“I will teach you,” the imposter said. “I will make you hurt. I will make you understand. And drag your secrets into the light.”
Without warning, the world behind him erupted into flames.
To Fatma, it looked at first like a wall of bloodred fire. But what she’d mistaken for a wall soon coalesced into another shape: a body like a man formed from an inferno, with a head crowned in curving horns and bright molten eyes. The being stood behind the imposter, a giant thrice his size that burned in the night like a beacon. She didn’t have to look down to know that the melee below had gone still, as every gaze locked on this wondrous and terrible sight.
An Ifrit.
The djinn roared, causing the very air to ripple in a haze. It bowed down to reveal something tied across its back—a leather harness that somehow didn’t burn, with long encircling straps. The imposter climbed and settled into it, the licking flames not touching him. Pulling on reins looped around the Ifrit’s horns, he stared down at Fatma.
“All of Cairo will speak of what they see here tonight. All of Cairo will know that I am al-Jahiz. And I have returned.”
He spoke another command in that tongue, and great wings of fire sprouted from the Ifrit’s back. It lifted into the air, the hot wind from its flapping bearing down on Fatma, sending her to her knees. From there she stared up, shielding her eyes and watching the fiery djinn soar through the sky, streaking away like a blazing star, and carrying its rider with it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Fatma wanted to hit something. To say that the past two and a half days had been terrible didn’t do justice to the meaning of “terrible.” The fallout from Sunday night—“fallout” was another understated word—seemed to arrive by the day.
She’d spent Monday morning in a meetings with Amir, Ministry brass, and representatives from the bureaucracy administering Cairo’s many districts—all demanding reports on what the papers were already calling the Battle of el-Arafa. Scores arrested or hurt. Rights activists charging police heavy-handedness. The police union charging they’d been sent in unprepared. Threats of lawsuits and counter lawsuits. She’d been grilled for hours, then forced to spend more time filing paperwork. In triplicate.
Monday evening was worse. The newspapers officially ended all embargo on the Lord Worthington story, revealing everything they knew about his death and the Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz. That turned out to be facts mixed with half-truths. The more sensational penny presses spread salacious stories of indecency, indicting politicians and even insinuating Egypt’s monarchy as coconspirators. The papers had gotten hold of the guest list from that night, publishing every victim’s name—including the two Egyptian dead outed as idolaters.
That paled to the buzz on al-Jahiz, which left el-Arafa and hit every street corner and gossip mill by morning. Fatma had gotten an earful from her bewab. Al-Jahiz had returned! Had she heard the news? Had she been at the Cemetery? Had al-Jahiz truly called down lightning upon the police? Did he and the head of the Forty Leopards really duel atop a mausoleum? She got the same on her way to work. From her shoe shiner to chattering on the trolley. Al-Jahiz—the imposter—was on everyone’s lips.
Then there were the sightings. Scores of witnesses had seen the man ride off on the back of an Ifrit. She was still trying to process that memory in her own head. More outside the Cemetery had seen a fiery something flying across Cairo’s skyline. Now fresh reports were flooding the Ministry and police, of reputed sightings. Al-Jahiz was flying over Bulaq in a chariot pulled by djinn. No, he had been seen over Old Cairo on a rukh. Others claimed he walked the back alleys of the Khan. And he’d reopened secret schools, performing wonders. The words Al-Jahiz Has Returned covered whole walls—alongside claims of the government and monarchy in league with some foreign cabal to reduce the country to a colony. Each time cleaners scoured them away, they reappeared elsewhere. She doubted most believed such fanciful tales. But people whispered about these odd events all the same. Many feared they could only portend some great misfortune or calamity, and there was real concern hysteria might grip the city.
Do you even understand what you are dealing with?
Fatma’s mood darkened as she walked the block to the Ministry. Other than chasing phantom sightings, she had no good leads. They knew now who had killed Lord Worthington. But not much else. Was this imposter just some fanatic? Or was this all a ruse for something bigger? And what kind of sorcery made him master over an Ifrit—riding one of the most powerful and volatile of djinn like some tamed hound! I will make you hurt. I will make you understand. And drag your secrets into the light.
