A Master of Djinn Page 7

  “Seen enough angels,” Fatma replied. Siti grunted her agreement. The case where they’d met this past summer had involved an angel named Maker, who went very, very wrong. They both tried not to talk about that too much.

  Siti stopped near the end of a small alley, facing a shop with two doors. One was labeled in black calligraphy as an apothecary, bushels of dried leaves and pungent herbs decorating its front. The worn wood of the other was painted with a great eye of celestial blue surrounded by gold stars and red candles. At its top was etched in white: HOUSE OF THE LADY OF STARS.

  Opening the door set off ringing chimes as they walked into a faded blue room. A lone old woman sat at a table, pushing pieces across a game board, an empty chair her opponent. At hearing them enter, she looked up to mouth silent greetings—waving a hand up and down for quiet.

  Half the rectangular space was cordoned off by a curtain of red and black beads, behind which sat three figures at a table. One was Merira, in a black sebleh decorated with stars, and a long headscarf draped in coins and red pom-poms. The persons opposite her wore green dresses cut in a mix of Parisian and Cairene styles—so common these days—their faces hidden by veils. Upper-class women, come seeking a fortune-teller in a back alley of the Khan. The three spoke in hushed tones: something about an ailing father, a dirigible shipping magnate, and an inheritance.

  Whatever Merira revealed didn’t appear to go over well, and the pair took to loud bickering. After several failed attempts at intervention, Merira let out a frustrated shout. A gust of wind rattled the curtain and swayed the gilded gas lamps on their chains. Fatma clutched her bowler in the gale. Siti yawned, examining her fingernails. The old woman’s clothing whipped about, but she never looked up from her game.

  The wind died away, but it had the intended effect. The two rich women stopped their quarreling, eyes fixed on Merira, who silenced one of their protests with a quick “Tut!” When both finally took their leave, they left an obscene amount of money along with their gratitude.

  Merira emerged looking wearied, but at seeing Siti and Fatma put on a bright smile, greeting them with kisses. The priestess affected a matronly air, accentuated by age, a set of doting eyes, and plump cheeks. That was all a role, however, like acting the fortune-teller. Fatma knew better. Behind those ever-smiling lips was a shrewd mind that knew all the workings of this city—both in the light and the shadows.

  “Your clientele has gone up a notch,” Fatma noted.

  Merira rolled her eyes. “Even the wealthy want to know their fortunes. And the bills must be paid.” She laid down the generous stack of notes on the table beside the old woman. “And thank you, Minya, your timely display stopped me from throttling those two!”

  The space above the empty chair rippled, and an inhumanly tall woman appeared, with marbled aquamarine skin and bright jade eyes. Her ephemeral body was as transparent as her sheer dress, which billowed as if caught in a breeze. A Jann. One of the elemental djinn. That explained things. The Jann moved a piece on the board, causing the old woman to exclaim and bite her hand.

  “Peace be upon you, Agent Fatma,” the djinn greeted, voice echoing. “It is pleasant to see you again, despite the circumstances.”

  “And upon you peace, Minya,” Fatma replied. The Jann was a devotee to Hathor. Djinn, after all, could be of any religion, or none at all. She turned to Merira, who had removed the headdress and was now applying black kohl on the honey-hued skin beneath her eyes. “I’m guessing the ‘circumstances’ have to do with last night? You have information?”

  “Not just me. Come.” The priestess led them past another curtain of beads, these gold and blue, to a narrow hallway and then a door. A quick set of patterned knocks gained them entrance, and the three stepped into the Temple of Hathor.

  Lit by bright lanterns, it was furnished with mahogany tables and cushioned chairs. Colorful wall murals depicted gods with the heads of animals, or wearing divine crowns. At the temple’s center stood a black granite statue of a seated woman, curving horns adorning her head with a disc in their center. Hathor. The Lady of Stars. The venerated goddess of old Egypt, reduced to a small group of faithful in the backstreets of Khan-el-Khalili.

