The Book of Magic

by George R. R. Martin

  The two fish were named Artie Grance and Calvin Carmone. They pretended not to know each other, but they couldn’t seem to resist a sly look as they shook hands. Jack didn’t care about that. Instead, he had to fight not to stare at a pair of cuff links Carmone was wearing. Or worse, grab the man’s wrist and say, “Where did you get those?” The cuff links were small, gold, and incised with the figure of an ibis, a long-legged, long-beaked bird that was the symbol of the Ibis Casino, a place only Travelers knew existed, let alone how to get there. Keeping his voice casual, Jack said, “Nice cuff links.”

  Carmone held out his wrists. “You like these? Got ’em in Vegas. At the Luxor. I usually don’t wear cuff links, but I was having, let’s just say, a good night, and wanted something to remember it.” He tried, but couldn’t keep the smirk off his face.

  “Uh-huh,” Jack said. He’d already lost interest when the dealer came in.

  Jack nodded to Charlie, who said, “Good evening, Mr. Shade,” and took his seat.

  Grance and Carmone played most of the hands straight, but every now and then one would signal the other, who would either withdraw or help push up the pot. They were clearly so proud of their scheme, they had no idea that it told the table at least as much as it told each other.

  After about two hours, Jack was nearly thirty-five K up, and headed for a good night, when the knock came at the door. “Fuck,” Jack whispered as he got up to answer it. Out loud he said, “Mr. Dickens, if you’ll cash in my chips, please? Your standard commission, of course.” Two of the regulars sighed, and the third, Mitchell Gold, laughed as they each lined up their chips to cash in.

  Grance and Carmone stared at each other, then Grance said, “What the fuck? The game just got interesting.”

  Mitch said, “Sorry. House rules. Knock at the door, game ends.” He added, “Consider yourselves lucky.”

  “What?” Carmone said.

  Mitch leaned forward and grinned. “Boyfriend, we was just getting started on you.”

  Jack paid no attention to any of this as he opened the door. Irene Yao, the owner of the hotel, stood there in her simple blue linen dress, her low-heeled black pumps, and the unadorned gold necklace Jack had given her for Christmas. She wore her silver hair loose, cut shoulder-length. And of course, her right hand held the silver tray with Jack’s business card. Jack glanced at it a moment, sighed. “John Shade, Traveler” the top line read, then “Hotel de Reve Noire, New York,” and finally, at the bottom, an embossed black horse’s head, the knight from the James Staunton chess set.

  Jack inclined his head. “Miss Yao,” he said.

  “Mr. Shade.” It was only “Miss” and “Mister” when Jack had a client.

  Ignoring the mild clamor behind him, Jack looked at Miss Yao. She sometimes showed regret when she had to interrupt him, but now she looked curious. Her cheeks actually blushed when Jack said, “Did the client give a name?”

  “Just the first. I asked his full name, but he only said, ‘Please tell Mr. Shade that Archie wishes to hire him.’”

  “What?” Jack said. “Please. Bring him to the office and tell him I’ll be right there.”

  * * *

  —

  Several months before, in the disastrous case of Carol Acker, Jack had needed reinforcements. He’d gone to Suleiman International, the conglomerate that housed and controlled the Djinn—at least the ones who granted three wishes. Calling in an old favor, he’d gotten the New York branch to give him a “flask,” the modern equivalent of those smoky glass bottles talked about in the old stories. When the djinni emerged, Jack asked if he had a name, and was told that of course he had a name, did Jack wish to know it? Unwilling to waste a wish, Jack had dubbed the djinni “Archie,” a name that seemed to amuse the powerful being.

  When Jack got to his office, Archie was standing at the far side of the table Jack used as a desk, facing the door with his hands clasped loosely in front of him. Jack had no idea what Archie’s true form might be—if he even had one, for the Djinn were said to be made of “smokeless fire”—but he appeared much as Jack had seen him previously, a tall, elegant man, with an olive complexion and dark hair combed back, beardless, and wearing, or at least appearing to wear, a dark brown suit, with a pale yellow shirt and a maroon tie, and shiny black shoes, slightly pointed.