The one saving grace was that despite everything, she’d been kept on the case. Amir argued to brass and the city’s administrators that she was still the best hope to solve this. They’d agreed. What choice did they really have? Next week was the peace summit at the king’s palace. There were going to be foreign rulers, dignitaries, and ambassadors in the city. The intent was to project a modern Cairo that could be a broker in world affairs—not a city caught up in fear and hysteria. They wanted this thing out of the papers as soon as possible.
“A moment of your time, agent,” someone called.
Fatma stopped mid-stride, turning to settle on a figure in dark brown robes with frayed ends, his head hidden in a cowl. He stood beneath the awning of a gramophone shop, blending into the shadows. She took him at first for a beggar and fished into her pockets—until he lifted his head. She walked up to grab him by the arm, dragging him to a nearby alley.
“Ahmad! What are you doing here?”
The man pulled from her grip, letting out a stream of cigarette smoke. When he looked directly at her, she almost stepped back. His face had changed further since she’d last seen him. His gray skin looked rougher, with dark splotches—though the front of his neck was pale and smooth, almost rubbery. His nose had vanished completely, replaced with nostril slits on a protrusion that reminded her of a snout. Both his eyes were still green, but his pupils were strange—as if they were elongating.
“I wanted to know,” he rasped, “how you were getting on with the case.”
Who didn’t? Fatma wanted to tell the man to pick a number and get in line. But somewhere in those inhuman eyes was a sadness. And she remembered he was here out of love. How did you begrudge someone that? “We have a suspect. The same one you led us to.”
“This claimed al-Jahiz.” He gripped the cigarette between pointed teeth as he spoke. “I’ve seen the … trouble you’ve had since our first encounter.”
That was one way to put it. “We’re doing what we can, but we still haven’t got a motive.”
He shrugged, flicking the scarab lighter and moving to his second Nefertari. “It matters?”
“Aywa. When twenty-four people are burned to death, it matters.”
Ahmad grunted. “What the papers are saying about Nephthys. How they are painting her.” Anger trembled his voice.
Fatma could understand. The penny presses had gone overboard, doing extensive write-ups of Ester Sedarous. They hounded her family, called her a witch, some even implying she had something to do with the murders. One tabloid named her “the Madame of Death.”
“Her parents buried her yesterday,” Ahmad continued. “I was told not to attend.”
“I’m sorry. How are your people? I know things have gotten … bad.”
The outing of the temples was another casualty. People who had practiced in secret now found their names splashed across the front of dailies. There were threats against establishments or meeting places suspected to house them. In the worst ugliness, a reputed “idolater” had been chased from his home by angry neighbors. Seeing someone else’s problems makes your own problems seem smaller, her mother’s voice intoned.
“The House of Sobek is strong,” Ahmad declared. Then, more measured: “How is Siti?”
“She’s well.” Fatma was still surprised even as she said it. Siti had refused to be taken to the hospital—insisting that she depended onl
y on the blessings of the entombed goddess. Whether by a goddess or some other magic, a day later there was nothing but a scar where she’d been run through. She spent her time at Merira’s now, watching over the fortune-teller’s shop.
“I can be of help,” Ahmad said, taking a drag. “I’m not Siti, but I have contacts.”
Fatma shook her head. “This man, whoever he is, he’s dangerous. He can do things that I can’t explain. You or your people get in his way, and you could be killed. There are enough dead to deal with. Let the Ministry and the police handle it.”
Ahmad appeared skeptical. “The police’s hands appear full at the moment.”
