“It’s a trick,” Gamal stammered. “There aren’t women in the Ministry.”
Khalid sighed. “You two should read the papers more.”
Gamal shook his head. “I don’t believe it. You’re not—”
“Khallas!” Fatma hissed, leaning forward. “It’s over! Here’s what you need to know. There are four other agents in this room. See the man at the door?” She didn’t bother to turn as the two peered over her shoulder. “There’s another talking everyone’s ear off at a table to your right. And a third, enjoying his hookah and watching a game of tawla on your left. The fourth, I won’t even tell you where he is.”
Their heads swiveled about like meerkats. Saeed visibly trembled.
“So here’s what happens now. You hand over that bottle. I give you half of what we agreed on—for making this difficult. And I won’t haul you in for questioning. We have a deal?”
Saeed nodded so quickly, his ears flapped. Gamal was another matter: shaken, but not broken. His eyes darted from her to the badge to the satchel and back. When his jaws tightened, she cursed inwardly. Not a good sign.
In an explosion of movement the kid flipped the table over. Khalid went sprawling, his chair tipped out from under him. Fatma caught herself before falling, stumbling back. Gamal stood with the bottle in one hand and a small knife in the other. So much for not making a scene.
“Now I make the deals! Let us out of here! Or I break this seal and see what happens!”
“Gamal!” Saeed protested. “We can just go! We don’t have—”
“Don’t be stupid! She’s not going to let us go! They’ll take us in and our families will never hear from us again! Experiment on us! Or feed us to ghuls!”
Fatma frowned. People had very strange ideas about what went on at the Ministry. “You don’t know what you’re doing. And you’re not leaving here. Not with that. Now hand it over. Last time I’m going to ask.”
Something on Gamal’s face snapped. Snarling through clenched teeth, he drew the blade across the wax seal, which broke and fell away.
There was a moment of stillness. The entire ahwa had turned to stare at the commotion. But their eyes were no longer on the small woman in a white Westerner suit, the big man they knew to be a local bookie picking himself up off the floor, or the two young men standing behind an overturned table.
Instead, they stared open-mouthed at what one of the young men held—an old antique bottle pouring out bright green smoke. Like enchanted maassel, but in greater amounts. It formed something that looked more solid than any illusion. When the vapor vanished, a living, breathing giant was left in its wake: with skin covered in emerald scales and a head crowned by smooth ivory horns that curved up to brush the ceiling. He wore nothing but billowy white trousers held up by a broad gold belt. His massive chest swelled and retracted as he took deep breaths, before opening his three eyes—each burning like small, bright stars.
Even in the world left behind by al-Jahiz, it wasn’t every day you saw a Marid djinn simply … appear. The exact scenario Fatma had tried so hard to prevent was now playing out right before her. She allowed a momentary wave of panic, before finding her resolve again.
“Don’t move. Let me talk—”
“No!” Gamal shouted. “He’s ours! You can’t have him!”
“He doesn’t belong to—!”
But the kid was already brandishing the emptied bottle at the djinn. “You! Look at me! I’m the one who freed you!” The Marid, who had been silently gazing across the room, turned his fiery gaze. That should have been enough to make anyone cower. But the kid—quite stupidly—stood his ground. “That’s right! We freed you! Saeed and me! You owe us now! Three wishes!”
The Marid stared at the two, then uttered one word that rumbled and echoed: “Free.” He formed the word again between lips surrounded by a curling white beard. “Free. Free. Free.” Then he laughed, a low bellowing that set Fatma’s teeth on edge.
“It has been ages since I have needed to utter this mortal tongue. But I remember what ‘Free’ means. To be unbound. To be not fastened or confined.” His face contorted into something terrible. “But I was not bound, or fastened, or confined. No one imprisoned me. I slumbered, at my own choosing. And you woke me, unbidden, unasked, undesired—so that I would grant you wishes. Very well. I will grant you only one wish. You must choose. Choose how you will die.”
That was enough. People jumped up from chairs and tables and made hasty runs to the exit. Even the serving staff joined the stampede. The ahwa’s owner disappeared into a closet, locking the door behind him. In moments the place had emptied, leaving behind Fatma, Khalid, two young men, and one very ill-tempered Marid.
Gamal looked staggered—Saeed ready to faint. Fatma shook her head. This was precisely why you didn’t go around opening up mystical bottles. Why was that so hard for people to understand? Well, time to earn her pay.
“O Great One!” she called out. “I would petition for these two who have wronged you!”
The Marid turned his horned head, that fiery gaze scrutinizing. “You have been in the company of other djinn.” His sharp nose inhaled and wrinkled in distaste. “Among other creatures. Are you a mortal enchantress?”
“Not an enchantress. Dealing with magic is just in my line of work.”
The Marid seemed to accept that answer. Or he didn’t care. “You seek parley on behalf of these two”—a clawed hand waved at Gamal and Saeed—“fools?”
Fatma bit back a smile. “Yes, Old One. The two fools.” She spared a direct glance at Gamal. “Surely you are magnanimous enough to look past any slight two stupid children could offer one so powerful and wise.”
