A Master of Djinn: 1 (Dead Djinn Universe)

by P. Djèlí Clark

  Fatma tried to make sense of what was happening. Now that the djinn had moved, she could see the vault door was indeed open. Behind the imposter, a figure in black stood holding rolled papers. The ash-ghul. Several duplicates followed, carrying some metal items. They were raiding the vault. Taking what they wanted. And Zagros was letting them!

  “What are you doing?” she cried in alarm.

  The usually composed librarian drew himself up, a low rumble emanating from his thick throat in what she realized was a growl. His jaws suddenly opened wide—baring tusks long as her forearm—and he roared! The sound shook the empty library. The only thing that came close to matching it were his feet thundering on the floor as he ran toward them.

  Fatma had seen some nasty brawls involving Marid djinn before. Like watching giants battle. She’d often compared Zagros to a rhinoceros. But as he bore down on them, his golden horns bent low, she knew no rhino could look this frightening.

  She recovered from her initial shock in time to throw herself to the side. Her two escorts weren’t so fortunate and took the brunt of the djinn’s charge. He swung that hefty tome like a battering ram, knocking both men from his path before they could bring their truncheons to bear. Fatma didn’t stop to see where they landed. She was running, turning down a corridor to seek shelter between a set of shelves. The maddened djinn gave chase, squeezing his bulk between aisles, splintering wood and sending books flying as his claws reached to grab her. She managed to break free of the corridor, with him plowing after in pursuit—sending pieces of shelf raining.

  Fatma leaped, sliding across a wooden table, just as the djinn brought the heavy book down. There was a sharp crack, and the table buckled, one of its legs snapping as it toppled. She barely made it down another corridor, turned a corner, and crouched down to hide. Her heart pounded, her mind now on survival. There was no time to question why the normally prudish Marid librarian was unmistakably trying to kill her. She just needed to get out of this alive!

  From where she huddled, she could still see the imposter. He was leaving, strolling casually from the library as the ash-ghul and its duplicates followed with their arms laden. He caught a glimpse of her where she hid, and put a chain-mail finger to his lips for quiet. The sight made her buzz with anger, and for a moment, all thoughts of self-preservation fled. Until a shadow came to loom above, and she looked up to see the djinn’s lavender-skinned face contorted in senseless rage—his roar setting the tiny bells on his tusks tingling.

  She rolled, narrowly missing a fist that sent stone chips flying from the floor. Reaching her feet, she ran back the way she’d come, toward the vault—throwing down chairs and books and whatever else to slow the murderous djinn. She could lock herself in if need be. But a swiftly closing roar told her she wouldn’t make it.

  She almost ran past the thing on the floor just ahead—long and black. One of the truncheons! She scooped it up, not stopping her stride. New plan! She banked toward a set of tables that had been tossed on their side. Setting herself up behind them and bracing her back against the wood, she cranked the lever on the truncheon to its highest setting and listened for the low humming whine. Above her, two giant hands gripped the table’s edge, and the djinn’s horned head soon appeared, golden eyes wide on her. Eyes that despite their brightness looked dead inside. He opened his mouth to roar, but she didn’t give him a chance—stabbing the underside of his neck with the bulbous end of the truncheon.

  Blue bolts crackled, lighting up the dark. The librarian howled. The truncheons were made to handle creatures like djinn. At this setting, it would kill a human. It should have at least incapacitated a Marid. But he fought, digging his claws into the table and pressing toward her, mouth gaping, so that hot saliva splattered her hands. She didn’t stop, even as she was forced down by the weight of him, her back pushed against the flat of the table. At this rate, he might just crush her outright. Then, mercifully, his push slackened. He seemed to grow sluggish before his eyes rolled back. He rose up to his feet, stood a moment, then fell with a tremendous crash.

  Fatma lifted up, peeking over the table edge. Zagros lay on his back, chest heaving. Alive, but unconscious. She staggered up, forcing her mind to refocus on her earlier goal.

  The man in the gold mask.