He was talking about the protests. Most of those arrested in el-Arafa were just locals who’d gotten overzealous. People didn’t like police running about their homes. One had been a prize, however. The alleged Bearer of Witness who’d introduced the imposter. His name was Moustafa. He’d actually been in the employ of one of the members of Lord Worthington’s Brotherhood—a Wesley Dalton, who, from what they’d discerned, was none other than the corpse with its head twisted about. This Moustafa had worked odd jobs for Dalton—a mix of a manservant, bodyguard, and guide. He’d also been a witness to the murders. Told them as much openly—that al-Jahiz appeared and slew the Englishmen. It had impressed him enough to become an acolyte. Claimed al-Jahiz spared him to go out and bear witness to what he’d seen. Since Monday, crowds gathered every morning outside the police station, demanding his release. She shook her head. What a mess.
“We’ve got enough hands. Let it alone, Ahmad. I mean it. And stop skulking about!”
“It’s creepy?” he asked, a cigarette perched on his lips.
“Yeah. A little bit. Creepy.” She took in his strange face again. “Are you okay?”
“Never felt better. Go in peace, Agent Fatma.”
“Go in peace, Ahmad,” she said, watching him disappear down the alley—a cloud of smoke hovering. It was telling that he was probably the least strange thing she’d deal with today.
Fatma quickened her pace, reaching the Ministry. She made her usual glance up to the spinning mechanical gears of the building’s brain and tipped her bowler in a silent good morning. She gave another to the guard on duty, in that too-big uniform. He really could use a tailor. An empty elevator was already waiting, and she hopped in ready to call out the fourth floor—but hesitated. She still felt like hitting something. To clear her head. She knew just the remedy.
“Top floor.” The elevator closed, taking a lurch before ascending.
Fatma began undoing the buttons on her jacket. By the time the elevator stopped, she was down to a black silk waistcoat stitched with Persian buta motifs. Stepping out, she loosened her tie along the way until coming to a set of doors.
The Ministry had its own gymnasium. But that was for men. She’d petitioned to get in when first arriving. But while brass wanted to boast of hiring its first woman agent in the Cairo office, they didn’t want a full-blown scandal. So they’d built an entirely separate gymnasium for women. It was smaller and not as well equipped. But it had the basic needs and amenities, including a bath. Best of all, she mostly had it to herself.
At least, she usually did.
There was surprise at opening the door to Hadia. She wore a white shirt with bulky, loose-fitting gym trousers. In a gloved hand she wielded a wooden practice sword, swinging it at a mechanical training eunuch. The machine-man only had a torso that extended from a pole in the floor. But it twisted its body this way and that, to wield a wooden blade held in one arm.
At seeing Fatma, Hadia straightened, calling the training eunuch to a stop. She tucked a stray curly strand back into her hijab. “Good morning, Agent Fatma.”
“Agent Hadia,” she returned, stepping inside. Since Sunday night, they’d been formal in their interactions. And the woman seemed sullen. “Didn’t know you were in here.”
“Just came to practice. I’ll bathe and leave the room to you.”
“You don’t have to go. Room’s big enough for both of us.”
“Yes, well, you’d think so. But I wouldn’t want to get in your way.”
Oh yes, definitely sullen. “I think you should stay. I could do with a sparring partner. Unless a training eunuch is more your style.”
That last part came out a bit mocking, and Hadia’s eyes narrowed before she nodded.
Fatma wasted little time donning gym clothes from a closet. She was overly eager for this. Grabbing a practice sword, she walked to the center of the room.
“How are we going to keep score?” Hadia asked. She flowed into position, her wooden blade held out as she balanced on her feet.
Fatma did the same. “We stop when we’re tired of hitting each other.”
Hadia’s reply was a quick set of attacks, her taller body lunging forward. Fatma’s own sword darted up, and the strikes came as light batting to the middle of the blade—as if testing. Hadia changed angles, this time aiming low. Fatma met them again, stepping to the side as she knocked them away without allowing an opening. The two paused their attacks, continuing to circle.
“Where’d you learn to fight? Another cousin?”
“Father, actually,” Hadia answered, blade up and making small lazy loops. “He got beat up a lot as a kid. Turned soldier, learned how to fight, and came back to teach his bullies a lesson. He insisted his five daughters would never be intimidated. You?”
