by Nafiza Azad
“You crushed his Name?” Zulfikar’s voice is startled.
“Yes. I realize that I ought not to have killed him, but how am I supposed to show compassion to someone who has none for me? Someone who may have killed everyone I knew? Maybe even my parents?” This does not alleviate the guilt Fatima Ghazala bears, but she feels better for admitting what she did.
“Tell me something, Fatima Ghazala,” Zulfikar says, and she starts. Her name sounds like it doesn’t belong to her when he says it. “Did Firdaus ever teach you anything?”
“He taught me many things: languages, literature, and philosophy. We debated on the economy and the arts. Sometimes we discussed God and religion. We even ventured occasionally into mathematics and science.”
“Did he ever teach you anything about Names and Naming? About the Djinn and the Ifrit?” The urgency in Zulfikar’s voice is at odds with his stillness.
Fatima Ghazala closes her eyes and thinks for a moment. “No, not that I can recall. Why?”
“Indulge me for a moment, please. Before he died, did Firdaus say anything to you?” Fatima Ghazala winces at the question and Zulfikar’s face softens. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”
“I don’t remember exactly what he said … just that he told me to write his tale and gave me his hand,” Fatima Ghazala replies after a moment.
“Did you?”
“Of course. He is … was my baba. I took his hand, but I don’t quite remember what happened next.”
Zulfikar rubs a hand over his eyes and sighs. He rises to his feet, pulling Fatima Ghazala up along with him. “I’m going to tell you some things that you cannot ever repeat to anyone.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t tell me these things, then,” Fatima replies warily.
Zulfikar shakes his head. “When you took Firdaus’s hand, you took away any choice you may ever have had in this matter.”
Fatima Ghazala pulls herself from Zulfikar’s grasp and walks a few steps away from him. She gestures for him to continue. “The Djinn live in a world called Al-Naar. In this world, the Ifrit live in a city called Tayneeb. These are facts.” He pauses to see if Fatima Ghazala is following. “We can exist on earth in two forms: as smokeless fire and in this human form. As fire, we can do nothing but exist. In human form, we can live full lives: We can eat, sweat, fight, live. To attain human form, we need to be Named. Firdaus, your baba, was the Name Giver. He Named us so we don’t just exist on this plane, on earth, as smokeless fire, but live here in bodies, in solid form. Do you understand what I am saying?”
Fatima Ghazala closes her eyes and thinks of the Names she has seen, how they seem to contain the smokeless fire in a shape, a human shape. “How did he do that?”
“I don’t know,” Zulfikar says. She stares at him, and he shrugs. “Only Name Givers and their apprentices know the process.”
“Are there other Name Givers?”
“No, there is only one at any time.” Fatima Ghazala narrows her eyes at his tone.
“He gave me his Name Giving power,” she says, slowly piecing things together. “That’s why I see Djinn names. That’s why I can feel my fire now?”
“Yes. The power of the Name Giver woke your fire and with it your Name, Ghazala.” Zulfikar hesitates. “But a Name Giver doesn’t have the power to destroy Names—this is not a documented power.” He looks at her, and Fatima Ghazala feels like the monster he doesn’t say she is. She swallows.
“Why would Baba give me this Name Giving power?” she asks, moving on with some effort.
“I don’t know. There are fully trained apprentices in Tayneeb, and the power would have passed to the most capable one had he died without handing it over to you. The fact that Firdaus chose someone with no training, someone who is not even fully Ifrit, to receive the power is important.”
“Didn’t he just make a mistake?” Fatima Ghazala asks.
“The Name Giver wasn’t the sort to make mistakes,” Zulfikar says firmly. “Not even when he was dying.”
“So what does it mean? If I have these Name Giving powers, do I have responsibilities that I will have to fulfill?” Fatima Ghazala thinks of her baba’s last request. She gave him her word to write his tale, whatever that meant.
“I am not sure what happens next,” Zulfikar says. “I need to report to my superiors. They will decide our next course of action.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Fatima Ghazala mutters. She looks at the sun’s descent in the horizon and shivers in the rapidly cooling air. “It’s almost Maghrib.”
