A Master of Djinn

by P. Djèlí Clark

  Cries of defiance went up along with raised fists. As Fatma watched, a group of thirty or more broke from the main crowd. She recognized their leader: the young man she had pushed earlier. He led his group directly in their path, urging on their shouts and profane gestures. She cast a glance back to the police. There was anger on their faces but fear too at understanding they were woefully outnumbered. Things had escalated and now balanced on a knife’s edge. The slightest nudge could send them tumbling over. No, this couldn’t happen. She glanced up to the imposter, whose impossibly aged face now seemed content. She wouldn’t let this happen! She called out to Aasim, thinking to tell him to pull back—when the nudge arrived, in the form of a shoe.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Fatma watched the shoe fly—a sandal thrown by unseen hands. It fell at an arc and couldn’t cause real injury. But the policeman it struck in the face roared—perhaps more offended than hurt—pushing forward and setting off a chain reaction. Police in the front charged, carried by the momentum of those behind them. When they met the crowd, everything exploded.

  Batons lay about backs, arms, and legs. People went down, screaming as they were hit. Some fought. Others ran, police chasing them further into the crowd. The melee spread as new combatants joined the fray. In a flash, they were in a pitched battle.

  Fatma dodged a man aiming for her. She jabbed him with the pommel of her cane, forcing him back. Another appeared, this one more agile. Fatma barely missed a fist swung inches from her nose. Then the figure spun and leaped up to smack Aasim flat across the face. He yelped, clutching his cheek, free arm reaching futilely at his attacker, who was already zipping away.

  “Was I just slapped by a girl?” he asked, incredulous.

  Fatma eyed the lithe figure disappearing into the crowd. It was a girl. Couldn’t be out of her teens, tall with dark skin. But what stood out were her garments—a bright red kaftan and blue Turkish trousers.

  “Forty Leopards!” she shouted in warning. “There are Forty Leopards in the crowd!”

  Now that she looked, she could spot the lady thieves dispersed through the mayhem—snatching away batons or taking policemen’s legs from under them. Others used slingshots to hurl rocks that knocked men out cold. A few were arranging the disorganized crowd to make strategic hit-and-run attacks along Aasim’s officer line.

  “Forty Leopards!” he spat, working his jaw. “Why are they even involved?”

  Fatma had no idea. But it only made things worse. Another set of attackers charged, separating her from Aasim. She was left with Hamed, and one other agent, working hard to keep the angry crowd at bay. A sudden alarm went off in her head. Where was Hadia? She spun, finding the woman on her right.

  “Get away! Find the back ranks and have them escort you out!”

  “There are no back ranks!” Hadia retorted.

  “You can’t stay here! You’ll get—”

  Fatma’s words were cut off as someone pushed her. She went down, looking up to find a large man looming with a stick. He raised it up to bring down on her—when a fist caught his side. The man squealed, dropping the stick and spinning to his attacker. Hadia. A moment of surprise registered on his face, before he lunged. Fatma watched open-mouthed as the woman coolly evaded his reach. Grabbing his arm, she used his momentum to send him flying—crashing back into his companions. He righted himself and came at her again. This time, she swung up a leg, her boot connecting solidly with his chin. His meaty head snapped back, and he crashed in a heap. His friends looked to his unconscious form, before fleeing after easier pickings.

  Hadia offered a hand. “I told you. I can handle myself.”

  Fatma was lifted to her feet. She was seriously beginning to question her judgment of character. Above them, the imposter stared impassively at the chaos. At sight of her his gaze lingered. He had donned the mask again, but she could imagine the twisted smile it hid. The thought filled her with fresh anger. She lifted her cane to him and shouted: “I’m coming for you!” He answered with a perfunctory wave of his hand—and the figure at his side came alive, leaping to the ground below.

  Fatma pulled back. Damn! She’d forgotten about that one. As before, he landed easily on his feet, as if he hadn’t just jumped from a height of several stories. Before she could blink—there were two. Hadia gasped. But Fatma had seen this trick and come prepared.

