A Master of Djinn: 1 (Dead Djinn Universe)

by P. Djèlí Clark

  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.

  They’d spent hours searching through files on Lord Worthington: his business, personnel, financial transactions. The Worthington Company had built itself through trade and construction contracts—because even in a world of magic and djinn, you needed mundane things like investors and capital. And when rich people were killed, it almost invariably led back to their wealth. But they’d come up empty. By evening, she called it a day and sent Hadia home. Not much to do but wait and see what Aasim’s people turned up Monday. The whole thing left her frustrated, and even more eager for tonight.

  She turned off the main boulevard, onto one of the area’s backstreets. Not as numerous as the Khan but easy enough to get lost in. At a barely lit square, she walked beneath an archway and down some steps to an almost hidden door. Using her cane, she rapped a pattern: three quick, two slow, three quick. Up top a slot opened, showing two eyes with shifting purple irises.

  “You lost?”

  “Looking for some jasmine tea,” she answered.

  “How much sugar?”

  “Just a touch.”

  The slot slammed shut, and the door was opened by a heavily muscled djinn wearing a black tailcoat. He flourished an arm, those purple irises glinting. “Welcome to the Jasmine.” Fatma walked inside, a cacophony of music and carousing washing over her like a small storm.

  The Jasmine wasn’t listed in the directory. Outside, no one ever said its name. They just called it the Spot.

  Patrons sat at tables talking or laughing as boilerplate eunuchs in tuxedos and red tarbooshes swapped out empty glasses. At the Spot, the drinks flowed freely. Mostly beer, Egypt’s favored intoxicant. But there was wine too and a trendy bubbly champagne with enchanted elixirs that, quite literally, left you light on your feet.

  But no one came here just for the alcohol. You could get that readily enough anywhere in Cairo, even the foreign stuff. It was the clientele that placed the Jasmine off the beaten path. At one table, two women in Parisian dresses smoked from slender tortoiseshell cigarette holders—socialites come to do some slumming. They flanked a tall milk-white djinn with an unnaturally handsome face, as he pulled from a hookah and blew out spinning silver orbs. Beyond the tables, young men with the swagger of street toughs moved as gracefully as cabaret dancers—partnered with upper-class women who’d never be seen with them elsewhere, day or night. Some of those young men danced with each other. Everything hummed to the mesmeric music belted from a raised stage.

  Navigating the crowd, Fatma sauntered over to the bar. A short djinn bartender with six arms doled out drinks. She caught hers as it slid past and lifted it to take a contented sip.

  “You act like you drinking something,” someone commented in English, “when all you got in there is sarsaparilla!” She turned to find an older man in a tanned suit some seats down.

  “Sarsaparilla with mint leaves and tea,” she corrected. “You should try some.”

  The man huffed. “I like my drinks as drinks!” His brown face broke into a grin. “How you doing, Fatma?”

  She smiled back. “Alright, Benny. Been a while.”

  “Been a minute!” He moved beside her, setting down a silver cornet.

  Benny was from America, like most musicians at the Jasmine—a place called New Orleans. Cairo brought in people from all over. Some looking for work or drawn by stories of mechanical wonders and djinn. Benny and the others had come fleeing a thing called Jim Crow. They brought with them their hopes, their dreams, and their fantastic music.

  “You playing tonight?” Fatma asked.

  “Every night.”

  Their attention was drawn to a blaring trumpet onstage. The man leaned back as he played, fingers moving in a blur that made his instrument squawk in a mix of ragged whines and shouts, like lovers in in the late of night or a quarrel in the morning. Behind him, a band joined his tirade with the multitudinous harmony of clarinets and trombones.

  Benny didn’t have a name for what they did. Said it was just the New Orleans sound. But he claimed it was going to be the biggest thing in the world one day. Fatma could believe that. She’d been riveted the first time she heard this hypnotic, beautiful music. The syncopated rhythm and melodies crept up your spine, willing you to move, live, and be free.

  “That Bunky can blow!”