  Those who opted to follow these forgotten gods did so in secret. Though the Ministry wasn’t sure of their numbers, it was guessed to be in the thousands—and growing. There was only one occupant of the temple today: a young woman in diaphanous white robes. She bowed to Merira, who pulled off the sebleh to reveal a gold pleated dress. The young woman took the garment, helping the priestess into her layered wig. Siti had gone her own way, stopping to pray at a second granite statue—this one a woman with a lioness’s head. Hathor, made over as the Mistress of Vengeance and Lady of War—the goddess Sekhmet.

  Fatma observed from a distance. She wasn’t intolerant. But she believed in God, and that the Prophet—peace be upon him—was His messenger. Even after all she’d seen in this line of work, this was still strange. When Siti finished praying, she walked over, and Fatma shifted beneath those knowing eyes. They tried their best not to talk religion.

  “Merira went this way,” was all she said, leading them to another part of the room. The priestess of Hathor was already seated in a broad burgundy divan with legs ending in animal paws. A black cat lay near her side, earrings of gold piercing its nose and ears alongside a collar of lapis lazuli. And there was someone else.

  Seated at a long coffee-colored table across from Merira was a man. Fatma had never seen a man in the temple. She’d thought the followers of Hathor all women. But as she caught sight of his face, she wondered if he were a man at all. His complexion was completely gray, with bland undertones of olive, as if his actual color had been faded in the sun. He had no hair at all. None on his rounded scalp, even his brow. Despite that, his strange skin didn’t look smooth. Instead it held a leathery quality, and she imagined it feeling rough under her fingers.

  “Agent Fatma,” Merira introduced, “this is—”

  “You may call me Lord Sobek,” the man spoke. His voice was almost guttural. And his teeth! Were they sharpened to points? “Master of the Waters,” he went on. “The Rager. Lord of Faiyum. Defender of the Land. General of the Royal Armies.”

  There was a stretch of silence. Merira kept a stoic face. The young attendant fixated her gaze elsewhere. Siti sighed, pulling up a chair and inviting Fatma to sit. “This is, um, Ahmad.”

  The man scowled but nodded sharply.

  “Ahmad is the high priest of the Cult of Sobek,” Merira explained.

  The name clicked on in Fatma’s head. Sobek. The crocodile-headed god of the old Egyptian pantheon. She looked over the man, who wore dark brown robes that frayed at the ends. Not exactly high priest attire, but there was something decidedly crocodilian to him. Now that she looked closer, she could see what she’d mistaken for black eyes were actually a deep penetrating green. Like a Nile crocodile.

  “Two of our own were lost in last night’s tragedy,” Merira said.

  Fatma turned to her. “A man and a woman. You knew them?”

  Merira nodded, arranging a set of black tarot cards upon the table. Fatma didn’t understand why a priestess of Hathor needed such things. Tarot cards for divination were likely a European invention with some Mamluk influences, not a practice of the pharaohs. But here she was in an Englishman’s suit. So perhaps, not one to quibble.

  “The man was a high priest of the Cult of Anubis.” Merira overturned a card, depicting a black jackal holding a reaper’s scythe. “The woman was a high priestess of Nephthys.” She flipped another card—a seated woman holding a staff.

  Nephthys. A funerary goddess as Fatma recalled.

  “Nephthys,” Ahmad spoke, “was my divine consort. The wife of Sobek.”

  Fatma frowned. “I thought Nephthys was Set’s sister-wife.” Siti shook her head quietly. Too late. Ahmad’s generous nostrils flared as he gritted his sharp teeth.

  “Why is everyone so slavish to texts written thousands of years ag
o?” he snapped. “Gods can change. Grow apart. Try new things. Besides, Set was a jerk. He never knew how to treat her properly. How to worship her.”

  Fatma looked on dubiously. Were they talking about gods or people?

  The anger drained from Ahmad’s eyes, and he reached into his robes, drawing out a photo—an image of a woman. “Nephthys. My love. My divine one.”

  The woman in the picture was young, quite pretty—with a joyous smile that extended to her eyes. Quite a contrast to the charred remains she’d seen last night.

  “May God give you patience,” she told him. “May I ask her given name?”

  “Ester,” he spoke softly, withdrawing the photo. “Ester Sedarous.”