  She picked up her pace, running for the stairs. Or tried. Somewhere along the away she’d hurt her leg. And all she could manage was a jogging limp. She spied the two downed agents rising shakily to their feet and called for them to follow. Reaching the stairs, she took just a few steps up—before a deafening boom shook everything. Her hands gripped the railing, holding tight as the building swayed. Thick billowing dust rolled over her. She choked in it, and realized she couldn’t hear herself coughing, because her ears were ringing.

  The bomb.

  Two figures were quickly at her side. The other agents. Together, the three of them climbed the stairs. When they reached the top, the door was already open—blown off its hinges.

  The foyer of the Ministry was unrecognizable. Beneath a haze of dust, the floor was strewn with masonry and shards that crunched under their feet. Meaty pale-gray bodies lay everywhere, charred and torn to pieces. Fatma now understood. The explosives had been inside the ghuls. The ones massed under the dome. She walked around twisted giant iron gears and dented orbs, and it took a moment to recognize what they were. Her eyes went upward. The storm had passed, leaving behind a clearing blue sky. She could see it plain—because the bits of machinery littering the ground had been the building’s brain. All that was left was a gaping hole.

  By the time Fatma made it outside, she was bent over, trying to expel dust and smoke from her lungs. Somebody took her arm, leading her away. Hadia. Someone else had her other arm. Hamed. She stumbled between them, thinking she must be in some state for him to actually hold her up as he did. The man was usually very proper about such things.

  The two led her a safe distance. Here people milled about, their faces distraught. A few held hands over their mouths. Others openly wept. She turned to what they were looking at. The Ministry still stood, but it had been struck a severe blow. The glass dome was gone—blown clean away—and black smoke poured from a smoldering fire.

  I will make you hurt. I will make you understand. And drag your secrets into the light.

  The imposter’s words echoed with the ringing in her ears, given new awful meaning. She turned to Hadia and Hamed, trying to get her mouth to work. They sought to calm her. Hadia was saying she was in shock. Amid their chatter came the distant clang of sirens. No! They needed to listen. She’d seen what the imposter took from the vault. She’d recognized it.

  “Plans and pieces,” she stammered. “He took plans and pieces.”

  Both only stared in confusion. She gritted her teeth, pushing away the ringing and the world, willing the words to come.

  “Listen! I saw what he took! Plans and pieces! They were from the Clock of Worlds. He took plans and pieces from the Clock of Worlds!”

  Hadia still looked confused. But seeing the blood drain from Hamed’s face told her she’d gotten her point across. Closing her eyes, she let the ringing and the world flood back in, trying not to let the terror she felt consume her.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The night air was cool on Fatma’s skin, stirring her from a fitful sleep.

  She’d been dreaming. Of the man in the gold mask. Ghuls and roaring djinn. Ifrit that flew on wings of flame. She pulled free of Siti, and rose from the bed. Slipping on a gallabiyah she walked to where Ramses lay on her high-backed Moroccan chair—a ball of silver fur atop cream-colored cushions. She thought to sit, but remembered her mother’s claim that the Prophet—peace be upon him—had once cut his own cloak rather than move a sleeping cat. Instead, she stepped past fluttering curtains to her balcony, and looked out at the city below.

  When she was younger, her family spent summer nights on the house roof to avoid the heat. They’d sit sharing coffee and what news of the day. She slept peaceful there,
preferring the expanse of open sky to closed walls. A part of her toyed with going to the roof of her apartment. But it wasn’t the same. Besides, getting lost in memories of home was usually her way of trying to escape the now. Too much at stake to lose herself in that kind of reverie. It had been three nights and two days since the attack on the Ministry.

  And Cairo was in shambles.

  The city’s administrators and Ministry brass had come by the day after to assess the damage and present a strong front to the public. But people could see the wreckage. Photographs of the Ministry building pouring black smoke were splashed across all the dailies. And everyone knew who was responsible. If the streets had been abuzz about al-Jahiz before, now they were on fire.

  Ask the average person what it was the Ministry did, and you got all sorts of answers—much of them fanciful. But people understood what the Ministry stood for: to make some sense of this new world; to help create balance between the mystical and the mundane; to allow them to go on living their lives, knowing someone was there to watch over forces they barely understood. To see that institution laid low was like taking a hammer to the collective psyche of the city.