  Fatma turned to find others arriving to sit around them. One with a jowly face in a blue suit was Alfred, nicknamed Frog—a trombone player. A small tight-lipped man wearing a red tarboosh and hugging a clarinet case was Bigs. The one who’d spoken, a skinny younger man in an all-gold suit and matching hat, was a piano player. She wasn’t sure of his real name, because he only answered to Mansa Musa.

  “Yeah, you right.” Benny nodded. “Seen better, though.”

  Mansa Musa squawked. “Name someone better!”

  “I can name you three. But only need to say one.”

  “Then say it.”

  “Buddy Bolden.”

  Mansa Musa groaned. “Why every time we talk music, you bring up Buddy Bolden?”

  “If you’d ever seen him,” Alfred croaked, “wouldn’t need to ask.”

  Nods came all around.

  “I remember this one time I saw Buddy play,” Benny related. “Fatma, I’m telling you it was something. He played so loud, his horn blew back the whole row of people seated in the front. No, I’m telling you true! Them people pitched right over! This one woman, she went rolling right up on out the place. Kept rolling all Saturday night, and no one could find her until she rolled up into church Sunday morning!”

  The group erupted with laughter as Mansa Musa threw up his hands. Fatma smiled.

  “Well, Buddy’s gone now,” Alfred put in. “Left him, Jim Crow, and old New Orleans behind.” He lifted a glass. “To King Bolden. They never gon’ take away your magic.”

  The rest raised their glasses, chanting the same. When al-Jahiz sent magic back in the world, it hadn’t just happened in Egypt. It had happened everywhere. The whole world over. In America, the return of magic had been met with persecution. Benny and the others still whispered wide-eyed about a sorcerer named Robert Charles who’d nearly brought New Orleans to its knees. They claimed this Buddy Bolden worked another kind of magic with his music, and had suffered dearly for his gift.

  Alfred sighed. “I do miss home sometimes. No ways I miss Jim Crow, though.”

  “Amen!” Benny added. “Ain’t no Jim Crow in Cai-ro!”

  A chorus of “Yeah, you right!” came from all around.

  “Don’t know about all that,” Mansa Musa cut in, swirling his drink. “I get treated fine enough, because I ain’t from here. Other folk dark as us, though, not so lucky. Seen them get put out places plenty. Even spit on. Slapped in the streets. And who you find in the slums? Boo-coo faces look like ours. Same as back home.”

  Fatma couldn’t deny those accounts. Egypt had its own problems. Al-Jahiz being Soudanese had made things somewhat better. There were even calls to ban discrimination by law. But ingrained beliefs were hard to break.

  “Don’t make sense,” Benny grumbled. “Back home, Fatma here be riding the Jim Crow car. Half here couldn’t pass a paper bag test.”

  “Lots can’t even pass for octoroon,” Alfred said. “Hell, not even quadroon.”

  Mansa Musa grunted. “They don’t know that, though.”

  “Some octoroons and quadroons don’t know neither,” Benny quipped.

  New laughter came as Fatma listened in fascination. She’d picked up a lot of her English from them. Even learned their cadence and inflections. But some of the vernacular still escaped her. What in the world was an octoroon?

  “That’s why I stay draped down wherev
er I go,” Mansa Musa related. “People treat you right when you got this suit on. Where y’at, Fats? That’s a nice one you got on tonight!”

  Fatma gave her usual flick of the bowler. She’d gone for bright burgundy, with a brocaded waistcoat. Her dark olive tie was fastened with a silver ball tie pin, over a rose-blush pin-striped shirt and a club collar. He was right. People did treat you different in the suit.

  “You all know I taught Fatma how to dress, right?” Mansa Musa asked.

  Fatma gave him a flat look. “But all your suits are gold.”

  Benny barked a laugh while Alfred bellowed till his jowls shook, slapping the counter.

  Mansa Musa huffed. “You all need to watch how you talk to the king!” He’d taken up the sobriquet after hearing about the medieval Mali emperor, who’d passed through Egypt on hajj, dispensing enough gold to ruin local markets—or so the stories claimed. He ended his sets with a shower of fake gold coins, which people snatched up like treasure.

  “Uh-oh!” Benny exclaimed, looking past them. “Here comes trouble now!”

