The man looked them all over, his blue eyes taking in everything in one sweep, before turning to address Amina. “Are these men boring you with their talk, Frau? They can go on so.” His English bore a German accent, unsurprising given the goblin. At the moment the eyes on the creature’s wrinkled little face were shut tight. From what Fatma recalled, they spent most of their time in this realm sleeping.
The French president’s face tightened at the gibe, and the Russian general’s turned to stone. Only Attenborough seemed unfazed. He bowed to the German. “Madame Amina, may I introduce His Excellency, Kaiser Wilhelm II of the German Empire and Prussia.”
Now the goblin made sense. It was Germany that had called a conference of European nations in 1884—two years after the routing of the British at Tell El Kebir. They met in Berlin and decided colonization was the only way to confront “the menace of magic,” lest another Egypt take root. That mission proved harder than expected. A German-Italian force sent to take Ethiopia was wiped out utterly at Adwa in 1896. In 1898, the British were again spectacularly defeated at Omdurman. Maxim guns, it turned out, were no match for what al-Jahiz had released back upon the world.
Germany learned its lessons from those humiliations. While other European nations balked at magic, the new kaiser embraced it. German folktales were collected and scoured for any practical use. Djinn were not native to the country, but there were other creatures—chief among them goblins. Unlike his predecessor, Wilhelm II made open overtures and entreaties to the Goblin Court, allowing Germany to rapidly grow in its magical and industrial expertise—perhaps Egypt’s only true rival in that regard. That bargain required the German leader to keep a goblin advisor. Though Fatma hadn’t known the agreement demanded so literal a reading.
“When I saw this gathering,” Wilhelm remarked, “I knew it would be the liveliest in the place. Yakov! I see Nicholas has sent you in his stead.” He leaned in to Amina, feigning a whisper. “I hear the tsar can barely leave the country, with all the uprisings and peasants in the streets.” He turned jovially to the French president. “Always good to see you, Poincaré. How are things with the colonies?” Leaning in again, he added: “Another beating like the one you gave them, and I don’t know that they’ll have much of an empire left.”
Amina only sipped from her cup, making eye contact with Fatma. She didn’t need to speak to be understood. Men. They could be such children.
“Why does everyone look like someone died?” Wilhelm demanded.
A set of shouts suddenly rose up—followed by a scream. Every head turned.
“Maybe someone has died,” he concluded.
Fatma went on alert, scanning the crowd to see what the matter could be. People were scrambling back, their faces stunned. She struggled for a glimpse, bracing for what might come. Several dignitaries stumbled away, finally clearing a path. Her heart skipped. There, in dark robes, stood a figure in a gold mask.
The imposter was here.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Fatma watched as the man in the gold mask walked the palace garden with a casual air, hands behind his back. A silence followed in his wake. He stopped once, turning to look at someone. Abigail Worthington. She stood rooted to the spot, eyes gone round. When their gazes met, her body went limp—just managing to be caught by the young Abyssinian heir. Fainted. At least she hadn’t landed on her hand again.
Fatma hadn’t a clue how the imposter got past all the security, but he’d made a mistake. There were enough agents and police to take him. No riot would save him this time. She already had her pistol drawn, prepared to hold him until help arrived, when a new commotion came. Someone else pushing through the crowd, which parted a second time. The king, followed by his guards—the queen and prime minister hurrying behind.
“This man is a terrorist and a murderer!” he shouted. “Place him under arrest!”
The imposter didn’t flinch as royal guards surrounded him, rifles raised. Instead he glanced over their heads, addressing the crowd. “I come to you tonight with no weapon in hand. All I have are words. Does the king of all Egypt fear a man and his words?”
The question was a challenge. And Fatma could see eyes shifting to the king. Before he could answer someone else spoke.
“I have no fear of words.” Wilhelm shrugged, managing not to unseat the sleeping goblin. “Your Excellency, you have invited us to your country and kept us well secluded in your palaces and gardens. Yet we all know what has been happening in the streets of your city. It is on every tongue, even if others are too polite to make mention. Now the man himself has come. I would like to know why.”
