A Master of Djinn: 1 (Dead Djinn Universe)

by P. Djèlí Clark

  So then why did she feel she was missing something?

  “Are you ready?”

  Fatma looked up at Hadia’s question. They both stood outside the Ministry, where an armada of police wagons gathered. This was going to be a joint arrest. She and Hadia were backed up with ten more agents and perhaps four times as many police. The plan was to take Alexander and remove the ring before he could summon help. If it came to a fight, they were authorized to use lethal force. Dead men couldn’t wield magic rings.

  “Ready.”

  Hadia studied her face. “You seem bothered.”

  “Still working some things out.”

  “What you’ve done so far is pretty impressive. I admit, I wasn’t too certain it was Alexander. But the hair…” She indicated the pale gold lock Fatma held. “You were right!”

  “Still the business with the Clock of Worlds. We don’t have a good answer for that.”

  “Well, hopefully we’ll get one as we cut that ring from his finger,” someone put in.

  Aasim joined them wearing his usual khaki uniform and Janissary-esque moustache.

  Fatma shook her head. “I don’t understand how of all people, you’re the least affected by the angels’ magic.” She’d told him about the Seal of Sulayman once, and he’d not forgotten yet. That was hours ago. Was he really all human?

  Aasim smugly tapped his temple with a thick thumb. “Strong-willed. Don’t be jealous.”

  She rolled her eyes. Should have never mentioned that.

  “How did you never come across it in any books?” Hadia asked.

  “I don’t read much. Not ashamed to say it either.”

  “That I absolutely believe,” Fatma retorted.

  The inspector gave her an admonishing look. “And wish not for the things in which God has made some of you to excel others,” he said, quoting the familiar ayah. Then followed up by flashing an open palm, as if to ward off her envy.

  “Did you bring him?” Fatma asked, changing topics.

  “In there,” Aasim said, nodding at a wagon. “If you’re done brooding, I’m ready to go round up this Englishman. Be nice if we can get it done by sundown.”

  As everyone piled into vehicles, her eyes searched about—and stopped when she realized she was looking for Siti. She’d grown accustomed to the woman showing up out of the blue during times like this. No sign of her today. Good. If this came to a fight, who she was—what she was—would prove a liability. But she still felt a pang of disappointment at not seeing that confident smile and unmistakable swagger making its way between the assembled agents and police. Pushing the idea from her head, she was about to climb into a wagon when someone called her name. Turning, she found Onsi running after her. When he reached her, he took out a kerchief to mop his face while regarding her cheerfully. Did the man ever stop smiling?

  “Agent Fatma!” he huffed.

  “Agent Onsi. You’re in another wagon, with Agent Hamed.”

  “Yes! And my thanks again for including me on this mission. I hope—”

  “You don’t have to thank me, Onsi.” Admittedly, he wasn’t the first person she had in mind for the field. But he’d been handy during the ghul attack. “Is there something else?”

  Onsi nodded vigorously. “I wanted to tell you, I read over the book you gave me!”

  Fatma blinked. “You read The Tale of Lady Dhāt al-Himma in the past few hours?” Normally, she’d have taken it to Zagros. But the djinn hadn’t been released yet, even after what she’d told Amir. Not with the ring still being unaccounted for. Onsi was the next natural choice. But this had to be some kind of record.

  “I picked up speed-reading at university,” he said. “It doesn’t allow for detailed understanding, but I’ve found you can gain a fairly good summary. Why, once I finished the complete thirteenth-century volumes of the Timbuktu esoteric philosophies in—”

  “Onsi,” Fatma gestured to the wagon. “We’re in the middle of something?”

  “Ah! The book! A fascinating read. One I hadn’t come across, though I hear it’s very popular in the kingdoms of Western Sahara. It tells of Lady Fatma Dhāt al-Himma.”

  “So we share a name. Could that be what Siwa wanted me to know?”

  “That’s hardly the most remarkable thing. In the literature she’s a princess who becomes a warrior-queen. Some uncomfortable events occur with her husband, and she bears him a son with black skin. This alarms the father, who refuses to grant the child legitimacy—though physicians confirm the boy is his. Quite a scandal.”