  “Hamed!”

  He ran up, the other agents in tow. “They don’t look so bad.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” Fatma warned.

  Hamed ordered his men into a semicircle. “There’s still four of us. And only—” He broke off. An agent cursed. The two figures in black had become four.

  “You were saying?” Fatma asked.

  His answer came in a set of quick commands. His men flipped the levers on their truncheons. There was a humming whine, and the bulbous heads crackled with electricity. It was a Ministry weapon—carrying a battery that produced a powerful jolt. When your job called for confronting supernatural beings often much stronger than humans, you needed an advantage.

  In a blur, the four figures were on Hamed and his men. Their billowy breeches flapped as they threw jabs and kicks. Fatma squinted. They seemed slower than the other night. Not by much, but enough to allow the agents to hold their own. Hamed pressed the fight, taking a glancing blow off a shoulder to strike one in the arm. The jolt should have knocked him unconscious. Instead, he shrieked a high-pitched scream—and his right arm fell off. Fatma blinked. No. All their right arms had fallen off, to similar shrieking. She watched as before her eyes, each appendage turned to black ash.

  Hamed grinned as the four injured figures slinked back. “Think we found a weak spot. This might go easy after all!”

  A ghul! Fatma recalled the black mist from the wound she’d delivered. The man was some kind of ghul. When you cut off a part of the undead, it turned to ash—just like this. But what ghul was this agile? Or could replicate itself? Before she could complete the thought, the ash on the ground stirred. It flew up, attaching at the shoulders of each figure and forming solid regrown arms—down to the black clothing. One of Hamed’s men uttered a prayer.

  “Keep them busy!” Fatma said. “I’m going after their master!”

  Hadia grabbed her arm. “I’m coming with you!”

  It was more statement than question. The woman had even gotten hold of a police baton.

  The two made their way through the mass. Most people were too occupied to get in their way. The few that did were pushed aside until the agents reached the mausoleum. The only way up was to scale the scaffolding built up along its side. As they climbed, Fatma caught a glimpse of a shadowy form moving up an opposite row of scaffolding. Reaching the top placed them on the narrow walkway of the mausoleum’s square base. They ran, turning a corner, and—

  The imposter stood with arms behind his back, staring down contemplatively. “Glory be to God,” he intoned. “It is an amazing thing, how words can so move men.”

  Fatma pulled up short, stopping Hadia. “Charlatans have a way of twisting people’s heads,” she retorted.

  The imposter looked up, his gold mask alive with shifting patterns. And those eyes!

  “Still an unbeliever. Even after what you have seen.”

  “When you’re in my line of work, tricks aren’t so impressive.”

  “Is that what I am? A trick? Of the eyes? Of the senses?”

  “Don’t know and don’t care. I’m here to arrest you. Let the courts handle the rest.”

  “Where I would, no doubt, get a fair trial,” he mocked. “In these courts of men.”

  “You murdered more than twenty people. Burned them alive. You expecting a parade?”

  “They might give me one.” He gestured below. “The people do not judge me so harshly. They understand why I carried out my deed. To save this land from traitors and—”

  “Right,” Fatma cut in. “Nice conspiracy you’ve concocted. You’re still a murderer!”

  “I will be
a hero by dawn. My name on a thousand tongues. Do you not hear them now?”

  Fatma’s jaw tightened. “Your name will be remembered for sowing discord and dissent.”

  The man cocked his head. “You think I’ve sown this strife on my own? Look at how people live, in squalor and ruin. The world moves swift in its boasted modernity, forgetting those it leaves behind, or grinds beneath the gearwheels of progress. This is greater than me. The fitna that comes, has been long in the making.”

  “Fitna?” Hadia asked, perplexed. “Fitna is just a word. A feeling of disorder or unrest, facing difficulties, differences of opinion, learning something that compromises your thinking. What does it have to do with whatever you’ve concocted here?”

