“May I be so bold to ask, Agent Hamed,” Onsi ventured, “after your family?”
Hamed shrugged. “All from Cairo, mostly in Bulaq now. My father’s a policeman. So are all three of my brothers. I broke tradition. Graduated from the academy in the class of ’08.”
Onsi’s eyes lit up, and his smooth moon-shaped face took on the look of a brown cherub. “1908? Isn’t that Agent Fatma’s class? Do you know her well? She was the talk of the academy!”
Hamed took another swallow of qasab. Of course she was.
Agent Fatma el-Sha’arawi was something of a celebrity in the Ministry. One of the few women agents, and quite young. A peculiar sort, dressing in brash English suits. Hamed didn’t begrudge her that. But if she wanted to put on men’s clothing and stir up such a fuss, the Ministry offered perfectly reasonable uniforms.
“Yes, Agent Fatma and I attended the academy together,” he answered. Not that they’d interacted all that much. Just a few polite words here and there. Since graduation, she’d gone on to become a Special Investigator, solving high-profile cases that splashed across the front pages of Cairo’s dailies. Not that he begrudged her such success either. She was a fine agent. There were some in the Ministry unsettled with a woman achieving such stature. But he prided himself on being a modern man, not given to outdated sentiments. Only, getting his photo in a newspaper, just once, would be nice.
“I hear she was the youngest recruit ever into the academy, at age twenty!” Onsi was going on. “We studied some of her cases.” He leaned closer to whisper. “They’re saying that the last one involved a set of rogue angels—perhaps dozens!”
Hamed put his cup down and fixed the younger man with a level stare. “We don’t gossip about other agents’ cases. And you’d do well to not spread Ministry hearsay.” He had no idea why Agent Fatma’s last case had been sealed, but these were precisely the kinds of ridiculous rumors such secrecy created. Those things were not angels, anyway.
Seeing Onsi’s abashed look at the rebuke, he moved to change the subject. “So how did an Edwardian man like yourself end up at the Ministry? I understand you’ve been off at English boarding schools since thirteen.”
Onsi perked up at that. “My family wanted me to have a proper education,” he answered tactfully. Hamed didn’t need to inquire as to his meaning. Egypt now boasted perhaps the best universities in the world. But some still insisted on sending their children off to England or France to learn, where blasphemous subjects like alchemy weren’t on the curriculum. “It’s all great nonsense,” the man added hastily. “They’re studying enchantments at the Sorbonne now. Both Oxford and Cambridge have opened up schools of the supernatural in the past two years. There’s no ignoring the transcendental disciplines any longer.”
No, Hamed thought wryly. Not after djinn and alchemy had routed the English at Tel El Kebir in ’82. Then both the French and English at Sokoto in the nineties. Not to mention the disaster for the German-Italian Alliance at Adwa. Al-Jahiz hadn’t just opened the Kaf of the djinn, he had made the walls to the supernatural realms porous across the globe, and the effects were still being felt. No surprise that the old empires had reversed their opinion on the “superstitions of the natives and Orientals.”
“I longed to return to study in Cairo,” Onsi continued dreamily. “So I left Oxford after my second year and enrolled at the university here, studying medieval manuscripts on esoteric sciences and thaumaturgical linguistics. I won over my family by arguing that the Ministry needed more Copts in its ranks, as they’re always complaining about such inequities in civil society.”
“That’s a marked change from . . .” Hamed paused. “What is it you studied at Oxford?”
“The literature of the English playwrights.” Onsi beamed. “I belonged to the Dramatic Society and played Katherina in our production of The Taming of the Shrew!”
Hamed was trying to reproduce that image when someone appeared at their table. He turned to find a tall young woman. Unmistakably Nubian, and striking, with curly black hair that peeked from beneath a yellow hijab. But what had him gaping like a fish was the rest of her clothing. She wore the common patterned Nubian dress, but the garment ended at her knees, held up at her shoulder by silver clasps. Beneath, she had on what looked like tight-fitting tan breeches, tucked into long leather boots. She stood there staring down at them expectantly.
