by Nafiza Azad
“What happened between you and Sunaina Baji?” Adila ventures after a moment. Fatima doesn’t ever talk about what she lived through. She doesn’t have words big enough to express the pain inside of her.
Fatima breathes out, suddenly so weary that even breathing hurts. She sits up and considers Adila’s question. “Do you remember that time Ali Abbu took us to Tameez for the cotton harvest?”
Tameez is an oasis three hours away from Noor and home to the largest number of cotton trees in Qirat.
Adila nods. “We were fourteen.” Her lips quirk. “Amirah and Azizah complained for days because they weren’t allowed to come with us. Why?”
“Do you remember that little orphan girl we met there?”
“Fazilat? Yes. She had the longest eyelashes I have ever seen on anyone.”
“Before we let her out, she stood in that shack with her face pressed to the window.”
“I remember that. Why did they lock her in?”
“They thought losing her parents meant she had bad luck. They didn’t want her and her bad luck to affect the harvest.”
“Ah.” Adila looks pensive. “But why bring up Fazilat all of a sudden?”
“Because today for the first time, I felt what she must have felt.” Fatima looks out at the desert. Storm clouds are gathering on the horizon.
Zulfikar roams the mahal in the still hour of the morning just after Fajr. A scent of lightning charges the air, making it impossible for him to sleep. He walks to the kitchen on the first floor and makes a request to the staff already awake. Ten minutes later, the boy who usually serves him his food carries up a tray containing a copper pot of tea with a bowl of sugar cubes, a cup, and a plate of Zulfikar’s favorite dessert, gulab jamun.
“If you want a more substantial meal, sahib, I can bring it for you.” The boy places the tray on a small table near the open balcony doors and leaves. Sheer white curtains flutter in a breeze. Zulfikar’s apartment in Northern Aftab looks out over the desert arm of the River Rahat.
Zulfikar stands outside on the balcony, dressed in a white tunic and shalwar, the attire he usually sleeps in. A feeling of unease skitters down his back, and he stalks into the room. He pours himself a cup of tea and drops two sugar cubes into the cup. He returns to the balcony with his cup of tea and the plate of gulab jamun. Setting down the plate on a table on the balcony, he leans against the railing and stares out at the city before him. The feeling of unease persists. The Ghul attack on the city the night before perturbs him. Ghul usually only attack traveling parties; they do not take risks, and they definitely do not escape without killing anyone. The night before, Zulfikar and his soldiers chased three of the creatures, but all three managed to escape. That isn’t the strange part. What concerns him is that the Ghul didn’t kill or even injure anyone. It was as though their only intent was to incite fear among the Noor citizens.
His thoughts return to only a few hours earlier, when his pursuit of the Ghul led him to the girl with the Djinn fire. Her existence vexes him; she feels like a puzzle he ought to solve. Why has Firdaus kept her a secret? Zulfikar pops a gulab jamun in his mouth and closes his eyes to properly savor the taste. Is she a threat to Firdaus’s safety?
Life in Al-Naar is simpler, Zulfikar muses. The enemy is obvious and cannot take advantage of shadows to spread their malice because Al-Naar, and the city of Tayneeb in particular, does not allow for shadows. Zulfikar looks at the red-streaked skies; dawn is the closest Earth skies get to the sky in Al-Naar. Dawn is when Zulfikar feels homesick the most. He gets up abruptly and returns to his room, closing the balcony doors behind him.
When Sunaina wakes up the next morning, the first thing she notices is Fatima’s absence. For someone who barely talks, who clings to silence like a lover, Fatima’s absence is loud; the memory of her fills all the spaces in the apartment until Sunaina can barely stand it. She performs her morning ablutions and makes roti, spinach curry, and chai flavored with cardamom and cloves. She glances frequently at the front door, thinking she heard the key turning in the lock, the door being pushed open, and Fatima slipping in.
The minutes turn into an hour. The chai cools, as does the food. The door remains closed. Sunaina packs up the food to drop off to Laali—no sense in it going to waste—and changes into the clothes she wears to work. Her heart seems to beat too fast in her chest, and her throat is thick with regret. She thinks of the look on Fatima’s face the night before and swallows.
