A Master of Djinn Read online

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  Fatma stepped from the House of the Lady of Stars into the backstreet of Khan-el-Khalili. Siti came out a moment later.

  “Is he for real?”

  Siti frowned. “Who? You mean Ahmad?”

  “Lord Sobek,” Fatma replied dryly. “He really thinks he’s some crocodile god?”

  “Well, not the Sobek. More like Sobek’s chosen here in the mortal world. Someone in direct communion with the entombed god, a part of whom now resides within him.”

  Entombed gods. That much Fatma understood of the old religionists. The faith claimed the gods had never truly gone away, but instead lay interred deep beneath the earth of Egypt—not dead but entombed within colossal sarcophagi like the pharaohs of old. Adherents believed the more people turned back to their worship, the more the old gods stirred in deathless slumber, reaching out to touch the mortal realm—bestowing followers with bits of their power. One day, they claimed, when enough chanted their names and once more made offering in their sacred temples, the gods would break their eternal fast, taking their rightful place as the true lords of this land. The thought, Fatma admitted privately, at times made her shiver.

  “You alright?” Siti asked.

  Fatma pushed away visions of hoary desiccated gods wrapped in mummified shrouds and adorned in shimmering crowns with the heads of beasts rising from Egypt’s depths—and answered with a question. “You’re looking for a place for this grand temple? That’s where you’ve been these past months? And you never told me?”

  Siti propped back against a wall. “I told you I was out doing work. You never asked much more. Or seemed to want to know. We don’t really talk about that kind of thing.”

  True enough, Fatma conceded. Still. “This attempt at opening up some public temple. That doesn’t sound like a good idea.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t here to lecture.”

  “I’m not lecturing. Just being honest.”

  Siti folded her arms. “What’s your ‘honest’ not-lecture, then?”

  “The country is still getting used to djinn and magic. Now you want to tell them there are ancient gods entombed beneath their feet—that you’re trying to wake up? People aren’t ready.”

  Siti’s voice tightened. “How long should we wait until they’re ready? A year? Ten?”

  “As long as it takes.” Fatma could hear her own tone heating. “Until people accept you.”

  Siti cocked her head. “Like you accept me? Don’t you think we hide enough as it is?”

  The two said nothing else for a moment, only glaring. Slowly, their faces untensed.

  “Did we just have a fight?” Siti asked, a smile forming. “I think we just had a fight!”

  “We had a fight,” Fatma agreed. Her irritation all but vanished at the realization. It was a wonder it’d taken this long.

  “How about tonight you make it up to me—” Siti began.

  Fatma’s eyes rounded. “Make it up to you?”

  “Make it up to me, by taking me to the Spot. It’s still there, isn’t it?”

  “The Spot is always there.”

  “Then looks like you’ve got a date, investigator. Dress sharp.”

  Fatma gave a slight snort as Siti turned to walk inside. She always dressed sharp.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Ministry of Alchemy, Enchantments, and Supernatural Entities sat in the center of downtown Cairo. When it was founded in 1885, its headquarters had been relegated to a warehouse up in Bulaq. It moved to its current locale in 1900—one among the wave of new constructions by djinn architects.

  Fatma traced the building’s outline as she approached: a long rectangular structure capped by a glass dome. A row of bell-shaped windows lined the front of its five floors, each fitted with mechanized screens of black and gold ten-pointed stars and kites, which constantly shifted into new geometric patterns. Walking through a set of glass doors, she gave a quick greeting to a guard—a young man whose uniform was always too big for his gangly frame. One of these days, she’d introduce him to a tailor. Not breaking her stride, she bounded across the marble floor—where the Ministry’s insignia, a medieval symbol for alchemy superimposed upon a twelve-pointed star, had been formed from a mosaic of red, blue, and gold stone.

  She spared an upward glance, where giant iron gears and orbs spun beneath the glass dome, like some clockwork orrery. It was, in fact, the building’s brain: mechanical ingenuity forged by djinn. Smaller replicas allowed aerial trams to self-pilot without the need of a driver. This one helped to run the entire Ministry. The building was alive. She tipped her bowler in good morning to it as well.