  “I’m certain,” Fatma replied impatiently. “Is there more?”

  “Oh yes!” He pushed up his spectacles. “Lady Dhāt al-Himma is forced to become her son’s sole parent. She takes him under her wing and teaches him the art of a knight. To test her son, she would often dress as a man and attack him. He grows to be a great warrior, but also arrogant. In one story, when his mother warns him off entering into battle with the Byzantines, he rebukes her—tells her to go back to spinning with the women and leave it to him to fight.”

  “That’s ungrateful,” Fatma noted.

  “Quite. Lady Dhāt al-Himma takes her vengeance by masquerading as a Byzantine knight and defeating her son in front of whole armies, before pulling back her veil to reveal who she was—a woman, and his mother.”

  “Sounds like something my mother would do. What’s the point?”

  “It’s what Lady Dhāt al-Himma says to her son after lifting her veil: ‘So you did not care for full-bosomed companions? How does it suit you to be tested by the lion of the forest?’ Those are the same words spoken by this Illusion djinn. Perhaps you can find meaning in them?”

  Fatma looked at him for a long while. At last she said, “You’re a treasure, Onsi.” His round face beamed as if she had pinned a medal on his chest.

  * * *

  The sun slunk low by the time their caravan rumbled down the road to the Worthington estate. The sky began to fade from blue to a hazy shade of yellow, and Fatma could make out the pyramids standing their ceaseless watch. They had been joined by Giza police, swelling to almost as large as the company that entered the Cemetery. She hoped this wasn’t a repeat of that disaster.

  Hadia sat beside her, forced to endure Aasim recounting stories of his strong will—inherited, he believed, from his grandfather. He sat close to two other men in police uniforms. The one in the middle Fatma glanced to every now and again. He returned her stares, with black eyes as unreadable as his set face.

  In reality, she wasn’t paying much attention to him. Or to Aasim’s bragging. Siwa’s parting words lingered, and she mouthed them like some mantra. How does it suit you to be tested by the lion of the forest? She twisted the strands of the pale gold lock between her fingers, probing them with the proficiency of a seer.

  Hearing her name pulled her from contemplation. Hadia was gesturing to the wagon door—where Aasim and the others were already making their exit. She hadn’t even noticed they’d stopped.

  “Are you alright?” Hadia asked, face showing concern. “You didn’t talk the entire way.”

  “Aasim talked enough for everyone. Did he compare you to his daughter yet?”

  “Inspector Moustache? About three times.” She dropped her voice. “But really, what’s going on? I thought you’d be ecstatic. We’re about to arrest our imposter.”

  “Just some things on my mind.” Fatma looked down to the lock of hair, then drew out her pocket watch, holding it up. “My father gave me this when I came to Cairo. Made it like an old asturlab. Said to look to it whenever I feel lost, so I can find my way.”

  “You feel lost now?”

  Fatma met Hadia’s eyes. “Do you trust me?”

  She seemed taken aback but nodded with certainty. “Yes.”

  Fatma tucked the watch back into her jacket. “When we get in there, follow my lead. I can’t explain. Still working through things. But just bear with me. No matter how crazy it looks.”

  Hadia raised a curious eyebrow.
“Crazy comes with this job.”

  They stepped out of the wagon, joining Aasim. He stood in front of the Worthington estate, giving orders. “I’m stationing most of my people around the estate. In case the Englishman tries to find another way out.” He touched a whistle hanging from his neck. “One blow, and they’ll swarm the house. If that Ifrit shows up…”

  “Let’s not let it get to that,” she told him. “But don’t try putting on the cuffs until I give the go-ahead.”

  Aasim regarded her quizzically. “Fine, as long as he doesn’t do one of those villain rants—they love hearing themselves talk.”

  In the end, it was him, herself, Hadia, and four policemen that knocked at the entrance of the estate. Hamed took charge of the other agents, each armed with specialized weapons to take on supernatural entities. Though none had ever been tested on an Ifrit. When the door opened, it was the night steward. His eyes turned to full circles at seeing the police wagons.

