When they arrived in the sitting room, the djinn offered them space on a plush purple divan while he sat in a wide chair large enough to fit his frame. On either side of him were tall gold carvings of camels. The detail was exquisite, down to the fur on their flexed muscles imitating movement and bright red rubies meant for eyes.
“Definitely not the frugal type,” Hadia whispered.
A small wood table was set up between them that held a gilt bronze pitcher carved with Persian designs and a spout like a camel’s mouth. Beside it were three cups of tea, with fresh mint leaves. They were invited to drink, and Fatma took her cup, sipping in surprise. This might have been the best mint tea she’d ever tasted.
“Now, how might I help the Ministry?” Siwa asked, a pleasant smile on his large face.
“We’re looking into the death of Lord Alistair Worthington,” Fatma said. “We understand that you knew him?”
The djinn blinked as Fatma moved to set her cup down. She fumbled, almost dropping it as she missed the edge of the table. Had the thing grown smaller?
“The papers say it was a terrible tragedy,” he answered. “But I did not know the English Basha, not personally.”
“You did do business with him. Through an intermediary—Archibald Portendorf?”
“Yes. The Wazir and I did business together.”
Fatma took note to better phrase her words. Djinn weren’t inherently deceptive. But they were at times direct, answering only precisely what you asked.
“This business. It was for the Hermetic Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz?”
Siwa blinked again. His smile wavered, lips trembling before going still. Fatma took note of that, breaking her concentration as her eyes flickered to the dark wood walls. She’d already noticed the mural that hung behind the djinn, displaying more camels on a gold background. Seemed to be a theme. Only now the camels that had been running right appeared to be running left. Her eyes went to her cup. What was in that tea?
“Yes,” Siwa answered finally. “My business was with the organization founded by Lord Alistair Worthington.”
“You helped them procure items.”
“Such was I was tasked, by the Wazir. We did good business together.”
“Why do you call him that?” Hadia asked. “The Wazir?”
“The members of the Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz often held titles. Lord Alistair Worthington was known as the Grand Master. Archibald, the Wazir, his second.”
That explained the journal. “Were you a member of the Brotherhood?” Fatma asked.
Siwa’s smile broadened, and he chuckled. “No djinn belonged to Lord Alistair’s Brotherhood. Not that he didn’t try.”
“He tried to recruit you?”
Siwa’s smile wavered. Fatma glanced to make sure Hadia was writing this all down, but found her contemplating the teapot—which had oddly become brass instead of bronze.
“He made the attempt,” the djinn said. “But I declined. Such intimacy in mortal affairs can bring … problems.” For the first time his smile shrank to nothing, and his eyes took on an inward look, before his pleasant demeanor returned.
“How do you know so much about the Brotherhood, then?”
Siwa shrugged. “The Wazir was nervous around djinn. I would try to settle him with tea, and he would chatter on—I believe to cover his discomfort.”
“The things you procured for the Brotherhood,” Hadia asked. “They came from a list? Were they authentic? Because you were paid a lot for them.”
The djinn’s smile remained, but his answer was stiff. “I only deal in authentic items. My list is sound. My word is my reputation.”
“Of course,” Fatma jumped in. Djinn were sensitive to the insinuation of lying—even when they were. “You know, then, that Archibald died alongside Alistair Worthington.”
“Again, a terrible tragedy. May God show them His mercy.”
“You might have been one of the last people to see him, outside of the Brotherhood. He came to collect a sword from you, for £50,000. What kind of sword was that?”
“A blade that once belonged to the man you call al-Jahiz,” Siwa replied. “Forged by a djinn. A black blade that sings.”
So that explained how the imposter had gotten it. “Where did it come from?”
Siwa sighed regretfully. “Forgive me. But such secrets of my trade, I cannot divulge.”
She’d expected as much. “One last thing. Archibald claimed the night he came to get the sword there was an argument over money.” The djinn’s lips did that trembling thing again, and he blinked rapidly. “It seems someone else had already wired you £50,000 from Worthington’s account, two weeks prior, for unknown services. Someone with the initials AW.”