  Her cane stopped the closing doors of a crowded lift, allowing her to slip inside. With apologies to the other occupants, she named her floor and checked her pocket watch. Still some morning left, but not much. In her head, her mother’s voice came on cue: Time is made of gold. The lift stopped at the fourth floor, and she stepped out, passing agents on the way to her office—men in black with red tarbooshes. She pulled down her bowler, avoiding their glances.

  “Agent Fatma!” someone called.

  She gritted her teeth. No such luck. Turning, she met a tall, broad-shouldered man in a well-pressed Ministry uniform, silver buttons gleaming. A smile lined his square jaw, and she relaxed a bit. “Good morning, Agent Hamed.”

  The man frowned at a clock on the wall. “Wait, is it still morning?”

  “I didn’t know you were funny now.”

  He smirked beneath a short dark moustache, sipping from a cup of tea.

  She and Hamed had graduated from the academy together, back in ’08. Not that they were great friends back then. He’d been older, bigger, and always bragged of coming from a family of policemen—the kind of person she usually avoided. But, by chance, they’d reconnected just this past summer. Turned out, he wasn’t all that bad. A bit stiff and conservative—like his starched white collarless shirt—but alright, once you got to know him.

  “Keeping late hours,” he remarked. Then in a lowered voice. “Heard you were out in Giza, working the English Basha case. The papers say it was a fire. But if you’re involved…?”

  “You know better than to trust the papers, Hamed,” Fatma chided.

  He looked disappointed at seeing no more was forthcoming. “Fine. But this office is terrible at keeping secrets. The longer you hold out, the more inventive the story’s going to get.”

  Fatma frowned. Men were so gossipy. “Please tell me there’s not another pool?”

  “Oh, there’s a pool. But not on that. The bet’s on how long before you chase off your new partner.”

  Fatma inhaled sharply. Hadia! Between Siti’s return and this morning’s meeting, she’d completely forgotten! Her eyes scanned the office. “Where is she? Did they already get her a desk?”

  Hamed bit his lip, failing to hold back a smile. Lifting his teacup, he motioned straight to her office door. “Onsi’s in there with her now. He’s bringing her up to—”

  Fatma spun on her heels, no longer listening. She found her office door wide open, and walked inside. She’d been granted this space upon making special investigator. It was big, with windows that looked out on the Nile and space enough to hold a desk and furniture, including a wardrobe chest—where she kept her backup suits. You could never be too careful. Now, it held a second desk. Hadia sat behind it. At seeing Fatma she stood straight up.

  “Good morning, Agent Fatma,” a voice greeted.

  Fatma glanced to the squat man across the room. Agent Onsi. Hamed’s partner. His brown face beamed, as usual.

  “I was just talking to Agent Hadia. Did you know we were in the academy together? Why I—” He stopped, frowning through wire-rimmed silver spectacles. “Agent Fatma, are you well?”

  “The desk was already here when I came in,” Hadia blurted.

  Fatma turned about and left, not saying a word. She was vaguely aware of people watching as she strode to Director Amir’s office. She gave a quick knock befor
e being called in.

  At first glance, Amir didn’t fit expectations of a director. His graying hair, sleepy eyes, and drawn face affected the air of an overworked bureaucrat. His uniform had a dull, rumpled cast, and his desk was a clutter—covered in folders and paperwork. But he’d run the largest of the Ministry’s offices for over ten years. Most in his position barely lasted half that long. Currently, he stood engrossed with riffling through a large book, as if searching for something.

  “Thought I’d be seeing you,” he said. “Surprised it took so long. Have a seat.”

  Fatma sat in a narrow, uncomfortable chair. Her eyes fell on a photo of a young Amir framed on the desk, wearing an outdated Ministry uniform and smiling. It was hard to believe he’d ever been young—or that he smiled.

  “I suppose you’ve met Agent Hadia.”

  “We met last night,” Fatma replied.

  “She showed up at the Worthington estate? Impressive.”

  That was one word for it. “I don’t think this partnership is going to work out.”

  “Oh?” Amir mused distractedly. He was taking more books off shelves, opening and shaking them. Fatma steeled herself. The man was notorious for throwing you off your intent.