The Marid ground his sharp teeth. “The dissembling flattery of mortals. That, I also remember. Do you know why I bound myself to slumber, not-enchantress? Because I grew tired of your kind. Greedy. Selfish. Ever seeking to satisfy your wants. I could no longer stomach the sight of you. The stink of you. Your ugly little faces. I slept to escape you all. In the hopes that when I next awakened, you would be gone. Struck down by a blessed illness. Or slaughtered in one of your endless wars. Then I wouldn’t have to hear your monkey-like chatter. Or need speak your inarticulate tongues ever again. But here I am. And you are still here.”
Fatma blinked at the tirade. Of all the djinn these two had to go and wake up, it had to be a bigot. “Right. You can go back to sleep, Old One. You can sleep for as long as you like. I’ll even see that your vessel is sent somewhere far away. Where you’ll be undisturbed.” Maybe the heart of a volcano, she thought idly.
The Marid inspected her the way a butcher might a goat bleating out a proposal to stay the knife. “And why, not-enchantress, should I deign to make bargains? When I could simply pluck your head from your neck? Stain these walls with your entrails? Or fill your belly with ravenous scorpions?”
Fatma didn’t doubt those threats. Of the classes of djinn, Marid were some of the most powerful and ancient—possessing preternatural strength and formidable magic. But if this half-awake tyrant thought she’d wilt under his intimidation, he had another think coming. Tipping back her bowler at an imperious angle, she moved closer to the towering Marid, craning her neck to meet those three burning eyes.
“You’ve been in self-exile in that bottle for at least a thousand years. So let me catch you up. There are more of us chattering mortals than you might guess. Lots more. More of your kind, too, crossed over to this world. Djinn live among us now. Work with us. Follow our laws. You want to smear me to a pulp?” She shrugged. “Go ahead. But you’ll pay for it. And the people I work for, they know how to make even slumbering for eternity in a bottle extremely unpleasant. Try extending that third eye of yours. See what’s become of the world while you slept.”
The Marid didn’t react right away. Finally, he closed both his eyes, at the same time widening the third on his forehead until it flared with brilliance. When he reopened his remaining eyes they looked startled.
“You speak truth. Your kind has truly m
ultiplied. Like locusts! So many more djinn in this world. Working alongside mortals. Living among them. Mating with—”
“Yes, all of that,” Fatma cut in.
“Disgusting.”
“Reality. So that brings us back to our bargaining. I’m sure you’d rather get back to sleep. Wait and see how things pan out. My offer still stands. You have my word.”
The Marid snorted. “The word of a mortal? Empty and weak as water. There is no worth in that. Present me with something to bind. Something that makes your offer true.”
“My honor, then.”
“What is mortal honor to me? You try my patience, not-enchantress. Make your offer worthy, or offer it not at all.”
Fatma gritted her teeth. Damn djinn and their bargaining. There was one other thing she could give. Though she loathed it. But her options seemed slim.
“To make my offer true,” she said, “I offer you my name.”
That made the Marid’s eyebrows rise. Djinn were big on names. They never gave their true names, instead calling themselves by geographic locations—cities, rivers, mountain ranges. Either that or majestic titles like the Queen of Magic or the Lord of Thursday. That lot were insufferable. By the look on his face, however, it seemed even mortal names held some worth.
“Your true name,” he demanded.
She bristled at this, but nodded acceptance.
“The offer is accepted. But there is still the matter of granting the fools their wish.”
Fatma started. “What do you mean? We just settled on that!”
The Marid’s dark green lips pursed into a smirk. “Our arrangement, not-enchantress, was your offer that I return to my vessel and you assure me uninterrupted slumber. Not that I spare the lives of these two. The wish is still binding.”
“That was implied!” But even as she said the words, she knew the fault was hers. You had to be careful when bartering with djinn. They took every word literally. Why so many of them in this age made good lawyers. She cursed her mistake and tried to think straight.
“So the wish still stands?” she asked.
“What was requested will be given.”
“But you already set the parameters.”
The Marid shrugged and cast a baleful glare to Gamal and Saeed, who shook visibly. “The asker should have taken more care to specify their wants.”
“So all they can get from this wish is death?”
“What comes to all mortals in the end.”
Hardly fair. But fair usually accounted for little in dealings with immortals. Her mind worked to find a solution. This Marid had lived countless lifetimes and was very good at this. But she was a Ministry agent. That meant protecting people from the world of the supernatural and the magical-even when they ran stupidly headlong into it.
“I have a proposal,” she said at last, taking care with her words. “For their wish, I ask that you grant these two fools death—as old men, in their beds, at the end of their natural lives.”
It was a beautiful thing to see the arrogance evaporate from the Marid’s face. She expected him to protest, find some little crack in her logic. But instead, he merely nodded-appraising her anew-then smiled a terrible smile.
“Well played, not-enchantress,” he pronounced. “And done.”
A half hour later, Fatma stood, wiping off her badge. Between the table flipping over and the stampeding patrons, it had ended up halfway across the room. Khalid had found it sitting in a pile of spilled charcoal ash.
“There weren’t any other agents, were there?” the big man asked, holding a cup of tea. He’d managed to coax the coffee shop’s owner from the closet and convinced him to brew a pot.