  Riots erupted that first night and continued into the second. Some of the unrest came from Moustafa’s sympathizers, who took the attack as a sign to demand the release of the alleged Bearer of Witness. It got ugly. Almost a repeat of the Battle of el-Arafa. Scores arrested. More police injured.

  And that was only the beginning.

  Protestors calling themselves Al-Jahiz’s Faithful demonstrated outside state offices—even showing up in front of the bombed Ministry. They called on the government to stop hiding the truth, accused authorities of outlandish conspiracies to strip Egypt of its sovereignty, and demanded acknowledgment of al-Jahiz’s return. More violent elements attacked anyone denying their claims. There’d been beatings and at least one firebombing at an aether-works shop. This wasn’t some extremist religious sect. Al-Jahiz’s followers included Sunni and Shia, Sufi and Copts, fervent nationalists, even atheistic anarchists and nihilists—all united in their dedication. To an imposter.

  I will make you hurt. I will make you understand.

  Fatma realized her hands had balled into fists. Her eyes ran back to the bed, and some measure of her tension eased. Even sleeping, Siti had that effect. It was hard to believe the woman had suffered a grievous injury just days past. Even the scar was gone. Whatever magics she and the Temple of Hathor dabbled in, it was potent. Her gaze left the bed, falling on a bit of gold that sat on a nearby table. Her pocket watch.

  She picked up the timepiece, turning it over. The back was fashioned like the tympan of an old asturlab—with the coordinates of the celestial sphere engraved in a stereographic projection, overlaid with an ornate rete. Depressing a latch, she flipped the watch open to reveal a glass casing covering bronze wheel gears, plates, pinions, and springs. A silver crescent moved along an inner circle ticking down the seconds, with a sun and star keeping the hour and minutes.

  Her father was a watchmaker, a skill that yet proved resourceful in this age. In the industrial world everyone needed a watch, if only to keep up with airship and railway schedules. Her father crafted beautiful timepieces, no two the same. His creations were commissioned in nearby Luxor and as far south as Aswan. This one, he’d made for her. She still remembered his words when offering it.

  Old travelers and sailors used the asturlab to tell their place in the world. So that no matter where they went, they could locate the Qibla for prayer or know the proper time of sunrise. I made this watch for you, light of my eyes, so that you can always know where you are. Cairo is a big city—so big, you can get lost if you’re not careful. If things ever get too fast, and you feel as if you don’t know where you’re going, remember this gift. It will always lead you back where you need to be.

  “Counting down the hours?” a voice purred in her ear.

  She jumped slightly as Siti’s arms wrapped around her waist. She hadn’t even heard the woman stir, much less cross the room.

  “Still can’t sleep?”

  Fatma closed the pocket watch. “Can’t keep my mind quiet.”

  “Been a busy week. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  That was true. No one had died in the attack, praise be to God. The ghuls, it seemed, were meant to keep people out of the way. Even the missing guard had turned up, in his oversized uniform. But they weren’t without casualties. The building’s brain had been destroyed. For all intents and purposes, the imposter had murdered it.

  Zagros was another troubling matter.

  That the imposter was able to turn one of their own damaged morale more than any bomb. The djinn librarian hadn’t put up resistance when arrested. He was a traitor for certain. But an oddly quiet one. He spent his days in a cell, refusing to speak to anyone. She still saw his golden eyes as he tried to kill her. Empty. Dead.

  “Come back to bed,” Siti urged, nuzzling her neck. “Worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.”

  Fatma leaned back, wishing she could. But her mind wouldn’t stop working, like her watch. She and Hadia hadn’t been able to do much on the case since the attack. Between sweeps for traps, leftover ghuls, and repairs, the building wouldn’t be habitable for days. They’d been working out of makeshift offices, but things were no longer solely in their hands.