  “Peace be upon you … Steward Hamza, is it?” Fatma greeted.

  “And upon you peace, daughter,” the older man returned uncertainly. “How may I help?”

  “Is Alexander Worthington in the residence?” Aasim asked.

  Hamza took in the inspector’s uniform. “Master and mistress are in the upstairs rooms.”

  Aasim motioned at his men, who pushed past the steward. They took up places in the parlor while the rest of them followed. “Could you fetch Master Worthington for us?”

  More a demand than a question. The night steward bowed slightly. “Of course, inspector.” He turned to go but Fatma stopped him.

  “Fetch them both,” she said. Then more gently. “Uncle, are there others in the house?”

  “Myself, a cook, some of the evening staff.”

  “When you’re done, gather them and leave. Get as far away from here as you can.”

  To the old man’s credit, he didn’t question her or look to Aasim for confirmation. When he disappeared down a corridor, she took in the wide rectangular parlor, with its antique silver Mamluke lamps, Safavid murals, and star-tiled floor. Walking to one side, she stopped near the set of swords she’d noticed her first day. Their rounded pommels sported black tassels dangling from hilts in decorated silver trim sitting above iron cross-guards. She pulled one halfway from its leather scabbard. A straight double-edged blade. Kept sharpened by the looks of it. She could just make out inscriptions from the Qu’ran etched onto the surface. Hadia watched her curiously. Before either could speak, their hosts arrived.

  Alexander Worthington strode from one of the bulbous pointed archways. He sported gray pants and vest, beneath a dark evening jacket. Fatma noted the silk blue neckwear with feathered patterns that garnished his high-collared white shirt. A cravat. She’d often wondered if she could pull off one of those.

  Beside him walked Abigail Worthington, as elegantly garbed. She wore one of the more modish Parisian-Cairene gowns: black and gold silk, beads and lace, worked into masterful floral patterns that mimicked henna on skin. A necklace of black and ruby sapphires hung just above her square neckline, with matching earrings and wrist pieces—even about her still bandaged hand. With those dark red tresses piled into high elaborate curls, she and her brother looked the same height side by side.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Alexander demanded without the bother of a greeting. His face looked as annoyed as when they’d first met, framed by a length of pale gold hair. “Hamza tells me there are police wagons on the estate?”

  “Alexander Worthington.” Aasim stepped forward, holding up the writ. “I am Inspector Aasim Sharif with the Cairo police here to deliver a warrant for your arrest.” Aasim’s English was poor, at best. But he got that line across well enough because Alexander looked as if he’d been slapped. He opened his mouth dumbly, and his eyes roamed over the assembled faces until landing on Fatma.

  “The warrant is for your father’s murder,” she said, answering his questioning look. “And twenty-three others, including members of the Brotherhood of Al-Jahiz and two Egyptian citizens.”

  Abigail’s loud gasp echoed through the parlor, a hand clutching her chest as her mouth gulped for air. She looked ready to faint.

  “Is this some kind of a joke?” Alexander glared, incredulous. “A sick gag? Where you barge into my home and accuse me of murdering my own father?”

  “Yes.” Abigail let out a nervous laugh. “This is some bit of native humor. They’re having sport with you, Alexander.”

  “Hardly sport,” Fatma continued. “Inciting a riot, committing a terrorist attack on an Egyptian civil institution, endangering the life of the king. It’s all in there.” She gestured to the writ. “We made one in English to look over if you’d like.” Aasim held out the paper, and Alexander snatched it out of his hand, reading furiously. Fatma watched him, her eyes meeting Abigail, who still seemed in shock.

  “What nonsense!” Alexander thundered. “These charges are one and the same for this miscreant running about your city claiming to be the Soudanese mystic! The very one who my sister encountered, who as I understand has admitted to my father’s murder!”

  “Who is also you,” Aasim got out in stilted English.

  Alexander practically sputtered. “Me? You believe that madman is me? Do I look like some black-skinned turbaned Mohammedan? Are you people blind?”