  Jack noticed that Archie wore a small gold six-pointed star on a thin gold chain around his neck, with Hebrew and Arabic letters inside the points. Modern Jews have adopted the image (without the letters) as the “Star of David,” supposedly taken from the king’s shield. Travelers, however, knew it as the Seal of Solomon, that David’s son used to bind the Djinn in order to build his temple. For a moment, Jack thought of the ibis cuff links that fool Carmone had worn in the poker game, but put them out of his mind.

  Jack’s business card lay faceup on the mahogany table, facing Jack. Miss Yao, of course, had returned it to the “client” after showing it to Jack. A couple of small mahogany chairs stood on either side of the desk. It occurred to Jack that he’d never seen Archie sit. Could he? Jack had never visited the Seven Palaces, but he’d read the accounts of those who had, and they all agreed there were no chairs. Angels, they said, had no knees. But the Djinn? To avoid the issue, Jack just said, “Would you care to sit?”

  Archie inclined his head briefly, then pulled out a chair. As he sat, he said, “Thank you, Effendi. You are most gracious.” As Jack himself sat, he noticed a stiffness in Archie’s movements. He frowned, but said nothing. He could hear Anatolie’s voice in his head: “It is never wise to embarrass the Djinn.”

  So instead he glanced at the star and said, “I gather Suleiman International has a job for me?”

  “Oh, no,” Archie said. Briefly, he touched the star. “This is only to remind me of my…obligations. My concern now belongs to me. Or rather, to the Djinn as a whole. It is we who wish to hire you, Mr. Shade.”

  Jack let his surprise show in his face. “Really? I am honored. But what can I do for the Djinn that you cannot do for yourselves?”

  Archie leaned forward, clasped his hands. Quietly he said, “You can find out who, or what, is trying to destroy us. And hopefully you can stop them.”

  Jack had to stop himself from crying out, “What the fuck?” Instead, he just said, “What’s going on?”

  Archie said, “Tell me, Effendi, what do you know of the Kallistochoi?”

  “Not a lot. Anatolie told me about them but said they didn’t interact with people much, so we didn’t pursue it.”

  Archie nodded, said, “Go on, if you would.”

  “They’re a kind of Power, not light or dark. When the Great War broke out, the Kallistochoi stayed on Earth and refused to choose sides. After the angels won, they punished the Kallistochoi by taking away their bodies and mounting their heads on black poles, then stuck them in obscure places.” He shrugged. “That’s about all I know.”

  The djinni pressed his fingertips together. “Ah. Perhaps we should ask Ms. Hounstra to join us.”

  Jack laughed. Carolien Hounstra, Jack’s friend, lover, and only real ally in NYTAS—the New York Travelers’ Aid Society—was also the best researcher Jack had ever met. She seemed to want to know everything. Jack sometimes joked that she was the daughter of a Dutch professor (that much was true) and a Knowledge elemental. He said, “Sure. But it will take some time for her to get here.”

  Archie closed his eyes and bowed his head slightly. He seemed to concentrate for a moment—an action Jack found oddly unsettling. Then the djinni said, “Ms. Hounstra. Mr. Shade and I are discussing the Kallistochoi. Would you care to join us?”

  A few seconds later, Carolien Hounstra, in all her six-foot, 165-pound glory, appeared next to Jack, who nearly jumped out of his chair. Carolien laughed, a glorious throaty sound. “Hello, schatje,” she said, using the Dutch for “sweetie,” liter
ally “little treasure.” She was wearing her painter’s smock over paint-stained leggings and low sneakers, with her blond hair woven into a braid that ran halfway down her back.

  She turned to Archie as if about to speak, then stopped herself. She crossed her arms over her breasts, bowed, and said, “Great Lord, Jack has of course told me of your power and your beauty. But he did not mention your splendor, and your high station.”

  Archie inclined his head. “Thank you, Ms. Hounstra.”

  Jack squinted at Carolien. “High station?” he said.