Would an apology solve anything? What if she marched to the Alifs’ apartment right now and demanded to speak to Fatima? What would she say? I’m sorry? Would that suffice? But what is she sorry for? Why is she sorry? That Fatima heard her feelings? That she has these feelings? Or that she discussed Fatima with her friends?
The silence feels too large, and the apartment too empty. Sunaina makes her way to work without paying any attention to the road she travels. She gets a ride from one of the many carts on the road and gets off one street before Sushila-ji’s haveli. Lost in her thoughts, she doesn’t even pause like she usually does to admire the grand havelis along the street. She nods absentmindedly to the gatekeeper and walks up the driveway and through the back door into the kitchen. There she finds all the house servants gathered around Anjum, who is regaling them with the tale of the Ghul from the night before.
“Look, here’s Sunaina!” Anjum says when she sees her. “You can ask Sunaina if you don’t believe me!”
Before they can, however, the housekeeper arrives and scatters the servants to their individual duties. Sushila-ji’s grand house is a mess from the previous night’s party, and its occupants are still abed. The housekeeper wants the haveli cleaned and tidied before they wake up.
Sunaina and Anjum are sent to clean the courtyard.
“Did you get home safely?” Anjum asks, picking up the charred pieces of spent fireworks. “I was so scared I couldn’t sleep all night long! Is your sister all right? I have never seen anyone as brave as her!” The other woman keeps talking, but Sunaina stops listening.
“Sunaina?” Anjum shakes the girl, looking at her pale face in concern. Sunaina starts.
“Sorry.” Sunaina rubs her eyes with her hand. “I’m just a bit tired.”
“Sunaina!” a maid calls out to her from the upper verandah.
“What is it?” Sunaina says. The maid, Razeema, bounds over.
“Rajkumari Bhavya was here last night! Maya-ji wore that orange eye shadow you made for her, and the rajkumari loved it! Maya-ji told me the rajkumari wants you to make her some!”
“What?” Sunaina stares at the younger maid, not comprehending for a second. “Really?”
“Yes! Really!” Razeema nods enthusiastically.
Sunaina’s eyes widen.
Fatima arrives at work with her cheeks flushed and her clothes wrinkled. She is wearing a pale green tunic with matching shalwar. Her deep blue turban is unraveling, and she hurriedly fixes it. She fell into a deep sleep after Fajr and woke only when Amirah stepped on her on the way to the bathroom. Then she discovered that she had slept on the clothes she intended to wear that day but didn’t have time to grab new ones from her apartment. No carts were headed the way she was going, so Fatima ran all the way over to Achal Kaur’s haveli.
Her haste has been for naught. All deliveries have been assigned, and the only one in the reception is Achal Kaur sipping on a pyali of chai.
“I was getting worried,” Achal Kaur says, looking anything but. “Come here.”
“I’m sorry, Beeji, I slept in.” Fatima is desperately apologetic. She has never been late before.
“It is not to scold you that I call you nearer, chanda. Your arm, it is bleeding.” Fatima looks down and grimaces. The bandage Adila had tied around her arm the night before is now wet with blood. She bumped into a corner while running to work. The wound has a dull ache that Fatima feels only now.
“My sources told me you had a bit of excitement last night,” Achal Kaur says, untying the bandage and looking at
the cut with pursed lips.
“Some kind of creature …” Fatima trails off.
“It was a Ghul. A kind of Djinn. They don’t usually attack in cities.” Achal Kaur’s eyes are sad, and Fatima remembers that her son had been killed by a Ghul. “Don’t worry, the Emir will keep us safe.”
“Do you know the Emir, Beeji?” Fatima asks curiously.
“He and I do the occasional business,” the old woman says vaguely. She finishes her chai and gets to her feet. “Come.”
She takes Fatima to the second floor, where a bevy of matrons fuss over her, plying her with food and redressing her cut. By the time they return downstairs, Fatima has regained her energy if not her spirits.
“Beeji,” Fatima says, following Achal Kaur into a room full of cubbies where outgoing packages and letters are kept.
“Hmm?” Achal Kaur riffles through a stack of small packages.