The imposter turned to the kaiser. “To bring truths that others may keep from you.”
This elicited murmurs that rose through the garden in a low hum.
Amina scoffed. “What truths can a man hiding behind a mask reveal?”
The king seized the moment to reassert himself. “He is a fraud. A charlatan. He claims to be who he cannot. Nothing he says is worth listening to.”
“Pardon, Your Excellency. But perhaps we should be the judge of that.” This time it was the French president who spoke. He bowed but kept his eyes on the imposter.
The king frowned. “I assure you. Whoever this charlatan claims to be, he speaks lies.”
“And who is it you claim to be?” Wilhelm asked.
The imposter stood straighter, his eyes burning. “I am al-Jahiz. Returned.”
Gasps went up all around. Rumors were one thing. To hear it spoken, another. Some gaped. Others looked uncertain what to think. One voice rose to speak over them.
“You are not al-Jahiz.” It was the unnaturally handsome djinn, the king’s advisor. He pressed forward from the crowd, taller than the humans about him, black eyes smoldering against milk-white skin. “You are not fit for his shadow. A pretender who dares to wear the title—”
“Silence,” the imposter commanded, waving his hand.
To Fatma’s shock, the djinn’s head jerked back as if struck. His mouth snapped shut, the sound of his teeth meeting reverberating with a crack. He stood confused, gripping and pulling hard at his chin. But his jaws would not open, as if they’d been welded and sealed. His dark eyes quavered, and he stepped back, a look of horror marring his perfect face.
The crowd grew silent at sight of the cowed djinn. Beside her, Fatma heard Amina mouth a prayer as her Qareen flowed to stand before her protectively. Even the king went quiet, staring as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes. His guards stood their ground. But their faces showed uncertainty. The imposter paid none of them any mind, his gaze fixing on Fatma. No. Not her. The leaders and dignitaries about her.
“You are as remarkable as the rumors claimed,” Wilhelm voiced in the quiet. He sounded both impressed and cautious. His attention went momentarily to Amina. “What do you say, Frau? Your grandfather prophesied the coming of the Soudanese mystic. Is this truly him returned in the flesh?”
Amina stared out from behind Jenne at the imposter, still shaken. She composed herself, however, and addressed the German kaiser. “As I must often remind others, I am not my grandfather. You will have to make that assessment yourself.”
Wilhelm chortled, running fingers over his upturned moustache. “I suppose power doesn’t flow in the blood.” He turned back to the imposter. “So then, what words do you need to speak?”
“I must ask the same,” the French president added, eyes inquisitive. “What words are so important that you make yourself an uninvited guest and risk your certain capture?”
The imposter spread long arms, letting his gaze wander over them. “Why are all of you here? Why has the king of Egypt sought this audience?”
“To bring about a lasting peace,” Lord Attenborough answered succinctly.
“Peace.” The imposter repeated the word as if it were a curious fruit he’d plucked. “You think Egypt can bring you peace when it cannot bring peace to itself. When its people cry out against its own injustices. When its corruption and decadenc
e devour it from within.”
“Let nations govern their personal affairs,” Wilhelm retorted. “I am not here to judge how a sovereign rules his people. If you have come to persuade me on such matters, you are wasting your time.” He gave a gracious nod to the king, who replied in kind.
“But Egypt is not concerned with just its own affairs,” the imposter countered. “Egypt has involved itself in all of your affairs. It believes itself now a great power, who meddles far beyond its borders. Certainly, the sultan knows this.”
All heads turned to a man who stood among the kaiser’s entourage. He wore a Turkish suit with a red tarboosh, and his lightly bearded face was pensive. The Ottoman sultan. Fatma hadn’t recognized him, behaving more like an attendant to the German emperor than his equal.