  “Oh, Jack, did you not notice the black rings at the base of the fingers?” Jack glanced at Archie and saw that indeed the first and third fingers of each hand, along with the left little finger, bore concentric rings, around a quarter inch wide, two on each, except for that left little finger, which had three. At first Jack thought they were tattoos, but when he looked closer he saw they were more like scorch marks. Carolien said, “Those rings reveal his station. You are hosting a high prince, Jack.”

  Jack squinted at Archie a moment, then bowed his head. “My honor soars ever higher,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound too much like Peter O’Toole. Having paid his respects, he asked, “If you’re a high prince, why do you serve Suleiman International? Couldn’t you have sent some low djinni in your place?”

  Archie smiled and said, “If you were forced to choose between servitude for yourself or for others, what choice would you make?”

  Jack thought back to when he’d joined NYTAS and gotten access to the archives. One of the first things he’d done was look up the slave trade. In some tribes the king would use the local Traveler to protect him. A king in Dahomey, famed for his strength and beauty, had gotten the Traveler to cast his form upon a servant so that the Arab traders would think they’d gotten a great “specimen” to sell to the English, and leave the actual king behind. Jack looked at Archie and said, “I can only hope I would have chosen as you.”

  Archie nodded, then said, “But now we go beyond choice. For all the Djinn are in danger.” He turned to Carolien. “We were discussing the Kallistochoi.”

  “Ah,” she said. “A sad story.”

  “Indeed. But do you know their most signal characteristic? Aside, of course, from their heads being mounted on sticks.”

  “Their songs.”

  “Just so. If you would explain to Mr. Shade?”

  Turning to face Jack, Carolien said, “Though the Kallistochoi cannot move, they sing to each other across the world. It is said that the songs of the Kallistochoi wind through the air, the water, and the earth, weaving beauty.” She seemed uncomfortable talking about this, but Jack let it pass.

  He turned to face Archie. “What does any of this have to do with the Djinn?”

  Archie looked away, out the window, at the Chrysler gargoyles. He said, “Their song feeds our fire. Their song keeps us alive. And they have gone silent.”

  “Fuck,” Jack said. “Then without their songs, what happens to you?”

  “I do not know. None of us do. But I can tell you what it feels like.” He paused.

  “Please,” Jack said. It occurred to him that since he had not hired Archie, he did not have to be careful of any requests that might use up the standard three wishes.

  Archie said, “A chill, but more than mere coldness. I can feel myself hardening, becoming solid in a way I never imagined. And my powers begin to fade. Or I simply cannot recall them. I was able to bring Ms. Hounstra here—”

  Carolien smiled. “Thank you.”

  “But I myself needed to walk.”

  Jack tried to imagine the humiliation it must have caused the djinni to travel on foot. He said, “Why does their song, or their silence, affect you like that?”

  Archie looked from one to the other, then said, “Do you know the four types of conscious beings, and how the Creator made them?”

  Jack shrugged. “Sure. Angels made from light, demons from darkness, humans from clay, and the Djinn from smokeless fire.”

  Archie nodded. “Yes, Effendi, you are correct. All created at the same time, and all equal in their own way. But there is a fifth creation, earlier than all the rest, and not made from opposites, like light and darkness, or fire and clay.”

  Carolien said “The Kallistochoi! Made out of song.”

  Archie smiled at her. “Yes, Henmefendi.”

  Carolien smiled back. If all this information had not fascinated Jack so much, he suspected he might have gotten annoyed at the camaraderie between his girlfriend and “his” djinni. Carolien said, “Please. I know the term shows respect, but perhaps you might leave off the hen part and just say ‘mefendi.’”

  Archie rotated his hand before his heart, just once (wouldn’t want to be ostentatious, Jack thought). “Certainly, Mefendi.”

  Jack decided to bring it back to business. “So do you know who’s doing it? The angels, coming down to kick the singers one more time?”

  Archie said, “No. I—we—believe that this is an attack on the Djinn. Without the Great Songs, we cannot survive. This is why I sought, and received, permission to hire you.”

  “But what will happen to the Kallistochoi themselves if they lose their songs?”

  “I cannot say. Nor can I speak of the effect upon the world.”

  “And yet, even though the Kallistochoi are literally made out of song, and for all we know, silence might actually kill them, you still think this is all about you. The Djinn, I mean.”

