A Master of Djinn: 1 (Dead Djinn Universe)

by P. Djèlí Clark

  Not all of el-Arafa’s residents had gone to the rally. They sat in windows and doorsteps, watching the procession snaking between stone tombs with raised markers—sometimes ducking beneath laundry lines and navigating around brick ovens. Most faces regarded them blankly. Some were anxious. One woman let out a set of panicked “Ya lahwy!” as they passed. Others, however, gave hard stares. Once or twice came a whispered curse.

  Aasim leaned over. “Did I mention that police aren’t well liked in the slums?”

  Fatma didn’t doubt it. From reports she’d heard, and with good reasons too. Their march continued in relative quiet, though the sounds from ahead grew louder as they approached. There was cheering. And someone was speaking. She could make out a few words echoing through the narrow passages of the necropolis. But it wasn’t until they cleared the settlement of buildings that she got a full measure of what lay beyond.

  A packed crowd filled a clearing. More people stood or sat atop buildings that rose up on the other side. Fatma had expected high numbers. But this looked to be a few hundred. Much more than the last gathering. Lamps with glow gas had been strung up, and their glare basked the entire area, bringing to mind an outdoor amphitheater or opera house. The stage here was a towering mausoleum. Its crenellated walls had probably been smooth once, though the mud brick showed numerous cracks. Wooden scaffolding surrounded the sides, where someone was making repairs. The structure was capped by a grandiose pear-shaped dome, its surface decorated with indented lines that ran from base to tip—a pinnacle rising to end in a crescent. Just in front of the dome, in an opened-up space where a section of triangular, honeycomb-patterned merlons had crumbled away, stood the speaker.

  Fatma frowned. Not the man in the gold mask. Someone else—dressed in a blue gallabiyah and a white turban. He held up both hands, shouting into the night. “… and I saw with my own eyes, the wonders performed! He called upon those made of smokeless fire and destroyed the foreigners! I had once helped them carry out their theft and desecrations! But he has guided me proper! He has returned so that we may all see and know the truth! He has returned so that he may teach us, as he did before!”

  New cheers went up in a roar that was deafening this close.

  “Who is that?” she asked, leaning close to Aasim.

  “From what we’ve been told, all of this imposter’s speeches are preceded by people like this. They go on about what they claim they’ve seen al-Jahiz do.”

  “Bearers of Witness,” Hadia added.

  Fatma was familiar with the title. It was said when the real al-Jahiz walked the streets of Cairo, he often had men and women who preceded him—bearing witness to his teachings and wonders. This imposter had studied well.

  The crowd’s roaring grew louder. Along the rooftops, people stood in expectation. The man atop the mausoleum was yelling now, though only bits of his speech traveled through the din. “… The Traveler of Worlds! The Father of Mysteries! The Knower of the Mystic…!”

  Aasim said something that was impossible to hear. But Fatma’s attention was fixed atop the mausoleum. The speaker finished, stepping to the side. She felt herself tense as the man in the gold mask made his entrance.

  He looked just as before—tall and draped in flowing black robes. Even from here, she could see the etchings on his mask, moving as if alive. To his right was another familiar figure, a slender man in black billowy breeches and a shirt of heavy cloth. As the imposter took his place, the crowd chanted: “Al-Jahiz! Al-Jahiz! Al-Jahiz!” He stood, hands clasped behind his back—while his companion stood on his right, an immobile statue. The praise only died down when the imposter held up his hands—which Fatma only now noticed were covered in dark chain mail. In the quiet that descended, he spoke.

  “You have come here tonight, seeking wonders.”

  Gasps went up, and Fatma knew why. Unlike the last man, this imposter didn’t need to shout. His words came in a perfect pitch that made it seem as if he were speaking right beside her. This was a new trick he hadn’t used the other night.

  “You have come tonight, seeking great wisdom. To hear me tell of what sights I glimpsed as I walked between worlds. You have come because your eyes and minds ache with hunger, the same one in your bellies, and those of your children. You have come because your souls are thirsty, dry as the dust at your feet. You have come because even in this age where wonders are so abundant”—he gestured into the distance, toward greater Cairo—“there is yet emptiness, a hole at your center. This new world has failed you. This claimed ‘modernity’ has left you unfulfilled—like a man adrift in an ocean without a drop of water to drink.”