“Good afternoon and peace be with you, madaam,” he greeted her uncertainly.
“My, aren’t we formal.” The woman smirked. She squinted her dark eyes and tilted her head, causing her gold earrings to dangle. “Good afternoon and peace and health be with you as well.”
Hamed was a bit taken aback. She was a bit off-putting for someone he didn’t know. He didn’t want Onsi getting the idea that he was the sort who kept unfamiliar women about.
“Madaam, am I acquainted with your father or brother?” he asked with care.
She chuckled throatily. “No, but I’m here to get acquainted with your order.”
He then noticed she was holding a pad and pencil. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I’m usually waited on by Uncle Tawfik.”
“My grandaunt’s oldest son,” she replied. “I’m helping out at her restaurant while he’s gone.”
“Is he in good health?” Hamed asked. He always looked forward to the elder man, who called him Captain and was quick with a story or joke.
“Oh, he’s fine,” she answered. “Just visiting family down in Qena. Do you know what you want yet?”
Hamed faltered, as Tawfik usually brought out whatever was best. He said as much and she grinned back, tapping a finger to the tip of her nose: “In that case, I’ll just have to do the same. Think I can manage.” He eyed her dubiously, but accepted out of courteousness.
Some time later, he and Onsi sat quite sated, having gone through several bowls. The woman had been as good as her word, having plied them with roasted meats, salted fish, lentils, and stewed okra. At the moment, they were enjoying a tasty bread called kabed for dessert, which they ate with milk and honey. Much of the crowd had departed to sleep out Cairo’s midday heat, and they had the place almost to themselves. Over their meal, they’d moved on to talking about the case but had so far gotten nowhere.
“We need a djinn, that’s the short of it,” Hamed said, rubbing wearily at his temples. “They’re the only ones who’ll be able to lure one of their kind from the tram. But no djinn will accept the paltry sum we’re willing to offer.” Djinn had taken to the modern world in every way, including demanding proper wages. Many were even unionized. Their abilities didn’t come cheap.
“Perhaps,” Onsi ventured carefully, “we can persuade a djinn with something other than money? I understand there are a few who still grant wishes—”
Hamed cut him off with a stiff shake of his head. “Never seek a wish from a djinn. They’re much better at negotiating than we are and things almost always go badly.” Wish-granting hazards accounted for at least a fifth of the Ministry’s yearly case load, and he’d seen more than his share.
The two were sitting back, quiet and bereft of ideas, when someone pulled a chair up to their table. Hamed started in surprise to find it was the bold young woman again. She’d taken off her server’s apron, which now hung casually over a shoulder.
“You will forgive me for disturbing your meal,” she said with a placating gesture. “But I couldn’t help but overhear your troubles—something about a haunted carriage or trolley?” Hamed glared indignantly but her tone only turned sharp. “Oh, stop tightening up that great big square jaw of yours. The place is nearly empty and you two have been going at this for almost an hour. You know how boring serving food is? What else am I to do to pass the time? Speak with lower voices if you don’t want me to listen! Besides, you’re not the first of the Ministry’s Spooky Boys to come in here, you know.”
Hamed felt self-consciously at his jaw. It wasn’t so square. And Spooky Boys?
“As I was saying,” she went on in a
calmer voice. “I think you’re going about this all the wrong way. Djinn aren’t the only ones who can coax out this spirit. There are cheaper solutions. Not as fancy as all your alchemy and enchantments, but have you considered a Zār ritual?”
Hamed was set to explain that Ministry Agents didn’t go around using folk remedies for sensitive cases. But his mouth wouldn’t work. Because astonishingly, she had a good point.
“Zār?” Onsi asked, for once not in the know.
“A ceremony,” Hamed muttered, turning the idea over in his head. “It’s held to cure ailments caused by lesser djinn. The Ministry considers it too disorganized and scattered to classify as a true discipline.” At this the woman made a disagreeable sound. “But I think it could just work.”
“I can give you a name and an address,” she offered. Ripping a page from her pad, she scribbled hastily and pushed it forward. “But you’ll have to convince them to take you on. I’m sure you Spooky Boys can handle that.”