  Brass had stepped in, pulling in agents from as far as Alexandria. It was a manhunt now. Find out where the imposter would strike next. Chase down every sighting. Arrest anyone involved. The leads she and Hadia had dug up, the investigation around Lord Worthington’s death—all of that had been mostly abandoned.

  “It’s like they don’t even care about solving the case,” she grumbled.

  “The imposter’s admitted to the crime,” Siti said. “Added a bombing to the list.”

  “But there’s no motive!”

  “I thought we were just going with criminally insane?”

  Fatma cursed silently. “We were getting close. I know it. Alexander Worthington. He’s involved somehow!”

  Siti shook her head. “No one’s going to let you go after Alexander Worthington. Not on the eve of the king’s peace summit. The one his father put together. It would be a scandal. And, no offense, but you don’t exactly have much to go on.”

  Fatma exhaled wearily. Not from lack of sleep but exasperation. Siti was right. Brass had commanded her to stay away from the Worthingtons. Not to question their associates, or take any action to embarrass them. They couldn’t even subpoena business records. Aasim had similar orders. Finding the imposter and making certain the king’s summit went off without a hitch was now top priority. She and Hadia had even been put on assignment that night, in an attempt to make the palace an impregnable fortress.

  “I told you what he took from the vault,” Fatma whispered. “You know better than anyone what that could mean.”

  The two of them had been the only ones to see the Clock of Worlds set into motion. The machine had been built by a rogue angel named Maker—based on the Theory of Overlapping Spheres, the very one al-Jahiz used to open the portal to the Kaf forty years past. Using blood sorcery, the angel had unlocked a doorway to some nether-realm—part of a mad plan to cleanse humanity and start anew. She and Siti managed by the skin of their teeth to stop him, closing the portal, and sealing away the terrible things within.

  She’d explained all this to the higher-ups at the Ministry, begging them to take seriously the threat of the Clock of Worlds in the imposter’s hands. Amir backed her up. But their concerns were waved away. No madman and imposter would be able to re-create the work of an angel, they reasoned. She was certain more than a few doubted her account of what the machine was capable of doing. It was all so maddening.

  “It’s getting dark out there.”

  Siti looked out onto the city, understanding she wasn’t speaking about the night. “All the temples are worried about these Jahiziin.”

  Fatma rolled her eyes at the term, cooked up by the dailies to
describe the imposter’s followers. There couldn’t be that many. Most Cairenes were too sensible for that. Probably fewer than a thousand. But a loud and determined minority was all you needed to sow chaos.

  “That firebombing last night of the aether mechanic,” Siti went on. “That was actually a Temple of Osiris. The head priest was only saved because some Forty Leopards intervened—chased the Jahiziin off.”

  Fatma met that with surprise, recalling their run-in with the Forty Leopards at el-Arafa. “So the lady thieves are on our side now?”

  “Be thankful someone is,” Siti remarked playfully. Her tone turned sober. “Merira’s shop window was smashed last night. But I think it was just random vandalism, not an attack on Hathor. We’ve been careful.”

  Fatma was reminded of their argument about whether the temples could come out into the open. She didn’t bring it up.

  “It might all unravel, you know. The whole city. Come apart like a cheap suit.”

  Siti rumbled a low laugh. “Like you know anything about cheap suits.” Then hugging Fatma tight: “Whatever comes, we’ll meet it. We’ve done it before. Now get back to bed. Not taking no for an answer.”

  Fatma finally allowed herself to be led back. Curling about Siti, she took a deep breath, drinking in the woman’s scent, and finally drifted away. Her dreams now were pleasant, even peaceful. And she tried to hold on to them for as long as she could.

  The summit took place the following week.

  On a Wednesday.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The king’s palace was a wonder of the times: a synthesis of Persian, Andalusian, Ottoman, and Neo-Pharaonic styles. It was built for the current monarch—who ascended the throne during the nationalist upheavals in the wake of al-Jahiz’s disappearance. His predecessor, the very same Khedive that had attempted to arrest the Soudanese mystic, had been deposed upon demands of the British. They ordered the new king to denounce the nationalist movement and all “superstitious” claims of djinn walking Cairo’s streets.