“We need to be back within the city walls before night falls. I don’t fancy our chances with the Ghul out here,” Zulfikar says. A tad uncomfortably, he holds out his arms to Fatima Ghazala. “If you don’t mind, I can have us back in Noor in a few minutes.”
Fatima Ghazala gives him an uncertain look but then shrugs and steps into his arms. He hasn’t yet given her reason not to trust him. Zulfikar tucks her in close to him and starts moving. Fatima Ghazala squeezes her eyes shut as they go from being stationary one second to traveling at about the speed of the wind during a desert storm the next. Less than a whole minute passes before Zulfikar stops outside the northern gates of Noor City. He moves away from Fatima Ghazala immediately.
“Wait here, I left my horse at the guardhouse,” Zulfikar says. Fatima Ghazala considers walking away in the other direction, but her heart feels unsteady. All she can think about is the information thrust upon her in the past hour. Her sense of self feels shaken—more so than when she woke up as Fatima Ghazala. She rubs her forehead, entirely overwhelmed.
She is lost in her thoughts when Zulfikar returns. Soon they are on his horse, navigating the short distance to Taaj Gul. The streets are full of people returning home after a hard day’s labor. Food vendors have set up stalls on the pavement, and the air is full of the smells of meat cooking on the rotisserie. Fatima Ghazala’s stomach grumbles a complaint.
“I am going to check how safe your apartment is,” Zulfikar says in Fatima Ghazala’s ear, and she starts. She is sitting in front of him on the horse, his chest warm against her back.
“About that …” Fatima Ghazala tries to think of the best way to articulate her current state of homelessness. “My sister found out about my Djinn fire and … So I am currently … I mean, I’m staying with friends until my employer finds me a room to stay in.”
When no response is forthcoming, Fatima Ghazala is glad she cannot see the Emir’s face. She remembers his command not to tell anyone about her fire. Suddenly he sighs, and his arms slightly tighten around her.
“The fire manifested when I was sleeping. I had no control over it!” Fatima Ghazala tries to twist around to see Zulfikar, but his arms make it impossible.
“I am not angry. I’m just thinking about where to move you,” he says.
“You don’t need to move me anywhere. I will thank you to remember that I am not a sack of rice,” Fatima Ghazala retorts. They arrive at Fatima Ghazala’s apartment building, and she slides down from the horse without waiting for Zulfikar’s help. He dismounts, putting a hand on her arm to halt her when she would have left.
“I apologize if you find me overbearing. I have never come across a situation like this, so I am as much at a loss as you are.” Though his voice and tone are sincere, Fatima Ghazala is not convinced. He looks much too confident to be at a loss.
She looks at Zulfikar curiously. “How old are you?”
“Why is that important?” Zulfikar frowns. Fatima Ghazala shrugs. “In human years, twenty-five.”
“And in Ifrit years?”
“Fifty.”
“You are old,” Fatima Ghazala says respectfully. The look Zulfikar sends her way expresses clearly what she can do with the sentiment. She grins, unrepentant.
“Come, grab your belongings. I will take you to a—”
“I told you I am not a sack of rice to be moved around,” Fatima Ghazala says, her smile fading.
“You are not staying here
.” Zulfikar crosses his arms.
“I very well am.” Fatima Ghazala crosses her arms too.
“It isn’t safe here,” Zulfikar insists.
“Look, you and I are the only ones who know about the Name Giving thing. I am not going to tell anyone. Are you?” Fatima Ghazala tries, even though it is growing more difficult by the second, to be reasonable.
“Yes. I have to report this latest development to the Raees.” At Fatima Ghazala’s look, he elaborates. “Our leader.”
“You do that. I will stay here safely.” Fatima Ghazala has just about reached the limits of her endurance. “Allah hafiz.”
“Fine.” Zulfikar concedes this battle. She ought to be safe for one more night. “Please do not go out by yourself. Actually, don’t go out at all. I will come for you tomorrow.”
“Don’t.” Fatima Ghazala turns to go, then relents at the look on his face. “All right. Fine. Come tomorrow. We will discuss things.”
“If you sense any danger at all through the night—”
“Then I will defend myself. Sayyid, it’s almost Maghrib. I need to do my ablutions and change before I pray. Please go away now.”