  “I’ve done fine as a special investigator without a partner. I believe my record speaks for itself. Therefore, I can’t see why I would need one now. I know the Ministry has been pushing for agents to be paired up. That works for some people, but not everyone. I think Agent Hadia deserves a proper mentor, which I’m uncertain I will be.” There. Succinct and to the point.

  Amir said nothing for a moment, shaking out one last book. With a frustrated grunt, he returned to his desk, settling into a worn chair. He was a lanky man, and when he set his half-closed eyes on her it felt like she was being hovered over by a vulture.

  “Ask me how many people, right here in Cairo, have blood sugar sickness,” he said.

  Fatma blinked. “I don’t—”

  “No, go ahead. Ask me.”

  “How many people in Cairo have blood sugar sickness?”

  “Ya Allah! I have no idea! I’m terrible with numbers!”

  “You just told me to ask you.”

  He kept on talking. “You know who’s good with numbers? My wife. A statistician at the Health Ministry. Put together a report on blood sugar sickness and how it’s an epidemic in Cairo. Her probability model says that I could have blood sugar sickness and not know it.”

  He leaned forward.

  “So, do you know what she’s done? She’s thrown out every sweet we have in our house. It got so that I took to hiding sugary things in secret places. Last Moulid, I bought several little candy horses and kept them here. I reasoned she’d have an eye out for sesame candy or malban—not confectionaries made for children. But now it appears she’s found even those so that I can’t grab one sweet thing to nibble on.”

  Fatma stared. He’d done it. He’d completely thrown her off.

  “Is it frustrating? Of course. A grown man should be able to eat a sweet when he wants!” He sighed, and his face relaxed. “But my wife is doing this for my own good. So how can I dislike that? Do you see now what I mean?”

  Fatma shook her head. How could anyone see what he meant?

  “You’re getting a partner for your own good, agent,” Amir snapped. “Whether you believe you need one or not. You’ve done commendable work. But it also gets dangerous. Ghuls. Djinn. That sordid business with the angel. It’s not safe for a lone investigator. The Ministry wants its agents paired, to watch each other’s backs.”

  “But, director,” Fatma protested, “I often work in liaison with the Cairo police. They—”

  Amir shook his head. “Not good enough. You don’t work with police all the time. And they’re not Ministry. Look, it’s not often that I put my foot down.” He motioned at her suit. “Do I ever say anything about your flagrant flouting of proper Ministry uniforms?”

  “You bring it up at least once a month!”

  He frowned. “Really? Well, you don’t appear to pay attention to me, but you’ll have to do so this time. This comes directly from the top. The Ministry commissioners want Agent Hadia here, in Cairo. And they want her with you.”

  Commissioners? Fatma thought, bewildered. Ministry brass were involved?

  “Why? What’s so important about this?”

  Amir leaned closer. “How many women agents are there? I can count them off on one hand. Agent Samia in Alexandria. Agent Nawal in Luxor. Then you. And you’re far younger than them. Agent Hadia is the first woman recruit we’ve had since. A few months ago, women were granted the vote. We might see women soon in parliament. There’s rumors of women joining the police force. The Ministry can’t be seen lagging! Not with those Egyptian Feminist Sisterhood types monitoring everyone, then writing up reports for the papers!”

  So that was it. Fatma had proposed new ways to recruit women years ago, and was mostly ignored. Now the Ministry was playing catch-up. And she and Hadia were to be some kind of public relations campaign.

  “Honestly, I’m surprised. I’d think you’d welcome more women in our ranks. You know I’ve always supported you. Do you know, I was an early subscriber to La Modernite?”

  Fatma groaned silently. La Modernite had been an Egyptian magazine featuring prominent thinkers, among them women who became early feminists. Amir liked reminding her of his more liberal past—frequently.

  “If the Ministry wants more women recruits,” Fatma said, “then it should work on recruiting more women. The more the better. But that doesn’t mean I want a partner.”

  Amir shrugged, settling back in his chair. “And I would give anything for a sweet right now. We don’t get everything we want, do we?”

