“There’s magic woven around the ring. It makes us forget. We need that removed. The angels said you could do that.”
The djinn rumbled in his throat. “Angels. Is that what those creatures are calling themselves now?” Sniffing a sharp nose, he made a bitter face. “The stench of them is thick about you.”
Fatma really preferred he stop smelling her. “Well, the angels—or whatever they are—said you could remove the spell. When you do, we can find this mortal who stole the ring and return it to their keeping.”
The djinn rumbled again, louder this time.
“What?” she snapped.
“A mortal,” the Marid drawled mockingly. “Stole the Great Seal. From one of them? Is that the story they told you?”
Fatma frowned. “What are you saying?”
The djinn rolled all three eyes, as one would to a baffled child—or dog. “You believe that beings able to traverse planes of existence, who wield sorcery potent enough to confound an entire world, who can bend space and reality to their will, were swindled—by a mortal thief?”
“They said the ring was stolen from their vault…” Fatma managed.
The djinn sighed. “Did that pathetic organ you call a brain never stop to think the power that emanates from those creatures might allow them to make you believe what they wish? Or what you want to believe?”
Now Fatma’s head swam. She ran through their meeting with the angels. The awe they naturally induced. The idea of thieves breaking into one of their vaults had seemed far-fetched. Yet they’d provided an answer she’d wanted to believe. So she’d accepted it, without another thought. But what this djinn was saying spoke to her buried doubts. It could only mean one thing.
“They allowed the ring to be taken!” Hadia exclaimed. The shock of the realization appeared to bring her back to her wits, though her voice shook. “They wanted it to be taken!”
The weight of it staggered Fatma. “Why?”
“To have its power wielded, one must assume,” the djinn answered matter-of-factly.
“Why not just use it themselves, then?” Hadia asked.
“The seal cannot be wielded by djinn or any other magic-touched creature. It is meant for mortal hands, provided it finds one worthy.”
Fatma frowned. “Finds worthy?”
The Marid looked ready to throw up his hands. “Do you know nothing of the properties and laws that govern near-sentient magical objects?”
“Pretend we don’t,” Fatma snapped. “We’re just pathetic-minded mortals after all.”
At this he gave an agreeable snort. The son of a dog!
“The seal has its own mind,” he told them. “Only a mortal of exceptionally strong will could call it master. It would not allow itself to be revealed to any other. Though it seems it yet keeps the greater part of its power veiled. That you believe the seal’s true form is that of a ring is proof enough.”
“Is that supposed to make sense?” Fatma asked, not masking her annoyance.
The djinn leaned forward, his words crisp. “The seal is no more truly a ring than you are a creature approaching even middling intelligence. Its most potent power and true form are revealed only to one whose want is pure—a quality its present wielder appears to lack. As is the way with most mortals.”
“The bookseller said that no one really knows what the seal looks like,” Hadia murmured.
Fatma recalled as much, but it hardly seemed relevant. Besides, her mind was busied trying to untangle the various strands the djinn laid before them. “It was all arranged,” she thought and spoke at once. Her eyes met Hadia’s. “The list getting to Siwa. The Brotherhood’s thieves. Taking the seal. Every piece carefully put together, so that the ring could end up in the hands of someone able to wield it.” She turned back to the djinn. “But why would they want a mortal to wield the ring?”
The Marid shrugged hefty shoulders, to say that either he did not know or did not care.
“Whatever the reason,” Hadia said, “they lost control. They hadn’t prepared for the ambitiousness of this imposter. Who can’t be reined in. Now they want us to clean up their mess.”
“The greed of mortals should never be undervalued,” the Marid intoned.
Angels. Fatma shook her head. Whatever machinations were at work, none of it changed that the ring had to be retrieved from this imposter. “They said you could remove the confoundment spell. That there’s a contract you can renegotiate by—”
The Marid waved her off. “I understand how magical contractual bindings work, mortal. Please do not insult me by trying to explain it with your inarticulate speech.”