“Tomorrow,” Zulfikar says in lieu of a farewell. Fatima Ghazala turns to go inside and finds herself the focus of three pairs of wide eyes.
“Api, I believe you have some explaining to do,” Azizah says. The Alif sisters cross their arms.
Reports of a hostage situation in Shams Gali, a neighborhood not too far from Taaj Gul, arrive as Zulfikar is unsaddling his horse on his return to Northern Aftab. Amir soldiers at the scene request assistance and advice; the hostages include children and the elderly. Zulfikar resaddles his horse and sets off immediately, accompanied by five of his Djinn soldiers.
The streets are bustling, but as Zulfikar and his men near Shams Gali, they begin to empty. The neighborhood is composed mostly of schools and the domiciles of teachers; the buildings are constructed of stone and wood and are painted in pastel colors. Early evening dusts the tops of the buildings and the palm trees dotting the landscape. Shadows made half of starlight try, and fail, to give a sinister mien to the place.
An Amir soldier is standing outside a building painted, perhaps, a light green—it is difficult to tell in the dark. Zulfikar reins in his horse outside the school and dismounts. Leaving his horse to one of the other soldiers, he follows the Amir soldier, a lanky man Named Ibrahim, up the path to the school doors. According to one of the teachers, a man had been loitering around the school for a couple of days, trying to recruit students to join some army. No one had paid him any heed, so today he barged into a classroom containing a teacher and five students who had stayed behind after classes for extra lessons. He barricaded the door of the classroom and prevented the students and teacher from leaving until they promised to join whatever army he was recruiting for.
“How long has it been?” Zulfikar asks, pausing at the entrance to the school. He looks around at the closed windows in the houses and buildings surrounding the school. Not even a flicker of a curtain gives away any observers. Foot traffic is entirely absent. A tense air of expectancy, like the air before a storm, encapsulates the area.
“An hour, sayyid. The teachers tried reasoning with him, until he hit a child and broke his leg,” the Amir soldier says, his eyes shimmering orange.
“Has he made any other demands?”
“No, sayyid.”
Zulfikar steps into the foyer of the school, a cheerful place if a little threadbare. The scent of jasmine is heavy in the air, cloying in its intensity. The soldier leads him to a room on the first floor. Three elderly men are clustered around the closed door of the room, and one woman, dressed in a black abaya, leans against a wall, weeping into her hands. They turn at Zulfikar’s arrival, their faces brightening with relief. Zulfikar presses a finger to his lips, stopping them before they can speak. He puts his hand on the handle of the door, drawing on his fire. A second later, without warning or hesitation, he pulls it open. The children are huddled in a corner, their teacher shielding them from the swarthy man who looms over them, hand raised threateningly.
Zulfikar doesn’t give the man a chance to react. He has him pinned against the wall in the time it takes a human being to blink. Zulfikar can hear his soldiers evacuate the children and the teacher from the room; the woman wails when she sees the injured child.
Zulfikar removes his hand from the man’s neck, and he sags to the ground. The man’s white shalwar is wet; he lost control of his bladder. Zulfikar goes down on his haunches and looks at the man. He is about forty years of age with an unkempt beard and bloodshot eyes; dirty and desperate.
“What army?” Zulfikar asks, the two words carrying the weight of the world.
The man’s eyes widen at the question, and instead of answering, he grimaces as if biting down on something. A second later, his mouth foams and he slumps over, dead. Zulfikar leans forward and sniffs at the foam. Poison.
Aarush’s brother has only been back for a day and already concerned fathers are removing their daughters from the court. Aaruv is an unapologetic connoisseur of women, frequently leaving broken hearts in his wake. In a society where a woman’s virtue is of paramount importance, he presents a distinct and immediate threat. Aarush has often brought up the subject of marriage to Aaruv, but his brother shies away from the commitment, preferring to live unhindered by a wife and the responsibilities that come with being a husband. There was once a time, Aarush muses, when he had similar sentiments as his younger brother, but all it took to change his mind was meeting his wife once.
