actual living and breathing, beautiful thing!
I want to give special thanks to those who helped me navigate the spellbinding folklore and medieval manuscripts that inspired this novel, as well as those who painstakingly guided me through the complexities of modern Egypt in its spoken languages, cultures, and customs. Thank you so much for sharing your learned expertise and lived experiences with me.
I’m indebted always to my sister, Lisa, who urged me to keep writing even when I thought of giving up; to my father, who is always proud of my achievements; and to my mother, who I know would have been delighted to see this. Shout-out to Lasana, my travel partner from Cairo to Aswan. We still got jokes to last “twenty thousand years!” And of course, all my warmest love goes to Danielle, Nia, and Nya, who are always in my corner.
Lastly—to all the readers who kept asking for more of this world, you were the greatest fuel for my muse. You made this book happen more than anyone else. May it fill you with delight and live up to your expectations.
ALSO BY P. DJÈLÍ CLARK
The Black God’s Drums
The Haunting of Tram Car 015
Ring Shout
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in New York and raised mostly in Houston, P. DJÈLÍ CLARK spent the formative years of his life in Trinidad and Tobago, the homeland of his parents. He is the award-winning and Hugo- and Sturgeon-nominated author of the novellas The Black God’s Drums and The Haunting of Tram Car 015. His writing has appeared in online venues such as Tor.com, Daily Science Fiction, Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, Apex Magazine, Lightspeed, and Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and in print anthologies, including Griots, Hidden Youth, and Clockwork Cairo. His short story “The Secret Lives of the Nine Negro Teeth of George Washington” (Fireside Fiction) has earned him both a Nebula and a Locus Award. He is also a founding member of FIYAH Magazine of Black Speculative Fiction and an infrequent reviewer at Strange Horizons. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by P. Djèlí Clark
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A MASTER OF DJINN
Copyright © 2021 by P. Djèlí Clark
All rights reserved.
Edited by Diana M. Pho
Cover art by Stephan Martiniere
A Tordotcom Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
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New York, NY 10271
www.tor.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-26768-9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-26767-2 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250267672
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: 2021
A Master of Djinn Page 40