“Will you do it?”
“What will I gain in return?”
Fatma gaped. He wanted something in return? After putting Hadia in a wall? “How about making sure this imposter doesn’t turn you into their personal puppet. That good enough?”
“Magic exacts a price,” the Marid insisted. “What will you give?”
She clenched her fists. Djinn could be insistent about contracts. There wasn’t going to be a way out of this. Or, it suddenly dawned on her, was there? “Do Nine Ifrit Lords mean anything to you?”
Alarm crossed that ancient face. It was both satisfying and frightening.
“So they’re real, then,” she pressed. “The imposter plans to awaken them. Bring them here. With the Seal of Sulayman, he’ll have control of the most powerful of djinn. You want a trade for your magical contract? We stop that from happening.”
The Marid scowled. “You wish to keep them from this world as much as I.”
“Think of it as a mutual benefit,” Fatma retorted. “Do we have a bargain or not?”
The Marid’s three eyes burned angrily, not caring for the offer. But he seemed to like these Nine Lords less. “We have a bargain,” he decreed. “But know this, not-enchantress. If ever you awaken me again, there will be no bargains to make. I do not care if the heavens are falling.”
“Whatever,” Fatma bit back. “Now fulfill your side and remove the spell.”
The djinn extended a hand, and Fatma felt suddenly like she was on fire—as if she had been thrown into fire. The pain was so intense, she couldn’t even scream. When her vision cleared she found she was sprawled on the floor, writhing as the agonizing sensation faded to a dull sting. She could see Hadia beside her, similarly incapacitated. Neither of them looked to be physically hurt. But Merciful God, the pain! As she lay on her back, the Marid’s horned head loomed above.
“The magic is removed,” he rumbled. “I could have done so without pain.” His mouth broke into a wide toothy grin. “But you didn’t make that clear in your request.”
Fatma lifted a trembling hand to form a rude gesture. She really did hate this djinn.
* * *
She was still grumbling about haughty djinn and conniving angels as the automated carriage sped through Cairo, to their next destination. At least the confounding magic had been removed. They’d tested it out, including opening up texts to find whole passages now viewable. The Marid had been as good as his word. She’d taken his bottle back to the vault and put in an expedited request to have a safe place found for it—hopefully a chest weighted down to the deepest part of the sea.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asked Hadia.
The woman sat across from her, busily reading through Portendorf’s ledger. She’d made notations of the words “the list,” affirming much of what they now knew. Siwa had been making good use of his pilfered register, marketing and then retrieving items to the highest bidder—which turned out to be Alistair Worthington. The angels had probably assumed someone in that arrogant circle of Englishmen would be willful enough to come across mention of the ring. Hadia looked up at the question.
“A djinn put me into a wall. I think for a while, I was the wall. Then he tried to singe my skin off. So no. I’m not okay. But, God willing, I’ll be alright.”
Fatma didn’t press the matter.
“One question we haven’t as
ked,” Hadia said, changing topics. “Why are angels—or whatever they are—collecting and hoarding things associated with al-Jahiz?”
Fatma shook her head. If there was one thing they’d learned today, when it came to angels, who knew their motives. The carriage jostled as the streets turned rough, and she pulled back a curtain to look out. “We’re here.”
“Again,” Hadia added.
The Cemetery didn’t look too different in daylight. Except maybe the night obscured some of the squalor—where crumbling bricks littered the ground, and makeshift wooden shacks barely held together. Not every place was like that. Some mausoleums were well kept by their occupants, and there were graves both freshly cleaned and painted. In other places new construction went on, and vendors sold plaster vases—as if it wasn’t a Friday. Children played about the stone markers, amid lines of clothes drying under the midday sun.
“Do you think any of them recognize us?” Hadia asked as they stepped from the carriage. She’d opted not to wear her Ministry jacket, given recent events.