  He took in a deep breath, as if drawing in life—then let his voice explode.

  “I have returned to you, my people lost!” he thundered. “I have returned to you, my people abandoned! I have returned to you! Not to the powerful, the wealthy, not those who misuse my teachings to live in decadence! To raise up a great city for the high while so many yet live so low! Who dare proclaim an age of wonders, on the backs of those who build and work their factories! Who must bake their bread as they gorge on the sweat and toil of your hands! Who must live in squalor while they build, and build, and build as if wishing to listen in on the heavens! Masr has strayed far from the path I set! Together, we must set it right! Even if that means bringing down all they have built upon them so that we may start anew!”

  The shouts in response became almost earsplitting. Fatma shared a look with Aasim. It was time. What she was about to do was genius, or the worst idea in the history of worst ideas. She mouthed a silent Bismillah. Then, before the imposter could start up again, she shouted.

  “Is al-Jahiz a murderer?”

  Fatma didn’t have one of those voice transmitters, like singers used. No nice tricks either, to be heard inside everyone’s ears. What she did have was a smooth intonation that didn’t tremble. And a quiet lull that made her words echo. Every head turned, followed fast by a buzzing murmur. For once, she doubted it had much to do with her suit. More likely, it was the armada of police who stood behind her. From atop the mausoleum, the man in the gold mask looked down—that burning gaze latching onto her. Steeling herself, she spoke again, and walked forward—her retinue following.

  “I asked, is al-Jahiz a murderer?”

  The crowd parted at their approach. Some with children began leaving the gathering entirely, likely fearful of a coming conflict. But that wasn’t going to happen, because she was going to end this imposter here and now. She never let her eyes stray from him long, where he glared from his perch.

  They reached the front of the gathering. Those here, mostly younger men with heated gazes, had to be pushed to gain passage. One—with a chin that grew sparse hair—planted his feet in challenge. She put her shoulder down and casually bodychecked him, sending him stumbling back. Regaining his footing, he lunged but ran up against Aasim, who returned a glare over a moustache that twitched. “Try me.” Fatma ignored them, fixed now on the figure above.

  “You haven’t answered my question,” she shouted again. “Is al-Jahiz a murderer?”

  The imposter remained quiet, and she thought she might have to repeat herself again. But then he spoke. “You ask riddles. Speak plain so that all can understand.” There were murmurs of assent from the crowd.

  “The al-Jahiz I’ve learned about was a teacher,” Fatma called out. “A thinker. An inventor. A man of righteousness, of truth, and of justice. A man who spoke of freedom. God as my witness, in nothing I have read, has he ever been named a murderer.”

  “Then why do you name me so now?” the imposter asked.

  That’s it, Fatma thought. Take all the rope you need.

  “Last week over twenty people were killed, murdered,” she shouted. “Burned alive. Their bodies reduced to ashes. One man was seen fleeing the crime, like a common thief, a coward attempting to cover up his deeds. A man wearing a gold mask.”

  Shouts of anger went up. Fatma’s eyes strayed to the policemen, whose hands
hovered above batons. She shot a meaningful look to Aasim, who turned to hiss something to his men. Whatever he said was carried down the line, and their hands relaxed. Atop the mausoleum, the man raised a chain-mailed hand, and the crowd quieted. Fatma didn’t let the silence go wasted.

  “I do not name the great al-Jahiz a murderer,” she said, addressing the crowd. “I name this charlatan a murderer who has chosen to carry out this fraud upon you, this falsehood. A man who would kill so many cannot be trusted. A man like that does not deserve your praise.” A few faces looked troubled. Good. She whipped her head back to the imposter. “I ask you again, is al-Jahiz a murderer?”

  There was a long quiet. It seemed everyone was now waiting on an answer, eyes fixed on the figure above. At last, he replied, “I am many things to many people. Teacher. Thinker. Inventor. I have been called other things. Saint. Madman.” He paused. “And to those of whom you speak, who perished in fire, I was vengeance.”

  Fatma released a breath. There it was. Beside her, Aasim cleared his throat and shouted: “Sounds like a confession to me.”