  By the time Fatma returned to her office, Onsi was gone. Hadia remained standing, nervously fidgeting with a deep blue hijab, her brown eyes expectant. Fatma closed the door, hanging her bowler on a wall hook before falling into the chair behind her desk.

  “You can sit down, Agent Hadia.”

  “It wasn’t my idea to put a desk in here,” she said, sitting.

  “I know. I think Amir was trying to make a point.”

  “Some of the other agents said you might throw me out.”

  Throw her out? Gossipy men! They’d like nothing more than to see the bureau’s two only woman agents in a tumult. Then again, she’d tried to get her reassigned. But that wasn’t the same. Was it? She gave Hadia a hard look, remembering her own arrival in the office. How might she have felt, to be rebuffed by the only woman agent here? Her face flushed, and for the second time she heard her mother’s chiding of the embarrassed girl whose face fell to the floor.

  She cleared her throat. “Agent Hadia. I may have misspoken last night. I’ve never had a partner.” The word still sounded strange. “So this is going to be new for both of us. But I think we can manage to figure it out.”

  Hadia gasped. “Thank you! I mean, that’s wonderful! I mean, I’m overjoyed to—”

  Fatma held up a hand. “It’s going to take a while. So let’s maybe go slow for now?”

  Hadia cut off her exclamations, giving a solemn nod. “Slow. I can do slow.”

  Well, that was at least a start. Her eyes fell on Hadia’s desk, to the typewriter amid a stack of folders. Following her gaze, the woman grabbed a paper and walked over.

  “I started typing up the case report. I thought you’d want to get on it right away. Plus, I like doing paperwork. I hope I didn’t overstep?”

  Fatma took the sheet. She liked paperwork? Was that a joke? Everyone had their thing, she supposed. Maybe this partner business had its advantages. She thought of Aasim sending new recruits to fetch coffee. No, that would be too much. She read over the paper.

  “Not overstepping at all. Where did you get all this?”

  “The police. Had to ring three times to get the file sent by boilerplate courier.”

  Fatma smirked. Three times? Oh, Aasim was going to like her.

  “I
’ve been going through them,” Hadia continued. “The police identified most of the victims from a list Lord Worthington kept of his guests. Last names anyway.”

  Fatma read them over … Dalton, Templeton, Portendorf, Burnley. All English.

  “Two bodies were unaccounted for.”

  “The woman and one other man,” Fatma guessed.

  Hadia nodded. “From their dress, I’m betting they weren’t English.”

  “Good bet. Pull up a chair, Agent Hadia. I’ll fill you in on what kept me this morning.”

  For the next twenty minutes Fatma related what she’d found out: the identities of the unnamed man and woman; the Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz; and what the Jann revealed about the mysterious fire. When it was done Hadia gaped.

  “An Ifrit,” she breathed. “And God created Jinn from fire free of smoke.”

  Fatma was familiar with the ayah, one of many mentioning the djinn.

  “You learned all this in one morning? From some informants among the idol—” Hadia halted, cheeks coloring. “I mean, adherents of the old religion?”

  Fatma hadn’t given names. Not Merira’s. Certainly not Siti’s. But she’d made her sources plain. “I’ve dealt with them before. A strange bunch, but trustworthy. They certainly don’t go around burning people.” Hadia flushed further.

  “None of this solves our case, though,” Fatma continued. “Why would this brotherhood bargain with an Ifrit? Fire didn’t kill our friend with his head twisted around, so who, or what, did? And then there’s this man in a gold mask.”

  Hadia scribbled in a notepad. “Feels like we have more questions.”

  “It’ll feel that way until the end. At least now, we have clues.” Her eyes went to the stack of folders. “Let’s take a look at what else Aasim sent over.” Hadia stood, turning to retrieve them. “And, agent,” Fatma called, rolling up her sleeves. “Welcome to the Ministry.”

  The woman positively beamed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It was half past ten when Fatma arrived at Muhammad Ali Street. Snatches of music filled Cairo’s liveliest hub, as patrons dipped into establishments with glaring signage. The Electric Oud blinked in green alchemical bulbs, while a red silhouette of a cabaret dancer flashed above another. A welcome reprieve, after today.