Hamed palmed his chest, tipping his head. “Thank you, very much, madaam.”
She smiled back. “My pleasure.” Standing, she teasingly pressed a finger beneath each eyelid—then ruined the gesture with an off-putting wink.
“She was helpful,” Onsi put in, watching her stride away in those odd boots.
“Perhaps,” Hamed answered, his mind already working. “Finish up. We need to make an appointment with a sheikha.”
CHAPTER THREE
The address on the slip of paper took them along Sha’ib El Banat. It had previously been Soliman Street, named for a French military commander under one of the old pashas. Now it carried the name of the djinn builder who had transformed modern Cairo into an industrial capital. It was also the name of a mountain range somewhere in the eastern desert, as djinn never gave their real names and used such places as monikers instead.
Hamed had expected to end up in a back alley somewhere, and not along one of the most well-known commercial centers in the city—with tall buildings reflecting a mixture of architectural styles. They stopped at a corner, before a building with a rounded front and multiple floors each supported by Corinthian columns. At the apex, a carved relief depicted pharaohs upon thrones beneath a roof capped by a white dome.
“Here we are,” he told Onsi, matching up the address. “Just as our helpful server suggested. Tell me, what did you notice about her?”
Onsi pursed his lips, mulling over the unexpected question. “She appears about my age, I suppose. Much prettier, certainly. And, there are the pants and boots. An interesting woman.”
That she certainly was, Hamed agreed. “What did you notice about her earrings?”
Onsi scrunched up his face in recollection. “Earrings? They were gold. In the likeness of an animal of some kind? Perhaps a bird?”
“A cow,” Hamed corrected. “A golden cow, with a disc between its horns. An emblem of the goddess Hathor.”
The younger man’s eyes widened. “An idolater!”
“They don’t exactly call themselves that,” Hamed pointed out. The entrance of djinn and magic into the world had changed society in some unanticipated ways. It had even sent a few seeking after Egypt’s eldest gods, whose temples and statues had remained stubbornly steadfast through time. There were probably dozens of such cults in Cairo alone. Most remained underground, as even the vaunted new religious tolerance laws offered their adherents little protection.
“Not surprising that she knows where to find practitioners of a Zār,” he continued, walking up to pull at a door latch. “Always keep your eyes sharp, Agent Onsi. Sometimes what you least expect is staring right at you.” His words died on his tongue as the door opened.
He had expected a reception area, but was greeted instead by a foyer filled with women. Dozens of women. They all chatted loudly, so busily moving to and fro that most scarcely bothered to pay the two men any mind. Hamed surveyed the walls about them, which were plastered with artwork. One featured a veiled woman with arms outstretched that read: ARISE YE WOMEN! Another a young factory girl, sitting at a loom machine with the slogan: WOMEN ARE AWAKENING! A third portrayed a woman in modern dress: EGYPT, FREE YOUR WOMEN!
His gaze traveled up a stone staircase to where a large half-moon banner hung from a balcony, displaying the familiar double-faced Hatshepsut upon a red and green background, the words Egyptian Feminist Sisterhood Office #3 inscribed across the top in golden script. He was still putting the pieces of this unexpected scene together as a figure moved to block his vision: a woman in all black, her face set into a sour expression.
“There you are!” she exclaimed without any greeting. “It’s been two full hours! Do we ask so much of you to arrive when you say you will?” He opened his mouth in protest, but the woman snapped her head upward and clicked her tongue, cutting off whatever he was going to say. “I don’t want to hear your excuses. You should be ashamed to do business as you do! Where is your self-respect and how do you expect others to have it for you?”
Hamed had taken an involuntary step back under the harangue, and he saw Onsi do the same. The woman was sturdily built and old enough to be his mother. In fact, she spoke to him as if she was his mother. She clutched her head in clear exasperation. “See here how many more of these we have to produce! If you don’t fix the machine soon we won’t have enough for the rallies planned before the vote!” He followed her gesture, only now noticing the leaflets that the other women were gathering into neat stacks against the walls. They all read: WE DEMAND THE VOTE!