“Do you know anyone renting out single rooms?”
Achal Kaur’s eyes sharpen. She turns to face Fatima. “Don’t you live with your sister?”
“She’s getting married,” Fatima replies, trying to look happier at the news but finding it beyond her.
Achal Kaur’s expression clears. “I will ask around.”
“Thank you, Beeji.”
“Too early to thank me, chanda. Ah yes, here it is.” Achal Kaur removes a small package from the stack. It is addressed to Firdaus. “Taufiq dropped this off for the old man.”
“Another book?” Fatima looks at the package.
“What else could it be? The old man only ever receives books from the merchant.” Achal Kaur frowns at Fatima. “Will you be all right today? If your arm hurts, you can take the day off.”
“No, I will work,” Fatima says firmly. She bids farewell to her boss and leaves the haveli, making her way to Kalandar Street as quickly as she can manage.
Fatima pauses outside the bookstore and takes a deep breath before pulling the door open. The sense of homecoming she feels when she enters Firdaus’s bookstore is enough to send fresh tears to her eyes.
“I didn’t expect you today,” Firdaus says from the doorway to the inner room. At the sight of him, all of Fatima’s defenses come crumbling down and the tears she has been suppressing since the night before escape. Firdaus leads her to her chair in the back room, gives her a cup of tea, and waits silently. When the torrent of tears finally abates, Fatima takes a shuddering breath and looks up to see Firdaus’s bemused expression.
“May I ask what’s wrong, ya binti?”
“It’s a long story, baba.” Fatima manages a smile. “One I would rather not give words.”
Firdaus nods and gestures to the tea. “Drink. Rahmat delivered some kunafeh this morning. Eat.” Firdaus returns to his work at his desk, giving Fatima space and time to regain her equilibrium.
“Baba.” Fatima remembers the package. She removes it from her messenger bag and holds it out to Firdaus. “The merchant, Taufiq, delivered this to Beeji today. It’s a book.”
Firdaus eagerly takes the package. “I’ve been waiting for a volume of poetry written by an obscure Kmemu poet.”
Firdaus rips open the brown paper wrapped around the book and makes a sound of pleasure when he discovers that the book is indeed the volume he was seeking. He flips open the book, running his fingers through the text. Fatima watches him, consoled by the pleasure he takes in the written word. He suddenly, unexpectedly, goes still, and the old Ifrit’s face empties of expression.
“What is it, baba?” Fatima moves closer to Firdaus. Firdaus lowers the book, and Fatima sees a smudge of black on the edge of the paper. She watches that viscous blackness slither from the paper onto Firdaus’s hand before being absorbed through his skin.
Firdaus’s gold eyes flash black, and Fatima staggers back a step.
“The taint,” Firdaus says through clenched teeth. Black veins appear on his skin and spread like the vines of a grape plant. Fatima watches helplessly.
“What do I do, baba? Who do I call?”
Firdaus’s skin is sallow, and he is sweating profusely. He grips the edge of his desk tightly, keeping himself upright. The book has fallen unnoticed to the floor. “Listen, ya binti, listen.” Fatima nods frantically. “You are a child of flesh and blood, and I am a being of fire and bone. Were I merciful, I would bid you run and end this tale here. But I am Ifrit and my stories are eternal even though I am not.” Firdaus extends his trembling right hand to Fatima. “In return for the kindness I have shown you, will you become the ink that writes my tale?”
There never was a choice.
Fatima reaches out and grabs his right hand with both of hers.
The clock strikes two. Two minutes later, the world falls apart.
Zulfikar is sitting in the library with Anwar conferring on some oblique details forwarded by the Emir of Rahm. The Wazir, who returned from Rahm not an hour ago, raises an intricately decorated blue-and-gold teacup to his lips. Then the first wave of heat washes over them, and they are conscious of nothing except each other and agony. The second wave of heat is lesser in intensity but longer in duration.
When Zulfikar regains his senses, he finds himself on his feet with his sword out. The teacup is in three pieces on the floor, and Anwar’s usual serenity is nowhere in sight.
“What was that?” Zulfikar asks the elder Ifrit, bracing himself in case there’s another wave.