“I should let you know, bhaiya, that you have a very disgusting look on your face,” his sister tells him tartly. Bhavya is visiting Aruna and him in their apartments, mainly to play with his six-month-old son, Vihaan. She cuddles him as he lies on her lap while Aruna looks on with a smile.
Aarush stops smiling and sniffs at his sister. “There must be a rule somewhere that states you cannot speak to the maharajah in that manner.”
“You may be the maharajah out there, but in here you are simply a baba and a husband.” Bhavya hands Vihaan back to Aruna and adds slyly, “And, of course, a stinky brother.”
“I assure you he is not stinky,” Aruna says, tickling the baby’s tummy. He chortles.
“I’m not inclined to believe you, bhabhi. You are so ridiculously in love with my brother you think the sun rises with him!” Bhavya smirks at him. Aarush fights the urge to flick her. He won’t ever tell her, but he is grateful for the way she treats him, as if he is merely her brother and not the architect of their futures. He is lucky, Aarush thinks, looking at his family; he has people to anchor him.
“You mean it doesn’t?” Aruna feigns surprise. His sister giggles, and Aarush finds himself smiling broadly, like he usually does when around his wife.
“Speaking of love,” Aarush asks curiously, “what did Amma say to you?”
All mirth suddenly leaves his sister’s face, and she slumps in her chair. “She told me that as a daughter of the royal family of Qirat, I have a certain reputation to uphold. She said that my actions paint me as wanton and cast doubts on my virtue.”
Aarush winces. “That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?” His mother has always been very concerned by how the world perceives the royal family, but these words seem uncharacteristic of her.
“She listened to Jayanti Bua. Amma would never say things like that without instigation.” Bhavya looks grim. His sister still doesn’t know their mother very well.
“Did she succeed in making you rethink your affection for the Emir?” Aruna asks, glancing at Aarush. She hands Vihaan to him, and he cuddles the baby, taking quiet pleasure in the child’s sweet smell and the softness of his body. His son’s complete trust in his abilities to protect him humbles Aarush. At the same time, it makes him aware of how great the consequences of his failure to be a good king would be.
“Of course not!” Bhavya sets her lips in that way Aarush is familiar with. “If anything, she
made me more determined to win his heart.”
A knock sounds on the door, and the women hastily pull on their veils. A few minutes later, a maid shows in Aarush’s much-beleaguered advisor, Janab Jamshid. “I apologize for disturbing you in your time of rest, huzoor. The Emir requests your presence at the usual meeting place.”
“Do you know why?” Aarush gets up reluctantly. Why is it that the Emir always chooses the time when he is the most comfortable to summon him for meetings? Why can’t he request for a meeting when Aarush is grappling with his ministers about budgets?
“No, huzoor.” The old man bows deferentially. Aarush sighs, hands his son to Aruna, and follows his advisor out of his rooms. A dozen of his guards join him as he treks across the grounds of the mahal to the pavilion. The darkness is kept at bay by the lanterns his soldiers carry. The pavilion, too, is lit by torches and presents a beacon in the darkness. The Emir turns when Aarush walks up the steps and into the pavilion. Shadows cover the Ifrit’s face, making him look far more sinister than Aarush has ever seen him before.
“I apologize for calling you in your time of repose,” the Emir says, his voice sounding even more formal than usual.
“Is something the matter?” Aarush asks, uncertain he wants the answer to his question.
“I have a request and a report. Which would you like to hear first?” the Emir responds. He stops speaking, and the pause beats awkwardly.
“The request,” Aarush says, wondering exactly what the Emir could want from him.
The Emir hesitates. “Would you be willing to accept a girl into the Southern Aftab and keep her protected while she resides there?” he finally asks.
“A human girl?” Aarush asks, and wonders if this girl is the same one Bhavya mentioned.
“Not entirely.”
“She’s Ifrit?” Aarush asks, a bit incredulously. The Ifrit society is a matriarchal one, and the greater number of soldiers in the Ifrit army are women. The majority of them stay in the Djinn world in the Ifrit city to defend it against the constant threat of the Shayateen. They are not as expendable as their male counterparts, who are sent to earth. This is one of the few tidbits of information available only to the maharajah.