Siwa emitted a strangled noise. His lips compressed tight, as if holding something back, before he bellowed: “Ethiope! A cursed land indeed! The blackamoors from there are in his keep! Broad in the nose they are and flat in ear! Fifty thousand and more in his company!” The djinn clapped a clawed hand over his mouth, shaking his horned head.
Fatma, startled, looked to Hadia and back to the djinn. “Are you well?” When he didn’t answer, she tried again. “I only wanted to know about the second wire of money. What was it for? And who made it? The initials AW—was it Alexander Worthington?”
She’d barely finished speaking before Siwa let out a howl. No, not a howl, a stream of words without end. “Have the bards who preceded me left any theme unsung? What, therefore, shall be my subject? When the gods deal defeat to a person, they first take his mind away, so that he sees things wrongly! Nothing can be revoked or said in vain nor unfulfilled if I should nod my head!” Then without warning, the world rippled.
Fatma jumped to her feet.
“What just happened?” Hadia stood as well.
Before she could answer, the world rippled again. Not Hadia, not herself. But the djinn and the entire room shifted about, undulating like the swirl patterns on the djinn’s skin. She thought she might guess what was happening, when Siwa gave a gurgling scream. His mouth opened wide, unhinging until his jaw gaped, and a dark blue tongue lolled out—so long it fell to the middle of his chest. He pulled something from his kaftan: a long knife with a serrated blade. Fatma reached for her pistol. But the djinn put the sharp end to his tongue. With a fevered look in his eyes, he began to cut.
Fatma heard Hadia gag as blood spurted. Without another word, the two hurriedly backed out of the room, watching the apartment heave in sporadic spasms as the djinn’s screams filled their ears. They didn’t stop until they’d gotten out the front door, down the stairs, and past the three tentmakers—who still worked studiously at their stitching. Only when they reached the sidewalk did they speak.
“Ya Satter ya Rabb!” Hadia gasped. “What was that?”
Fatma had no answer. A djinn cutting out his own tongue was a first. “Didn’t the journal say something about him turning erratic when asked about the wired money? I’d call that erratic.”
“What was he yelling? It sounded like literature or—?”
“—poetry,” Fatma finished. “I didn’t know the first bit. But the second, it was Antar.”
“The medieval poet? So am I crazy? Or was that apartment … jumping about?”
“You’re not crazy,” Fatma answered. “He’s an Illusion djinn.”
Hadia blinked, then widened her eyes in understanding. Fatma should have caught it right away: an apartment too big on the inside; items changing one moment to the next. All djinn were gifted with illusion. The strongest ones in stories made entire cities appear in the desert and could fool each of your senses.
“But I felt like I walked a whole way to that sitting room,” Hadia insisted.
“That’s what makes Illusion djinn so good at what they do.”
“Did we even see the real Siwa? Did I really drink mint tea?”
“I doubt his apartment is as opulent as it seems. I also have a guess where his money’s been going. Did you notice all the camels? Almost always
running?”
Hadia frowned quizzically, but Fatma let her work it out. “We won’t support his habit!” she said, catching on. “From the journal. He’s a gambler! Camel races!”
Fatma nodded. Camel racing had always been more popular out in the eastern desert, or back home near Luxor. Anywhere with flat wide spaces, which were hard to come by in Cairo. That was, until the djinn created their mechanical steam-powered camels, which could reach breakneck speeds. A track sat outside the city, and the high bets on riders and their clockwork mounts were notorious. Nothing emptied pockets faster.
“That explains why he needs so much money,” Hadia deduced. “But why rip out his own tongue? Unless that was an illusion too.”
“That felt too real,” Fatma said. “He seemed genuinely upset. Every time we asked him anything that came close to touching on the Brotherhood, his illusion slipped. When we asked about that night with Archibald, the argument over the money, it started falling apart.”
“Not just the money,” Hadia noted, frowning. “It was when you mentioned Alexander that things got bad. He really didn’t want to talk about that.”