  A Coptic name. She was a Christian. Or had been, once.

  “What was she doing there last night?” Fatma asked, directing her question to Merira. “Did Lord Worthington join one of your temples?”

  “Quite the other way around.” Merira turned over another card. This one depicted an old bearded man in purple robes holding a glowing lantern. “The Hermit seeks truth.” She flipped another card, and Fatma’s eyebrows rose. It was a replica of the banner at Lord Worthington’s estate: two interlocking pyramids making up a hexagram encircled by a fiery serpent devouring its tail, all above a scimitar and down-turned crescent.

  Fatma had no idea how the woman did that, and didn’t much care. “Enough, Merira. I want to know everything you know. No more parlor tricks. Just talk to me.”

  The high priestess sat back, disappointed. She did love her dramatics. “The Hermetic Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz.” Her fingers tapped the card depicting the banner. “The hexagram, a symbol of alchemy representing the great elements.” She touched the four zodiac signs and the all-seeing eye respectively as she spoke. “Air, fire, earth, water, and spirit. The sun and moon for the many unknowable worlds that may be. Beneath, the sword: honor in defense of rightness, of purity, the balance of life and death. Under that, the down-turned crescent—the light of wisdom in the face of darkness.” Her forefinger traced the fiery serpent. “The unending and eternal quest. Quærite veritatem. Seek Truth.”

  Fatma was puzzled. Since the return of the djinn, esoterics and spiritualists had flocked to Egypt—an array of men in odd hats. But one dedicated to al-Jahiz? “I’ve never heard of any such thing.”

  “Neither had I,” Merira replied, “until we were approached to join. The Hermitic Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz was founded by Lord Alistair Worthington. Sometime in the late 1890s.”

  “A decade or so after the routing of the British at Tell El Kebir,” Fatma noted. “Lord Worthington was instrumental in brokering the peace and independence.”

  “For which he was granted special privileges,” Merira continued, “the so-called English Basha. It seems he put them to use, founding his secret brotherhood. They’ve spent years hunting every trace of al-Jahiz. They reportedly have a vault of relics.”

  Fatma recalled the ritual room at the estate—built, it seemed, as a dedication to al-Jahiz.

  “It does seem a bit contrived, doesn’t it?” Merira asked. “I was certain there was some nefarious plan, when he called on the heads of the temples.” Her hand tapped the Hermit card. “Yet all I saw was an earnest man seeking a higher purpose. He truly believed himself on a holy quest. That the secrets of al-Jahiz would bring peace to the world.”

  “Our great and noble English savior,” Siti remarked wryly.

  “Yes, well. That too.”

  “I still don’t understand how you’re involved in this,” Fatma said. “If I were creating a group dedicated to al-Jahiz, you people wouldn’t be the first on my list. No offense.”

  “We weren’t,” Merira replied. “The Brotherhood were mostly Englishmen—from Worthington’s company. But he became convinced that the key to recovering al-Jahiz’s secrets was to get, how did he put it, ‘the more pure-blood Nilotic type in our ranks, whose minds might work as his.’”

  Fatma winced. Merira shrugged.

  “He attempted to bring in other Egyptians, wealthy associates. But what few he floated the idea with—Muslims and Copts alike—balked. He even went after some Soudanese.”

  Fatma tried to imagine recruiting someone from the Mahdist Revolutionary People’s Republic of Soudan to your occultist brotherhood. Probably have to endure a three-hour rebuttal featuring Sufi writings and two more in Marxist rhetoric.

  “Those closest to Lord Worthington warned he would be seen as an outcast if he persisted,” Merira said. “Us on the other hand? We’re long past that.”

  “You’re the only ones who would take up his offer.”

  “Even a rich man must sometimes eat with beggars,” Ahmad remarked.

  That sounded like something her mother would say. The strange man pulled out a packet of Nefertaris, slipped one between his lips, and was prepared to flick a silver scarab beetle lighter before Merira cleared her throat loudly. Taking the hint, he sighed and replaced the cigarette. The high priestess of Hathor narrowed her gaze on Fatma.