Fatma noticed a woman glancing at them through her kitchen, where she cooked at a stone oven right beside an elaborately carved tomb. “Maybe. Easy to stand out, when you’re not from here.” Not to mention her light gray suit, matching vest, and red-on-white pin-striped shirt. Not exactly discreet.
“That’s it coming up.” She nodded at a tall mausoleum in the distance.
It looked almost like the one they’d fought the imposter on that night. Four figures lounged about outside—young women. No, girls. In bright red kaftans that ended at their knees, over baggy tshalvar. The Turkish trousers were deep blue and tucked into laced black boots. The girls leaned against the mausoleum entrance, idly chatting. One practiced spinning a dagger along the back of her hand, while the others all wore theirs openly at the hip. At seeing Fatma and Hadia approach they stopped their talk, fixing the newcomers with hard stares.
Fatma bid them greetings, then said, “We’re here to see the Leopardess.”
A tall girl with Soudanese features ran Fatma up and down. “Back for some more? Where’s that fat policeman? I’d enjoy slapping his face again, wallahi!”
The other girls barked laughter. So this was the one who had delivered that five-fingered palm to Aasim’s face. And, as Fatma recalled, taken a swing at her. Probably best to let that go.
“She knows we’re coming. So just take us there.”
Another girl said something rude, setting her friends to renewed laughter. But the first one shot them a look that brought silence. She glanced again at Fatma, before turning and beckoning to follow. They were led into the mausoleum, where more people stood about. All women, all wearing the same red kaftans and Turkish trousers, with the older ones in matching red hijabs. Some kind of rank perhaps. From somewhere nearby came the unexpected sounds of children’s laughter.
The girl stopped to confer with one of the women, who eyed both Fatma and Hadia. When they finished, the girl left, presumably returning to her post. Someone from their cluster came forward—a woman in a white dress and black hijab, wearing of all things a brilliant necklace of sapphires and rubies. Her brown skin bore creases and slight bags about her curving eyes, while her body had the stoutness of a grandmother. There was a discomfiting cast to her gaze, however, almost predatory. That was fitting as well, for the leader of the Forty Leopards.
The moment the angels said Siwa hired thieves bold enough to break into their vault, Fatma had known it could only be them. Who else would be that brazen? The lady thieves had started out as shoplifters, often wearing full bur’a, sebleh, and milaya lef to hide their ill-gained goods. They’d gone on to ransack homes of the wealthy, posing as servants and maids, then to heists that made off with jewels, art, and once an entire armored carriage carrying casks of gold coins. To this day, no one knew what had happened to it. Their members went in and out of prison, usually for the smaller crimes. But none revealed a word, serving time in silence. Their leader remained untouched and un-betrayed. People claimed she was as hard to catch as the feline moniker associated with her gang.
“Peace be upon you, Leopardess. I’m Agent Fatma, this is Agent Hadia. Thank you for meeting with us.”
“And upon you peace, agents,” the head of the Forty Leopards replied. “The Usta said to expect you.”
That would be Khalid. The bookie was Fatma’s best tie to Cairo’s underworld. She’d contacted him straight after meeting with the cursed Marid. To her surprise, he’d said the leader of the gang was willing to meet with them—today.
“Tell me, agents,” she went on, “why shouldn’t I have some of my daughters bind the two of you right now and seal you up in one of these mausoleums—where not even someone in your vaunted Ministry will hear your screams?”
Fatma tensed. The words were offered idly, as if asking how much honey they wanted spooned into their tea. But it held the promise of a drawn blade. Beside her Hadia went rigid, eyes scanning the room. No girls like the ones outside, but grown and fit women—very much like leopards. So it was going to be that kind of meeting.
“We didn’t come here to threaten you,” Fatma said. “Or to be threatened by you.”
The Leopardess’s tone went cold. “The last time agents were in el-Arafa, you caused a riot.”
Fatma felt her indignation rise. “Your people were the ones stirring up the crowd. Working on the side of the man in the gold mask.”