Before Anwar can respond, a sharp rap sounds on the door. Immediately after, the door is pushed open, and Mansoor, one of the lieutenants in the army, strides in. Despite the show of poise, the Ifrit soldier’s eyes are wild and his hands are shaking. “Sayyid, the soldiers are panicking. Will you— We need you to reassure them.”
Zulfikar’s eyes widen. He sheathes his sword and asks the soldier, “The soldiers felt the heat too?”
“All Djinn did, sayyid. The Ifrit soldiers patrolling the city returned panicked. They said the pain felt like someone trying to cleave their name from them.”
At the soldier’s words, Zulfikar blanches and turns on his heel. He marches down the flights of stairs until he is out of the mahal. A thick dread fills him. “The Wazir will talk to the soldiers,” he tells Mansoor, who follows him as he stalks to the stables. He whistles sharply, and quickly a stable boy leads Zulfikar’s horse out.
“And what, pray, am I supposed to tell the soldiers, Zulfikar?” Anwar says from behind them. The Wazir has regained his composure far quicker than anyone else.
“Lie, Wazir,” Zulfikar replies, baring his teeth. “You do that so very well.” He turns to Mansoor next. “Tell Khalid and Tariq”—the two Amir soldiers who usually accompany Zulfikar—“to follow me to Kalandar Street and wait for me at the junction.”
Without another word, Zulfikar mounts his horse and tears away. The urgency he feels is compounded by a despair that whispers he is far too late. He spurs his horse on at a mad pace, hardly noticing the humans who scramble out of his way. He covers the distance that usually takes him half an hour in fifteen minutes. Every single minute weighs on him.
He dismounts his horse in front of the Name Giver’s bookstore, and as there are no tethering posts nearby, he commands a human boy to look after his horse. The boy is on the verge of hotly refusing the terse request but another look at the Emir changes his mind. Zulfikar’s djinni nature is very close to the surface. His eyes are one shade away from the orange of fire. Heat rises from his skin, making the air above it shimmer.
He approaches the closed door of the bookstore slowly. The doorknob is warm to the touch. A gust of heat escapes when Zulfikar pulls the door open. He steps inside and looks around.
The Name Giver tried to tame a tornado in his shop. Books that were on shelves are now on the floor, and the furniture has been upended or damaged beyond recognition. Ripped pages litter the floor. Zulfikar steps over the books on his way to the back room. A curious reluctance to go on presses against him, cajoling him to turn and leave.
The same tornado that visited
the front room of the store made its round in the back room, but Zulfikar is conscious of nothing except the pile of ashes in front of the Name Giver’s broken desk. He sinks to his knees beside of the ashes, unable, for a moment, to comprehend exactly what it is before him. Time gains an astringent quality; each passing second seems like an insult to all that is sacred.
Death is not uncommon to the Ifrit, and violent deaths are more frequent than they should be. However, the Name Giver’s death has more consequences than the death of a common Ifrit soldier. Zulfikar feels detached from the scene, as if he is observing everything through some great distance. Though he did not know the Name Giver well—you cannot really know a pillar in your house—his importance, his wisdom, his grace are all things that Zulfikar aspires to. When such a man has been reduced to ashes, how do you grieve? When the pillar is broken, your house will fall.
He looks around the back room and makes note of the charred pages and the ruined books. A slim volume on the floor, notable for its pristine condition, catches his eye; the page it is open to is blank, apart from a smudge in the margin. It lies at a little distance from the pile of ashes. Zulfikar moves to pick it up, when an odd caution halts his movement. He peers closer at the smudge, then rears back when the smudge moves, as though conscious of his regard. Without thought, Zulfikar brings up his fire and burns the book, smudge and all. When it is nothing but ash, tears prickle his eyes.
There are things he needs to do, messages he has to send, people he needs to speak with, but at this moment, all he can think of is how the Name Giver was but isn’t anymore. Had he insisted on moving the old man into Northern Aftab, he might yet have been alive. Grief, sudden and explosive, hits Zulfikar squarely in his chest, and he breathes in sharply. He gets up from the floor, unable to bear the atmosphere in the bookstore for another second.