  “I can see that look on your face, investigator. You think we were being used. Some wealthy Englishman comes along with his nonsense cult mocking our culture, and we don’t even have the dignity to tell him no—like some old-time guide offered to carry bags for a little baksheesh.”

  “Not quite that. But you were being used.”

  “And we used him back,” Merira retorted. “We demanded a high price for our presence. Our cults can’t keep going like this. Hiding in back rooms. Meeting in secret. Worthington money would help us build and locate an actual temple. A place to worship out in the open, where we won’t be harassed or hounded. Why do you think Siti’s been traveling?”

  Fatma’s head swerved to Siti, who didn’t meet her eyes. She looked back to Merira. “I’m not here to lecture you on how to run your temple. But we’re talking about murder. Your people’s involvement is going to get out sooner or later. That’ll bring exposure—and not the kind you want. I don’t need to tell you how quick fingers could get pointed your way.”

  Ahmad growled something about senseless bigotry, and Merira’s face tightened.

  “Which is why I’m being as open as possible. I will aid you as best as I can. My word, by the goddess.”

  “Good,” Fatma said. “So tell me, did this brotherhood have any enemies?”

  “I can’t say. We only dealt with them recently.”

  “How about the other temples? I’ve heard you have rivalries.”

  Merira’s eyes rounded. “Rivalries yes, but for members. Or over interpretations of theology. But murdering two of our own? The high priests and priestesses meet every month for coffee. We hold inter-temple potlucks. Why, Sobek and Set are roommates.”

  Fatma looked to Ahmad, who shrugged. “It’s how I met Nephthys. Besides, you know how hard it is to find an affordable one bedroom in central Cairo?” Actually, Fatma did. So she let the issue drop.

  “We know about the bodies,” Merira said. “The odd burns. Minya? Your thoughts?”

  A strong breeze picked up at mention of the Jann’s name, and she materialized.

  Fatma started. Had the djinn been there all this time? “You know something about those burns?”

  The Jann’s face creased in thought. It wasn’t exactly a human face—and not just because of the near-transparent marbled skin. Her eyes—equally marbled—were overly large, her mouth too broad and jawline too defined. This was an immortal face that spoke of eternity.

  “I did not view the dead myself,” the Jann answered, echoing. “But I have heard it described: a fire that consumes flesh but leaves all else unmarred.” She rippled, as if discomfited. “I cannot be certain, but I sense the touch of my cousins at work.”

  The djinn waved long slender fingers over the table. One of the tarot cards slowly turned over to show a sword wreathed in flames.

  “They, truly formed, of smokeless fire,” Minya intoned. “The Ifrit.”

  Fatma’s breath caught. An Ifrit! One of the othe
r elementals. Beings of flame. They were considered quite volatile and didn’t live among mortals or even other djinn. In fact, no one had actually seen an Ifrit in the forty years since al-Jahiz’s opening of the Kaf. “But why would an Ifrit want to murder Lord Worthington?” she asked.

  The Jann whooshed, like wind moving through the branches of a tree. “Perhaps these mortals sought to bargain with an Ifrit. Such attempts have rarely ended … without consequence.”

  “Who would be fool enough to try to bargain with an Ifrit?” Siti muttered.

  Someone playing at forces he didn’t understand, Fatma thought. One of the greatest problems in their age. And it rarely ended … without consequence.

  “One more question. Do you know anything about a masked man in black?”

  “What man?” Ahmad asked. A low growl sounded in his throat.

  “Lord Worthington’s daughter ran into a man dressed in black last night,” Fatma explained, unnerved at his reaction. “Wearing a gold mask.” Ahmad’s teeth ground together, but he said nothing. Fatma filed that away for later.

  Merira shook her head. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you more, investigator.”

  “You’ve provided a lot. I’ll do what I can to see you’re not too caught up in all this.”

  “You will do all you can to find who has committed this atrocity,” Ahmad said.

  Fatma frowned. Was that a request or a demand? “I always solve my cases.”

  The man’s dark green eyes stared, as if they could discern truth. “Nephthys didn’t deserve her end,” he said, voice almost cracking. “Bring her murderer to justice. Man, or djinn, let them stand before the gods and have their soul weighed and judged for this crime!”