Fatma rotated her shoulder, feeling the slightest twinge. She’d injured it on a case this past summer. And though it had healed remarkably fast, it still flared up now and then. “Good thing they didn’t know that.”
Khalid chuckled, glancing to Gamal and Saeed, who sat dazed as black-uniformed Ministry agents questioned them.
“Good thinking on saving those two. For a while there, I thought that Marid had you.”
“For a minute, so did I.”
Khalid grinned before his face turned serious. “You do know what you’ve done? What you’ve granted them?”
Fatma had known the moment she spoke the words. Gamal and Saeed were all but guaranteed to live to old age. They’d never need worry about being killed by an automobile. Or falling off the ledge of a building. Not even a bullet. The Marid’s power would protect them for the remainder of their mortal lifetimes.
“I don’t think they realize it yet,” Khalid mused. “But they’ll figure it out in time. Saeed, I believe, will put it to good use. The boy really wanted the money for a trade school. Though I think he’d probably be better at a university. But Gamal … that one could steal the eyeliner from your eye, and still not be content.”
“It’s worse than that,” she said. “Their wish grants them long life. But it doesn’t say how. They could live out their whole lives with a terrible disease, unable to die. Same thing if an accident leaves them in unbearable pain. Their ‘gift’ could easily become a prison.”
Khalid slowly lowered his teacup and murmured a prayer. That was the thing a lot of people didn’t understand. Magic abhorred imbalance. And always exacted a price.
“I’ll keep an eye on them, then,” he said soberly before adding: “Thanks ya Jahiz.”
Fatma nodded at the familiar Cairene slang—evoked with praise, sarcasm, or anger, at the long-disappeared Soudanese mystic. The very one who some forty years past bored a hole into the Kaf, the other-realm of the djinn. She was young enough to have been born into the world left in al-Jahiz’s wake. It was still at times a dizzying affair.
“The kid was right, you know,” she said, eyeing him. “You didn’t have to tip me off. You could have kept that bottle for yourself. Tried to get your own wishes.”
Khalid scoffed. “And risk Muhammad Ali’s curse? God forgive me for such a thing!”
Another bit of Cairene slang. Muhammad Ali Basha, the Great, was rumored to have consolidated his power with the help of a djinn advisor—who abandoned him in his greatest time of need, answering the old Khedive’s pleas with laughter that echoed unceasing in his head. When the aging ruler was forced to abdicate, many blamed the djinn’s curse for weakening his mind.
“Unlike the young,” Khalid continued, “I know the difference between what I want, what I need, and what might just kill me. Besides, I thought all that business about djinn locked away in lamps was some bad Frenchman’s writing.” He looked to where Supernatural Forensics was gingerly placing the Marid’s vessel into a wooden crate for transport. They’d get a proper seal back on and find someplace to store the thing—allowing its ornery occupant to wait out humanity’s demise.
“Lamps are overdone,” Fatma said. “Bottles, on the other hand …”
She didn’t get to finish as she spotted a man walking toward them. In that red kaftan, not with Supernatural Forensics. At second glance, not a man either—a boilerplate eunuch. By its lithe frame and sleek gait, one of the newer messenger models.
“Good evening and pardon my intrusion,” it stopped and spoke. “I bear a message for the recipient: Agent Fatma el-Sha’arawi. The sender is: Ministry of Alchemy, Enchantments, and Supernatural Entities.”
“That’s me,” Fatma indicated. A message at this hour?
“The message is confidential,” the machine-man stated. “Identification required.”
Fatma held up her badge to the sensors beneath the boilerplate eunuch’s featureless face.
“Identification confirmed.” Its mechanical fingers produced a thin cylinder and handed it to Fatma. She opened the casing and unfurled the note, quickly scanning it.
“More work?” Khalid asked.
“Aywa. Looks like a trip into Giza.”
“Giza? The way you’re going, won’t get much sleep tonight.”
Fatma stuffed the note away. “Sleep i
s for the dead. And I plan on doing lots of living.”
The big man chuckled. “Go in peace, investigator,” he called as she walked away.
“God protect you, Khalid,” she replied before stepping from the ahwa into the night.
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Acknowledgments
Thanks to everyone at Tor.com Publishing who helped make this story a reality, from spark to finish. Big ups as well to the barista at the Kensington coffee spot in London in July 2017, who kept me supplied with “flat whites” to get me through this novella—and put up with my Harry Potter jokes. An extra special debt of gratitude to all the readers of “A Dead Djinn in Cairo,” who kept asking for “more” from this world. Hope this delivers.
About the Author
Born in New York and raised mostly in Houston, P. DJÈLÍ CLARK spent the formative years of his life in the homeland of his parents, Trinidad and Tobago. His writing has appeared in Daily Science Fiction, Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, Lightspeed, Tor.com, and print anthologies including Griots I and II, Steamfunk, Myriad Lands Volume 2, and Hidden Youth. He is also the author of the Tor.com novella The Black God’s Drums. He currently resides in a small castle in Hartford, Connecticut, with his wife, two infant daughters, and a rambunctious Boston terrier.
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