  “Yes. I know how arrogant that sounds, to believe that an attack on the Creator’s first children is in fact an attack on us. But there is an ancient feeling in this—a vast hatred that seeks to destroy us.”

  Jack said, “So who hates you that much?”

  Archie shook his head. Jack remembered how, when he first met Archie, the air would sometimes ripple around him when he moved. Now there was nothing, as if the djinni was hardly there.

  Jack said, “Maybe the demons, the ifrits, as you call them. Don’t humans confuse the two of you? Maybe they’re pissed off that they do all this nasty shit and you guys get blamed for it.”

  Archie frowned. After a moment he said, “I have—consulted with my colleagues, and we do not think so. The ifrits do not harbor resentment. It is not in their nature. I think it amuses them that so many of us helped the blessed Suleiman build his temple.”

  Carolien said, “Didn’t the ifrits take part as well?”

  Archie smiled at her. “Indeed. But that does not concern them, oddly. The ifrits do not greatly embrace memory. More important, perhaps, because more recent, is the fact that so many of us heard, and accepted, the words of the Prophet, peace be upon him.”

  Jack nodded. He knew, of course, that many, maybe most, of the Djinn converted to Islam after a famous sermon on a mountaintop in the Arabian Peninsula. He said, “Then maybe that’s it.”

  Again Archie shook his head. “If anything, this provokes more amusement, or contempt, than hatred. The ifrits love mischief, even destruction at times, but they do not give harbor to hate.”

  Carolien said, “Might I ask a moment about the distinction between the Djinn and the ifrits? It is my understanding that the Djinn have indeed done some disturbing things.”

  Archie raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

  “What of the ghuls? Don’t they eat humans?”

  “This is true. Just as humans eat cows, and pigs, and every other non-human creature they can find.”

  Carolien smiled slightly. “Not all of us. And what of sexual possession?”

  “Ah, yes. Some Djinn take pleasure with humans. Some even marry humans, and remain faithful unto death. The human’s death, of course. And because we are made of fire, the pleasure we give is greater.”

  “Is it true that a single djinniyah once left thirty thousand
men in mental hospitals in Morocco? I believe the diagnosis was ‘sexual obsession.’”

  Archie frowned. “Yes. That was the report of your human poet—a Traveler, I have heard—Paul Bowles, who took up residence in Tangiers. For the famous Dancing Boys, perhaps. He spoke of Aisha Qandisha, the Hidden One, who managed to avoid both enslavement by Solomon and the demands of the Messenger, peace be upon him. We prefer not to speak of her.”

  “Fine,” Jack said. “Because right now we need to talk about how to help you.”

  Carolien said, “Is it possible that the Kallistochoi themselves no longer wish to sustain you? Perhaps they plan to go silent just long enough to destroy you, then return to their songs.”

  Archie bowed his head and closed his eyes. For a moment he seemed to be concentrating, then he looked up and said quietly, “We do not think so.”

  Jack said, “Are you sure? Maybe—”

  Carolien touched his arm. “No, schatje. We should not pursue this.”

  Jack shrugged. “Sure.” He glanced back again at Archie. “Where do we start? If we don’t know what’s doing it…”

  Carolien said, “Perhaps Margarita Mariq can help.”

  Jack nodded. “Yeah. If she’ll speak to us.” A few years back, a woman named Sarah Strand had hired Jack to find her missing mother, Margaret. It turned out that “Margaret Strand” was the everyday name for Margarita Mariq Nliana Hand, also known as the Queen of Eyes. The queen was a hereditary position, passing from mother to daughter. Though she was “fully human,” as she told Jack, she was also the holder of all oracular power in the world. Anyone who cast stones or coins, anyone who stared into a bowl of water dotted with drops of oil, anyone who threw sticks or laid down cards—their answers, whether they knew it or not, came from Margarita Mariq.

  The search for the queen had turned out to be one of Jack’s hardest and most complicated cases, bringing Jack closer to destruction than at any time since his wife Layla’s death. And yet, somehow, he and the queen had become friends. Unfortunately, that did not guarantee that she would answer his questions.