“The once magnificent Ottoman Empire,” the imposter said. “Now beset by rebellions on all sides. Unable to gain back territories lost and losing more by the day. It sits weak and humbled, waiting to be picked apart by its foes.” The imposter gestured to Lord Attenborough, the French president, and the Russian general Zhilinsky. “Does Egypt come to its aid? Does Egypt help mend these wounds? No, it only plunges the dagger deeper.”
“This is outrageous!” the king bellowed. “Egypt has attempted at every turn to maintain the integrity of the Ottoman Empire. We have sought amenable solutions to all sides.”
True as that was, the Ottoman Empire was in trouble. The return of djinn hadn’t bestowed upon them the same gifts as Egypt. They were stretched too thin across too many continents, with subjects who held no abiding loyalty to the sultan. Nationalists rose up in every corner, making claims to sovereignty, drawing on magical traditions of their own. Meanwhile, Britain and France refused to return territories forcibly ceded near a century ago. The Russians openly encouraged independence movements in the East. Maintaining the empire was untenable; but no one wanted to see an utter collapse. Egypt had been working to avoid complete chaos.
“Was forcing you to grant Armenian independence one such amenable solution?” the imposter asked the sultan. “What has been the result? More of the empire, believing they can do the same? Believing that if they fight, Egypt will arrive to provide an … amenable solution?”
The sultan’s face grew dark, and he turned to the king. “You did promise us that granting independence would alleviate grievances. Show that the empire could be reasonable. Now every nationalist clamors for a state, and my people whisper of my weakness.” A bold admission—though nothing anyone here didn’t know. The reputed plots and coups against the sultan were common knowledge. “Yet when we call you for aid in the Balkans, you say you cannot come. You say it is not a matter for Egypt.”
The kaiser clapped his hands together. “Now things have become interesting!”
At her side, Fatma felt Amina grip her arm and lean in close. “He will turn them against each other! Like a snake let into your house. Stop him!”
That was going to be harder than the woman realized. So many here were looking for a reason to be at one another’s throats.
Before the king could offer a rebuttal, the French president spoke. “I admit we found the calling of this peace summit odd, given Egypt’s current support for the upheavals in Constantine and Algiers. You may not send troops or weapons, but your djinn are there. They and local djinn offer support to the rebels and Egypt does nothing to curtail them.”
The king looked exasperated at this line of questioning, and the queen stepped in for him. “Surely, President Poincaré,” she said with a stately grace that belied her common roots, “you do not think we must answer for every djinn in Egypt. Many do not recognize borders drawn on human maps, when they have walked these lands for centuries.”
Poincaré bowed deep. “Your Highness knows the ways of djinn better than I.” He paused, looking back up. “Yet how is it Egypt believes she can be an arbiter of peace among nations, if she cannot contain her own citizens?”
The imposter watched silently—like an assassin who had plunged his knife into a weak spot, and waited for blood to flow. Fatma never took her eyes from him.
“I, for one,” Wilhelm mused, “find it a curious thing that Egypt can be so magnanimous in providing a path to peace, yet so miserly with its wonders.” There were new grumblings among the foreign dignitaries in the crowd. “Germany had to forge its own way. While Egypt refused to share its secrets. Well, that isn’t true, is it? Some nations are more deserving than others, it seems. Yakov! How are those new gas lines getting along? And soon I hear an airship construction yard?”
Zhilinsky returned a stare. “It is no business of yours what we do and with whom.”
“Those are developmental programs,” the Egyptian prime minister explained, loud enough so that all could hear. “They don’t include any machinery that could offer a nation an advantage over the other. Egypt is committed to its neutrality.”
“And what of the work you are doing in Armenia?” the sultan pressed.
“More of the same, Imperial Majesty,” the prime minister answered. “I assure you.”
“Assurances,” Wilhelm repeated, smoothing his whiskers. “I would not want to look up one day to find a fleet of heavy air cruisers decorated in pretty Russian designs flying over the Balkans, come to help their Slavic cousins.” His tone turned sharp, like a blade drawn slightly from the scabbard. “It would be unfortunate if Germany had to help our friend the Sultan shoot such a fleet down. Even a very pretty one.”