Or couldn’t. Fatma gazed back up to the tentmaker’s shop. She’d heard of spells that could stop someone from revealing secrets, rendering a person unable to form words, sealing their lips tight. A spell that could reduce a djinn—a Marid no less—to spouting random lines of literature and force him to cut out his own tongue was strong magic.
“One more question,” Hadia said. “Is it darker out than usual?”
Fatma broke from her contemplations to follow Hadia’s gaze. The sky was darkening, the blue obscured by a growing yellowish haze. A warm strong wind picked up, buffeting them and fluttering the awning above. All along the street, canvases were tossed about in the growing gale—a few becoming unmoored and flapping wildly. The bread seller they’d seen earlier sped by, still holding loaves atop his head. He shouted as he went: “Sandstorm! Sandstorm!”
Sandstorm? This time of year? But as Fatma watched, signs of a brewing storm mounted, as sunlight dimmed and the wind intensified. People hustled to get indoors, closing shops and pulling down barricades. She could already feel the dust in her nose, making it hard to breathe.
“We need to make it back!” she told Hadia. Holding her bowler tight and putting her shoulder against the wind, she set out, hoping to beat the storm before it arrived.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Fatma sat in the automated carriage, stringing pieces together in her head. First, Alistair Worthington and his brotherhood were all killed by a man claiming to be al-Jahiz. That same night, it appeared his own son wired money to a djinn behind his back. Now some sorcery was preventing that djinn from revealing more. Alexander had, at best, a troubled relationship with his father and bore no love for the Brotherhood. With both gone, he was free to inherit the Worthington name and scrub it of his father’s influence. People murdered for far less.
Still, none of this explained the magic this imposter wielded. Certainly not the Ifrit. Could this false al-Jahiz be someone hired by Alexander? The man seemed to hold disdain for anything related to sorcery. Yet here he was transferring large sums of money to a djinn with a penchant for gambling. She’d have to do some digging on counter-spells, see if there was some way to get Siwa talking. Something in her gut told her the answers were there. What is hidden is still greater, her mother often said.
“That’s strange.”
Fatma looked up to find Hadia staring out the window. But she didn’t appear to be looking at anything. Instead her head was cocked—more so like she was listening. The storm had worsened, making it hard to see. It howled over the city like an angry child. “What’s strange?”
“I can’t tell the direction of the storm. We get sandstorms in Alexandria. They blow from one direction. You can’t tell by seeing it, but you can certainly feel it in the wind. This one though sounds like it’s blowing from, well, every direction.”
Fatma frowned. “This is an odd time of year for sandstorms.” And they hadn’t gotten any of the usual warnings. Was it even hot enough for a sandstorm?
“I might have something odder,” Hadia choked. “Is that the Ministry?”
Fatma squinted to where the woman indicated—a dark shape in the distance. No, that couldn’t be the Ministry. She squinted harder, tracing the shape’s rectangular outline. It was the Ministry! Only shrouded in a thick yellow haze that swirled about the building.
“No wonder we couldn’t tell the storm’s direction,” Hadia said. “It’s centered on the Ministry!”
Looking to the sky, Fatma made out veins of blowing sand, all streaking toward the Ministry building. They merged with the churning cloud as if eager to join a dance, growing thicker by the moment. This didn’t look good.
“You have your sidearm?” she asked.
Hadia’s dark brown eyes showed alarm, but she nodded, pressing at a place beneath her coat. “You think it’s that bad?”
Fatma checked her own pistol. The service revolver was standard Ministry issue, nothing fancy: silver plated, a thin long barrel, and a six-shot cylinder. “When there’s a strange, unknown disturbance centered around the one place meant to investigate strange, unknown disturbances—yeah, I think it might be that bad. How are you with that?” She jerked her chin at Hadia’s pistol.
“Good enough, I suppose. But I don’t like guns.”
Fatma sympathized. Carrying the thing always felt like an extra weight about her neck. “Think of it as insurance. We won’t use it unless we absolutely have to. You ready?”