  “I confess only to doing what had to be done,” the man replied. He turned his burning gaze on the crowd, who stared back uncertainly. “What they do not tell you is who died that night. Right here, on the very earth I once walked, foreign men create a mockery of my name. They do not tell you, that one of these men, the claimed English Basha, formed a deceitful cabal of other Englishmen, who poisoned my teachings. They do not tell you that these men practiced foul arts—even daring to call themselves the Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz. That they consorted with idolaters! Worshippers of false gods!” New murmurs, and Fatma looked to find more than a few scandalized faces. Still, that wasn’t enough. Doubt still filled the air.

  “That is no reason to murder!” someone shouted.

  Fatma looked about, searching for the voice. Another spoke.

  “We are a nation of laws!”

  “There is no call to kill even idolaters!” came a third shout.

  “Or foreigners!” said another. “We are not to kill those who do not make war against us!”

  More voices now. Even arguments. Breaking out here and there among the crowd. One old man was quoting hadith on nonviolence to a knot of young men who listened respectful even while disagreeing. Others looked as if they were making to leave, returning to their homes. Fatma looked up to the imposter with triumph in her eyes. If he thought he could wrap his crimes in some sense of righteousness, he’d been sorely mistaken. Your move, she thought silently.

  “War has been made against you,” the imposter thundered, cutting across the din. He waited for silence to settle again as all eyes returned to him. “What they will not tell you, is that these foreign men committed theft. Pilfering what they would from our land. They seek to take what was yours by right, to make themselves a new power. They seek to corrupt our country, corrupt your children, debase our society—using my name, and perverting my teachings for their own greed! Their aim is nothing less than to weaken Egypt, to make us once again a vassal to Western powers! To place us under the rule of the very tyrants from whom we escaped!”

  New gasps now. And true looks of alarm. Fatma frowned. What was he getting at?

  “Tell us!” someone shouted. “Who would do this?”

  “The very ones who keep you in this slum,” the imposter answered. “Those who call themselves your leaders. Who sit in the halls of government.” His arm shot up, gesturing down toward Fatma and the others. “And they knew! These authorities, charged with protecting you, they allowed this desecration! Why? Because the English Basha walked with the wealthy, the powerful, who use their influence to bribe the quiet of your statesmen, to even silence your newspapers to keep you blind!”

  He paused, waiting for his words to sink in. And to Fatma’s discomfort, she could see that many were listening. Not all were convinced, but they seemed open to hearing more.

  “Traitors!” a voice shouted. She thought it was one of the young men. It was quickly picked up, buzzing through the crowd like a set of wasps.

  “Traitors!” the imposter pronounced in unison. “Traitors in league with these idolaters and Englishmen, conspiring to allow the foreigners to take root again on our soil! To undo the work I had done to help free Egypt! So yes, I burned them! I let the fires consume them! To end their plot to once again shackle our land and bind us all in chains!”

  A chorus of assent from the crowd rang out in the night.

  “That was actually good,” Aasim admitted. “I’m hoping you have a rebuttal?”

  “Of course she does,” Hadia said. Her eyes flicked nervously. “You do, don’t you?”

  Fatma set her jaw. This wasn’t going as she’d planned. She’d gotten a confession, but he’d turned it into a badge of honor. And weaved the most ridiculous conspiracy. The Egyptian government was part of a plot to help make the country a colony of England? Preposterous! Yet she could also see that it struck a chord, with people who had little reason to trust authority. There were some in the crowd who looked genuinely shocked, even worried. What he was playing at here was dangerous, very dangerous. Fortunately, not all were swept up by that speech. Open skepticism played on many faces. A few even glanced her way, waiting, as if willing her to make a worthy rebuttal. Well, time to give them the full show.

  “Take off your mask!” she shouted. That cut through the exultation, which slowly faded away. “Al-Jahiz never wore a mask. He never concealed his face from his followers, like some criminal or robber. So why one now? I’ve found that men who hide behind masks do so to shroud their lies. If you are the great al-Jahiz, then work this one wonder. Remove the mask. Show us what lies beneath.”