  Fatma followed his gaze, to a tall figure standing near the entrance. Siti. And Benny was right. She looked absolutely like trouble—in a long red evening gown of lace and chiffon that fell draping to her feet. Under the sheer gossamer top a fitted bodice sewn with bead netting glistened in the dim light, while a matching sash cinched her waist.

  Siti’s eyes caught Fatma, and she set out in a slow sashay toward them, drawing more than a few eyes. A chorus of chatter met her arrival. Benny and the others treated Fatma like one of them, but Siti was another matter—a woman to shower compliments and who could poke jabs just as quick. After the hubbub died down, she slid in front of Fatma, reaching to tug her tie.

  “Funny running into you here.”

  Fatma glanced to a golden diadem nestled into a short braided wig Siti now wore—the front engraved with a lioness. “You look…”

  “Like the fiery wrath of the goddess made flesh on Earth?”

  “I was going to say ‘beautiful.’”

  “I’ll take that.” She caught a drink from the bartender, downing it in one go. Her eyes went to Fatma’s glass. “Sarsaparilla? With mint leaves?”

  “And some tea.”

  Siti tsked. “We’re in here to be bad. Break the rules.”

  “This is me breaking the rules.”

  “Don’t take this wrong, but those bright brown eyes of yours look tired. Long day at Spooky Boys Central?”

  Spooky Boys? “You know how tedious it is reviewing financial reports of a transnational business with dozens of subsidiaries?”

  “No. And I don’t want to know. Ever.”

  “Even with Hadia there, took hours.”

  “Hadia?”

  “My new … partner.” The word didn’t sound any less strange.

  Siti’s eyes lit up. “Partner? Another lady Spooky Boy? Pretty like you? With a thing for suits and infidels? Should bring her by.”

  Fatma tried to imagine Hadia at the Spot, and failed. “I think she breaks fewer rules than me. All bright and eager. Had to chase her out of the office. Likes typing up reports, though.”

  “Agent Fatma and an eager lady partner. Can’t wait to meet her.”

  Fatma stopped mid-sip. Meet? Siti laughed, covering her mouth.

  “Relax. But you’re going to have to figure out how to explain why she keeps running into you in my company. I’m pretty memorable.”

  “That mean you plan on staying around awhile?”

  Siti answered by downing another drink, which wasn’t an answer at all.

  The sudden roll of a snare sizzled the air, joined by the faster pace of palms hitting darbukas. It hadn’t taken long for that New Orleans music to blend with local styles—as if the two were reunited kin. It created a vibrant mash-up that beat with the soul of modern Cairo, drifting from these underground lairs and onto the streets. The sounds stirred anticipation through the crowd who rushed the dance floor.

  Mansa Musa slid over, offering a hand to Siti. “Let the king escort you out in style.”

  She answered by wrapping an arm into Fatma’s. “Afraid this dance is taken. Yalla!”

  Fatma rose, sparing a shrug and bowler flick for Mansa Musa. He laughed it off, flicking his gold hat in return. They reached the dance floor just as the blare of a horn started. Siti spun as Fatma stepped forward, catching her waist and drawing her close, finding each other’s rhythm. The two shared knowing smiles, letting their movements do the talking. As far as Fatma was concerned, if this wasn’t magic, nothing was.

  * * *

  Hours later, they walked the backstreets near Muhammad Ali Street. Fatma kept pace with her cane, Siti on her arm, dancing lightly, as if trumpets and drums lingered in her head. That, or the drinks.

  “Where to now?” she slurred.

  Fatma looked her over. “I’m thinking you might be a bit much for your family.”

  “I sleep in Auntie Aziza’s room. She doesn’t notice much.”

  “Not so sure of that. Just come back to my place.”

  Siti winked. “As if that’s not where I was going all along.”

  “You’ll have to settle for the front door. I don’t do windows.”

  “Going to explain me to that nosy bewab? He’s always there.”

  The man was always there. “He can think whatever he wants. I’m the one paying rent.”

  Siti snickered. “We don’t have to go yet. I still have my dress on under this.” She gestured beneath her dark kaftan.

  Fatma looked dubious. She’d barely survived all-nighters with Siti before. “How about we go home, I make tea, and we catch up. It’s Friday. We can even sleep in.”