  “Ah.” The imposter held up a finger. “The great philosopher Ibn al-A’raabi also described fitna as a testing, a trial, to burn with fire. I see it similar to the ways of alchemy. To melt to such a heat as to separate the elements, much as one distinguishes the oppressor from the oppressed. That is what I bring to this city, to expose what ugliness lurks beneath this age of wonders. So that all with eyes and heart may see. And what will be left, once the adulterations and pollutions are cast away, will be clean and pure.”

  Hadia grasped for words. “You’re twisting things around!”

  “Or perhaps I am giving them meaning.”

  “Thought you said you weren’t a shaykh,” Fatma spat.

  The imposter shrugged. “I reveal truth in whatever language is needed.”

  “Well, save the lectures for your trial. There, you can play the learned philosopher or revolutionary all you want.” She lifted her cane, sliding the sword free.

  “Is this what I will face? A woman with a sword and another with a police stick?”

  “You’re forgetting the third one.” Fatma relished the confusion in those eyes. Even as she spoke, a form detached from the shadows on the other side of the imposter, catching his attention—a woman garbed in black.

  “Hey, Uncle,” Siti greeted, waving gloved fingers tipped with silver claws. She sauntered over, leaning against the mausoleum wall. Her eyes—the only features visible on her wrapped face—narrowed. “You’re looking good for … what? A hundred? Getting in a lot of exercise? Drinking plenty of water?”

  The imposter took her in. “The idolater from the other night.”

  “We have to stop meeting like this. Sekhmet sends her regards.”

  A gasp from behind said Hadia just figured things out. Fatma had arranged for Siti to be here, but to only get involved if her plan went bad. It had gone bad.

  “So are you going to come with us?” Siti asked, extending fingers to nonchalantly eye her claws. “Or do you plan to make things interesting?”

  The imposter looked over the three, before reaching his right hand into the air—where a sword suddenly materialized out of nothing. It was long, with a slightly curving blade, and made of a black metal that rendered it almost invisible against the night. A quiet humming emanated from it, like a song.

  “I’m going to take that as a no,” Siti growled, and ran forward, claws bared.

  He raised his sword to meet her attack, and the sound of metal striking metal rang out. The blade released that odd humming as he wielded it with one hand. Where it met claws, sparks flickered like fireflies. Siti slashed in wide punishing arcs, grinning in barely restrained delight. Fatma took that as her cue and rushed in from the other side, hoping to overwhelm the man’s unprotected flank. She’d had her blade specially made, with the lion pommel balanced for her weight. It had one sharp edge to inflict cuts that, if not fatal, forced an opponent to surrender—or bleed out. She planted her feet and aimed for a slashing maneuver.

  But the man whipped his sword about in a blur, the twists and flicks of his wrist almost imperceptible. He turned aside her thinner blade with ease and flowed back, readying for either of their attacks. They all stopped, assessing. Siti went down to her haunches, balancing on her toes like a cat, dark eyes reflective.

  “This sword,” the imposter said, almost touching the humming blade to his mask. “It was forged by a djinn. They say when it takes a life, the last thing the dying hear is its song.”

  “You always this chatty?” Siti asked. “Or is it my perfume?”

  “I only wanted you to know. So when you hear singing in your ears, you will know why.”

  Siti narrowed her eyes and bounded at him, claws first. Fatma moved in to help. But it was hard to fight on the narrow walkway. Each attempt to strike, she was met with a frustrating parry before he returned to dealing with Siti.

  Loath as she was to admit it, he was good. Very good. He moved the blade as if it were an extension of his own arm. She couldn’t hope to match him, and he knew it. His main concern was Siti, who was relentless. She was forced to back off as the two drove toward her, rounding the corner of the walkway. Hadia kept her distance but followed, baton held ready.

  Fatma stayed on the edge of the fight waiting for an opening. The man couldn’t keep this up. He must have realized as much, because as they reached the rear of the mausoleum, he unexpectedly hopped onto the honeycomb-patterned merlons lining the walls—then jumped away. She ran to peer over the edge to find he’d landed atop a building below. He stood there, sword raised and expectant.