Zhilinsky glared. “Only if you want a million Russian soldiers on their way to Berlin to avenge their mother country!”
A sudden movement caught Fatma’s eyes. The goblin on the kaiser’s shoulder was stirring awake. It opened dull yellow eyes and yawned wide to show sharp teeth. Settling, it turned to the Russian general and spoke in a croaking voice: “The Goblin Court would not stand by and allow such an invasion. Doubtless it would include filthy rusalki and bagiennik, and lowly peasant magic. We would consider that an act of war.” It swiveled a baleful gaze to the French president. “Do not think us unaware of the overtures you have made to the disgusting Fae. We would be forced to act against any provocative alliance with such treacherous creatures.”
Poincaré’s face turned crimson. “You dare threaten us? Wretched beast!”
Everything erupted after that.
What had been bared teeth turned to shouting. A nearby French diplomat shoved his German counterpart, and a scuffle ensued. The king’s guards pulled him back, even as he pleaded for order. Wilhelm and Poincaré traded insults only feet from one another, while Zhilinsky looked ready to brawl.
In the midst of it all, Fatma struggled to keep track of the imposter. She hadn’t looked away, even as the exchanges grew heated. But now there were tangles of people. Some grappling with one another. Others trying to separate them. Amina was loudly calling for calm, though Jenne looked ready to sweep her away if need be. Fatma pushed people out of the way that blocked her view, to find the place where the imposter stood—empty.
She cursed, spinning about and searching. He couldn’t have just disappeared. He had to be here! Her desperate eyes caught sight of him, and she stared in disbelief. The imposter stood clear across the garden, surveying the scene like a spectator. How did he get there so fast? It was impossible! His eyes locked with hers across the distance, before he turned and walked away.
Fatma was off, squeezing past people, knocking others aside. When she finally broke free, she took off in a sprint. The gardens about the palace were immense. The night’s festivities were only being held in one portion, and she had seen him moving into the unlit portion—where palm trees and topiaries formed a small dense forest. She was halfway there when someone pulled up alongside.
“I figure wherever you’re going,” Siti called, “must be the right place!”
Fatma glanced the woman over—running while holding up the hem of that white dress. She’d hoped for Hamed or Hadia or some of the other agents. But Siti was never the wrong person to h
ave on your side in a fight.
“He went that way!” Fatma huffed, gesturing with her cane.
They reached the trees, stepping into shadow and looking about. Siti inhaled, as if testing the air. Then pointed with her chin. “This way.” Fatma didn’t argue, knowing by now to trust the woman’s oddities. They ran, passing topiaries of beasts set up like a maze, turning this way and that before finally sighting their quarry.
“Stop!” Fatma shouted.
The imposter never broke his stride, hurrying for the shelter of some trees. Pointing her gun into the air, she pulled the trigger. The gunshot would send guards and soldiers descending on this area. Good. It also had the desired effect, forcing the imposter to turn about. He stared at them from behind his gold mask, before lifting a hand and throwing out what looked like a spray of sand in the dark. No, not sand. Ash. The flecks swirled through the air, fast resolving into a solitary masked figure garbed in black. The ash-ghul. In a blink there were two. They stalked forward as their master stood back to observe.
Fatma had no intention of letting them get close. She took aim. Beside her, Siti pulled hard at the bottom of her dress—tearing it away to reveal white breeches fitted into boots. Strapped to her legs were metal pieces which she pried off and began fitting together. Fatma waited until the two ash-ghuls were close enough to hit in the dark—and fired.
She’d learned two things that night in the Cemetery. The more divided the creature was, the weaker its duplicates. Also, what you did to one affected the other. Her bullet struck the one on the left, and it shrieked, bleeding black ash. Its doppelganger jerked, spilling ash from the same wound. She fired again, just at the one. Each mark hit home, slowing their advance.
“Here!” Siti stepped up. “Let me try.”
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