  Siti nuzzled her ear. “Such a romantic. Going to start wooing me with poetry next?”

  Fatma raised an eyebrow. “You like poetry?”

  “Only the old stuff. I can recite the poetry of Majnun by heart.”

  “Impressive. You have a thing for Persian romances?”

  “Nothing quite like tragic and unrequited love. Know some Antar too.”

  “That explains your aunt. She thought I should recite you poetry.”

  “Auntie Aziza told you that?”

  “Aywa. Said it might win over your heart.”

  “Crafty old woman,” Siti muttered.

  “She said you had too much of your father in you. And that’s why you like to wander.” The ensuing silence made Fatma want to take the words back immediately.

  “Well.” Siti said after a while, her arm loosening. “Auntie does like to talk.”

  “Sorry,” Fatma said, cursing her runaway mouth. “I shouldn’t have—”

  Siti gestured as if to dismiss the comment—or maybe her absent father. “I think some tea and talk sounds fine.” She tapped beneath one eye. “But is he coming with us?”

  “What?” Fatma turned to look, but Siti clicked her tongue. “Not right at him!”

  She settled for glancing out of the corner of her eye, catching a dark shape. They were being followed.

  “How long has he been there?” she hissed.

  “Not sure. Probably followed us from the Spot.”

  Fatma gazed about. Lots of shadows for skulking in these backstreets.

  “Isn’t this how we met?” Siti asked.

  “You pocket-picked me to get my attention. Because you’re strange. He’s likely a thief.”

  “Or a homicidal maniac! Who preys on young women out about town!”

  “Too bad for him.”

  Siti’s rejoinder was almost a growl. “Too bad.”

  The two turned a corner, passing under a pointed archway and down stairs leading to shadows. There they parted, taking positions at opposite ends. Fatma gripped her cane’s pommel, easing the sword out a few inches. People always wanted to learn the hard way the thing wasn’t just for show. Siti was on the balls of her feet, teeth bared and eager.

  Their pursuer’s approach sounded in the quiet. He hesitated before descending the
stairs and entering the shadows. A figure in a dark cloak and hood, walking right between them.

  Amateur, Fatma thought. She waited until he passed before drawing her sword, letting the sound of sliding steel reverberate. He spun just in time to catch the flat of the blade on both knees. A howl of pain came as his legs folded. It was cut off as Siti pounced, bearing him down with a hard smack! She pinned his chest with a knee as he fought to catch his breath.

  “Picked the wrong women to go hunting! Are you a maniac or what? Talk!”

  The man struggled, flailing in his robes and gurgling.

  “I don’t think he can talk with you on him like that,” Fatma noted.

  “His problem. Not mine.” She pressed her knee harder, and the man yelped.

  Fatma bent down, pulling back his hood. “Listen, friend, you’d better—” She stopped at seeing his face. Bald, with skin a pale shade of gray. And no eyebrows.

  “Ahmad?” Siti asked, lifting her knee.

  He gasped before rumbling weakly. “You may call me Lord Sobek. The Rager. Def—”

  “Ahmad!”

  He winced, running a pink tongue over sharp teeth. “Yes?”

  Siti jumped up, giving Fatma a confused gesture. “What are you doing here, Ahmad?”

  The strange man climbed to his feet. His dark green eyes flickered to Fatma. “I came looking for you. Saw you enter that place. Then Siti. Figured you’d leave sometime.”

  Fatma frowned. “You followed me? How long?”

  “Since your apartment.” He backed off as she stepped forward. “I had good reason!”

  “For stalking me?”

  “I wanted to see how you were handling the case!” Fatma paused, and he took the moment to speak. “I expected the Ministry to be working day and night to catch Ester’s murderer. Instead, I find you cavorting as if nothing matters!”

  Fatma was taken aback. “I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job. I get to have a life.”

  “Have a life?” Skin rose where eyebrows should have. “I went to the police today, to identify Ester. So that her family could know.” His face twisted. “The body was so burned I couldn’t make out her face. I couldn’t…”

  Fatma’s anger eased. He didn’t have the right to follow her. But she understood grief.