  Siti gave a yell and then, before anyone could stop her, leaped from the mausoleum, landing with a roll and coming up on her feet. Fatma moved to follow, but Hadia caught her arm, shaking her head. “That’s impossible!” She was right. Whatever sorcery the imposter held, and whatever strange magic surrounded Siti, she’d break her legs at the attempt—or worse.

  They were forced to scale the mausoleum wall to get down, dropping onto a rickety bit of scaffolding. Fatma ran along it, Hadia following close, before jumping across a wide gap to more scaffolding—that shook until she was afraid it might tumble. But the thing held. One more climb down and she could see the building, where the clang of claws meeting steel sounded. Another jump, and she was there. The effort winded her, but she ran straight for the fight, taking up a place at Siti’s side.

  “Glad you could make it,” the woman huffed.

  Fatma didn’t have breath to waste on words. Together, they pressed the man. His blade still met their attacks, but he gave up ground. Even better, labored breaths now came from behind the gold mask. He’d make a mistake eventually. Tiring fighters often did. She thought she could see it happening, legs almost tripping on themselves, buckling. Siti saw it too and dove to get inside his guard. But suddenly his legs turned sturdy and he balanced low, before his sword inexplicably vanished. A feint! Before Fatma could call a warning the sword rematerialized in the man’s other hand just under Siti’s exposed side. Thrusting, he sent the blade sliding into her ribs before twisting and pulling it back out. Siti gasped as blood spurted, and crumpled.

  Fatma rushed to her as the man backed off to watch at a distance. Siti’s breaths came hard, and she clutched at the wound before staring in disbelief at the crimson staining her claws.

  “You’re out of this fight!” Fatma told her.

  The woman’s protest came out in a cry of pain.

  Hadia ran up, kneeling to look Siti over. “Glory be to God! If you’re not spitting up blood, it hopefully missed a lung! But this wound needs stanching!”

  “Do it,” Fatma said, her eyes on the imposter, who stood watching—waiting.

  “You’re not trying to take him yourself?” Hadia asked, tearing strips from Siti’s garments.

  “Something like that,” she answered. Her body ached from all the jumping and fighting. But the heat building behind her eyes made it distant. Standing, she peeled to her waistcoat. She hadn’t bought her gun, but she had her janbiya—a gift from a foreign dignitary during her first months in the Ministry. Her hand drew the double-edged knife from a silver-worked sheath fitted to a broad leather belt. Balancing it in one hand, she held her sword in the other and stepped forward.

  “Just you?” the imposter asked. He
flicked droplets of blood from his blade.

  “Just me.”

  They stood staring at each other for a long moment. The gold mask wasn’t carved in any expression—just the visage of a man with down-turned mouth. So it was hard to know what he thought as he eyed her, until he spoke.

  “That idolater. She means something to you. Interesting.”

  Fatma felt her anger flare. She was going to fight this man. Not to kill. But to maim, and hurt very badly. Her vengeful thoughts were broken by the clang of sirens. She turned to look into the distance, where lamps announced approaching police wagons. Aasim had gotten word out. Called in the whole force.

  “It appears we will have to do this another time,” the imposter said. He shouted in a language she couldn’t place. Some djinn tongue.

  Four figures scrambled hurriedly onto the rooftop. The men in the black masks. They ignored Fatma, walking toward one another, and it seemed she only blinked before there was just one. He stood in front of the imposter, staring through her and then quite suddenly exploded into billowing black ash, skin and flesh, clothing and all—becoming particles that swirled about in a swarm. The imposter spread his fingers wide, and the cloud drew into his open palm until it was gone. He lowered the hand and stared with eyes that burned anew.

  “The great and celebrated Ministry. You think yourselves so grand. With your secrets and petty magics. Do you even understand what you are dealing with?”

  There was a blast of wind—hot and fetid, with a burning stench. It washed over Fatma with such force she thought she might choke, and she covered her mouth, gasping.

  “I will teach you,” the imposter said. “I will make you hurt. I will make you understand. And drag your secrets into the light.”