  “The imposter uses a disguise,” Fatma said. “An illusion of illicit and stolen magic.” Her hand fished into one pocket, pulling out the lock of pale gold hair. “I cut this off him the night of the king’s summit. Not very common among ‘black-skinned turbaned Mohammedans.’”

  Alexander stared and a hand absently went up to touch his own hair. Realizing what he was doing, he lowered it and shook the writ angrily. “Is this what passes for justice in this country of superstition and charlatanry? My father is murdered, then I am accused of his crime? What follows now? Some grand extortion for money, I must assume?” His voice grew louder, and he shook as he spoke. “You are mistaken if you think I will pay any bribery! I’ll have my solicitors ring the English embassy at once! You won’t get away with this … this … outrage! I’ll see every last one of you jailed before the night’s done!”

  Abigail put out her hands pleadingly—one for them and one for her brother, whose face was steadily turning a violent shade of purple. “This has to be some mistake. I’m sure Alexander can explain … that.” She motioned at the lock of hair. “You can, can’t you?” Her blue-green eyes regarded him with clear uncertainty.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he demanded. “You believe them?”

  “Of course not! I’m sure you have a good answer.” She put a hand to her temple. “This is all just so unexpected. I’m not certain what to think.”

  “Do you see what you’ve done? Addled my sister’s easily impressionable mind. This is an assassination upon my very character!”

  Fatma looked the woman over. “Are you well, Abbie?”

  “Just a bit light-headed. This is all so sudden.”

  “Were you two going somewhere?”

  Abigail blinked, then looked down at her dress. “To a dinner engagement.”

  “With one of your family’s powerful friends, likely.” Fatma turned back to Alexander. “We have one of them on record, who can identify you in Egypt on the night of your father’s murder.”

  “I have documents showing my time of arrival!”

  “Not hard to forge for someone who uses illusion,” Hadia put in.

  Alexander threw up his hands, then began to laugh, shaking his head. “You’re all mad. This entire country is mad. It claimed my father, and now it wants to claim me.” His voice dropped to a hiss. “But it won’t! It won’t take me like it took him! I won’t let it!”

  Fatma searched his hard blue eyes for signs of that burning she’d seen in the imposter. There was arrogance certainly—the self-importance of men who thought too highly of themselves. But none of the intensity. She looked to his fingers. All bare, sav
e for the one adorned with his father’s silver signet.

  “It does seem like madness, doesn’t it?” she asked. “When the first clues led to you, I thought I was mad too. But it began to make a sort of sense. You appearing to lie about when you arrived in the country. Your unwillingness to talk to us. You even have a motive for getting your father out of the way. And you certainly didn’t think highly of his Brotherhood. You’re also very unlikable.” His lips tightened at that.

  “But it wasn’t enough,” she went on. “What finally led us to you were the more recent happenings. First you don’t appear at the summit your father helped put together, while the imposter does. Then we learn about a money transfer to the djinn Siwa bearing your initials—AW. By the time we visited the angels about the ring, it all painted a picture—straight to you.”

  “What are you talking about?” Alexander was beyond frustration. He looked to Aasim and then Hadia. “What is she talking about? Who is this djinn, and what monies did I send him? Angels? Why would I have anything to do with those … creatures?”

  Fatma walked back to the wall with the swords. “Investigations can have their own life. If you go in wanting to believe something, the clues take you right there. They’ll line up just like you want them. Paint you a convenient picture.” She pulled out a sword fully, feeling the textured grip. “Your father built this entire estate after al-Jahiz and the so-called Orient. This sword, it’s Soudanese, I think?” She turned to Hadia, offering it.

  The woman accepted the weapon without question, looking it over. “It’s a kaskara. Soudanese, or maybe Bagirmi.”

  “Agent Hadia’s good with swords,” Fatma explained. She drew the other blade, then looked to Alexander. “I bet you’re good with swords. Had to be, as a captain.” She met Aasim’s questioning look, motioning for patience, before tossing the sword to Alexander.