  A stunned quiet fell over the crowd, and then a voice called: “Yes, take off the mask!” It was followed by another. “Let us see your face! Take off the mask!” Fatma allowed the barest smile as more demands came. That was the thing about Cairenes. They’d listen to you. But if you wanted them to follow you, if you wanted to gain their confidence, they had to feel they knew you. They had to look you in the eyes and read your heart. Going around in a mask was a good gimmick. But lots of people here had come more out of curiosity than anything else. She’d taken hold of that curiosity and given it a good shake.

  “Why do you take so long?” she mocked. “Is this feat beyond the great al-Jahiz? Or are you better at giving speeches? My mother always says that beneath the nice and unassuming exterior are often catastrophes. Maybe you’re hiding a catastrophe under that mask? Maybe your eyes are as big as your name implies?” There were peals of laughter. That was the other thing about Cairenes—give them a reason and you could go from serious to laughingstock, the butt of jokes traded on street corners and in coffee shops.

  “Come on, great shaykh,” Fatma added for good measure. “Take off your mask!”

  The imposter held up a hand, bringing renewed silence. “I have never claimed to be a shaykh,” he spoke in that soft voice. “That is a title you have placed upon me. I am but a revealer of truth. I speak these truths to those who need hear them—Muslim or Copt or disbeliever. When I first walked the streets of Cairo, I came only as a teacher and no more. As one whose face could be lost among the many. I did not wish for my likeness to be remade, to become an idol for misunderstanding men to venerate. I did not want to be used by the deceitful to lead the people astray.”

  Fatma gleefully readied more gibes. He wasn’t going to just talk his way out of this one.

  “But I am not without understanding, that eyes must at times see to strengthen truth.”

  The words on Fatma’s tongue evaporated as the man did the unthinkable—placing his fingers to either side of the gold mask and prying it away. The gasps that rose around her cut through the stillness like a knife.

  Beneath the mask was a face that staggered, and she had to fight not to take a step back. It was a face of deep angles, sunken in about the cheekbones and elongated to the chin. The skin that covered that face was as dark as any Soud
anese, contrasting with the matted peppered locks of hair that fell about it. And those eyes! If it were possible, they burned even fiercer—as if unveiled in all their severity. It was not that this was truly al-Jahiz; for that her mind wouldn’t allow. But if ever she imagined what the man whispered of in stories and legends would look like, stepped back into their midst, this was the face she would conjure to stare back at her.

  The awe that came from the crowd was palpable, rising up amid exclamations of “It is him! He has returned! Al-Jahiz!” That last one was picked up by new voices that blended into one constant chant. “Al-Jahiz! Al-Jahiz! Al-Jahiz!” If there were still doubtful out there, they were drowned out by these more fervent cries.

  “This isn’t good,” Hadia said.

  Fatma looked around. She had hoped to unmask the imposter, show him for a fraud. Instead, she had given him validation. There was a sinking feeling that this had been a trap. And she’d walked right into it.

  “What now?” Aasim asked.

  Fatma pushed away the dread and self-doubt. “I remember him admitting to murder. We take him, before he riles up everyone further.”

  “They seem pretty riled already,” Hadia pointed out.

  Not the only ones either, Fatma noted. Hamed and the other agents had their black truncheons clutched tight. The police had hands on their batons, shoulders tensed like men ready to spring. This could explode. “Aasim! We arrest him now or make a retreat!”

  The inspector’s moustache actually went stiff. “The Cairo police don’t retreat,” he said bitingly. Pulling out a whistle, he blew it twice. His officers drew their batons and formed up ranks like a battalion. “I am authorized to place you under arrest!” Aasim shouted at the imposter. “For the murder of Lord Alistair Worthington and his known associates! Anyone who impedes will be arrested for interference in the carrying out of the will of the state!”

  He was answered with eruptions of anger, jeers joining the chants.

  “The will of the state.” The imposter’s voice came from the rooftop in mockery. “Do you see now of what I speak? Where are Cairo’s authorities when you are sick? Or need clean water? Or the price of food goes high? They cannot be bothered. But now, to protect these scheming foreigners, they will send an entire army of police. And against who? The poor and downtrodden. Invading your homes and dwellings. All to apprehend one man? I will go willingly, my people, if you so wish it. So that this shameful betrayal goes no further.”