Finding his wits, he finally spoke up. “Madaam, we aren’t here to fix your machine.”
She glared at him. “Then who will fix it? You expect one of us to?”
He hastily dug out his identification and brandished it like a shield. “I’m Agent Hamed and this is Agent Onsi. We’re with the Ministry of Alchemy, Enchantments, and Supernatural Entities.”
The woman peered closely at his photo and the official seal bearing his name. She scowled beneath a set of thick eyebrows. “But we didn’t call you. We need a machinist for the printer. Why would they send us the Ministry?”
“Madaam, no one called us,” Hamed explained. This was becoming tedious. “We don’t know anything about your printer or your work. We came looking for a sheikha, and didn’t realize this was one of the Sisterhood’s headquarters. Perhaps we’ve been misled. If so, we apologize for troubling your house.”
The woman eyed them both, drawing up her shawl, then said almost dismissively, “You want Nadiyaa. She rents an office seven stairs up. The green door. We have the lift busy, so you’ll have to take the stairs.” She left as hurriedly as she had appeared, likely to find her errant machinist.
Hamed and Onsi exchanged wrung-out looks before crossing the floor through the crowd to begin the long climb up. On each floor they passed, there were more women engaged in work. Making signs, drafting petitions, even teaching chants. If there was to be a vote on the suffrage bill this week, he could understand their urgency. He noticed that among the obvious Cairenes there were also rural women from the countryside, recognizable in their simple but elaborately wrapped gallabiyahs. It seemed the Sisterhood had brought in members from all over for their rallies—a prudent move, as the early movement had struggled to make itself inclusive of more than just the urban classes.
By the time they reached the seventh floor, Hamed found he was laboring for breath. Onsi wasn’t faring much better. They stopped to rest near a great mural depicting crowds of men with djinn hidden among them. In the middle, atop a carriage, were three women, all in black dress and long white veils, one of them standing and appearing to speak.
“The Women of ’79,” Onsi remarked, naming the famous painting. This was of course only a replica. The much larger original sat at the art museum in Gezira, a dedication to the women who had taken part in the 1879 nationalist uprising against the British. Not surprising. Women, after all, had been some of al-Jahiz’s more dedicated followers. Looking past the mural, his eyes landed on a dark g
reen door at the end of the hall.
“I think that’s where we’re meant to be,” he deduced. They walked up, and this time rapped once before opening it slowly. Inside they found two seated women working a wide brass-faced switchboard, hands moving rapidly as they spoke into headphones and plugged long black cords into copper-plated jacks.
“Good afternoon, sirs, may I be of help?” a voice slurred.
Hamed turned to another woman behind a wide black painted desk that stood on animal-shaped legs. Not a woman, he corrected, but a djinn. Her skin was a deep shade of red, the color of a dark ruby, even to her lips. A set of corded silver horns replaced hair, flowing past her shoulders and matching decorated fingernails that were long as talons. She was also, very possibly, the most beautiful being he had ever seen, with depthless eyes that sparkled like gems in moonlight. His mouth went dry at the sight of her, but he managed to stammer out a greeting and show his identification, asking after her mistress.
“Please have a seat, agents,” she answered in that slurring tone. “I’ll inquire whether the sheikha has a moment to meet with you. Would you care for some drink? Tea perhaps?”
Hamed nodded dreamily, giving his thanks. His nostrils were filled with a miasma of scents that carried from the djinn: jasmine, honey, and pungent cinnamon, to name a few—so strong he could taste them on his tongue. She gave a demure smile as she rose to go, standing a good foot above him. And he couldn’t help but notice that even in her long maroon dress she walked with a gait that was almost hypnotic.
“Quite a remarkable djinn,” Onsi commented breathlessly as they sat.
Hamed didn’t answer, still trying to clear the haze that tickled his senses. He instead took to watching the two women at the switchboard. Now that he listened close, he could hear they were taking what appeared to be orders—for people seeking the Zār. From what he made out, the calls were coming in from all over Cairo.
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