The woman’s dark eyes drew to slits, her voice tight. “We are only on el-Arafa’s side. Do not place us in league with that foul man. You came in as an army onto our land, among the people we protect and who protect us in turn. We would have fought you to the end.”
Alright, then, Fatma conceded. One question answered—even if not how she’d planned going about it. Time to de-escalate.
“That night,” she said with regret in her voice. “It was a mistake.”
The Leopardess seemed to weigh her sincerity. She finally gave the apology the barest nod of acceptance. “People in el-Arafa are bad off enough without all of you making things worse. It seems the only time we see the police is when there’s some crime in the more respectable parts of Cairo. People here distrust authorities, and with good reason. That night didn’t help.”
“I don’t think the man in the gold mask helped either,” Hadia put in. “He’s the problem.”
The leader of the Forty Leopards looked to Hadia—who actually took a step back under that hard gaze. But the older woman dipped her head appreciatively.
“He is a problem,” she agreed. “No one who lives here is stupid or gullible. They’re just tired of the exploitation. Tired of being ignored. Desperate ears will listen to anyone offering up others to blame. What do you want of me?”
“Khalid said you’d be willing to tell us about one of your contracts,” Fatma said. “For a djinn named Siwa.”
The older woman eyed them both now with scrutiny. The uneasy quiet that followed was broken by a lilting adhan.
“Time for prayer,” she remarked. “You’ll join me. And you may call me Layla.”
That wasn’t a request. So after performing their ablutions, they prayed.
When they’d finished, the Leopardess—Layla—led Fatma and Hadia through the mausoleum to an entrance in the back, her entourage trailing like bodyguards. Outside was a surprising sight. A set of sky-blue tents had been set up. Beneath them were rows upon rows of wooden tables seated with children—likely the ones they’d heard before.
“I grew up here,” Layla said. She took a white apron embroidered with colorful flowers from someone, wrapping it about her dress. “There was a woman who took care of one of the tombs. It was not her family but the family her own had worked for. I thought her a fool. Taking care of the dead of someone who had likely treated her family as servants for generations? But every day after Friday prayer, she would come around and give all of us children loaves of bread and cheese. I later learned she was taking what monies the tomb owner’s family gave her and
using it on us. It was a lesson not to pass judgment so quickly. She’s gone now, but I carry on her tradition.”
Fatma stayed quiet. If the woman wanted to claim her band of lady thieves were actually philanthropists stealing from the wealthy to feed the poor, she wouldn’t argue. But she doubted anyone else in this slum could afford fancy aprons. And the red ruby that extended from the woman’s necklace—the size of a hen’s egg—could probably feed all these children for a year.
“You’ll need aprons as well,” Layla remarked. “And ladles.”
Someone stepped forward to offer both.
“I don’t think you understand why we came,” Fatma began. “We don’t have the time—”
“You had time to come in here and disrupt these children’s lives,” Layla countered sharply. “Some of their parents are still in jail. Others saw their brothers or family beaten by police. I think you have time, agents. Unless your apologies are just words.”
Fatma looked at the children. None paid her much mind in their chatter. But she felt the guilt all the same and slipped on the apron without further protest. Hadia joined her. In short order, the two were serving rounds of baladi bread along with bowls of chicken and mulukhiya—the latter filling the air with the fragrant scent of fried garlic and coriander. Sometime in the middle of this, Layla spoke.
“I am at times contracted by a djinn named Siwa.”
Well, that was one confirmation. “To break into the vault of the angels,” Fatma said.
“That is where he sends us.” Layla paused to scold two children fighting over some bread. “It pays well. Though not as thrilling as my girls hoped.”
Fatma exchanged a look with Hadia. “Oh? How’s that?”
Layla shrugged. “One would expect breaking into the vault of angels would carry more danger. Or greater difficulty. Not to say it was easy. But…”
“It seemed just dangerous enough to navigate for your girls,” Fatma guessed. “Just difficult enough for them to overcome. And tended to work out in their favor. Without fail.”
A Master of Djinn: 1 (Dead Djinn Universe) Page 31