Hadia nodded. “Wait!” She pulled a hijab from her satchel. Handing it over, she began loosening her own headscarf to fit over her mouth and nose.
They stopped the carriage a short distance from the Ministry, as the vehicle threatened to tip over in the increasing winds. When they stepped out, those same winds hit them. Fatma hunched her shoulders, one hand gripping her bowler, the other clenched to her jacket. She had to walk at an angle, as the storm batted at her much as Hadia had suspected—oddly from every direction at once. Fine grains found any bit of exposed skin. Usually this was more an annoyance than anything else—but for some reason this sand actually stung!
Hadia wasn’t faring much better—her long skirts flapping wild. The two moved more on instinct than sight, and they had to be careful not to lose one another in the gloom. Reaching the front of the Ministry felt like they’d trekked a mile rather than a block. The glass doors didn’t open at their arrival, and they were forced to pry them apart before squeezing inside one at a time.
Fatma grunted with exertion as they pushed the doors closed again, shutting out the storm. She shook herself, stripping the hijab from her face and letting sand spill across the floor. Beside her Hadia unwrapped her mouth and nose, pulling in breaths. The normally well-lit foyer was dark. Partly it was the sandstorm. But there didn’t seem to be a light on anywhere.
“The power’s out,” Hadia noted.
Fatma peered into the black. Where was that stationed guard? “The building has backups. Its brain should send out repair eunuchs to fix whatever’s wrong.”
At her words a loud rumbling came, like metal creaking and grinding against itself. There was an almost mournful cadence to it, and the building shuddered with its passing.
“What was that?” Hadia asked.
“The building’s brain.” Fatma craned her neck, trying to glimpse the iron gears and orbs beneath the glass dome. “Something’s wrong. Listen. Doesn’t sound like it’s even spinning.”
“Maybe sand somehow got into the gears?”
“Maybe. Can’t make out anything. Wish I had a pair of spectral goggles right now.”
“I have mine,” Hadia said, fumbling in her pockets. “I know most agents only take them out on crime scenes and the like, but guidelines say keep them on you so … I do.”
God’s blessings for the eagerness of rookies, Fatma thought.
“I’ve got them on,” Hadia said. “And
I’m looking up … but…”
“What?”
“I don’t know what I’m seeing. There’s movement up there, but it doesn’t look right.”
“Let me try.” Fatma took the goggles, fitting them on. The dark turned into a luminescent jade—bright as day but filtered through the spectral world. Everything was vivid here. Even the storm outside was a set of intricate patterns that broke apart and re-formed again. Gazing up at the domed ceiling, she adjusted the rounded green lens and focused.
Viewing the building’s mechanized brain through spectral glass was usually breathtaking—a cascade of light that made each rack and pinion glow, the many orbs awash in brilliance. But none of that was visible now. Instead, a dark accumulation obscured everything. She adjusted the lenses again. Now she could see bits of light, but buried beneath clumps of shadow. Shadows that moved and writhed. What in the many worlds? One of the shadows lifted up as if stretching, before falling back into the larger mass. In that brief moment Fatma glimpsed its shape—humanlike, long limbed with an elongated torso. The sight turned her insides to ice. Reaching for Hadia, she gripped the woman’s arm and pulled them flat against a wall, then whispered one word filled with urgency.
“Ghuls!”
Hadia’s face showed all the shock and revulsion expected at hearing that word.
“Ghuls? You’re certain?”
Fatma nodded grimly. She’d know those twisted bodies and limbs anywhere.
Hadia cast her gaze upward and shrank—as if expecting the creatures to fall down on them any moment. “There is no God but God,” she whispered. “What are ghuls doing in the Ministry?”
“Stop asking me questions I can’t answer!” Fatma snapped, frustration getting the better of her. “But they’re all over the machinery up there. No wonder the building seems out of power.” Another grinding rumble came, likely the gears struggling to move beneath that mass of undead. They sat on the mechanical brain like a disease, infecting it, draining its magic.
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