“My father’s a watchmaker. But when I was small he’d take me to Tahtib matches. Back then no one was going to train a girl to stick fight, though. Had to teach myself.”
“Hmm. Probably explains why you like to go it alone.”
Fatma frowned. She was getting psychoanalyzed now? She initiated the advance this time, with swinging strokes that rapped hard on her opponent’s blade. Hadia gave ground, but quickly rebounded, blocking Fatma’s attacks with sharp striking motions. This went on for a while, and when they disengaged again, both were breathing heavy.
“You give away your feint too easily,” Hadia huffed.
“What?”
“Your feints. You squint.” She imitated the action. “It’s an easy tell on when you’re not going to follow through on an attack. A bad habit. I used to bite my lip. Had to break it. But it’s hard, when you’re stubborn.”
Fatma’s jaw tensed. “You have something to say, agent?”
Hadia’s face went flat in return. “Permission to speak freely?”
“This look like the army to you? Say what you have to say.”
Words spilled out: “Do you know how embarrassing it was to learn you made up a rule to keep me away Sunday night? That I had to confront you about it in front of other agents?”
So that’s what this was about? “I told you, I was trying to protect you.”
“I don’t need protecting!” Hadia shot back. “I can—”
“—handle yourself,” Fatma finished. “I’ve seen. How was I supposed to know you were some kind of … ninja?”
“You could have asked! You could have let me be your partner, instead of replacing me with the first great big man you could find.” She made a frustrated sound, dropping her sword to her side. “I was the only woman at the academy. You, of all people, know what that’s like. Other than Onsi, most of my class barely interacted with me—as if just being courteous was somehow eib, or worse, haram. The unsolicited lectures from male teachers on the dangers of women in the workplace were my favorite—as if their own grandmothers weren’t probably selling goods out at market or helping with the farming. I expected when I got assigned, I’d have to deal with people who didn’t think I could measure up. Who thought I was in the wrong place. Who only saw some girl they’d stick behind a desk. But, wallahi, I didn’t think one of them would be you!”
Fatma flinched. That stung. Her own sword fell. “I’m not used to doing this with others.”
“You seem fine working with tall Nubian women with claws,” Hadia remarked.
“That’s different. Sit
i’s … she’s just different.”
“Not some sheltered hijabi, you mean? Concerned with etiquette and propriety? Who frets at missing salah? Who you think is too delicate to deal with the harder parts of this job? So what, you just put me up on a shelf?”
Fatma felt her cheeks heat.
Hadia made a face, like someone who knew the answer to the question they asked—but hoped to hear different. “I thought so.” She stood erect suddenly, shoulders forward. “But too bad for you. I trained to be an agent of the Ministry, knowing all the danger it might bring. I made it through the academy and graduated at the top of my class, because I’m incredible, because I earned the right to be here, because there is no end to God’s Barakah upon me. So you’re going to have to deal with the fact that I’m your partner. That you’re not doing this alone any more. That I’m here to watch your back. When you’re ready to get on board with that, you let me know!”
Fatma stood quiet, meeting Hadia’s large dark brown eyes. They practically quivered, and her beige cheeks were flushed. “That was bold. You practice that?”
The other woman swallowed. “Maybe. A few times. In a mirror.”
Fatma snorted, unable to hide the laugh. Hadia’s mask faltered, and she laughed as well.
“You’re right,” Fatma admitted. “I’m sorry. I hated it when agents did that to me when I first got here. So I went out of my way and took all kinds of risks to prove them wrong.”
“I’ve heard about them,” Hadia said. “They sound pretty brave.”
“No, lots of times they were just stupid. Nearly got myself killed. Wouldn’t have needed to do any of that if people just treated me as an equal. You shouldn’t have to relearn my mistakes.” Her tone turned serious. “But I’m going to need you to trust me. I’ve been doing this longer than you. Sometimes, I’m making the call that’ll get you home at night. Even if you think it’s the wrong one. You have a problem with my decisions, you take it up with me after. Don’t sneak behind my back just because you think you’re right.”
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